Chapter 17 from The Rotten Bridge, A Gypsy Love Story

17.
At half past I rush into the bar as they are closing. YaYa is cleaning that damned machine for the last time today. A few of the Albanian men are still crowding a slot machine on the wall opposite the counter while the owner empties the till. I sit there in a sweat and recount my dinner at the Signora's from which I have just escaped.
You see, it wasn't the casual family meal I thought it was going to be. You know, bring the wine, grate some cheese, eat, eat, eat, and then laugh and smile and drink some more wine, because Luna was courting me and everyone - meaning her three children and her half-wit in-law the Jockey, and maybe even poor Vittorio up there on the shelf in his crisp military uniform - was in on it.
And what a fool I was to sit there and pretend not to notice how everyone was lit up and watching me as we looked at the photo album - at pictures of her and her dead husband on their wedding day - with everyone agreeing how beautiful she was and looking at me over the rims of their straight wine glasses. Even Luna let loose and thumped me on the shoulder, "Eh? just to make sure I was in accord.
YaYa listens with a smile as she puts a few clean glasses up along the mirrored shelf.
"I should meet the competition for my clandestino.
Maria calls her over to the register. In my mind I go back to the meal, the simple spaghetti asciuga, as we ate, cramped around that four seat table, drinking the red wine that I brought while everyone else laughed and waited for the pitch. That's when Luna got up and said that it was time to go for a walk, a passagiata in the man and woman sense, where you stroll and chat and soak in good company, in view of everyone and anyone who is on the street.
Luna waved her arm, tossing the cleanup duty to her daughter Gabriella and then motioned for us to sit there in that hot kitchen while she changed into something more befitting an evening stroll.
I sat there munching strips of green melon and answering questions about what I had seen today when Luna came out in her finest wrap, a swirling eggplant that seemed to have no beginning or end over her largesse. It just flowed and curved and tucked and disappeared in layers, knotted on her hip, diving into the clefts of her long neglected womanhood and trailing in a rare blast of perfume.
She allowed herself to gush and then she stood flat on her broken arches sealing off the tiny kitchen and doling out her maternal business as she wound a woolen shawl over her arm.
Her family cheered and clapped and I stood up, knowing that it was my lead, and I took her by the elbow, smiling and nodding, and said in my best Italian that her hair looked nice and that we should go. She bowed halfway and called out the rest of her orders to her family as I led her down the marble hall, pausing next to the door where she slipped into her shoes by holding on to my arm, and with cheers and howls from the kitchen we stepped out into the waiting stair.
I was in a fit of course but I felt compelled and a bit saddened by her gesture and there was no way not to go. I resigned myself to a quick walk. That would spare everyone's feelings and Luna could tell herself that it wasn't so bad, that she wasn't as lonely and removed from life as her children might have believed.
We hit the street and filled the sidewalk with a pleasant enough air. I let her talk and I made an effort to listen but my mind kept racing ahead to the bar, to YaYa tapping her watch and weighing her grief.
Besides, I understood only a little of what Luna had to say, and again she insisted that we could get along like this, on a few bits of Italian and English blended together on the hot sirocco streets. She focused on this idea for a couple of blocks and I understood that she was setting up her defense. After all, we are from two different worlds, she could later say to herself or her daughter, and still manage a scandalous smile.
I felt lousy for her and ashamed at my own impatience. I tried to change the subject. I brought up the neighbors to either side, the triple-X theater run by her old friend, the good fortune to own a large flat in the heart of Rome. Of course, she is very proud of this fact and it becomes clear that she is not above using this as some kind of offering only I don't bite. Instead I smile and lead her on, down the street, picking out architecture that I know will break us into a pantomime that is friendly and nothing more.
When we stop for gelato I am opening doors for her and inside she glides past a few tables calling out to her neighbors so they will notice that she is back among the living, that Luna is having a night out, and I oblige her, and take her arm, and smile and buy the ice cream while she takes pains to explain me to everyone with outrageous pronouncements that I don't understand, but that her neighbors, middle-aged widows themselves, all laugh at with their own dirty thoughts, and then we go out with our minds back on ice cream and I turn gracefully toward her home.
I am surprised when we take the stairs. She is trying to lose some weight she insists. When we hit the landing she wants to show me something as soon as she catches her breath. She's decided to install a sign announcing her pensione, the result of one of our breakfast conversations.
"You see? she said, showing me where, and she tapped the side of her forehead and waited for my approval.
We went into the kitchen and looked at what her new sign should say. She had drawn it up on a piece of lined paper. The sign maker was scheduled for tomorrow. She was obviously proud of her own decisiveness. I was enthusiastic but the shadowy house was too quiet and expectant, and the conversation quickly went flat. I tried to think of some excuse of why I had to go out, but that wasn't necessary. Luna was a woman of the world and she knew. She was tired. She apologized loud enough for the ears and eyes perched behind their bedroom doors and I gave her a smiling hug goodnight.

