because the mob of German women across the way was talking so loudly. Also, each of them was watching something: Paul, Kennington; Pamela (alternately) the
pizzaiolo
and Kennington; Kennington, a handsome boy who stood behind a butcher-block counter in the open kitchen. Taking a sharp knife, the boy spread his left hand out on the butcher block and stabbed at the wood between his fingers, moving from the space between thumb and index finger to the space between index and middle finger to the space between middle and ring finger to the space between ring finger and pinkie, then back again. He did it so fast the steel blade blurred: five, six times. Then he stopped, breathed, started again, as if he were trying to break his own record.
Their drinks arrived: Nastro Azzurro for Kennington, water for Pamela and Paul. Kennington's expression, as he watched the boy, was avid, almost lustful. And what was he hoping for? Paul wondered. That the boy might make a mistake, chop off a finger or a fingertip? That he wouldn't make a mistake, and prove his mettle? All that was obvious was that if this was a game, the boy was winning it; time after time he won it.
Soon their pizzas arrived, spilling over the edges of plates too small to contain them.
"Oh my, isn't this beautiful?" said Pamela, looking first at her son and then his friend. "So beautiful I almost can't bear to eat it."
Tears welled in her eyesâtears that neither Kennington nor Paul noticed, so quickly did she cough them back. "Well,
buon appetito,
" she said.
"
Buon appetito,
" they repeated in unison.
She took a bite, a little nervously, having never eaten flowers before. But as it turned out, they were delicious.
11
T HEIR LAST MORNING in Rome, Kennington was supposed to go with Paul and his mother to Tivoli, to see the Villa d'Este. Indeed, at nine Paul was already dressed and ready in his room, when the phone rang. "Good morning," Kennington said. "Did you sleep well?"
"Not really. Richard, about our conversation last nightâI feel that I owe youâ"
"Nonsense. If anyone owes anyone an apology it's me." He sneezed.
"Are you all right?"
"No. Actually, that's the reason I'm calling. I think I'm catching a cold."
"Oh?"
"Nothing serious. Only I'm not sure I'm up to an expedition today. Would you mind terribly if I bagged out?"
"Of course not." Paul's voice grew chilly. "You're free to do whatever you want. You know that."
"Well, if you really wouldn't mind, as things stand I think I'd probably rather rest this morning. I'm sure I'll feel better in the afternoon, and then we can meet as usual at the Bar della Pace. How does that sound?"
"Fine," Paul said.
"You have fun now, you hear?"
"I will."
"I'll miss you."
"Thank you. I'll miss you too."
They hung up. Picking up his backpack, Paul stomped downstairs to his mother's room. "Are you ready?" he shouted, rapping on the door.
"Almost. Come in!"
He barreled through and hurled himself onto the bed. Pamela was doing her make-up. "Sleep well?" she asked.
"Richard isn't coming," he answered matter-of-factly. "He says he has a cold."
Pamela colored. "You know, that's funny, Paul"âshe put down her lipstickâ"because as it happens my allergies are acting up this morning. Would you mindâ"
"Oh, so now I'm supposed to go alone?"
"Well, you're always saying you need time to yourself, honey."
He rolled onto his side. "All right." Hoisting himself up from the bed, he headed for the door. "Well, bye."
"Bye, sweetheart. Be careful. See you this afternoon, okay?"
"Fine."
"You have enough money?"
"Yes."
The door slammed shut. Turning around, Pamela examined herself in the mirror; she looked good enough, she decided. Next, making sure first that the coast was clear, she hurried downstairs and across the street to a little grocery store, where she bought orange juice, pretzels, and a package
of cornetti.
At the pharmacy she got vitamin C tablets. Finally, on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, she
pizzaiolo
and Kennington; Kennington, a handsome boy who stood behind a butcher-block counter in the open kitchen. Taking a sharp knife, the boy spread his left hand out on the butcher block and stabbed at the wood between his fingers, moving from the space between thumb and index finger to the space between index and middle finger to the space between middle and ring finger to the space between ring finger and pinkie, then back again. He did it so fast the steel blade blurred: five, six times. Then he stopped, breathed, started again, as if he were trying to break his own record.
Their drinks arrived: Nastro Azzurro for Kennington, water for Pamela and Paul. Kennington's expression, as he watched the boy, was avid, almost lustful. And what was he hoping for? Paul wondered. That the boy might make a mistake, chop off a finger or a fingertip? That he wouldn't make a mistake, and prove his mettle? All that was obvious was that if this was a game, the boy was winning it; time after time he won it.
Soon their pizzas arrived, spilling over the edges of plates too small to contain them.
"Oh my, isn't this beautiful?" said Pamela, looking first at her son and then his friend. "So beautiful I almost can't bear to eat it."
Tears welled in her eyesâtears that neither Kennington nor Paul noticed, so quickly did she cough them back. "Well,
buon appetito,
" she said.
"
Buon appetito,
" they repeated in unison.
She took a bite, a little nervously, having never eaten flowers before. But as it turned out, they were delicious.
11
T HEIR LAST MORNING in Rome, Kennington was supposed to go with Paul and his mother to Tivoli, to see the Villa d'Este. Indeed, at nine Paul was already dressed and ready in his room, when the phone rang. "Good morning," Kennington said. "Did you sleep well?"
"Not really. Richard, about our conversation last nightâI feel that I owe youâ"
"Nonsense. If anyone owes anyone an apology it's me." He sneezed.
"Are you all right?"
"No. Actually, that's the reason I'm calling. I think I'm catching a cold."
"Oh?"
"Nothing serious. Only I'm not sure I'm up to an expedition today. Would you mind terribly if I bagged out?"
"Of course not." Paul's voice grew chilly. "You're free to do whatever you want. You know that."
"Well, if you really wouldn't mind, as things stand I think I'd probably rather rest this morning. I'm sure I'll feel better in the afternoon, and then we can meet as usual at the Bar della Pace. How does that sound?"
"Fine," Paul said.
"You have fun now, you hear?"
"I will."
"I'll miss you."
"Thank you. I'll miss you too."
They hung up. Picking up his backpack, Paul stomped downstairs to his mother's room. "Are you ready?" he shouted, rapping on the door.
"Almost. Come in!"
He barreled through and hurled himself onto the bed. Pamela was doing her make-up. "Sleep well?" she asked.
"Richard isn't coming," he answered matter-of-factly. "He says he has a cold."
Pamela colored. "You know, that's funny, Paul"âshe put down her lipstickâ"because as it happens my allergies are acting up this morning. Would you mindâ"
"Oh, so now I'm supposed to go alone?"
"Well, you're always saying you need time to yourself, honey."
He rolled onto his side. "All right." Hoisting himself up from the bed, he headed for the door. "Well, bye."
"Bye, sweetheart. Be careful. See you this afternoon, okay?"
"Fine."
"You have enough money?"
"Yes."
The door slammed shut. Turning around, Pamela examined herself in the mirror; she looked good enough, she decided. Next, making sure first that the coast was clear, she hurried downstairs and across the street to a little grocery store, where she bought orange juice, pretzels, and a package
of cornetti.
At the pharmacy she got vitamin C tablets. Finally, on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, she
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