| low voice. Marco moved closer, they were practically nose to nose. “The first two complaints are closely related. First, it’s the money. I don’t want a lot, but I would like to have some sort of stipend. No one likes to be broke, Luigi. I’d feel better if I had a little cash in my pocket and knew I didn’t have to hoard it.” “How much?” “Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t negotiated an allowance in a long time. What about a hundred euros a week for starters. That way I can buy newspapers, books, magazines, food—you know, just the basics. Uncle Sam’s paying my rent and I’m very grateful. Come to think of it, he’s been paying my rent for the past six years.” “You could still be in prison, you know.” “Oh, thank you, Luigi. I hadn’t thought of that.” “I’m sorry, that was unkind on my—” “Listen, Luigi, I’m lucky to be here, okay. But, at the same time, I am now a fully pardoned citizen of some country, not sure which one, but I have the right to be treated with a little dignity. I don’t like being broke, and I don’t like begging for money. I want the promise of a hundred euros a week.” “I’ll see what I can do.” “Thank you.” “The second complaint?” “I would like some money so I can buy some clothes. Right now my feet are freezing because it’s snowing outside and I don’t have proper footwear. I’d |
and sat down. “The special today is faraona con polenta.” “And what might that be?” “Guinea fowl with polenta.” “What else?” Luigi was studying one of the blackboards hanging from a rough-hewn crossbeam. “Panzerotti di funghi al burro—fried mushroom pastries. Conchiglie con cavalfiori—pasta shells with cauliflower. Spiedino di carne misto alla griglia—grilled shish kabob of mixed meats.” “I’ll have it all.” “Their house wine is pretty good.” “I prefer red.” Within minutes the café was crowded with locals, all of whom seemed to know each other. A jolly little man with a dirty white apron sped by the table, slowed just long enough to make eye contact with Joel, and wrote down nothing as Luigi spat out a long list of what they wanted to eat. A jug of house wine arrived with a bowl of warm olive oil and a platter of sliced focaccia, and Joel began eating. Luigi was busy explaining the complexities of lunch and breakfast, the customs and traditions and mistakes made by tourists trying to pass themselves off as authentic Italians. With Luigi, everything would be a learning experience. Though Joel sipped and savored the first glass of wine, the alcohol went straight to his brain. A wonderful warmth and numbness embraced his body. He was free, many years ahead of schedule, and sitting in a rustic little café in an Italian town he’d never heard of, drinking a nice local wine, and inhaling the smells of a delicious feast. He smiled |
