Urge to Rome

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I stood in the kitchen with the five other mothers of the settima classe—the seventh grade. Curious to visit an Italian home since our arrival in Rome, here I finally was, one of le ragazze, the girls. There was nothing exotic about the room: modern counters, appliances, wall phone with an extra-long cord. A window looked onto a back yard where a yapping collie blend wrestled with a pink rubber ball. I could have been in New York. Ohio. Anywhere in America. Only the clouds of cigarette smoke, the undecipherable staccato banter and the Moka pot on the stove situated us in Italy.

Irena, a formidable blonde with an Hèrmes scarf draped loosely over her persimmon silk blouse sat at the single table. She sipped an espresso and a lit Marlboro quivered between her elegant fingertips. The conversation zinged over and around me. Barely twenty minutes in and I already sneaked glances at my watch, wondering how I’d make it through the afternoon. What had I signed up for?

The party Larissa told me about materialized. It was an opportunity for her to get to know her classmates better. She longed to fit in, as did I. How could I say no? Even if the Ricciardis lived an hour and a half north of Rome. I wasn’t sure whether I was meant to come along, but I wasn’t going to put my twelve-year-old on a train by herself. Most of the other families were scattered about the perimeters of the city. Irena and her daughter, Stefania, lived in il centro, not far from us, but I hadn’t known that, nor had they offered a lift.

To make up for my barging in, I brought a shopping bag of samples David accrued—artisanal pasta and a fabulous aged balsamico—as a house gift. Unoriginal fare for an Italian home, but all the products were hand-made by small family businesses. I hoped the thought would make up for it.

Inès, Donato’s mother and also a kindergarten teacher at school, promised to meet us at the train station and drive us to the house. Larissa wasn’t happy about this. She insisted Maestra Inès pushed her son on her.

“He’s such a goody-goody.” She made a face. “None of the kids like him. He plays the piano and he and his mom are always bragging about that.”

But we needed the ride.

Not only was Donato in the car, but Inès’ husband, Massimo, drove. “Dov’è Michael?” they asked in unison as Larissa and I squirmed into the back seat. I got in the middle, so Larissa had distance from her nemesis.

“A casa. Con suo padre.” I looked at my daughter, hoping I explained correctly that her brother was home with my husband.

“A casa?! Why he did not come with you?” Inès asked, switching back and forth between languages.

“Non so…che…that he was invited,” I reverted to English, thankful she could understand and speak a little.

“Ma si, certo.” Inès shook her head. “But of course.”

I shook mine, too; and shrugged. Oh, well. It would have been nice to have Michael there, but I didn’t want to leave David behind. My tagging along was imposition enough. Besides, Michael’s presence would dampen Larissa’s enjoyment of her classmates. Frankly, I, too, would be less self-conscious trying to fit in and speaking Italian if my husband and son weren’t around to laugh at my wording and accent.

“Forse la prossima volta…Maybe next time.”

During the forty-five minute ride from the train station, we chatted in broken Ita-glish. I discovered Inès was from Sardinia. I didn’t know it then but Sardinians have a reputation for brashness. Inès certainly fit the stereotype. I later learned the other mothers called her il corporale. As is usually the case with couples, Massimo couldn’t have been sweeter.

It didn’t take long to agree with Larissa’s assessment of Donato. “Ho dovuto mancare la pratica del pianoforte per andare a questa festa.” He proudly mimed his fingers dancing over the keys. I nodded, getting that he was missing piano practice to go to this party. “Ho un concerto la prossima settimana.”

“Next week…he has concert,” Inès added from the front seat. Donato turned his head and nodded.

Too bad he was so full of himself. He was cute and taller than the other two boys in the class. I stopped myself mid-thought. Isn’t that exactly something my mother would say?

We drove for miles through pasture land, sheep grazing on both sides of the road and little human habitation. I marveled that Sofia’s family made such a commute to school. Out of nowhere, we came upon a gate. What was being kept out wasn’t clear. The only living things were the bovines and no steel arm was going to prevent them from entering. About 400 meters on, the reason for the security became clear: a housing development. Separated by wooden fences, arbors in their front yards, the dwellings were built of stucco. Though new, their design mirrored the style of older structures. No aluminum siding. No ugly swing sets. Only the security gate ruined the idyllic feel.

