Burning The Map

I sit there for a second, thinking that at least they didn’t refuse to go tonight. Because I want to see Francesco again more than I can admit.

All day we hike around Rome, making the requisite stops—Castel Sant’Angelo, Trevi Fountain, Piazza del Popolo, Sistine Chapel, and at least a dozen other churches. The majority of Rome’s treasures are religious, whether the cathedrals themselves or the baubles and sculptures collected inside. Although I consider myself a lapsed Catholic, I still find the interior of a church soothing. It’s like walking back into childhood, a world of orderly rules and schedules. I love the cool marble and the impossible, enormous quiet, despite the teeming city outside.

“Pete always wanted me to pretend I was a virgin,” Lindsey says, as we stand in front of a portrait of the Virgin Mary just inside the entrance to one church.

Kat and I burst out in giggles at the thought of cute, little Pete making such a request. We get shushed by a passing couple who might as well have the word tourist plastered on their heads what with the rain slickers tied around their waists and the five guidebooks they’re juggling.

“So why didn’t you?” Kat says in a whisper.

“What was I supposed to do? Get drunk and pretend I was in a dorm room?” Sin shakes her head. “I told him he was an asshole, but I think he was just trying to mix it up a bit, have some fun.” She shrugs and walks to a white marble sculpture of an angel.

They haven’t dated for two years, but it doesn’t stop Lindsey from bringing up Pete every so often. An open, vivacious guy, he was the one man Lindsey had seemed to care about. Everyone loved to have him around, until Lindsey decided he wasn’t going anywhere in life. He was happy running the family business, a large fruit and vegetable market in Buck-town. Lindsey, on the other hand, wanted to run with the moneyed set, the kind of people who worked out at East Bank Club and owned second houses in Aspen. So it was so-long-Pete, although Lindsey doesn’t seem able to say goodbye.

I follow Sin to the statue of the angel, whose placid face and soulful eyes make it look like it needs a break from centuries of standing in the same position. “You ever talk to Pete?”

She looks surprised at the thought, then turns away and walks down the marble aisle toward the altar. “Of course not,” I hear her say.

The heat is unrelenting, but it gives us an excuse for frequent stops at neighborhood bars for tè fredda—sweet Italian iced tea—and snacks. About three in the afternoon, we’re thirsty again, but because of the siesta, we trudge around forever looking for an open restaurant.

A few women pass us, walking arm in arm, then a few young girls holding hands.

“Lot of lesbians around here,” Kat says.

“They’re not lesbians,” I say, laughing. “That’s just what women do in Rome.”

Kat stops and watches the girls enter a store. “I like that.” “Let’s adopt that custom.” She links her arms through Sin’s and mine, pulling us forward until we all fall into step with each other, our hair flying behind us, and I feel like we’re Charlie’s Angels. Three good friends on the town.

It reminds me of a day we’d spent a few years ago, right after we’d graduated from college and moved to Chicago. A doctor Kat worked with had invited her to a party during Old Town Art Fair. The three of us hit a few other bashes first, making the rounds in khaki shorts and halter tops, drinking keg beer. When we stopped at Dr. Adler’s, though, we knew we were out of our element. For one thing, the house was a stunning brownstone with a manicured front lawn and an interior so full of antiques that I held my breath as we made our way through the living room. For another thing, the women wore linen skirts and wide-brimmed straw hats, the men tailored pants and nice shirts. Conversation seemed to lull as we came in. Everyone was at least fifteen years older than we, and in comparison we looked like hoochy mamas with our tight little shirts, holding our plastic cups of beer.

“Stick with me,” Kat said after Dr. Adler’s wife gave us the once-over, her mouth curling in distaste as she pointed us toward the backyard.

“Like we’re going to mingle,” Sin said under her breath.

We made our way out back and stood, joined at the hip, while Kat made pleasantries with the doctors and we sipped wine that Dr. Adler described as “good, but not as superior as the ’92.” Finally, Kat was able to make an excuse for us to leave, and when we got outside the front door, we all burst out laughing.

