Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

He stomped back to the table. “You can mock me all you want, but you can’t hide the truth about yourself.”

“So you judge me too. I once had boyfriend, Stefano, who I met in what you would call high school. We separated after I went off to università. Ours was an innocent love. I would often think of him when I had sex with other men, so as not to think I was lost, disgraziata . And then I found you and thought only about you.”

“Non capisco! You never mentioned this young man.”

“Stefano Bonati came before you. The man you saw, Signor Parini, he secretly backed the partigiani . Allora, he had information I wanted. Stefano è morto. Killed in an American bombing raid in Milano . He was a partigiano, fighting against the fasciste. After Signor Parini wanted to give me some lire but I refused.”

Nick sat down and slid the scarf in her direction but she brushed it aside. Caterina sobbed as she poured another glass of Sambuca. He poured a glass for himself and gulped it down. They both continued drinking until the two of them passed out, heads on the table, their hands inches away from each other, their dreams shifting faster than the flicking scenes of a classical Hollywood film, except none of this was make believe for Nick or Caterina. He would now have this scene mixed in with the other scenes of his life, all their flashbacks more negative than the film itself, too sensitive to the light of the sun, the moon and the stars.

Nick and Caterina had recently celebrated New Year ’45, throwing a few chipped china plates out the window into the courtyard, toasting each other with chilled, crisp Prosecco, happy to be alive. Nathan’s painting of the Campidoglio hung on the wall. A week later, the projected weather forecast for Saturday was a mild 54º F, so for fun Nick suggested that they spend that day taking a gander at sites of Rome, acting like a couple of tourists on holiday. He purposely left his cane in the room. After a cappuccino and chocolate-filled cornetto at a nearby café, Nick rode around on his Paperino for an hour with Caterina wrapped around him, weaving through the streets of the centro storico . Whenever he accelerated, dodging a few camioncini and military jeeps along the way, Caterina laughed like a schoolgirl. Except for an occasional horse-drawn carriage, they had the Colosseum to themselves, circling the massive structure several times and admiring its ivory, travertine stones, almost touching the grey clouds, and other sections of arches that had collapsed after a forgotten earthquake.

“È bella but you’re making me dizzy, Nicky.”

He glanced at Caterina and laughed. “We’ll stop at Piazza Navona .” He headed across the Via Dei Fori Imperiali with the Roman Forum to the left, then parallel with the Tiber River on Vittorio Emanuele, getting off on one of the side streets to the piazza. The sound of the muffler echoed through Piazza Navona, as he slid the bike to a halt. The water in the fountains was turned off.

“ Bravo . Now we can walk,” Caterina said as they got off the motor scooter.

“Let’s get some gelato in Tre Scalini.”

“It’s too early, no?”

“It’s never too early for gelato .”

Nick grabbed her hand, leading the way with an imperceptible limp to the café. At the counter he chose his favorite, pistacchio, and Caterina, the classic tartufo. They consumed the gelato and continued their adventure through the old quarter, peeking into empty shops where artisans still worked with wood, marble or glass, stumbling across the Trevi Fountain, standing sad sack without a drop of water, its marble statuary hidden somewhere underground, a not so subtle reminder of the distant war. They kept walking and Caterina placed her arm around his waist, the move encouraging Nick to put his arm over her shoulder. They passed a chiosco , a newspaper stand plastered with war headlines in a half dozen languages, but they ignored them and ambled around until they got tired. They both agreed it was time for pranzo and Caterina insisted on the famous Caffè Greco. Nick first wanted to say ‘over his dead body,’ but he remembered Nathan’s admonishment about not ruining the party, so why spoil it for Caterina.

They walked through the glittering café and sat at a table in the Sala Venezia near a wall of paintings set above the chair rail, evoking that city of canals. A short waiter in a frock coat sauntered over, took the order and returned with a carafe of red wine and acqua minerale.

“I read it’s been here since the mid 1700’s. A writer’s haunt. Did you know Keats lived in a villa right next to the Spanish Steps before he died of consumption at 25?”

“I didn’t, Nicky. Would you like to go there afterwards?” Caterina asked.

“Nah, it’s all closed up now.” He looked around the room admiring the artwork awhile, as if his mind was somewhere else, while Caterina watched him in silence. Nick caught the gaze of her eyes. “Caterina, when you think about all the crap that’s going on, it’s like we’re stealing a little time from the war. Just you and me here and loving every minute of it.”

She leaned over and kissed him, causing him to smile widely.

“I never noticed your dimples before.”

“That’s because I don’t have much to smile about.” He picked up his wine glass. “Now and in another place and time. You’re the best, Caterina.”

They clinked glasses. “Cin cin!”

A man with a salt and pepper, bushy mustache, in a rumpled suit came by their table. His gray hair was slicked back in the fashion of the thirties.

“Mi scusi, Signore e Signorina. Posso prendere il vostro photo per un buon prezzo?”

He pointed to the camera and said: “Leica.” Nick turned towards Caterina and saw how beautiful she looked, sitting so near him.

“ Va bene!” Nick responded.

The man bowed his head, took a bunch of shots and promised to bring the finished results to Nick’s office ‘ subito ,’ which turned out to be a week later. Before leaving, he jotted down their address in his black, Moleskine notebook.

The waiter carried in steaming pasta from the kitchen, penne all’arrabbiata for Caterina and spaghetti alla carbonara for Nick. They dug into the food, mopping up the sauce with the rustic bread.

“You know, back home I would sometimes spend a day with someone special like you. I guess life’s all about time racing on, yet standing still in your memory. Like being caught in one of those movie posters with a climatic cameo of innamorati .” Nick blinked his eyes for a minute and Caterina drank some more wine.

“Was she pretty?”

“Who?” Caterina rested her jaw on the palm of her hand and stared at him for several minutes.

“Yeah, but it’s over.” His face was taut as he looked over her shoulder.

“Allora, how can time race on and stand still? Non capisco !”

“You see, things are going so fast like one of those flipping calendars in a movie. Then all you have is one, maybe two, frozen frames of film left that you remember. You know, like those movie posters I was talking about.”

“What’s going to happen to us, Nick? Will we be in one of your imaginary posters?”

“Non lo so. Nothing remains the same anymore. Just look around us.”

“Will this place be one of our frozen frames?”

“Sure, baby. You want some espresso?”