As we entered the Ricciardi home, Larissa was swept up by her classmates. I joined the mothers in the kitchen where they unwrapped foil-covered casseroles, unlidded cookie tins and concocted salads from ingredients brought with them. It dawned on me that this was supposed to be a pot luck meal. I felt terrible not to have prepared anything. Why hadn’t anyone told me?

I handed my gift to Caterina, our hostess. Tall and willowy, she was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a peasant blouse. She thanked me with a kiss on both cheeks and when she fished out the contents, appeared impressed. “Ah, che straordinario!”

“Non lo so…I didn’t know…” I smiled sheepishly, indicating the offerings brought by the others.

“No problema. Grazie.” Embarrassing perspiration coated my forehead and upper lip. I wiped it with the back of my hand, hoping no one noticed. The others looked so cool.

I leaned against the counter, not knowing what more to say or where to put my hands, my self. When offered an espresso, I accepted, happy to have something to hold. Downing it in a swallow, I marveled at how the others nursed their single sips for close to an hour. The women were completely at ease, having known one another since their children were in pre-school. I scrutinized them, a sampler of Italian moms: from petite, polite Ariana with her coffee eyes and long hair to cool-as-a-cucumber Irena, the blond ice queen. Their English varied from non-existent to sparse and after a few polite sentences thrown in my direction, they reverted to their native tongue. I tried to follow along; their conversation was beyond my comprehension.

I gazed around the room for someone to latch onto. My eyes darted from woman to woman until they landed on Maria, Carlo’s mother, a solid woman with a pixie haircut and a winning smile standing by the refrigerator. She seemed the most accessible. Using my best Rosetta Stone, I struggled to ask her how many children she had, if she was originally from Rome and how she liked the children’s school. In return, she inquired how we came to live here. Maria told me how happy her son was that Larissa joined the class and I recalled my daughter telling me how much she liked both Carlo and Guido—the two boys besides Donato in seventh grade. After ten minutes of this torturous back and forth, Maria excused herself to help Caterina. I exulted at the break.

I smiled at Irena and gestured at the vacant seat across from where she sat, indicating I wanted to join her. She didn’t say a word. Larissa told me her daughter, Stefania, wasn’t overly friendly and that she had a crush on Michael.

“Irena, vuole un altro?” Caterina held up her Moka pot indicating she could make another caffe.

“No grazie, non adesso. Not now.”

“Kyra…?” Caterina asked.

“Si. Okay. Grazie…” I nodded, not wanting to be impolite, but I was wired enough in this awkward situation and didn’t want to overdo it. It was going to be a long afternoon and already I felt tingles running up my spine.

As Ariana emptied her dessert tin onto one of Caterina’s platters and Maria peeled an orange to add to the fennel and olive salad she was making, I finished my second espresso without noticing.

I went in search of the bathroom, hoping to find Larissa on the way—to see how she was doing and to exchange a few words in English. Instead, I ran into Luigi, Caterina’s husband, who was in the living room with Massimo. The two men motioned for me to join them. They reclined in chairs bookending the hearth, one in a plaid flannel shirt, the other in heavy boots, like two hunters beside a campfire. We spoke briefly and hesitantly.

“Roma. You like?” Luigi leaned forward.

“Yes. Very much. We do.” I fingered my collar to straighten it.

“Dove…you are from…?” Massimo cocked his head.

“New York. City.”

“Ah! La New York!” Luigi lit up, impressed.

“Is very different.” Massimo stated.

“Yes. Have you been?” I put my hands on my hips.

“No, no.” Both men chimed in together, shaking their heads.

“Would you like to?” I shifted my weight from one foot to another, wondering if I should sit on the sofa. I decided to just balance against the doorframe.

“You come for why?”

Massimo and I laughed as our questions overlapped.

“My husband’s business,” I said. “Mio marito…?”

“Ah, si. Cosa fa?”

