"I can't help but observe that you're not your usual perky self this evening," he said, as they headed out of the hotel and toward Piazza Barberini. "Is something on your mind?"
Paul was silent for a second. Then he said, "I'm sorry, but I'm disappointed about Florence. After all, you're the one who brought it up, and when you did, you sounded so enthusiastic that I assumed you were really serious about it. That after my mother left, maybe we could even travel on together a little bit. Alone together."
"Sounds wonderful."
"But not wonderful enough to do."
Kennington laughed. "Oh, if I had a dollar for every wonderful thing I haven't done!"
"Then why don't you do it?
I'll
give you a dollar."
Kennington shook his head. "Certain patterns are too expensive to break."
"Even for just a few days?"
They were waiting for a green light, Paul gazing at him imploringly.
Then the light changed. They moved on.
"So what happens next?" Paul asked.
"Next? I go back to New York. You go to Florence. And in the fall you'll start at Juilliard."
"And will we see each other?"
"Of course we'll see each other."
"But yesterday you said you'd be away most of the fall. You said you had to go to Germany in October, then Japanâ"
"For me that's nothing. I'll be home a lot more than I usually am, and when I'm there we can see each other all the time."
"But you haven't even given me your phone number."
"That's only because I'm almost never there. It's better if I call youâ"
"I hate this," Paul said suddenly. "The way you're describing it, you get your tour, and your apartment, and you don't go to Florence, and you get me whenever you call. Whereas I get nothing."
"Is that what you're in this for? To get something?"
Paul didn't answer. A car roared down the narrow street, forcing them up against the wall.
They continued walking.
"So will Mr. Mansourian go with you to Germany?" Paul asked after a few seconds.
"No. He doesn't usually travel with me these days. San Francisco was an exception."
"He
is
a homosexual, isn't he?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Because of the way he acted toward me in San Francisco."
Kennington twitched a little. "And how did he act toward you in San Francisco?"
"Oh, you know ... the way you did here."
They had reached the Trevi Fountain, where Paul dug in his pockets. Kennington, quiet, watched the arc of a coin as it spiraled over the green water.
Then they crossed the street and caught a taxi. They had an appointment to meet Pamela at a pizzeria that the Romans called "the morgue" because of its marble tabletops. Alone under fluorescent light she waited for them, looking oddly intimidated in her new pink Valentino suit. From the ovens one of the
pizzaioli,
his T-shirt smeared with tomato, stared at her, while nearer by the pretty girl at the cash register was wearing the same Valentino suit, albeit in green instead of pink. Along with what looked like a pound of gold.
"Sorry we're late," Kennington said, kissing Pamela on the cheek as he sat down.
"Oh, don't worry. I've been having a wonderful time, watching those chefs throw that dough." She clasped her hands under her chin. "Pizza making really is an art, isn't it?"
"Roman pizza's the thin-crusted kind," Paul said. "It's thicker in Naples."
A waiter, unsmiling, dropped menus on the table. "Oh my," Pamela said, scanning the choices. "You know, Richard, pizza's just about my favorite food in the world. Did Paul tell you?"
"No."
"And now to be having a genuine Roman pizza in a genuine Roman pizzeriaâit's just thrilling!" She returned her gaze to the menu. "Now let's see ... mushroom sounds good. And what's a Napoli?"
"Mozzarella and anchovies, I think."
"I don't like anchovies. Maybe mushroom then. Or sausage. Or what's this? My goodness, zucchini flowers. How exotic!"
"
Prego,
" the waiter said, returning.
They ordered, Pamela opting for the zucchini flowers. The waiter went away.
A silence immediately fell over their table, mostly
Paul was silent for a second. Then he said, "I'm sorry, but I'm disappointed about Florence. After all, you're the one who brought it up, and when you did, you sounded so enthusiastic that I assumed you were really serious about it. That after my mother left, maybe we could even travel on together a little bit. Alone together."
"Sounds wonderful."
"But not wonderful enough to do."
Kennington laughed. "Oh, if I had a dollar for every wonderful thing I haven't done!"
"Then why don't you do it?
I'll
give you a dollar."
Kennington shook his head. "Certain patterns are too expensive to break."
"Even for just a few days?"
They were waiting for a green light, Paul gazing at him imploringly.
Then the light changed. They moved on.
"So what happens next?" Paul asked.
"Next? I go back to New York. You go to Florence. And in the fall you'll start at Juilliard."
"And will we see each other?"
"Of course we'll see each other."
"But yesterday you said you'd be away most of the fall. You said you had to go to Germany in October, then Japanâ"
"For me that's nothing. I'll be home a lot more than I usually am, and when I'm there we can see each other all the time."
"But you haven't even given me your phone number."
"That's only because I'm almost never there. It's better if I call youâ"
"I hate this," Paul said suddenly. "The way you're describing it, you get your tour, and your apartment, and you don't go to Florence, and you get me whenever you call. Whereas I get nothing."
"Is that what you're in this for? To get something?"
Paul didn't answer. A car roared down the narrow street, forcing them up against the wall.
They continued walking.
"So will Mr. Mansourian go with you to Germany?" Paul asked after a few seconds.
"No. He doesn't usually travel with me these days. San Francisco was an exception."
"He
is
a homosexual, isn't he?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Because of the way he acted toward me in San Francisco."
Kennington twitched a little. "And how did he act toward you in San Francisco?"
"Oh, you know ... the way you did here."
They had reached the Trevi Fountain, where Paul dug in his pockets. Kennington, quiet, watched the arc of a coin as it spiraled over the green water.
Then they crossed the street and caught a taxi. They had an appointment to meet Pamela at a pizzeria that the Romans called "the morgue" because of its marble tabletops. Alone under fluorescent light she waited for them, looking oddly intimidated in her new pink Valentino suit. From the ovens one of the
pizzaioli,
his T-shirt smeared with tomato, stared at her, while nearer by the pretty girl at the cash register was wearing the same Valentino suit, albeit in green instead of pink. Along with what looked like a pound of gold.
"Sorry we're late," Kennington said, kissing Pamela on the cheek as he sat down.
"Oh, don't worry. I've been having a wonderful time, watching those chefs throw that dough." She clasped her hands under her chin. "Pizza making really is an art, isn't it?"
"Roman pizza's the thin-crusted kind," Paul said. "It's thicker in Naples."
A waiter, unsmiling, dropped menus on the table. "Oh my," Pamela said, scanning the choices. "You know, Richard, pizza's just about my favorite food in the world. Did Paul tell you?"
"No."
"And now to be having a genuine Roman pizza in a genuine Roman pizzeriaâit's just thrilling!" She returned her gaze to the menu. "Now let's see ... mushroom sounds good. And what's a Napoli?"
"Mozzarella and anchovies, I think."
"I don't like anchovies. Maybe mushroom then. Or sausage. Or what's this? My goodness, zucchini flowers. How exotic!"
"
Prego,
" the waiter said, returning.
They ordered, Pamela opting for the zucchini flowers. The waiter went away.
A silence immediately fell over their table, mostly
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