Mark Lee - The Canal House

I didn’t want to attend a party, but it felt like part of the job interview. Out on the street, Daniel lit a Turkish cigarette and led me over to the Piazza San Silvestro. About twenty cars were parked in a tight group near the central fountain. An old man wearing a stained overcoat was leaning next to a Ford Fiesta. It looked like he was waiting to steal something. Daniel bowed slightly, called him Signor Posteggiatore, and gave him some money from the one-thousand-lira pocket. I could see that the old man was a “space finder” who spent his time finding spots for illegally parked cars. He returned the bow, pulled a rag out of his pocket, and limped over to an Alfa Romeo Spider. The red sports car was splattered with mud and trash was stuffed behind the two seats. As we got in, the old man wiped the headlights clean and explained how he had defended the car from thieves, policemen, and all the fiends of hell.

Daniel started the engine, gunned it a few times, and then we were off, circling once around the piazza and heading down a side street. He drove like a dying man searching for a hospital, racing through every gap in the traffic and occasionally driving with two wheels up on the sidewalk. We stopped briefly for a traffic cop who was defending an intersection and Daniel turned to me. “You can’t hesitate around here.” The cop lowered his arm. Daniel shifted gears and mashed the accelerator.

It was about six o’clock, but the sky was still blue and pink clouds glowed on the horizon. Slipping through the traffic, we crossed over to the Trastevere district on the west side of the Tiber. The buildings were three or four stories high and the streets were even narrower—it reminded me of Greenwich Village. Daniel hit the brakes and turned down an alleyway, which opened onto a small piazza.

He walked over to a shop with a tailor’s dummy in the display window, but I didn’t follow him. Although I wanted the job, I didn’t see why I had to jump through this particular hoop. Daniel had charmed the older journalists at lunch. That wasn’t going to work with me.

“What’s the problem, Nicky?”

“I’m not buying new clothes just so I can go to a party.”

“Let them make you a suit. If you aren’t happy with the result, I’ll buy everything back from you.”

“We’re not the same size.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Grabbing my arm, he opened the door and dragged me into the shop. There weren’t any customers there, just an older man with a walrus mustache. He was sewing a cuff on some trousers while he sat crossed-legged on a wooden table.

“ Buona sera, maestro .”

“Ahhh, Daniel!” The tailor embraced Daniel as if he were his long-lost son. They stood there jabbering for a while, then the tailor shouted some names. His family lived over the shop and they started descending the back staircase. There was the tailor’s wife, the plump older daughter, the skinny younger daughter, and the tailor’s teenage son. Daniel greeted them all—kissing the men and squeezing the women’s hands. He said something in Italian and everyone turned around and stared at me.

My grandparents were Portuguese and I’d inherited their black curly hair and brown eyes. I had assumed I was going to get taller when I reached puberty, but it didn’t work out that way. I have short legs and I could lose some weight. I hate people looking at me and I especially hate people taking my photograph. When I rented a tuxedo for my sister’s wedding, I looked like a dwarf waiter.

Now the whole damn family was staring at me and discussing my body. They got into a loud argument about my shoulders and Daniel had to intervene. The tailor kept circling me, measuring me with his tape and murmuring in Italian.

“What the hell is he talking about?”

“He says you’re an interesting challenge.”

“That’s a nice way to put it. Just tell him to sell me a suit and we’ll get out of here.”

Daniel translated what I said and everyone laughed. The tailor scribbled some instructions on a piece of paper and gave them to his son. The young man hurried out of the shop and I heard the whine of a motor scooter speeding away.

The younger daughter went upstairs for a few minutes, then came back down with a bottle of Frascati wine and a pair of gray wool pants.

“Italians admire English gentlemen,” explained Daniel. “So that’s the style we’re going for here. You’ll look conservative, but elegant.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Have some wine, Nicky. Sit back and enjoy it.”

I tried on the pants and the tailor pinned up the fabric in various places. When he was done he tossed the pants across the room to the older daughter and she began altering them on an antique sewing machine. The tailor’s wife brought out another bottle of wine along with a suit coat. It looked all right without alterations, but the fitting lasted an hour. Everything was discussed endlessly. The cuffs. The pockets. The lapels. More wine.

Daniel filled up my glass, joked with me, and complimented the tailor. An Italian would have said that Daniel was gentile —kind or polite—but the word meant much more than that. Daniel was graceful. He could make you feel better about yourself and eager to display your best qualities. I envied him, but I hadn’t forgotten about the photographers he’d worked with in Bosnia, one dead and the other talking like a frog.

It was almost nine o’clock in the evening. I tried on the pants, a new shirt, and the suit coat. A scooter screeched to a stop outside and the tailor’s son ran in with a silk necktie and pair of shoes. I got completely dressed and the older daughter smiled at me. She moved back a wood panel and all of a sudden I was looking at myself in a full-length mirror.

I looked good, almost handsome, for the first time in my life. You couldn’t tell that I had stubby legs. My extra weight made me seem solid, not sloppy and fat. I wondered if my life would have turned out differently had I looked like this in high school.

“ Grazie ,” I whispered.

“ Prego ,” the family answered. They all looked tired and proud, like they had scaled Mount Everest with a pair of scissors and some thread.

I saw Daniel in the mirror, standing behind me. “ Grazie infinite ,” he told them.

The younger daughter brought out some grappa and poured it into little brandy glasses. I handed over my credit card while Daniel gave a separate tip to each of the tailor’s children. The money was folded over once, then slipped into each person’s hand like a gesture of friendship. It was the first time I ever realized that there was a graceful way to pay your bills.

Everyone shook my hand and complimented me, and then we were back out on the street and squeezing ourselves into the Spider. I was half drunk from the wine at the tailor shop or maybe I hadn’t sobered up from lunch. The alcohol blurred the streetlights and softened all the edges of the buildings.

“You satisfied, Nicky?”

“I guess so.”

“Good. Let’s go to the party.”

Daniel drove just as fast at night as he did in the daytime, but there were fewer cars in the streets and he was able to glide through most of the intersections. The warm night air swirled around us as we cruised back across the Tiber. Another Alfa Romeo passed in the opposite direction and the driver honked his horn. Shifting gears, Daniel explained that the single male driver was an Alfista , that we were Alfisti and that if we encountered a pair of beautiful Italian women in a Spider they were Alfiste .

“What if they’re not beautiful?” I asked.

Daniel shifted again and cut in front of a Fiat. “They have to be. It’s a tradition.”

On our left, the Castel Sant’ Angelo glowed with light. Its round walls and the towers of the inner castle made it look like an enormous cupcake. I began seeing photographs everywhere. Two lovers stared at some illuminated ruins. A drunk old man was doing a little dance on the sidewalk. A black cat perched on a white marble wall. I felt happy at that moment, or maybe it was just the grappa. Everything seemed possible if we just kept moving—perhaps we would even meet some Alfiste .