I looked at them, stumped. What were they asking now?

“Il suo lavoro…”

Oh, his work.

“Cibo. Food,” I said. “Cibo naturale.”

They nodded.

I scanned my brain for how to better explain. After an uncomfortable silence, I extricated myself. “Dovè il bagno? La toiletta?”

The bathroom was down the hall and not upstairs where I could hear the kids laughing. As I made my way, Sofia, Caterina and Luigi’s daughter, ambled down the stairs. She was a tall young clone of her mother.

“How… Com’è Larissa?” I asked.

“Molto bene.” She smiled shyly. At least Larissa was having a good time.

In the bathroom, I fished my mobile from my pocket, hoping to sneak a call to David, only to note there was no service in this nether region. My watch read: three-thirty. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I knew Italians dined late…but I was hungry. It didn’t appear as if this lunch was going to be lunch after all.

When I got back to the kitchen, I whispered to Ariana, whose English had impressed me as the best, when she thought we’d eat.

“At half six, perhaps? Seven? After our husbands arrive.”

Our husbands? Again, why hadn’t I been told? Or had it slipped by me in the torrent of dialogue I only grasped a third of? If I was lucky.

The red sauce on the stove exuded a delicious aroma as it bubbled in its pot. The men’s voices increased as they drank more in the living room. The tension in my shoulders willed time to fly faster. If only I could reach David to let him know what was going on. Or to hear his familiar voice—in a familiar language. I didn’t ask to use the landline as it might be considered long distance. 

“Caterina, is there anything I can do?” I offered, wanting to keep busy. “To help?” She looked at me, her eyebrows knitted questioningly.

Ariana stepped in and suggested I set the table. I grabbed the dishes from her hand and began laying them out, thrilled to have an activity that required little explanation. The children would eat in the kitchen; the adults in the living room. Couches were pushed against the walls and a long expanse set up from a combination of small tables unevenly juxtaposed. A laminated cloth bursting with a sunflower pattern covered the amalgam. Massimo and Luigi unfolded aluminum chairs to supplement the caned ones.

The front door opened and Maurizio and Rodolfo entered. They carried bottles of wine and a brown paper bag from which ciabatta loaves peeked. After shaking hands with the other men, Maurizio ducked into the kitchen to find Maria. Ariana came out to give her husband a kiss which Rodolfo boisterously returned. How I missed having David at my side. We could have felt uncomfortable together.

“Rodolfo Greco,” he said, offering me his hand.

“Piacere. Nice to meet you.” I shook it.

At only five foot six, Rodolfo had a couple of inches on his wife. His personality made him appear taller. But it didn’t make me feel any less the giant.

“Vino?” Luigi poured him a glass which he took willingly.

“Che giornata! What a day!” Rodolfo flopped into an armchair. “Otto ore con un gruppo di pazzo Americani!” A tour guide, he had spent eight hours on a bus with a bunch of crazy Americans. A bit embarrassed at my compatriots’ behavior, I pictured it well.

Caterina emerged from the kitchen, carrying a basket of bread and trailing the aroma of garlic and Bolognese sauce. “Ragazzi…Children…” she yelled up the stairs. “Andiamo…Let’s go.” Her words elicited little movement. “Sofia!” she raised her voice. “La cena è pronto! Dinner!”

A door creaked open and the rumble of a dozen adolescent feet thundered down the stairs, following the scent. Not one glanced at us adults congregated in the living room. While Maria, Inès and Caterina fed the ragazzi, I remained with the others. Again, I peeked at my watch. Six forty-five and we had yet to sit down.

We awaited Irena’s husband, Ugo, who, it turned out, drove up from Rome. He, too, could have brought David and Michael with him. I was getting a little irritated. But unable to express my frustration, I pasted another smile on my face.

Caterina darted in and out. She reminded me of the cool girls in high school who intimidated me. Smokers, drinkers, and the ones who had the attention of all cute guys. I envied her casual confidence. The way she laughed with the men, smiling seductively through ringlets that fringed her face. She flung herself in her husband’s lap when there was a shortage of chairs, and shared his cigarettes. She barely said two words to me all day. I was certain she found me dull.

