This Crumbling Pageant Page 9

  One of Luca San Michele’s more endearing qualities was that he liked to make a big deal out of Scott’s career as a baseball player.

  “O!” he was moaning, in a seriocomic tremolo. “I am in trouble now. There’s no way I’m going to be able to keep up with you, a world-class athlete, when we get to the tower. It’s maybe five hundred steps to the top. O, I can see it all now! You are going to embarrass me in front of the ladies, I know it. Ciao, Carlo! Come vanno le cose a Turino? No, this isn’t fair, Scott, really. Plus, I am already past my prime. I can’t be expected to keep up with you young people—and especially you! A professional sportsman!”

  “You know we’re only a few years apart, right?” Scott said. “And besides, I’m not sure I qualify as a ‘professional’ anything, anymore.”

  This upset San Michele. “Don’t talk that way,” he said, frowning. “I mean it. I can think of a million examples of athletes who started over much later in life than you, and who had spectacular second careers. Really, Scott. There’s no reason at all for you to give up hope.”

  Scott gave him a heartfelt thank you. He couldn’t remember how much he had told his landlord about his professional difficulties, but it seemed he knew the whole story. Maybe Holly had filled him in. “Anyway,” Scott said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You look like you’re in much better shape than I am.”

  “Actually…” San Michele owned, “I do try to lead an active lifestyle.” He spoke about it reluctantly at first, but soon warmed up to the topic, describing his activities around the continent and beyond—skiing the Alps, kayaking Scandinavian fjords, cycling across the Sahara Desert. Suddenly he halted and lowered his voice an octave. “No, but I must tell you, Scott. I am very tired. Very, very tired.”

  Scott smiled to himself. He was beginning to catch on to this part of his landlord’s persona, that of the weary impresario, heroically carrying on with the show.

  With a wink and a nod, San Michele added, “Of course, none of us is like our friend Hercules over there.”

  Before reaching their destination, the party crossed the street and stopped on the sidewalk outside a tobacco shop, because Hercules had remembered that he needed to buy some lottery tickets. Out from under the arcades, Scott was able to see the towers just ahead, glowering as usual. Holly thumbed down the magazines at a colorful newspaper kiosk, and Arpi wandered over to Scott and San Michele, smiled, and said to Scott, “Your wife is really beautiful. Why is she with you?”

  She affected laughter and deposited a phony hand on his arm.

  “I’m not serious, of course. I think you two are brilliant together.”

  Scott said the usual words of the unworthy husband: “No, no, you’re right. I know I’m a lucky guy.” Then he looked over at Holly down by the magazine racks and asked her telepathically for help. Her nose was buried in a copy of Vogue Italia. Why was she putting him through all this? How was this any fun? For comfort, he reached for the sunflower seeds in his jacket pocket, tore open the bag, and poured them into his mouth.

  Arpi looked away complacently. To no one in particular, she said, “I cannot believe I’m visiting the towers.”

  “Why?” Luca San Michele asked, rather absently taking the bait. “Haven’t you ever been up before?”

  Scott sucked on his pouch of sunflower seeds. As soon as he felt the familiar contours of their shells, and that old smoky flavor seeped in, his tongue went into muscle memory, storing the seeds neatly in one side of his mouth and then feeding them one by one into the furious machinery in the other.

  Arpi chose her words with exaggerated care. “Uh, no… In fact, I was sort of proud of myself for having managed to avoid them for so long.” She added, cutely, “I think I’m allergic to icons.”

  “How unfortunate,” San Michele said.

  “No, I meant it as a good thing.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “For example, when we stopped at Pisa last spring, I didn’t even go along to see the tower there. I said I refuse to pose for that silly picture—you know the one where everyone stands like this?” She struck a pose. Again it was cute.

  Scott clapped his hands together. “All this mincing around is putting me in the mood for a cigarette,” he proclaimed. “I think I’ll just go pop into that tobacco shop, too.”

