Burning The Map

I keep glancing at Sin to see if she’s noticing this, but she seems more loosened up than usual, too. She asks the guys questions about living in Italy and kids them about their need to tie sweaters around their shoulders.

Meanwhile, Francesco pays little direct attention to me, which is slightly insulting, but just fine, since I’m not looking to hook up. I let the conversation swirl around me while I stare at the Pantheon, a huge circular temple made of stone and cement. The interior design classes I took in college taught me that it’s an engineering marvel because of the massive domed ceiling that lets light onto the marble floors, but what really baffles me is that it was originally built in 27 B.C. Ironic, because it’s now surrounded by cars and cell phones and platform sandals.

As a History Channel junkie, John would have loved it here if only he could have ripped himself away from the office for a few weeks. Lately, I’ve wondered if he enjoys his work more than he enjoys me. As I sip my beer, I start to review the moments we’ve spent together during the past few months, then going back further, to come up with the last time we’d had fun together, real fun, not just the getting-dressed-up-to-go-to-a-cousin’s-wedding-and-drinking-bad-table-wine kind of fun. I want to remember the belly laughs, the accidental fun, the spontaneous good times at the end of an otherwise crappy day. We’d had those times at the beginning—the pub crawl we arranged with John’s neighbors during a blizzard; the time John surprised me with a weekend trip to Manhattan because I was depressed about a bad grade; the New Year’s Day that we drank every bit of leftover alcohol in his place and watched football and movies for fourteen hours. But where are those times lately? Absent, it seems, lost somewhere in the desire for career advancement and the late nights at the library.

“Casey,” Lindsey says, bringing me back to Rome, back to the now. “Ready to order dinner?”

I nod.

She leans across the table. “Are you okay?”

I haven’t told Kat or Sin about the distance I feel growing between John and me, probably because a different kind of space has grown between them and myself as well. But now with Sin looking at me, some concern in her eyes, I wish that we were alone, just the three of us, so I could spill everything out—my parents’ problems, this thing with John that I can’t put my finger on, the way I’m terrified to start working for a living. But Massimo and Francesco turn to me, too, waiting for me to answer Lindsey’s question, so I just nod again and take the menu from her hand.

Kat orders spaghetti carbonara, a rich, egg-filled pasta. She’s one of those criminally thin people with a perpetually high metabolism. I opt for a light caprese salad to try to whittle away some of my post bar exam girth, and Lindsey orders the same. When the food comes, she offers bites to everyone at the table, although only Kat accepts. The tomato and mozzarella, dribbled with olive oil and sprinkled with basil, taste ridiculously fresh and healthy, two foreign concepts, since I subsisted the entire summer on various members of the Frito Lay family.

Once I’m finished, I notice that Francesco sits silently while Kat is busy making faces at Poster Boy. Lindsey, surprisingly, appears to be enjoying her conversation with Massimo. My side of the table is overly quiet except for the clinking of glasses from other diners and the lilting Italian music wafting from the bar.

“Pretty hot, huh?” I say to Francesco.

His mouth turns up slightly at the corners, and his eyes skate to our friends. “It seems to be getting that way.”

I follow his glance to find that Poster Boy and Kat are now kissing like they’re alone on a couch somewhere. I wonder if I should stop her, maybe reach an arm across the table or toss some cold water like you do with unruly dogs, but I’m suddenly unsure of myself, of my role. I try to meet Lindsey’s eyes, but she’s talking to Massimo, her back turned to Kat.

“So,” I say, looking back at Francesco, who wears an amused expression.

“So,” he says, mimicking me, and we both crack up.

Silence settles between us then, during which I try to focus on Sin’s explanation of her job to Massimo and ignore the forms of Kat and Poster Boy, which have become a single, entwined mass across the table.

“You are going to be a lawyer?” Francesco finally asks. I’m startled for a second, but then I vaguely remember hearing Lindsey mention my new job to the guys while I was drifting off about John.

I only nod and sip my beer, not sure that he wants a real answer, and a little nervous that he might expect me to follow in Kat’s footsteps and lock lips with him.

“What kind of lawyer will you be?” he says, without a trace a flirtation.

“A litigator,” I say, thinking this sounds pretty interesting, even if the thought of doing it every day doesn’t particularly interest me right now.