Finally, Ugo sauntered in, his blazer slung over an arm. The stiff white collar and folded back cuffs of a crisp cotton shirt contrasted with the inviting softness of his baby blue cashmere sweater. Thick tortoise shell glasses magnified smallish eyes. Clearly, thought had gone into his grooming.

I didn’t find him attractive. Despite his air of confidence, I sensed a self-consciousness. He greeted his friends and didn’t so much as glance in my direction. Even though I heard he was fluent in English.

Surprisingly, when we sat down, the men congregated at one end, the women at the other. I found myself dead center. I passed a lot of platters back and forth and worried I’d spill my glass because I was at the juncture of two tables of irregular height. Not only would it make a mess, the unwanted attention it would elicit bothered me more.

I worried that the trains stopped running at nine. Knowing Ugo and Irena lived in Rome and might be our only hope of a drive back, I engaged them. But I couldn’t bait either one in small talk. Ugo lunged into a political argument with the men. It consumed the entire table. Smiling, as if understanding, I stared at my plate. I didn’t want to get dragged into the conversation which, with the help of a little wine, raced more unintelligibly past my ears. Every so often, laughter broke out. I chuckled, pretending to get the joke so they wouldn’t have to explain it to me. I felt increasingly uneasy when eyes turned my way to include me in their chatter.

I chewed slowly. The meal was already a long one and I needed to keep myself occupied. But it was delectable, all home-cooked, from the marinated orange and olive antipasto through the pastas, sausage, meatballs, vegetables, salad and bread.

Dessert was a juicy, ripe melon, the kind David swooned over. How he would have appreciated all the good food. I tempered my unhappiness at his absence by picturing him trying to fit in with this crowd. His Italian was non-existent and he was hardly outgoing like Rodolfo and Maurizio who didn’t allow a lack of language to hold them back. I wanted a chance to fit in on my own, to become Italian. Now, I wasn’t so certain.

The dishes were cleared; the tables put away. Someone brought out a guitar and Rodolfo strummed American rock songs. Perhaps as a paean to me. He sang as he played and the others joined in. I felt doubly uncomfortable because, unlike most Americans my age, I grew up on musical theatre and classical music. My knowledge of contemporary genres was sorely lacking. Also, I couldn’t carry a tune. Thankfully, his choices were so popular—Beatles or Simon and Garfunkel—that I knew most of the words and was able to quietly sing along. In between “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” and “Mrs. Robinson,” I inquired about a ride to the station. What must David be thinking? Everyone insisted I not to worry and the concert continued. 

Hearing our songfest, the children abandoned their seclusion and joined us in the living room. Larissa beamed as her friends scrambled to sit next to her. Listening to the group sing “Scarborough Fair” in heavily accented English, amused me. The company couldn’t speak the language, but they knew the lyrics. When they got to “Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme,” furiously rolling all the r’s, my gaze bounced from one face to the next. For once that day, the smile on my face was authentic.  

The party disbanded at midnight. The trains had stopped running. Ugo and Irena, who lived closer to us and with whom we would have been better able to communicate, bundled Stefania into their car and drove off without offering a lift. Maurizio and Maria stepped in. Larissa and I were happier driving with them even if it took them out of their way. We couldn’t put much into words, but it was late and we were tired, a good excuse to remain quiet. But I had a hard time remaining silent, and here and there, I attempted conversation. When I opened my mouth, out popped another “Grazie.” I hoped they truly felt our appreciation.

David and Michael waited up and wanted to hear the details. But it had been a long day and we were drained. I was thrilled to be back in my own familiar—if non-Italian—home. 

As I dragged myself into the bathroom and washed my face, I contemplated our outing. How difficult it was to change who I was and fit in. I understood better than ever what it was like for Michael and Larissa to be submerged in another language for so many hours each day. I had done that to them. I felt guilty; but watching Larissa, interacting so easily, I realized the awkwardness was all about me. My daughter was doing fine.

By Kyra Robinov

From: United States

Website: https://www.kyrarobinov.com/

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/kyra.robinov