13 Little Blue Envelopes(32)

The guy was almost to them now and was waving around his

fat, hardback book like he was trying to cut a path through some unseen foliage. The small newspaper flappers were understandably alarmed by this larger book flapper and immediately streamed away from Ginny. The guy broke his run with a few final, stumbling steps, stopping right as he got up to Ginny. He nodded in satisfaction.

Ginny still hadn’t moved. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

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“They were about to steal from you,” he said. His English was very clear but strongly flavored by an Italian accent.

“Those little girls?” she asked.

“Yes. Believe me. I see this all of the time. They are gypsies.”

“Gypsies?”

“You are all right? Has anything been taken?”

Ginny reached around and felt her pack. To her alarm, she found the zipper partway open. She opened it up all the way and checked the contents. Strangely, she checked first to make sure the letter was still in there, and then she checked for her money.

Both were there.

“No,” she said.

“That’s good.” He nodded. “Okay. Good.”

He went back to his spot at the edge of the fountain and sat down. Ginny stared at him. He didn’t look Italian. He had golden brown hair, almost blond. His eyes were light colored and very narrow.

If there was ever a guy to buy cake for, it was a guy who had just kept her from being robbed, even if that meant defending her from small children by waving a textbook.

She walked up to him cautiously. He looked up from his

book.

“I was wondering . . .” Ginny began. “Well, first, thanks. Do you want to . . .”

Do you want to was too strong a construction. It meant, “Do you want to do this with me?” She just had to offer the cake.

Everyone likes cake.

“I mean . . .” she corrected herself, “would you like some cake?”

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“Cake?” he repeated.

He blinked slowly. Maybe at Ginny, maybe at the sun.

Maybe his eyes were tired. Then he looked down into the

splashing waters of the fountain. Ginny looked into them as well. Anything to keep her eyes off him in this painful pause, during which he had to be trying to figure out a way of telling a weird American girl to leave him alone.

“Not cake,” he finally replied. “But a coffee.”

Coffee . . . cake . . . close enough. She had asked a guy, and the guy had said yes. This was nothing short of a miracle. She stopped herself just short of bouncing on her heels.

It was no problem finding a coffee bar. They were everywhere.

The guy went up to the long marble counter and turned casually, ready to take Ginny’s order and pass it to the stiff-aproned server.

“I usually get a latte,” she said.

“You would like a glass of milk? No, you mean a caffè latte.

Would you like to sit?”

She pulled out a few euros.

“It costs more if you sit,” he explained. “It’s ridiculous, but we are Italians.”

It cost a lot more. Ginny had to pass over about ten dollars’

worth of euros, and in return, they were presented with two very modest glass cups, each nestled in a tiny metal basket with a handle.

They sat down at one of the gray marble-topped tables, and the boy began to talk. His name was Beppe. He was twenty. He was a student, studying to be a teacher. He had three older sisters. He liked cars, some British bands Ginny hadn’t heard of.

He had been surfing in Greece. He didn’t ask Ginny a lot about herself, something she could easily live with.

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“It’s hot,” he said. “You should have a gelato. Have you had one yet?”

He was horrified to hear that she hadn’t.

“Come on,” he said, getting up. “We’re going now. This is ridiculous.”

Beppe led her down a few more streets, streets that got

progressively more crowded with people and more colorful.

These were streets that shouldn’t have had motorcycles and scooters barreling down them but did anyway. People calmly stepped out of the way just inches from their deaths, sometimes offering a choice word or gesture if they’d actually been brushed.

Beppe finally stopped in front of a small, unassuming stoop.

Once Ginny stepped inside, however, she saw that its size didn’t reflect its offerings. There were dozens of colorful gelatos packed into a glass case. Two men behind the counter quickly shoveled out heroic portions with a flat-edged spoon. Beppe translated the labels. There were normal flavors like strawberry, chocolate. But there were also ginger and cinnamon, cream with wild honey, black licorice. One was rice flavored, and there were at least half a dozen with special liquors or wine.

“How did you come here?” he asked as she selected her

flavor, which was the unimaginative strawberry.

“By . . . plane?”

“You are with a tour,” he said, but not as a question. He seemed certain of this.

“No tour. Just me.”

“You came to Rome by yourself? With no one? No friends?”

“Just me.”

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“My sister lives in Travestere,” he suddenly said, giving Ginny a short nod, as if she should know what this meant.