Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

The transfer came through before Nick and Nathan were released from the hospital and it wasn’t long before they shared a room in the sprawling headquarters of the Counter Intelligence Corps in Rome. They were called upon to interrogate prisoners, translate captured documents or act as interpreters when dealing with the locals. They also spent many hours listening to intercepted Axis radio messages, which would became a monotonous duty for them but they were happy to have a private space when their work was done.

“Look at that view, Nathan,” Nick said as he held the dark curtain to the side. “We can see all the way to the Campidoglio .”

“Yeah, it’s swell.” Nathan sat straight up on the edge of his bed.

“Is something wrong?”

“You know. I’m worried sick about my cousins in Germany. And right here in Italy.” Nick understood those emotions—worrying about family. Everybody had their stories to tell but from what he had heard, just being Jewish this time around could prove fatal.

Nathan looked out the window. “It is an amazing structure. Still around after 19 centuries.” He turned towards Nick. “Where will all the Jews be after the war’s over?”

Nick didn’t have a good answer for his buddy. This was no time for platitudes. He better understood Nathan’s determination to join up—his European cugini needed help right away. While Nick changed into civvies, he thought how this topic was making his buddy all nerves and not something he wanted to dwell on either. Nathan lay on his cot with his hands behind his neck like he was some kind of prisoner, so he figured he would play his best cards to keep Nathan’s mind off things.

“Do you want to go for some pasta amatriciana ?” Nathan remained in the same position. “How about that new dish, pasta carbonara ? Maybe pick up a few broads later.”

“Nah, I’ll stick around here and write some letters.”

“Why don’t you sketch the Campidoglio from the window?”

“Sure, Nick.”

Nathan was humoring him but Nick worried that the head injury was affecting his buddy’s moods as well. “Ci vediamo, Nate.”

Nick and Nathan had purchased motor scooters, nicknamed the Paperino, after their first month at the CIC. Though Nick still walked with a wooden cane, he managed to operate his light green scooter. He placed his right leg around the seat putting his weight on the cane from the left side, and then thumped himself on the black leather seat. He jabbed his cane in an improvised holder on the side fender, started the engine and, in a short while, crossed the Palatino Bridge over the Tiber River.

Nick searched for a buona trattoria in Trastevere and circled around until he found one that looked promising. The trattoria was cramped with long wooden tables lined up indoors and a few tables outside on a crooked sidewalk. Nick pulled up and worked his way through the crowded place. He sat next to an extended family munching on varied antipasti.

“Caminiere, prego. Vorrei una pasta amatriciana.”

“Da bere?”

“Vino rosso. Un mezzo litro. E dell’ acqua minerale con gassata.”

The waiter jotted the order down, never making eye contact during the transaction. It took more time than usual and Nick felt self-conscious sitting alone in the trattoria , so he pulled out a copy of Vittorini’s novel, Conversazione in Sicilia. He read a few sentences but the noise distracted him and his hunger for food brought on other desires. He knew a buono bordello where he could go. A young woman with long, golden brown hair approached him in a poised manner and stood by the empty chair opposite him. She motioned to it and he said: “Prego, signorina. È libero .” The woman sat down but did not speak to him. She ordered a fritatta ai funghi and a glass of vino bianco. Nick pretended to be absorbed in his book but caught glimpses of her when she looked sideways at some of the commotion taking place. She was a bella donna all right but her eyes were icy. The waiter placed the pasta in front of Nick who put the book down on the table. He ate fast but tried not to eat like a porcu, as his mother used to scold him for at the kitchen table.

“Un caffè, per favore,” Nick called out to the waiter flying by. The young woman observed him briefly and then forked her frittata in a nonchalant way. She slipped her high heels off without bending over. Nick was glad he ordered the coffee. She moved her hair back with a delicate, right hand and he noticed an anxious look on her face, not out of fear for him but something else that he couldn’t discern. It was as if there were some mystery behind those green eyes but she managed to smile at him when she caught him staring at her. Her teeth were small but pearl white and symmetric.

The espresso came sooner than he wanted, so Nick sipped from the cup, while the young woman had eaten half her frittata. She placed her right foot in his crotch and then took it away. There was nothing left in the cup but Nick still held it in midair, grateful he hadn’t dropped it.

“You must be far from home,” the young woman said.

“Allora, lei parla l’inglese .”

“Yes, I studied it for many years.” She was unnerving him, as she finished the glass of wine. “You are American, no?”

“Yes.”

“You notice lots of things.”

“Even if your face might throw me off, I knew you had to be an American?”

“ Come ?”

“No Italian would be reading a book while sitting alone in a restaurant.”

“I don’t understand. Non capisco!”

“An Italian would never be self-conscious while eating his favorite food, whether alone or with friends.”

“I love the food but never thought of it that way.”

“Did you know Vittorini was arrested by the fasciste for that book you’re reading?”

“Non lo so .”

“I can hear a slight, Sicilian accent when you speak Italian.” Nick shrugged. “Allora, sua famiglia è Siciliana !”

“Brava, you are a detective.” The young woman smiled. “ La commissaria , have you also deduced I need more than food?”

“A man does not live by bread alone. Nor does a woman.”

“You don’t strike me as the religious type.”

“Neither do you.” She glanced at the group next to her and noticed that some of them were eyeing her. Her cool demeanor changed to an edgy one. “We can’t talk here with all these nosey people. We Romans love to gossip, you know.”

“Sure, let’s get out of here. This joint is stifling anyway.”

She left the trattoria first and he held back awhile so it would not appear she had picked him up. Some of the customers cackled as she passed the cramped tables. A rotund postman sitting by the door, who had been watching them the whole time, called out puttana as she closed the door behind her . Laughter circulated within the place, while the young woman waited for Nick to catch up. He tied up his cane and got on the Paperino in his usual manner. She bunched up her skirt and sat behind him, placing her hands around his hips. He glanced to his side to ensure her legs were in safely and gave her first-class gams the once-over.

He revved the engine and shouted: “Don’t pay any attention to those cretini!”

“They are invisible to me,” she responded.

“Where to?”

“I’ll guide you along the way.”

Having crossed the Tevere, Nick became disoriented after a few blocks. Every turn took them in another unfamiliar direction. Her path avoided all of the usual bordellos near the Stazione Termini where the women with heavy makeup lured the wandering, drunken soldiers with their bulging cleavage, slit up skirts and molded round asses. While bouncing around on a confusing drive, which he suspected might have been intentional on her part, she pointed to an apartment building in an alley. She instructed Nick to shut the engine off as they turned in and they glided into the dark, stopping at a ten-foot wooden door. She hopped off, took out a large key, unlocked the door halfway and turned to him.