“What is ‘litigator’?” He’s apparently confused with the English and unaware of how cool I am.

“Trials. In front of a judge,” I say.

Actually, what I’ve learned is that litigation really means taking a million depositions about car accidents and medical treatments, compiling page upon page of tedious written discovery, attempting for years to make a settlement, and then maybe, just maybe, eventually trying a case in defense of some company or some person lucky enough to have an insurance company behind them. But for some reason I want to impress Francesco—and maybe myself—about the job that’s waiting for me, so I embellish my soon-to-be reality, prattling on and on about fascinating lawsuits and standing before a high-powered judge every day. Total crap. I’ll probably see more of the library than I ever will the courtroom, and even if I do work on a big case, it’ll be on the grunt end for a very long time.

“And this is what you love to do?” Francesco seems to be going deeper than the surface conversation, making me squirm a little. On the other hand, his question flatters me. John assumes I’ll love the law as he does, so we’ve never truly discussed the subject of whether I’ll actually like my chosen profession. I’ve never even told John that I always wanted to be an interior designer before I convinced myself that the law would bring money and a decent lifestyle easier and faster.

“I haven’t started yet,” I say to Francesco.

“But you believe you will love it?” He holds his head a little bit to one side and waits for me to speak, those nice brown eyes watching me.

“It’s a job.” I squirm again and glance away. Sin is still talking to Massimo, and luckily, Kat and Poster Boy are chatting again instead of giving each other tonsillectomies.

“How do you like Roma?”

This is a much less complicated topic, and I give Francesco a smile. “I love it. I went to college here for six months.”

“Ah. So you know Roma?” He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs so that one ankle rests on his knee. He strikes me as someone who’s completely comfortable with his body, a trait I envy.

“I do. I have such wonderful memories of this city.”

“Why are the memories so good?”

I think about this for a second. “I was in school and in a new place. Everything was simple.” I close my eyes for a moment, remembering how my life was then—sleeping in, going to a few classes and spending the rest of the day exploring Rome, drinking wine and mooning over my favorite bartender.

“Things are not simple now?”

I open my eyes and shift about in my seat. I’m out of practice talking about things like feelings and wants and desires and realities. Somewhere along the way John and I had stopped doing that, too.

“Life gets more complicated as you get older. There’s more to worry about.” In one swoop, my memories of Rome are replaced with the prospect of fourteen-hour workdays.

Francesco pauses a second, his eyes never leaving my face. “I think life is what you do with it. How you decide to live it. It can be simple or not.”

I want to say, “Easy, Pollyanna” but instead I opt for, “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

I look at his face. Can he really want to have this conversation with me, some American girl he just met? He leans toward me, and the humid air seems to lighten and swirl with his nearness. I guess he does.

“It’s not that easy,” I say, “because you have responsibilities as time goes on.” Awaiting me when I get back are loans to pay, my family to deal with. Hell, I’m not even sure what to wear to work. I’ve perfected my student wardrobe—jeans, khakis, two pairs of leather boots (both black, one high-heeled, one low), and nearly every sweater put out by Banana Republic in the last three years. That’s all I’ve really needed. But now, I’m entering the world of pinstripes, pumps and pearls, and I’m clueless. Petty, I know, but this is the stuff I think about.

“If you are happy and living how you want to live, responsibilities can be a joy, not a job,” Francesco says.

“You’re reading too much Deepak Chopra.”

“Scusi?” Francesco cocks an ear toward me, and he looks adorable in that earnest, coffee-shop guy kind of way.

“Nothing.” I start asking him about his family, his work, what he wants to do with his life. He tells me he’s from a big family and works in his uncle’s restaurant supply business, which is how he knew the café owner and could land us this table. His two best friends are his sisters, both of whom live in Milan and work in the fashion industry. I glance down at my cotton dress as he says this, wishing I’d worn something fantastically hip, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s going to school at night to get his college degree, he tells me, so that someday he can open his own business. He wants to have something to hand down to his kids.

Francesco smiles when he says “my children,” as if he knows them already. It reminds me of the dinner I’d had with some high school girlfriends recently, when I’d felt left out listening to them talk about their babies and husbands. They seem to be adults already, worrying about adult things like preschools and mortgages and car seats, while I fret about whether to have another glass of wine and what to wear to John’s holiday party.