I take out the bottle of perfume and place it on the bar. Earlier I fixed it with my pen because Green Eyes didn't make sense.
YaYa grabs it to her chest and then peeks at it with one eye, winking into her cupped hands.
"Oh - so I will not stink anymore huh?
She sprays a little on her tattooed wrist, on a river of flames, and acts like it is holy water burning her.
"Now I stink. She puts it down and becomes serious.
"But you haven't read it. It's made just for you, after your name.
"Occhi Grande? She reads the ballpoint label I have made.
"Well how do you like it?
"I'm not so sure - maybe I will get used to it. But I have something else to tell you.
"Ok, so what is it? Where are we going tonight anyway?
"That's just it. Morro called and we had a long talk. I can't see you tonight. He is coming here right now to meet me so I don't know.
"Well good for him. Anyhow, I was just thinking I might take off for a couple of days.
"Where will you go?
"I don't know, to the sea maybe.
"You bastard, you would go to the sea and leave me with this mess? Will you email me when you know? Maybe we can meet somewhere when I get this straight. I'm sorry but I need to do this for myself.
"I know.
"Then I reckon it's OK.
And there it is again - that hijacked phrase on those lips and I am helpless.
"What is? I ask.
"Big Eyes, the perfume - I've thought it over, but only for you and only if you promise not to go too far. Stay in Italy - go to the sea. We have beautiful resorts just past Rome. You'll see.
"I guess I could stick around here.
"Look, I'm sorry about him, about tonight.
She bends down to my hands at the bar and kisses them.
"I just made a curse that you won't have too much fun. We Romans... she said, tapping her skull and grinning. "Call me when you get somewhere.
I turn to go and then I stop and look all the way down the bar at Maria who is bent over the counter staring at her own troubles. I hope that she protects YaYa, that her job and her person will be safe, despite her friendship with Morro and his mother.
"Bouna Domenica, I call out, mimicking the good cheer I heard in the market today as people well-wished each other in advance of tomorrow, Sunday. I don't have to look to know that YaYa is smiling. She knows I understand the ripple we have set into motion. It is a classy, respectful way to leave and I am nothing if not a class act.

Outside the bar I take a right, and turn a quick corner, and go up the steps, stopping at the landing midway for a cool drink of water from the Roman naso. While I stand there plugging the spout with my cupped hands and splashing water on my shoes, the long nose of the fountain reminds me of Berto. I decide to go see him rather than head straight back to Luna's.
I get to the cafe just in time. He is almost finished and he insists on taking a little wine or beer somewhere else.
We stop along via Nazionale. The wine is rotten but I pretend to like it. I pretend to like it because I am here as Berto's guest and he knows the waiter. Finally we make the short walk to his apartment in the Viminale to go over the details and to meet Flag who is nearly a cripple. He has german hips, like the Rotweilers and the Shephards, and he must be a mix of those, but there's something else I can't place and Berto doesn't seem to know or care when I ask.
"He was my wife's dog. She rescued him and I couldn't give him up.
"He'll be in good hands. I think he likes me already.
"Of course he does - I'm the only one he ever sees.
"What happened to your wife if you don't mind?
"No, it's not like that. I don't know where she is. She was very active politically and she traveled a lot and then one day she didn't come back. And then the next day, and the next. And then I got a call. It was her. She said she was working on an important campaign and not to worry. She wouldn't tell me where she was either. I begged her to come home and then the phone went dead. The next time I heard from her I received a postcard from the United States, two months later, from Florida, that said she was starting a new life and that I should also. She was very young then and determined and I had no means to find her so eventually I had to give up. As you can see, we have been miserable ever since.
"But now?
"I cannot be too hopeful. This Melodie is very lovely and she reminds me of my Elena but she has a wild streak too. Thanks to you I will go and see if there is more to it.
"Berto, look, why don't we go out tonight and celebrate your trip?
"I can't do it. I need to start putting the house in order. I have the rest of the week at the cafe and then it's up to you. When you are ready to take over I will leave.
This last bit, I figure, is more for himself. Just to hear it. I'll be surprised to see him go. Anyway I don't give him much of a chance, not with a story like that around his neck. But I feel sorry for him too.
I notice a section of bookshelf that is dedicated to Florida. There are phone books, maps, guidebooks and a history of the Keys.
Poor Berto. I have no doubt who is in the picture next to all this stuff. She has that look, I can tell. I've seen it before. Friends, uncles, even my brother. Men who were brought to their knees, sent to jail, or who volunteered to be shot at because they couldn't send the love out of their hearts.
I stand up and hug Berto and tell him I'll see him at the cafe tomorrow, just to be sure he hasn't changed his mind.