Page 19 of Two Chances With You

“No, you didn’t tell me anything about that.”

He continues to display a certain confidence. He’s either genuinely certain that he told me or else he’s a great actor. “Well, in any case, he’s expecting you at ten o’clock. So it’s a good thing I woke you up, right?”

“Of course, no two ways about it. Thanks, Paolo.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Nothing. Zero sense of irony. Paolo continues putting the cups and the coffeepot into the sink, nice and tidy, only and exclusively the right-hand basin.

Then he goes back to the same subject. “Hey, aren’t you going to ask why Papà wants to see you at ten o’clock? Aren’t you curious?”

“Well, if he wants to see me, I imagine that he’ll tell me when he sees me.”

“Oh, right, of course.”

I see that I’ve hurt his feelings a little. “Okay. Well then, so why does he want to see me?”

Paolo stops washing cups and turns to look at me, drying his hands on a dish towel. He’s enthusiastic. “I shouldn’t tell you because it’s supposed to be a surprise.” He must realize that I’m starting to lose my temper. “But I’m going to tell you anyway because I’m so pleased about it. I think he’s found you a job! Aren’t you happy?”

“Overjoyed.” I’m getting better though, I have to admit it. I manage to fake it, even in the face of a question like that.

“Well, what do you think?”

“That if I keep chatting with you, I’m going to be late.”

I go to get dressed.

Are you happy? The hardest question of them all. “It takes courage to be happy,” said Karen Blixen. Only my brother would think of asking a question like that.

Chapter 7

It’s a minute before ten when I look at my last name written on the intercom. But this is my father’s apartment. The name is written in pen, in shaky handwriting, without imagination and warmth, and utterly devoid of joy. In America, it would have been completely unacceptable.

But what does that matter? We’re in Rome, in a small piazza of Corso Trieste, near a shop that sells fake, wannabe-classy clothing. The shopkeeper stacks it up in the window at a price of 29.90 euros. As if any jerk in off the street could believe that this disgusting dreck should set him or her back thirty euros.

I ring the bell.

“Who is it?”

“Ciao, Papà. It’s me.”

“Right on time. America has changed you.” He laughs.

I’d love to turn around and go straight back home, but by now I’m here. “What floor are you on?”

“Third floor.”

I walk in and shut the front door behind me. I push three.

The elevator opens, and Papà is standing in the doorway, waiting for me. “Ciao.” He appears to be thrilled, and he hugs me tight. Too long, way too long. I get a little lump in my throat, but I brutally shove it aside. I don’t want to think about it.

He gives me a gentle punch in the shoulder. “Well, how’s it going?”

“Great.” I wrestle my voice back to normal. “How about you? How are you doing?”

“Great. What do you think of my nice little apartment? I’ve been here for six months already, and I like it. I furnished it myself.”

I’m tempted to say, “And it shows,” but I decide not to.

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