Our conversation continues to flow. I try to seem disinterested so that I don’t give Francesco the idea I’m as fun as Kat, but he intrigues me. He doesn’t seem to have the quick temper of many Italian men, and he says he loves women. Of course, he could be lying through his perfect white teeth—lying being another characteristic Italian-male behavior.

“Casey,” he says, briefly laying a hand over mine. “I think we could be friends.”

“The way they’re friends?” I jab a finger at Poster Boy and Kat, who’ve begun full-throttle kissing again.

He laughs. “Different than that. Better.”

I’m not sure what he means, so I give sort of an embarrassed guffaw, yet I don’t want to doubt him. I want to believe that this man finds me interesting and stimulating. Logically, I know I shouldn’t need a man to make me feel good about myself, but lately being with John has made me feel like putting on a housedress and curlers and schlepping off to a Tupperware party.

I shove all thoughts of John out of my mind and try to concentrate on what Francesco is saying. Something about the differences between American and Italian women. There seem to be many.

At this point, Poster Boy announces that he’s going to give Kat a tour of Vatican City at night.

Kat beams a smile at me as if this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to her, when I know for a fact it’s not. She has hundreds of crazy stories about getting it on with rock stars, sneaking into movie premieres and getting ludicrously expensive gifts from men of all ages. But I’m glad she’s happy, and there’s no denying how hot Poster Boy is.

“Would you like to come?” Poster Boy asks the rest of the group.

Francesco barely glances at me before he answers with a definitive, “Sì.”

“No!” I say, more harshly than I intended. I’m not a big fan of people answering for me, and I’d suddenly envisioned myself in an Italian housedress (okay, it is cuter than the American version), beating out a rug on the side of a dirty pensione, while Francesco yells at me to cook his favorite fusilli arribiata. When I see everyone’s surprised looks, I add in a nicer tone, “I need some sleep.”

Francesco nods graciously. “I will take Casey to the hotel.”

I give him a smile, not wanting to ruin his image of me, not wanting to erase the talk we had. I’d actually enjoyed the last hour more than any other in recent memory. Still, I do have a boyfriend at home. “That’s all right. I’ll walk back with Lindsey,” I say.

“Actually, Case,” Lindsey says, a sheepish grin playing on her mouth, “I think I’ll go check out the Vatican, too.”

“Oh,” I say, stumped. Sin is usually not the type to follow in Kat’s footsteps. She has little tolerance for men. She gives them a whirl now and again, but her hopes are always too high, or the guy’s ambitions too low. Her one major boyfriend, a charming, curly haired guy named Pete who was as short as she, she’d dumped about two years ago.

“Sorry,” Lindsey whispers, leaning across the table to squeeze my hand.

Kat sees the gesture and wakes up from the sexual stare she’s exchanging with Poster Boy. “Are you cool with this, Case?”

“Sure, sure.” I push back my chair, which makes a screeching sound on the pavement. I tell Francesco I’ll take him up on the ride.

“We’ll see you in a bit,” Kat says, her hand on Sin’s shoulder.

I nod, but I don’t expect either of them until dawn.

On the ride home, I try to remain aloof. Well, as aloof as one can get while straddling the end of a battered moped designed for one, and clutching Francesco’s midsection like a life preserver. He chatters over his shoulder, pointing out famous churches and hotels and mansions.

“You know, I’ve lived in Rome,” I tell him when we stop at a light. “I know all these places.”

“Oh,” he says, a mocking tone in his voice. “You know them all? You have been everywhere?”

“Yep.” I match his tone with a smug voice of my own. I was zealous about seeing everything when I lived here. I’d fallen in love with the sculpted fountains and the steeples shooting from the churches.

Francesco revs his sad little bike, which answers with a chug and a whine before it starts moving again. “Tomorrow night we will take you and your friends to a place maybe you have been, but you have never been there a notte, at night.”

It sounds mysterious, but I refuse to take the bait. “Fine,” I yell into the wind so he can hear. “Whatever you want.”

I tell myself I’m not interested, that I’m only accepting because if I want to see my friends while in Rome, they’re obviously going to be a package deal with Poster Boy and his crew.

