so much sugar or cheap liqueur that they practically rot your teeth out.
Marco managed to appear sufficiently shocked at this national scandal.
“Learn the word ‘gelato,’ ” he said, his eyes glowing again.
“Ice cream,” Marco said.
“Bravo. The best in the world. There’s a gelateria down the street. We’ll go there after dinner.”
______
ROOM service terminated at midnight. At 11:55, Marco slowly picked up the phone and punched numberfour twice. He swallowed deeply, then held his breath. He’d been practicing the dialogue for thirty minutes.
After a few lazy rings, during which time he almost hung up twice, a sleepy voice answered and said, “Buona sera.”
Marco closed his eyes and plunged ahead. “Buona sera. Vorrei un caffè, per favore. Un espresso doppio.”
“Sì, latte e zucchero?” Milk and sugar?
“No, senza latte e zucchero.”
“Sì, cinque minuti.”
“Grazie.” Marco quickly hung up before risking further dialogue, though given the enthusiasm on the other end he doubted it seriously. He jumped to his feet, pumped a fist in the air, and patted himself on the back for completing his first conversation in Italian. No hitches whatsoever. Both parties understood all of what the other said.
At 1:00 a.m., he was still sipping his double espresso, savoring it even though it was no longer warm. He was in the middle of lesson three, and with sleep not even a distant thought, he was thinking of maybe devouring the entire textbook for his first session with Ermanno.
______
HE knocked on the apartment door ten minutes early. It was a control thing. Though he tried to resist it, he found himself impulsively reverting to his old ways. He preferred to be the one who decided when the lesson would begin. Ten minutes early or twenty minutes late, the time was not important. As he waited in the dingy hallway he flashed back to a high-level meeting he’d once hosted in his enormous conference room. It was packedwith corporate executives and honchos from several federal agencies, all summoned there by the broker. Though the conference room was fifty steps down the hall from his own office, he made his entrance twenty minutes late, apologizing and explaining that he’d been on the phone with the office of the prime minister of some minor country.
Petty, petty, petty. The games he played.
Ermanno was seemingly unimpressed. He made his student wait at least five minutes before he opened the door with a timid smile and a friendly “Buon giorno, Signor Lazzeri.”
“Buon giorno, Ermanno. Come stai?”
“Molto bene, grazie, e tu?”
“Molto bene, grazie.”
Ermanno opened the door wider, and with the sweep of a hand said, “Prego.” Please come in.
Marco stepped inside and was once again struck by how sparse and temporary everything looked. He placed his books on the small table in the center of the front room and decided to keep his coat on. The temperature was about forty outside and not much warmer in this tiny apartment.
“Vorrebbe un caffè?” Ermanno asked. Would you like a coffee?
“Sì, grazie.” He’d slept about two hours, from four to six, then he’d showered, dressed, and ventured into the streets of Treviso, where he’d found an early bar where the old gentlemen gathered and had their espressos and all talked at once. He wanted more coffee, but what he really needed was a bite to eat. A croissant or a muffin or something of that variety, something he had not yet learned thename of. He decided he could hold off hunger until noon, when he would once again meet Luigi for another foray into Italian cuisine.
“You are a student, right?” he asked when Ermanno returned from the kitchen with two small cups.
“Non inglese, Marco, non inglese.”
And that was the end of English. An abrupt end; a harsh, final farewell to the mother tongue. Ermanno sat on one side of the table, Marco on the other, and at exactly eight-thirty they, together, turned to page one of lesson one.
Marco managed to appear sufficiently shocked at this national scandal.
“Learn the word ‘gelato,’ ” he said, his eyes glowing again.
“Ice cream,” Marco said.
“Bravo. The best in the world. There’s a gelateria down the street. We’ll go there after dinner.”
______
ROOM service terminated at midnight. At 11:55, Marco slowly picked up the phone and punched numberfour twice. He swallowed deeply, then held his breath. He’d been practicing the dialogue for thirty minutes.
After a few lazy rings, during which time he almost hung up twice, a sleepy voice answered and said, “Buona sera.”
Marco closed his eyes and plunged ahead. “Buona sera. Vorrei un caffè, per favore. Un espresso doppio.”
“Sì, latte e zucchero?” Milk and sugar?
“No, senza latte e zucchero.”
“Sì, cinque minuti.”
“Grazie.” Marco quickly hung up before risking further dialogue, though given the enthusiasm on the other end he doubted it seriously. He jumped to his feet, pumped a fist in the air, and patted himself on the back for completing his first conversation in Italian. No hitches whatsoever. Both parties understood all of what the other said.
At 1:00 a.m., he was still sipping his double espresso, savoring it even though it was no longer warm. He was in the middle of lesson three, and with sleep not even a distant thought, he was thinking of maybe devouring the entire textbook for his first session with Ermanno.
______
HE knocked on the apartment door ten minutes early. It was a control thing. Though he tried to resist it, he found himself impulsively reverting to his old ways. He preferred to be the one who decided when the lesson would begin. Ten minutes early or twenty minutes late, the time was not important. As he waited in the dingy hallway he flashed back to a high-level meeting he’d once hosted in his enormous conference room. It was packedwith corporate executives and honchos from several federal agencies, all summoned there by the broker. Though the conference room was fifty steps down the hall from his own office, he made his entrance twenty minutes late, apologizing and explaining that he’d been on the phone with the office of the prime minister of some minor country.
Petty, petty, petty. The games he played.
Ermanno was seemingly unimpressed. He made his student wait at least five minutes before he opened the door with a timid smile and a friendly “Buon giorno, Signor Lazzeri.”
“Buon giorno, Ermanno. Come stai?”
“Molto bene, grazie, e tu?”
“Molto bene, grazie.”
Ermanno opened the door wider, and with the sweep of a hand said, “Prego.” Please come in.
Marco stepped inside and was once again struck by how sparse and temporary everything looked. He placed his books on the small table in the center of the front room and decided to keep his coat on. The temperature was about forty outside and not much warmer in this tiny apartment.
“Vorrebbe un caffè?” Ermanno asked. Would you like a coffee?
“Sì, grazie.” He’d slept about two hours, from four to six, then he’d showered, dressed, and ventured into the streets of Treviso, where he’d found an early bar where the old gentlemen gathered and had their espressos and all talked at once. He wanted more coffee, but what he really needed was a bite to eat. A croissant or a muffin or something of that variety, something he had not yet learned thename of. He decided he could hold off hunger until noon, when he would once again meet Luigi for another foray into Italian cuisine.
“You are a student, right?” he asked when Ermanno returned from the kitchen with two small cups.
“Non inglese, Marco, non inglese.”
And that was the end of English. An abrupt end; a harsh, final farewell to the mother tongue. Ermanno sat on one side of the table, Marco on the other, and at exactly eight-thirty they, together, turned to page one of lesson one.
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