  He was about to run off when Holly caught his arm.

  “Oh no you don’t,” she told him.

  Scott stared at her a moment. Then he said, “Your mother’s calling.”

  Warily, Holly gave a listen. Indeed, her mother was calling. The alarm from one of those old-fashioned submarines was sounding from her purse. She turned her back to take the call, but kept one hand on Scott’s sleeve, to keep him put.

  “And now here I am,” Arpi was saying, “going to the Twin Towers in Bologna.”

  “Two Towers,” San Michele gently corrected her.

  “Oh, of course.” She snickered as if she had been caught saying something clever. “Though what’s the difference, really? Both were, in their times, these crude phallic symbols of imperialist power.”

  “Whoa!” Scott said, sunflower seeds skyrocketing patriotically from his mouth. He grimaced and then jerked his arm free from his wife’s grasp. He’d finally had enough of this girl’s provocations. He looked her square in the eye. “What the fuck did you say?”

  She didn’t miss a beat. Producing a breezy laugh, she deposited her hand on his arm again and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that in front of you. Sometimes I can’t help myself. And trust me,”—her tone became earnest—“I was the first to condemn the attacks on the World Trade Center. They were inexcusable, no matter how just the cause of the people who carried them out. They should never have sunk to that level of violence. I remember that was the first thing I told people after the incident happened—”

  “Now wait a second,” Scott tried to object.

  “—and anyway, if you want to know my opinion, I believe we are all at war with the same entity, and I can’t tell you how hopeful I was when your people voted for Obama as president—”

  “That’s good, but—”

  “Finally, I thought to myself, the Americans have figured out the root of the problem, which all the rest of the world has already known. Even here in Europe we have recognized…”

  Scott gave up and let her prattle on. Did she say entity or enemy? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they still hadn’t reached the Two Towers, which were living up to their fantastical-sounding name.

  “Anyway,” Arpi was saying in conclusion, “that’s just the way I see it.”

  Scott didn’t say anything.

  “I happen to think I’m right—” she persisted, “but, like I said, you’re free to disagree.”

  Again, he said not a word. Instead, he let the silence grow uncomfortable and stared off morbidly at those unattainable towers. In the background, Holly sang off-key, “I love you too, Mom!”

  Finally San Michele intervened. Scott could see him leaning in to Arpi to offer some friendly advice. “No politics on the first date,” he purred to her. But she only looked San Michele up and down, and replied:

  “I like your watch.”

  “Oh,” he said, slightly disconcerted. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  After Luca Gallo returned and Holly got off the phone with her mother, the group continued on its journey—Holly and Arpi side by side, the two Lucas close behind, and Scott way out in front.

  11

  Up close, the main tower looked unwelcoming, unsafe. It seemed it could tumble down at any moment.

  Scott shook off the feeling and milled around the entrance. They were waiting for Arpi while she argued with the guard about a student discount. Suddenly Luca San Michele grabbed Scott’s arm and pulled him aside, moaning in his ear, “O Dio mio! Did you see that one?”

  “What one?” he asked. “What are we talking about?”r />
  Luca tightened his grip on Scott’s arm and indicated which direction with his chin. “There.”

  Walking down the street was a college girl, with her burden of textbooks.

  “Who?” Scott murmured. “That redhead?”

  “Yes… The redhead, with the heels.”

  Somehow sensing the attention, the girl looked at them over her shoulder.

  “Oh my God,” Luca whimpered. “Look at that. Look at that body! And that skirt! It’s unbelievable.” He watched, dazzled, until she turned a corner. Then he shook his head and grinned. “That was truly extraordinary. And I think she liked us! Did you see the way she looked back?”

  Scott stood there, nodding his head. He was remembering something about his landlord. He was remembering that San Michele wasn’t gay at all.

  Arpi came back to where her boyfriend was talking to Holly and tapped him on the shoulder. “Here!” She held out a ticket for him, and remarked to Holly, “That’s another three euros he owes me.”