Francesco pulls into the courtyard, and I climb off the scooter as elegantly as possible.

“I will call you early tomorrow evening,” he says, “and we will make arrangements to pick up you and your friends, sì?”

“Sì,” I reply.

He moves toward me, and I panic for a second, thinking he’s going to kiss me on the lips. Then I get a weird shot of hope that he is going to kiss me. Instead, he plants a soft, chaste kiss on each cheek, the Italian greeting, which is about as sexual to them as cleaning a closet. He smiles at me and gives the scooter another lame rev.

“Tomorrow,” he says, and putters away into the night.

3

I’m surprised to hear Lindsey and Kat clomping into the room only an hour or so after I crash, but I’m too tired to find out what brought them home so soon. The next morning I wake them at eight o’clock, determined to show them all of Rome within the next two days, since we’re planning on leaving tomorrow night for the Greek islands.

“It’s too early,” Kat moans, looking as stunning as the night before.

While my appearance always does a nosedive by the time I get up in the morning, Kat is blessed with long, black lashes and smooth skin that never blotches. Her perpetual good looks come in handy, especially on Sunday mornings at 7:00 a.m. when she starts a twelve-hour shift as an ICU nurse. She still goes out every Saturday night without fail, and she almost always picks someone up, but it never seems to affect her nursing. In fact, she’s won awards. She even gets flowers and cards from her patients and their families.

“Too bad,” I say to her now. “We’ve got lots to see.”

Lindsey groans and props herself up on her elbows. “You are not going to believe the shit those guys pulled last night.”

I immediately sit on the edge of her bed, ready for some of the good girl talk that’s been missing from my life. I’ve certainly had no interesting stories of my own. “What happened?”

“Apparently—” she shoots a mean look at Kat “—the boys’ idea of a Vatican tour was to drive by Saint Peter’s from a mile away and point at it.”

I cover my mouth, trying not to laugh.

“Don’t even,” she says, before she continues. “Then they just sped away, and when I asked Massimo where we’re going he tells me Monte something.”

“Monte Mario,” I tell her. It’s a nice neighborhood just outside the city limits. “And then what happened?”

“Well, it was obvious they were looking for an evening of Love American Style,” Lindsey says, again glaring at Kat, “which I guess I should have expected the way those two were making out at the table—but I really did think we were going to the Vatican. One minute we’re cruising along real slow, and Massimo’s being nice, telling me things about Rome. Then we pull up to a light, the two guys talk in Italian, and the next minute they floor the scooters and start flying down the street away from the Vatican.”

We both look at Kat, waiting for an explanation. The way she was tonguing Poster Boy at the table, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was groping him on the scooter.

Kat gives a guilty shrug. “Alesandro asked me if we wanted to have a beer at their apartment, and I said ‘sure,’ assuming he meant after the tour. But before we got anywhere Sin started arguing with Massimo at a stoplight.”

Lindsey snorts. “He made a comment about bringing me home the next day before work, and I didn’t appreciate the assumption.” She throws off her covers and starts going through her purse. “I thought those guys would be different, but they’re the same as the ones back home. I don’t have time to mother some post-college idiot into adulthood.”

“Oh my.” Kat rolls her eyes and waves off Lindsey’s speech. “That’s fine, but you jumped off the scooter and stalked away in the dark. I was worried about you.”

Sin turns around with a serious look, but after a second she gives a bashful kind of half laugh. “I guess the seven beers I had helped a bit.”

“We chased her,” Kat explains, laughing now, too, “and we had to talk her back onto Massimo’s scooter.”

“Yeah. By that time they wanted nothing but to get the hell away from us.” Sin slumps on Kat’s bed.

“And I was none too happy about it,” Kat says. “Alesandro was a hottie, and I came on this trip to have a good time, damn it.”

They’re giggling now, leaning against each other and looking like the best friends they are. I used to fit in that picture. “The Three Musketeers,” we used to call ourselves unoriginally.

“What happened with you?” Kat says. “Did Francesco make a move?”

“No, no. Perfect gentleman.” I tell them about his promise that the guys will pick us up that evening and take us somewhere off the beaten path. “So,” I tell Kat, “if they still want to do it, you’ll have another shot at Alesandro.”

