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A very small part of Diana hoped Ryan would come to find her before graduation and chat her up about Rome instead of the other way around. But when graduation day came and went without a single word from Ryan, she laughed it off. She and Ryan were entirely different people, with different goals and ways of viewing the world. What could they possibly say to one another that would be of use? They were strangers who’d walked the same halls of a culinary institution. That was all.
Diana arrived in Rome on May 12th, 2004, just six days after she graduated from culinary school. Based on instructions from Arturo’s secretary, she took the train into the city, wound through ancient streets, and finally knocked on a dark green door that led her into her single-room apartment with a view of the river. The apartment had a small bed, a stovetop without an oven, and a rickety table. There was also a single book of Chinese proverbs written in Italian. It was sparse, without any personality. But she knew she would hardly spend much time in the apartment at all. She was in Rome to cook.
Diana met Arturo the following morning. She was ragged from jet lag, pushing herself through time with three espressos. What she would have given for a simple cup of coffee! It was impossible to find here.
Arturo was a very slim and short man with olive skin and large, curious eyes. He was just as quick with a joke as he was with an insult. But what Diana liked about him was that he was tremendously serious about cooking, and he expected Diana to be, too.
During the first week of Diana’s internship, all she did was prep and prep and prep. Around her, line cooks, sous chefs, and Arturo squabbled in Italian, cooking vibrant fare for their customers and laughing together. Diana cursed herself for not having learned much Italian before coming. She was a grade-A student! Why hadn’t she come prepared?
One evening, Arturo let Diana go home early enough that she could hurry into a secondhand bookstore to buy an English-Italian dictionary and a few “beginner” books. She read books at the rickety table in her apartment and muttered to herself in Italian, hoping to cram enough to get half-fluent by July. Her internship finished in August, but she’d already fallen in love with Italy, the vibrant people, and the commitment to cuisine, so she wanted to stay as long as she could. If she was fluent in Italian, she would be hire-able in some of the top kitchens across the city.
It occurred to her she could do this in many countries across the world. She could learn their languages. She could work in their top kitchens. She could have the life of her dreams.
In the third week of Diana’s internship, she dared to speak to Arturo in Italian. His surprise and joy burst across his face.
“Very good, Diana,” he said, giving her one of the first genuine smiles of her trip. “Maybe you’re ready for the next step.”
It turned out that the next step involved going to the city’s early-morning market to select tomatoes, onions, meats, cheeses, and fish for the day ahead. Arturo went with her the first few times and then challenged her to go by herself. The night before, Diana was so fearful of the morning ahead that she couldn’t sleep. What if she bought the wrong cheeses? What if her tomatoes weren’t good enough for Arturo’s sauces? What if she immediately forgot everything she knew—and failed?
But Diana had never failed before. She decided not to give it a second thought.
It was a Friday morning, and the day was already preparing for the sweltering heat. Diana wove through the early-morning market crowds, wheeling a large crate of food behind her, speaking in bursts of Italian with vendors who recognized her from her trips with Arturo. It was incredible to her that the language already flowed so smoothly. She felt as though she’d been hypnotized.
Her life back in the United States felt like a very distant memory. Even the emails from her family seemed unreal.
At the tomato stand, Diana took a moment to inspect them, to lift them to the light and taste-test the ones she thought looked best. It was a process Arturo was helping her to perfect—although he’d assured her that it was a lifelong quest. Tomatoes were the lifeblood of Italian culture.
As she placed a tomato on her tongue and burst it with her teeth, she heard an American voice stammering. It immediately took her from her hypnosis. She hadn’t spoken to a single American since she’d arrived three weeks ago.
When she turned toward the sound of the voice, her heart dropped into her stomach. There, carrying a large basket of fruits and vegetables, was Ryan March. He was talking to the tomato vendor with a horrible expression on his face, and his Italian was limp and lifeless. It was like he was parroting a guidebook.
The vendor didn’t look pleased. He was on the verge of kicking Ryan out. Ryan was sweating buckets. Diana guessed he’d been sent here by Sergio as a kind of test. Ryan was about to fail.
Thinking about it later, Diana had no idea what led her to do what she did next. Guided by fate itself, maybe, she cut through the crowd and stepped up beside Ryan, wearing a smile. Her eyes were hard, demanding that the vendor take her seriously. They’d already spoken several times that week without a problem.
In Italian, the vendor said, “Miss, hold on, please. I’m dealing with this American idiot.” He smiled giddily and returned his attention to Ryan, delivering a horrible insult that Ryan didn’t understand.
In Italian, Diana said, “He’s with me, I’m afraid. Go easy on him, won’t you?” She gave the vendor her biggest smile.
The vendor laughed broadly. “Is he? I’m terribly sorry! He’s handsome but dull.”
Diana laughed. For some reason, she touched Ryan’s elbow and said, in English, just to Ryan, “What do you need?”
Ryan was flabbergasted. He wasn’t accustomed to needing help from someone like Diana—a nobody, in his eyes.
“Um. Ten kilos of tomatoes,” Ryan said.
Diana translated this need to the vendor, who laughed and filled Ryan’s basket easily. Diana told Ryan how much money to give the vendor, and he passed over cash with a shaking hand. In a flash, the vendor had moved on to someone else, and Ryan and Diana filtered back through the crowd, headed toward a piazza that wasn’t as crowded. Diana felt buzzy, as though she’d just run many miles.
“You saved me,” Ryan said, his shoulders falling forward. He looked defeated, and his cheeks were hollowed out, probably from so much time in the kitchen slaving away for Sergio. Diana probably looked the same. “Wait a minute,” Ryan said. “I know you. Don’t I?”
Somehow, Diana kept herself from rolling her eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“You’re American,” Ryan said. His eyes were slits. “You didn’t go to culinary school in New York City, did you?”
Diana swept her hair behind her shoulders. It was truly beyond her that Ryan didn’t know who she was. They’d gone to school with one another for the past four years. They’d shared numerous teachers. He was either stupid or clueless or both.
Hadn’t Tori told him that she was going to Rome, too? Or had Tori kept that news to herself, hoping they would never run into one another?