  Luca Gallo turned to her, glaring. Arpi arched her eyebrows and smiled at him. What’s this? Scott thought, as they began filing into the tower. His aggressors were showing signs of internal strife.

  Scott had assumed that, despite the tower’s untouched exterior, inside it would be all modern American improvements and safety features and sprinkler systems. Instead, it was grey masonry, and massive woodwork, and darkly gleaming. During the climb, he resisted the temptation to look out one of the rough-hewn window slits. He didn’t want to spoil the effect when he got to the top. He kept his head down and pushed himself up the spiraling staircase. As usual, San Michele accompanied him, and began giving a lore-filled history of the tower. Somewhere down below were the others. Arpi’s voice could be heard, her words reverberating in a continuous drone.

  “There’s one story,” San Michele was saying, “from the nineteenth century, about a young American tourist who came here with his little sister. They had climbed to the top, and he was trying to scare her, by picking her up and pretending he was going to hold her over the parapet. But the girl was so terrified and squirmed around so much that she actually wriggled out of his arms and over the edge. Two witnesses said the brother stood in shock for a second, and then jumped after her.”

  Scott paused on the stairs. “Jesus,” he said, between breaths, “that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Luca laughed. “You Americans love to use the superlative. ‘That’s the saddest thing,’ ‘This is the craziest traffic.’”

  “Well—”

  “I like it. It shows an exuberant national character.”

  They continued up, Scott toiling behind his landlord (who was a machine) and periodically glancing back or peering down over the handrail. It was as dark as a dungeon. His guidebook had said that the walk up the tower provided “many cozy trysts,” and indeed, aside from the persistent echo of Arpi’s voice, he had no inkling what was going on down there.

  Another step up brought a flood of winter light. Scott had reached the top. He and San Michele had it all to themselves. Two mourning doves shot out upon their arrival, and dispersed on whistling wings into the atmosphere.

  Scott’s self-disciplined approach had paid off.

  “Wow,” he tittered, creeping toward the crenellated edge. “I had no idea how high up we were.”

  He moved along the wall and examined the finest view of a city which had hardly changed its outward appearance since the days Dante studied there. Brick pillars and terracotta roof tiles combined to give Bologna its nickname, “the red city,” though really it was more rust-colored. The tower was the meeting point of several main avenues, and from this perch the roads looked like fissures radiating crookedly from an epicenter and cleaving through the mass of rooftops. Beyond the staggered relics of the old ring wall stretched the emerald and uncommonly flat lowlands of the region. In the east, Scott could see a mint-green stripe of the Adriatic. In the north, the Dolomites, and then the Alps. And once again he viewed those moody foothills in the south, stuck here and there with mysterious, half-hidden villas, where tall, dark cypresses stood sentry. Luca San Michele pointed past these to a wilder landscape. “That’s my house there.”

  “Where?” Scott said. “I don’t see it.”

  Luca clucked his tongue. “You can’t really see it because of the trees.”

  They lapsed into silence. Side by side they stood and gave themselves over to the magnificent view.

  “Your wife,” Luca said. “She’s really an incredible woman.”

  Again with this, Scott thought. He said, “Yeah, I know.” Then, just to vary the monotony, he added, “She’s a heap good squaw.”

  “You should have seen her yesterday!” Luca was reveling in the recollection. “She had those museum people eating out of the palm of her little hand. They were quite taken with her. How could they not be? It’s not every day we see such a (if I may say so) hot young American girl speaking about Italian art in our own language.”

  Scott stared him in the eyes. “Thank you,” he said. He meant it. “So what do you think? Is she gonna get this job or not?”

  “We shall see.”

