“I don’t think I would call them friends. The mayor is the one who actually confers citizenship when it’s all over. I don’t need to be buddies, I need him to wave the magic citizenship wand or whatever they do.”
“Does that mean he’s the one who gets to decide if you qualify?” Vilmari asked. She leaned into a mirror on the wall and slicked on a deep rose gloss.
“No. Wait. ‘Qualify’? You make it sound like I am entering a beauty pageant.”
“Oh, do you think that would help your cause? Ladies and gentlemen of Italy! I present to you—Miss Vero Beach,Florida! And tonight, for the talent portion of the show, she’ll eat an entire chicken tenders sub from Publix! I don’t know how well that will go over with the Italians, though.”
“I’m more talented at eating one of those subs than I am at speaking foreign languages. Did you see the look on the mayor’s face when I tried to ask him a question? Ugh. But it’s not about qualifying, per se. It’s about getting the right documentation in the right order and having it all approved.”
Lora had done extensive research on the citizenship process, and although it was incredibly difficult to understand, she was confident that trying to accomplish her goal in Italy would be infinitely easier than trying to manage everything from the States. With her postdoc starting up in September and her first grant request due by October 1, she figured that a June visit to Italy would give her more than enough time to get it done. When she told Vilmari her plans, her best friend put in for two weeks of vacation and paid for both of their plane tickets. It would be their last hurrah for a while since Lora would be in Switzerland for at least two years, possibly three. Even if Vilmari couldn’t be there for the whole process, Lora was grateful for the time they would get to spend together.
“And you’re sure this is going to take just a few weeks?”
“How could it take longer? The only document I don’t have is the birth certificate, and it looks like we’re going to find that as soon as tomorrow morning. What could possibly delay things?”
“I hope you’re right. I also hope you’re ready because I’m starving. All that talk of chickie tendies got to me.”
“I’m ready,” said Lora, slipping on her flip-flops. Shegrabbed a pair of heeled sandals from her suitcase and found the room key on a dresser. “Let’s get to the yacht club, darling.”
“I think we’re overdressed,” said Lora as she and Vilmari stood on the edge of an old cement pier under a sagging wooden sign that readBAIA SANTA YACHT CLUB. Scanning the crowd beyond and already feeling a pinch from the heeled sandals she’d changed into, she instantly wanted every extra minute back of the time it took her to decide between the gold hoops and the silver star earrings, because it obviously didn’t matter a bit. The “yacht club” consisted of three short docks populated entirely by fishing boats ranging in size from dinghy to glorified raft, and a large canvas tent vaulted over communal tables covered in butcher paper. A four-piece band was playing a rock-ish cover of “Get Lucky” on a section of a wooden dock that bobbed with the motion of the drumming. Farther down the pier, a man in a tricorn hat emblazoned with a skull and crossbones used a three-inch paintbrush to swipe olive oil and garlic onto dozens of skewered whole fish that were cooking over what looked like a low wall of cinder blocks. And it seemed as though the entire town was either eating, waiting in line to eat, or—based on what she could gather from gesticulations—talking about eating. Not one of them wore anything fancier than a pair of shorts or a breezy cover-up. She would have had the instinct to run back to the hotel to change were it not for the 146 reasons why that was a terrible idea.
“I think we’re over-everything,” said Vilmari, scanning the crowd. “Look at that.” She pointed to smoke rising off themakeshift grill as the man flipped the fish over quickly by the long skewers. He reached for the tin bucket of olive oil and began painting the blackened skin. “Do you think Cap’n Jack over there will fillet it for me?”
Lora flicked her eyes over to where people were deftly removing skin and bones from the whole fish, a large pile of discarded parts accumulating in a separate plate on their trays. One woman in a red bikini used her fork to remove a white hunk of fish from its backbone, dragged it through a small dish of oil, and popped it in her mouth.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” said Lora.
“Por Dios.”
“Maybe there’s a salad we’re not seeing,” Lora offered. She didn’t want to be squeamish, but her days of watching a boyfriend catch panfish from a pontoon boat with a cold six-pack between them were long gone. Her own most recent foray into seafood was eating tuna salad on a poppy seed bagel from Shelsky’s in Gowanus, no deboning required. She wondered if she still had an extra protein bar somewhere in the bottom of her carry-on.
“Hello! Welcome,” said a voice from behind them. They turned to see Andrea in a button-up shirt with the cuffs rolled and a pair of shorts, looking freshly shaved and decidedly more like a mayor in his glasses than he had that afternoon in a hard hat. Lora felt a rush of excitement and recognition but caught herself. Just because he was the only familiar face here did not mean that his face was going to become familiar. “Thank you for coming.” He smiled and leaned in to double-kiss them both. Lora tried to remind herself that everything she’d read online said that here, doublekisses were like handshakes. They were formal and universal, not necessarily affectionate. Still, in this case, there was something about it that felt like being next in line for a roller coaster.
“We probably should have asked about the dress code,” said Lora, glancing down at her dress.
“Why? You both look perfect. Are you hungry? That’s Luciano there at the grill,” he said, pointing across the crowd. “He and his sons are thepescatorithat caught all of this fish today, so it’s going to be fantastic.”
“Is there only fish?” asked Vilmari.
“I should have asked if you like it. Yes. Well, no, there’spasta pomodorofor the kids, but you don’t want that.”
“We don’t?”
“Nooo,” said Andrea, shaking his head. “The fish was alive only an hour ago, and it’s going to be in your mouth in five minutes.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Vilmari said, eyeing the grill.
He laughed, leading them through the maze of people and pausing every now and then to double-kiss a hello or shake hands.
“It seems like the whole town is here,” said Lora. “How do you remember everyone?”
“Eh, Sindaco! Hai bisogno di un taglio, lo sai?” a man called from one of the tables, making cutting motions with his fingers.
“Believe me, they don’t let you forget.Sì, sì, Ottavio, ci vediamo prossima settimana,” he called back to the man. “For example, that’s Ottavio, owner of the salon in town, who isreminding me that I need a haircut.” He pushed his hair back up off his forehead.
“Some people use a calendar app for that,” said Lora.
“You know, I’ve heard that,” said Andrea. “But I can’t imagine a reminder that doesn’t yell at me from across a party.”
