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She was seated in the puzzle room, her head in a silken turban, smoking that pink Meerschaum pipe of hers. Today she was in bright pink to match her pipe.
“Buongiorno,” I said as I sat down across from her. The room was filled with a dark-scented smoke, and the window was opened to allow some of the cloud to exit. “I saw that you added a new painting to the stairwell.”
“In Italiano,” she corrected, puffed, and then squinted at me. “Dov’è il tuo taccuino?”
My notebook? Crap. “Oh, I left from my friend’s house and didn’t—” Her sour look over the top of her glasses stopped me flat. “Uhm…I don’t have it. Non ce l’ho.”
She tsked me firmly, then wiggled up on her seat to reach for and ring a small brass bell. The dogs barked from the back yard. Signora Britta arrived. A few short commands were given in Italian. I picked up bad boy, notebook, pencil, and orange.
Within two minutes, I had a new notebook, a sharp pencil, and a navel orange. Then we were left alone to work.
“Today we are doing sentences for safety,” she informed me in English.
“Cool,” I said as I opened my notebook. “So before we start, the new painting is really amazing. It’s my grandmother’s garden, right?”
“Sì, by the pergola.” She tapped the notebook with her pipe, sending sparks into the air that glowed for just a second and fizzled out. “Translate to Italian. On the paper.” She rapped on the notebook once more. I opened it and picked up my pencil. “Do not walk out of the yard alone.”
I gave her a look. “Really? Am I four years old?”
“In Italiano,” she repeated. So I did my best and flipped the notebook to show her. She nodded. “Dieci in più.”
Ugh, ten more times. As I scribbled, I tried to get more info. “Did you paint the picture from memory of a long time ago?”
A tendril of smoke curled about her turban. She pointed to the pencil sitting slack in my hand. Rolling my eyes, I returned to my lesson, jotting down the words as instructed. She smiled when it was completed and gave me a nod. We did several more toddler safety warnings as I poked about gingerly, hoping to get some sort of verification on that couple in the painting.
Out of the blue, she leaned back and coughed so violently I was certain she would pass out and then told me the lesson was over.
“Grazie,” I whispered, easing up and out of my chair just as Signora Britta arrived in a bustle. I left the orange on the table, backing out of the puzzle room, my hip hitting a small side table with a half-completed jigsaw puzzle on it. I hurried to right the table, creeping in reverse as my tutor was being tended to by her personal assistant.
When I stumbled out of the doorway, I turned and jogged down the stairs, my curiosity forgotten as concern for the endearing old eccentric who had done her best to teach me a new language was gasping for breath just above me. I took note that her dogs were silent as I slipped out the front door, closing it quietly behind me.
I’d just sat down behind the steering wheel of my car when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Donvino.
Where RU? ~ D
Leaving tutor. Why? Where RU? ~ A
Home. I quit. Bad night. Bring wine and hugs. ~ D
I gave the tasteful home where my aunt’s closest friend lived a worried look, eased out of my parking slot, and retraced my steps back to Donvino’s flat, stopping only to buy some wine. I already had all the hugs he could ever need.
Chapter Eighteen
Donvino was seated outside on the stoop, the sun-worshipping cat lying on his bare toes, sound asleep, and a freshly watered tomato plant at his side. I wasn’t sure a drink would help the poor tomato plant, but the gesture was a kind one.
He had removed his work togs and was now in a well-washed tank of pale purple and cut-off jeans. I stepped around a long pumpkin-colored tail to sit beside him. The step barely held us. He reached behind him, into the shade, and pulled out a cold bottle of Peroni beer. He handed it to me and then pulled out another, this one half gone.
“I’m having trouble reading you right now,” I said as he dug around in his front pocket for a small bottle opener. The beer cap hit the parched pavement, rolling a few feet before being pounced on by the orange cat.
“I’m not happy,” he replied and then sighed. “Mad mostly, but…” A shrug followed by a long pull. His cheeks were coated with dark whiskers, his sight on the homes across from us. I took a sip of my beer, shuddering at the bitter taste. I was not a big beer fan, but I could sip one in commiseration. “People are stupid.”
“Tourist?” I chanced, figuring it might be someone like me being…well, like me. Or, hopefully, how I was when I first arrived, bitching about the Italian drivers, heat, food, and just about anything else that wasn’t American. I’d slowly grown to love the people of this country, their ways and language, and mostly the beautiful, sensitive young men they produced.
“No, no, my cousin. He was making comments about a couple. Two men.”
“Oh dear.” I wiggled my butt closer and draped an arm around his shoulders. Nothing too intimate, more like a side bro hug, if a flam queer lad like me could pull off bro hugs. “Did you and he get into a fight?”
“We did. I told him many times to stop saying such things, but he kept making the comments. Calling them filthy things, abominations, pedofilo, deviate in the eyes of God. Then he asked why I defend them so much. Did I suck cock too? Maybe I was pervert too. So, I punched him in the face, threw my apron into his bloody face, and quit.”