  “Yeah, I know we shall. I’m just a little worried about what’s going to happen if she does. Of course, I can’t stay in this country without a work permit, and I’m sure you understand I’m not thrilled with the idea of being separated from my wife for the three-month waiting period, or for however long it’ll take me to return.” He paused to see if Luca had an opinion on this, but if he did, he was withholding it. Scott exhaled, and seemed to deflate a little. “On the other hand,” he went on, “I can see how important this is to Holly—”

  “The poor girl,” Luca interjected. “She is trying so desperately to sink roots into Italian soil.”

  “Desperately? How desperately? Desperately how?”

  Luca looked confused. “I’m sorry. Perhaps my English wasn’t clear. I only meant that she is very desirous of this position.”

  Scott studied him, trying to read his face. “Myeah…” he said, and went back to saying nothing.

  Luca sat on a ledge of the stone parapet and drank in the view, the clean air.

  “Grande!” he said. His hair floated in the updraft. The wind piped a tuneless ditty. “It makes you feel like a conquistador, am I right? From up here it is difficult to look at Bologna without wanting to sack it. Of course”—he eyed Scott—“together, you and I could conquer half of Italy.” He paused for effect, and perpetrated the following: “The female half, that is.”

  Scott winced to show his distaste, but Luca was insistent:

  “It’s true! For someone like you, the women would go crazy. I’m telling you. An American, and a professional athlete on top of it!” He made a face that expressed the glaring obviousness of a monumental truism. “All I would have to do is introduce you as my sports star friend from the United States, and the girls would be climbing all over you.”

  The conversation was ended by the sound of the others trooping up.

  “Oh my Lord,” Holly gasped. “I had no idea it was so high up!”

  Next came Luca Gallo and Arpi, and San Michele sang out, “Finalmente!”

  Holly gazed out over the wall and went to Scott’s side, slipping her arm around his waist. Then she got up on her toes and kissed his ear.

  Scott furrowed his brow. He was beginning to rethink his stance on their landlord. This guy, he thought, is an animal! I was crazy to think I could trust him around Holly.

  He put his arm around her. For once, all five members of the party enjoyed some quiet.

  “I have an idea!” San Michele said. “Holly, why don’t you try applying for dual Italian citizenship?”

  “Actually, I’ve been looking into it,” she said. “Of course, if it was just me, I wouldn’t have a chance. But through Scott we might be able to. He’s half-Italian.”

  “Scott!” San Michele turned to him in astonish
ment. “No! Is it true?”

  Holly said, “Yep. His father is from Naples. Still lives there, actually. I was trying to get him to go visit, but I don’t think he wants to.”

  Scott’s father had played a bit role in his life. It was his stepfather, Frank, who had raised him.

  San Michele embraced Scott like a long lost brother. “You’re a paesano!” Even Luca Gallo patted him affectionately on the back of the neck. Scott stood there stony-faced, but finally hung his head and let out a bashful laugh. It was impossible not to.

  &

  Back on street level, amid the zippy rush hour traffic before the midday pausa, Holly was saying to San Michele, “Yes, absolutely! Where does she live?”

  Scott asked, “Where does who live?”

  San Michele said to him, “I was just asking if anyone would mind stopping by to say hello to my mother. She lives three streets off. It would only be for a few minutes. She’s getting old and can’t stand much excitement anyway.”

  Scott was still feeling some of the goodwill from before, so it was difficult to say no.

  “Well…” he said dubiously, checking his watch.

  “Of course, Luca,” Holly assured him. “We’d love to meet her.”

  On the walk over, San Michele talked a little about his family. He was, he said, an only child. His father was already somewhat advanced in years when he was born, and by the time Luca was old enough to remember him, the old man was seriously ill and, according to those who knew him, only the ghost of his former self. Dementia gradually beguiled him to the grave. However, he was once a first-rate scholar, a politician, tenor, soldier, and grand prix race-car driver. After he died, Luca’s mother, a northern transplant who’d broken all ties with her own family, closed up the drafty old castello and moved into the city center with her son, to the house they were now about to see.