Enemies Abroad(49)
“Wow. That’s really nice.”
I’m glad I manage to sound reasonably sane, because in my head, I’m a detective who’s lost track of the case. Mechanic shop owner. Tire. Morning. House. What?
“Yeah, I mean, I think that’s what’s happening. There’s a slight chance some things could have been lost in translation. I could have it totally wrong.”
“Go home,” Giuseppe says in thickly accented English. “Eat.” He mimes putting food in his mouth and honestly, so far, I like where this is going.
He pulls out onto the highway, and I glance worriedly over at the little canary yellow Fiat with its wonky tire.
“It’ll be okay there overnight?”
“It’ll have to be,” Noah assures me. “The roads are getting worse. There’s nothing we can do.”
It occurs to me that Noah has been doing this all evening: calming me down, fixing our problems, staying focused instead of freaking out.
I peer over at him and rock my shoulder against his. “Thanks.”
He looks down at me and I can only imagine what he sees: a marshy street urchin, a wide-eyed scaredy-cat, a puny thing who needs him now more than ever.
There’s real sincerity in his gaze when he nods, and then he looks away quickly as if he’s embarrassed.
Giuseppe lives in the Italian countryside, somewhere between Sperlonga and Rome. His house is old and small and filled with all the makings of a happy life: the smell of something delicious cooking in the kitchen, a black cat trotting over to wind its way between Giuseppe’s legs, antique picture frames arranged on a table by the door, all those smiling faces greeting us.
Giuseppe calls out and his family comes into the living room: a wife and an adult daughter with a baby on her hip and two toddlers clutching her legs. They greet us with curious, round eyes as Giuseppe rattles off rapid-fire Italian. My imagination runs wild.
Tonight, we’ve had great fortune. I brought us back these two dimwitted Americans. We’ll roast them and chop them and put them in stew. The big one will feed us all winter.
Since we’re still sopping wet (thanks to the dash from Giuseppe’s truck to the front door of the house), the first order of business is getting some dry clothes. Giuseppe’s wife—Eva, pronounced eh-va—immediately takes me by the arm and leads us through the house and up a rickety set of stairs, toward a room that looks like it used to be an attic.
She deposits me there with Noah and holds out her hand as if to say, Stay.
So we do.
Giuseppe’s house is old, practically medieval, and the room we’re in is sort of the overflow, catch-all space. There’s furniture stacked up against one wall. An antique marble-topped commode sits hidden underneath a wooden rocking horse and a child’s stool, both of which look handmade. There’re a few boxes shoved in a corner, probably filled with family memorabilia. A stack of books has tumbled over. A few cobwebs and dust bunnies lurk in the corners. The ceiling slants in a way that means Noah can only stand to his full height on one side of the room, over by the window.
The bed situation—which I’ve tried to put off thinking about for as long as possible—is as expected: awkward.
Just one lonely mattress on a short frame in the corner of the room, placed there like an afterthought.
Noah wouldn’t fit on it by himself.
We definitely won’t fit on it together.
Outside, lightning lights up the sky and thunder chases it, clapping so loud I jump a little.
Noah stands at the window with his back to me, watching the rain with his hands propped on his hips. I get the impression he’s trying to figure out some way to get us out of this situation, but short of walking home, we’re stuck here overnight.
He’s probably not impressed by the bed situation either. He’s likely already imagining all the aches and pains he’ll wake up with tomorrow morning. I wish I could think of some way to help.
There’s a soft knock on the door and then Eva steps in with a bundle of clothing in her hands.
She speaks Italian, probably hoping we’ll understand some of it, but when it’s clear we don’t, she walks over and hands the clothes to me, pressing them into my chest so it’s understood that they’re meant for us.
It strikes me suddenly how generous Giuseppe and his family are being, allowing us entry into their home, giving us fresh clothes, a meal, a dry place to sleep.
She’s about to go, to give us privacy to change, but I catch her hand. “Grazi.”
It doesn’t feel like enough. I wish I knew more ways to thank her in Italian. I repeat it again and again. She smiles and ducks her head.
“Vestire,” she says, pointing to the clothes. Then, she mulls something over before testing her English. “Come for cena. Erm…” She’s trying to think of a word, and when she gets it, she grins. “Supper.”
Noah and I thank her again and then she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
I drop the clothes on the bed and sort through them. There’s a long dark blue summer dress and sweater for me, pants and a linen shirt for Noah.
It’s not ideal. I don’t have a bra or underwear to put on once I take my swimsuit and cover-up off. Noah will most assuredly not fit into either the pants or the shirt. He has almost a foot on Giuseppe.
We lock eyes and shrug, coming to the same conclusion: beggars can’t be choosers.