“I hope they don’t,” Lindsey says. “I want absolutely nothing to do with Massimo.”

“Maybe they’ll have more friends,” I say, “or maybe they’ll take us someplace where there’s lots of people. It could be fun.”

Sin narrows her eyes a little. “You’re really selling tonight with these guys. You’re sure nothing happened with you and Francesco?”

“Of course not.”

“Don’t hold out on us,” Kat says.

“There’s nothing to hold.” I look at the two of them slumped on the bed, and I think, there’s nothing to tell about Francesco, not really, but there’s John, there’s my parents, there’s—

“All right. Well, I call the bathroom first.” Lindsey heads for the shower.

Kat groans and rolls off the bed. She moves to her suitcase and starts sorting through her clothes.

I sit there for a second, thinking that at least they didn’t refuse to go tonight. Because I want to see Francesco again more than I can admit.

All day we hike around Rome, making the requisite stops—Castel Sant’Angelo, Trevi Fountain, Piazza del Popolo, Sistine Chapel, and at least a dozen other churches. The majority of Rome’s treasures are religious, whether the cathedrals themselves or the baubles and sculptures collected inside. Although I consider myself a lapsed Catholic, I still find the interior of a church soothing. It’s like walking back into childhood, a world of orderly rules and schedules. I love the cool marble and the impossible, enormous quiet, despite the teeming city outside.

“Pete always wanted me to pretend I was a virgin,” Lindsey says, as we stand in front of a portrait of the Virgin Mary just inside the entrance to one church.

Kat and I burst out in giggles at the thought of cute, little Pete making such a request. We get shushed by a passing couple who might as well have the word tourist plastered on their heads what with the rain slickers tied around their waists and the five guidebooks they’re juggling.

“So why didn’t you?” Kat says in a whisper.

“What was I supposed to do? Get drunk and pretend I was in a dorm room?” Sin shakes her head. “I told him he was an asshole, but I think he was just trying to mix it up a bit, have some fun.” She shrugs and walks to a white marble sculpture of an angel.

They haven’t dated for two years, but it doesn’t stop Lindsey from bringing up Pete every so often. An open, vivacious guy, he was the one man Lindsey had seemed to care about. Everyone loved to have him around, until Lindsey decided he wasn’t going anywhere in life. He was happy running the family business, a large fruit and vegetable market in Buck-town. Lindsey, on the other hand, wanted to run with the moneyed set, the kind of people who worked out at East Bank Club and owned second houses in Aspen. So it was so-long-Pete, although Lindsey doesn’t seem able to say goodbye.

I follow Sin to the statue of the angel, whose placid face and soulful eyes make it look like it needs a break from centuries of standing in the same position. “You ever talk to Pete?”

She looks surprised at the thought, then turns away and walks down the marble aisle toward the altar. “Of course not,” I hear her say.

The heat is unrelenting, but it gives us an excuse for frequent stops at neighborhood bars for tè fredda—sweet Italian iced tea—and snacks. About three in the afternoon, we’re thirsty again, but because of the siesta, we trudge around forever looking for an open restaurant.

A few women pass us, walking arm in arm, then a few young girls holding hands.

“Lot of lesbians around here,” Kat says.

“They’re not lesbians,” I say, laughing. “That’s just what women do in Rome.”

Kat stops and watches the girls enter a store. “I like that.” “Let’s adopt that custom.” She links her arms through Sin’s and mine, pulling us forward until we all fall into step with each other, our hair flying behind us, and I feel like we’re Charlie’s Angels. Three good friends on the town.

It reminds me of a day we’d spent a few years ago, right after we’d graduated from college and moved to Chicago. A doctor Kat worked with had invited her to a party during Old Town Art Fair. The three of us hit a few other bashes first, making the rounds in khaki shorts and halter tops, drinking keg beer. When we stopped at Dr. Adler’s, though, we knew we were out of our element. For one thing, the house was a stunning brownstone with a manicured front lawn and an interior so full of antiques that I held my breath as we made our way through the living room. For another thing, the women wore linen skirts and wide-brimmed straw hats, the men tailored pants and nice shirts. Conversation seemed to lull as we came in. Everyone was at least fifteen years older than we, and in comparison we looked like hoochy mamas with our tight little shirts, holding our plastic cups of beer.