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“Hi!” I merrily said. “Bet you weren’t expecting me to show up here tonight.”
“No, I…no, I was not. Here is the wine menu you requested. I…sorry, it is busy, and I am…my name is Donvino, and I will be your server tonight. Can I bring you something from the bar to begin with?”
“Hmm, what do you suggest for wine?” Ricardo asked.
Donvino replied, his gaze moving to me and then my dinner companion, his answers growing more and more clipped as he and Ricardo conversed about wines, something I knew little about. I’d much rather be enjoying the sight of Donvino’s biceps in that straining cotton than gibbering about—
“What do you think, Arlo? Would you like a nice Barolo for the meal?” Ricardo asked me as I daydreamed about being locked in those muscular arms of Donvino’s.
I snapped back to the here and now. “Sure, yes, that sounds wonderful.”
“I think you’ll like it. That will be all for now. Bring the wine and then give us time to decide on our meals, please,” Ricardo said to Donvino, who was staring at me as if I were a frothing werewolf seated at one of his tables.
“Sì, yes, excuse me, signors,” Donvino replied, turning on his heel and disappearing down the stairs. I gave the agriculture undersecretary a long look. He was now going on about the wine, the fact that it was restricted to only being made in eleven districts in the Cuneo district, and that he quite enjoyed the berries, fruit, truffles, and other earthy notes of the wine Donvino had suggested. I’d not really cared for how out of hand this man had sent Donvino off. As if my friend was just some common server. Oh. Oh.
I turned in my seat as Ricardo went on and on about wine. Donvino was a common server in a rather common eatery. He was also a gardener/muscle/handyman for my great-aunt. All very common jobs that my dinner companion obviously took to mean he could be snotty to such people. It struck me then how much I suddenly disliked the word common being used to describe Donvino. Also, and this made me feel like a roasted turd, I too had thought of servers as not wholly important. Hell, as I slid back around to stare at the candle, I realized that I had spent my whole life being a bit of a snob, just like Ricardo, my aunt, my father, and all the rich boys I associated with. One really couldn’t call them friends. I sucked their dicks. They sucked mine. Not exactly BFF material.
“…mentioned to your aunt that while I was not wholly onboard with such radical changes at the Bonetti mills, she seemed to think your father knew best, and so it seems he did. Imagine using sheep to browse the orchards to add natural fertilizers to the soil instead of using synthetic nitrogen.”
I gaped at the man. What the hell was he talking about? Synthetic what-zee-who-its? “Oh yes,” I covered as best I could. “My father is a genius.” I nearly choked on that. Thankfully, Donvino arrived, opened our wine, poured us both glasses, and took our orders without making direct eye contact with me at all. I kept trying to engage him, but he only smiled that smile that those who deal with the public paste on. Ricardo dismissed him rather rudely after we had ordered.
“That man is my friend,” I snapped after he had waved Donvino off as if he were a fly instead of a human being.
“Ah, I am sorry. I thought you said he worked in the gardens at your villa.”
“He does, yes,” I softly replied as if that were something shameful. “And he works here. He’s trying to save up his money to make a rowing team so that one day he can row for Italy. I think that’s quite an admirable goal.”
“Sì, yes, quite admirable. I meant no disrespect to your friend. I will leave him a generous gratuity.”
“Well, okay,” I mumbled, feeling less and less like a good friend to Donvino and more of the snotty rich brat my father accused me of being. That did not sit well.
The food came quickly. The involtini de manzo I had ordered was placed before me with professional courtesy. Donvino left us to enjoy the wonderfully prepared beef rolls served with a side of perfectly al dente rigatoni smothered in the same tomatoes, garlic, and wine sauce that coated the main dish. I ate, talked, and did my best not to make a fool of myself due to my lack of any agricultural knowledge whatsoever.
Whenever I would look about, I would find Donvino watching us, his expression hard to read. It could have been just him doing his job by keeping an eye on his tables, but it felt somehow more intense than that. I could feel his gaze on my back throughout the meal into dessert. I nodded, I laughed, I felt like a total fraud. My aunt was going to answer for this forced outing. I had no clue why she had sent me in her place. Feeling ill my ass. She and her giddy biddy buddy, Señorina Cappello, had been quite spry after confession. Another wasted outing as I had done nothing but sit in that dark box for five minutes until the priest asked me about my sins. I’d replied that my sins were mine and that I really didn’t do this whole scene. He told me to do ten Hail Mary’s and sent me on my way. Or at least I think that was the conversation. His lack of English made it a tad tricky to suss out.
“I’m going to use the men’s room before we go,” I stated suddenly, rising to my feet and placing the cloth napkin that had protected my white skinny jeans. Ricardo nodded, rose, and watched me make my way to the circular stairs. I spied Donvino at the bar. I scurried down the stairs and wiggled through the crowded eatery until I could wedge myself in between him and a rather round woman sipping a margarita, her Texas twang making her stand out like a badger in a chicken yard. “Hey,” I said as Donvino glanced my way.
“Did you need something?” he asked, his sight flickering upward to the romantic little balcony and then to the drinks being placed on a round plastic tray. It was much harder to hear down here. The tables and bar were packed with tourists and Florentines enjoying a Saturday night meal and cocktails.
“No, well, yeah, sort of,” I stammered as the lady next to me laughed so loudly it made my fillings vibrate. “I just…”
“Are you here on a date?” he blurted out, his gaze now right on me.
“A…no, no! What? No. What a silly thing to ask.”
“Oh? He is known for a gay man.”
“I…he’s what?” I gave my head a shake. Surely I had misheard him.
“He is gay. That is known to all. First LGBT man in office. Out man. Is he your date?”
The barkeep, a gangly older man with eyebrows that looked like weasels sleeping on his forehead, placed a tall glass of beer on the tray next to two flutes of something bubbly and pink.
“No, he’s not my date. He was supposed to meet my great-aunt for a meal. It’s been boring as fuck. All he talks about is olives, sheep, and nitrates. I think…are you sure that man is gay?”
“I know what I read. He is touching you all night.”
Had he been? I mean, sure, he had reached out to pat my hand or rub my forearm as he blathered on about his prestigious job and how lonely it was for a man like him to be in public office. Oh yeah, okay. Shit. He had touched me a lot now that I had my mind on Ricardo and not Donvino.
