courteously, with that Old World insouciance
that is simultaneously amused and amusing.
“I am grateful for the pleasure,” he says, staring deep into her bespectacled Californian
eyes.
I think my mom is actually going to swoon.
“Well, isn’t this nice!” she says, in a kind of falsetto, whooping, I-may-have-recently-inhaled-helium
voice; a voice I have literally never heard before. “It’s so nice to meet you! So
nice!”
Oh lord.
“So, Mom, ah, Marc and I . . .”
I begin to explain our friendship, but then I trail off, embarrassed. What can I say?
Oh, Mom, meet Marc, he’s a billionaire aristocrat into prehistoric S&M who fucked
me into blissful oblivion the other night; shall we have some coffee? A bit of me wants to say this, of course. To show off. To tell her that I—yes, me, Alex Beckmann, the
studious daughter, Spinster of the Year, two years running— I snared a gorgeous billionaire. Then I chucked him .
However, it doesn’t really matter what I think because Mom is off, doing her own thing:
she is trying to speak Italian .
The only problem with this is that my mom cannot speak Italian. As far as I know she
has never spoken a foreign language, ever. Trying not to blush, resisting the urge
to cover my eyes with my hands in mortification, I stare fixedly at the umbrella pines
at the corner of the square beside the dingy royal palace, as Mom says: “Aha! So . . .
um . . . buon gonna, señor .”
Señor? Does she think he’s Spanish?
“Stop now, Mom. Please?
“ Due . . .” she stumbles on. “ . . . señor Rascorr . . . Mie amigo .”
Please. Stop. Mom.
At last she stops, realizing she is making an idiot of herself, and I can see she
is beginning to flush, the color is rising in her cheeks and she is evidently embarrassed.
Why should Marc humiliate her like this?
Before I can hit him, or cause a diverting scene, perhaps by assaulting a pigeon,
Marc smiles and touches her gently on the shoulder and he laughs that warm, calm laugh
and says, “Mrs. Beckmann, per favore , the painful truth is, most Neapolitans cannot speak Italian, so you really need not trouble yourself on my behalf.”
It’s a tiny little joke but it’s just exactly the right little joke to relieve my mother of her embarrassment and now she giggles
girlishly, her humiliation gone. But my confusion is returning in fine style. Marc
has said exactly the right thing; my mom is swooning; I think I want to fly to Rome.
“You were going to the Gambrinus?”
Marc is talking to me.
“Yes . . .”
“Will you allow me to buy you and your charming mother an aperitif? It would be my
absolute pleasure.”
I am in no position to say no. He knows we’re going to the Caffè G. My mom now looks
like a dog that has just been promised one of those filet steaks from Japan that cost
three hundred dollars.
Reluctantly, I surrender. “Sure.”
And so we cross the Piazza del Plebiscito and, of course, when we reach the Gambrinus,
the waiters make a big fuss of Marc, escorting him, with much feudal bowing and scraping,
to his usual table, the best table in the best cafe in Naples. Then the three of us
sit down, and we drink Venezianos, and we look out at thronging, lively, triangular
Piazza Trieste e Trento. And as the drinks come and go, Marc tells my mom stories
about Naples life and she laughs and sips the glowing orange aperitifs, and nibbles
the tiny prosciutto rolls, and laughs some more.
Then Marc stands and pays our bill, tipping the waiters lavishly. Finally, he kisses
my mom’s hand one last time—I suspect she won’t wash it for a week—and then he disappears
into the Neapolitan dusk.
Mom looks at me. She shakes her head as if amazed.
“Well, my word! What a lovely man! Why didn’t you tell me you had such lovely friends? Tell me all about him!”
I tell her something about him, and then add some lies. I tell her I met him at a
couple of
that is simultaneously amused and amusing.
“I am grateful for the pleasure,” he says, staring deep into her bespectacled Californian
eyes.
I think my mom is actually going to swoon.
“Well, isn’t this nice!” she says, in a kind of falsetto, whooping, I-may-have-recently-inhaled-helium
voice; a voice I have literally never heard before. “It’s so nice to meet you! So
nice!”
Oh lord.
“So, Mom, ah, Marc and I . . .”
I begin to explain our friendship, but then I trail off, embarrassed. What can I say?
Oh, Mom, meet Marc, he’s a billionaire aristocrat into prehistoric S&M who fucked
me into blissful oblivion the other night; shall we have some coffee? A bit of me wants to say this, of course. To show off. To tell her that I—yes, me, Alex Beckmann, the
studious daughter, Spinster of the Year, two years running— I snared a gorgeous billionaire. Then I chucked him .
However, it doesn’t really matter what I think because Mom is off, doing her own thing:
she is trying to speak Italian .
The only problem with this is that my mom cannot speak Italian. As far as I know she
has never spoken a foreign language, ever. Trying not to blush, resisting the urge
to cover my eyes with my hands in mortification, I stare fixedly at the umbrella pines
at the corner of the square beside the dingy royal palace, as Mom says: “Aha! So . . .
um . . . buon gonna, señor .”
Señor? Does she think he’s Spanish?
“Stop now, Mom. Please?
“ Due . . .” she stumbles on. “ . . . señor Rascorr . . . Mie amigo .”
Please. Stop. Mom.
At last she stops, realizing she is making an idiot of herself, and I can see she
is beginning to flush, the color is rising in her cheeks and she is evidently embarrassed.
Why should Marc humiliate her like this?
Before I can hit him, or cause a diverting scene, perhaps by assaulting a pigeon,
Marc smiles and touches her gently on the shoulder and he laughs that warm, calm laugh
and says, “Mrs. Beckmann, per favore , the painful truth is, most Neapolitans cannot speak Italian, so you really need not trouble yourself on my behalf.”
It’s a tiny little joke but it’s just exactly the right little joke to relieve my mother of her embarrassment and now she giggles
girlishly, her humiliation gone. But my confusion is returning in fine style. Marc
has said exactly the right thing; my mom is swooning; I think I want to fly to Rome.
“You were going to the Gambrinus?”
Marc is talking to me.
“Yes . . .”
“Will you allow me to buy you and your charming mother an aperitif? It would be my
absolute pleasure.”
I am in no position to say no. He knows we’re going to the Caffè G. My mom now looks
like a dog that has just been promised one of those filet steaks from Japan that cost
three hundred dollars.
Reluctantly, I surrender. “Sure.”
And so we cross the Piazza del Plebiscito and, of course, when we reach the Gambrinus,
the waiters make a big fuss of Marc, escorting him, with much feudal bowing and scraping,
to his usual table, the best table in the best cafe in Naples. Then the three of us
sit down, and we drink Venezianos, and we look out at thronging, lively, triangular
Piazza Trieste e Trento. And as the drinks come and go, Marc tells my mom stories
about Naples life and she laughs and sips the glowing orange aperitifs, and nibbles
the tiny prosciutto rolls, and laughs some more.
Then Marc stands and pays our bill, tipping the waiters lavishly. Finally, he kisses
my mom’s hand one last time—I suspect she won’t wash it for a week—and then he disappears
into the Neapolitan dusk.
Mom looks at me. She shakes her head as if amazed.
“Well, my word! What a lovely man! Why didn’t you tell me you had such lovely friends? Tell me all about him!”
I tell her something about him, and then add some lies. I tell her I met him at a
couple of
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