We keep walking arm in arm now until we finally find an open bar called Mel’s on a winding cobbled street off Piazza Cavour. It’s small and quaint, with old posters of Italian movie stars plastered to the walls. We order our food and slide into a table under the front awning. When our teas and food arrive, we dig in as if we hadn’t just eaten a few hours ago.

“Oh my God,” Kat says. “Did you see the biscuit?”

I glimpse a guy walking through the door and get a glimpse of sandy-blond hair.

“Wish me luck,” Kat says, pushing back her chair.

Neither Sin nor I say anything. We both know she doesn’t need it.

Kat trots into the bar. Within seconds we hear the rumble of a man’s voice, the peal of Kat’s laughter.

“Great,” Lindsey says. “We’re going to be here forever.”

“Yep,” I say with a certain degree of resignation. Since Kat is widely known for her ability to meet men under any circumstances, Sin and I usually spend a lot of time standing around until Kat decides whether she wants to do something about it. Usually, we talk and make jabs about Kat’s libido, but Sin says nothing this time, she just keeps eating her pizza, pulling off the whole slices of tomato, which seem to offend her.

Kat comes out of the bar in record time and introduces us to Guiseppe, who looks like he could be an underwear model. He’s got a stunning body, a jaw so square you could use it as a ruler, and jade-green eyes under eyelashes that are longer than Kat’s.

“Buona sera,” Guiseppe says to us with a slight bow.

“He designs leather!” Kat gushes, with such wide-eyed enthusiasm you’d have thought he was next in line to be the pope.

Sin and I shake his hand and drag our chairs around the table to make room. When Guiseppe and Kat take their seats, there’s a pregnant pause, as if we all know that someone should talk, but none of us can figure out whose turn it is. I keep expecting a look from Lindsey that says, take over, please, and get us the hell out of here, but she doesn’t even glance at me.

Finally, Kat says, “Guiseppe wants to come sightseeing with us.”

Sin and I are quiet, but our silence is probably for different reasons. For Sin, it’s just another round of dealing with Kat’s string of men. For me, though, it means an end to my role as the one who knows Rome, the keeper of the Italian knowledge. I’d enjoyed being teacher all day. It meant Kat and Sin needed me in some fashion. But now that there’s a Roman onboard, it’s over.

Guiseppe, it turns out, is a very pleasant, mild kind of guy who happens to know all sorts of Rome trivia. I find myself warming to him as he gives us informative tidbits at each stop.

“Did you know,” he asks us in carefully pronounced English as we stand in front of the Vittorio Emmanuel Monument, a white marble monstrosity that looks like a wedding cake, “that this was built by the monarchy of Italy, whom the people hated?”

Actually, I did know this, but Guiseppe looks at each of us as if he’s really trying to help, so I keep quiet.

“We do not like this,” he continues. “It was built from marble stolen from the Colosseum and the Forum, and it is ugly.”

“That’s terrible,” Kat says.

Guiseppe looks down at Kat, pulling her close to him. “But you are not like this monument,” he says. “You are beautiful.”

“All righty,” I say in a loud voice. “It’s time we got back to the hotel.”

Sin turns to me. “Which way is home, Case?”

I point to the street behind us, happy to be needed again, and Lindsey and I set off toward the pensione, Guiseppe and Kat trailing behind us. By the time we make it back to Pensione Fortuna, my feet are killing me, and I’m dying for a nap.

“I’ll join you,” Lindsey says, yawning as we stand outside the pensione door.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” I say, holding out a hand to Guiseppe.

He shakes it, but a perplexed look crosses his face.

“We’re going to take a nap, too,” Kat says, putting her arm around Guiseppe’s back.

His face rights itself, as if everything’s been cleared up.

I stifle the desire to roll my eyes, less than thrilled that I won’t be able to walk around our room in my underwear and grungy but comfortable Chicago Bears T-shirt. Still, I’m too tired to take Kat aside and protest, and since Lindsey only lets out a small groan and heads in the door, I assume she is, too.

Once in the room, I change into a clingy white T-shirt and some cute running shorts. Guiseppe may be Kat’s guy, but he’s still a guy. I get more time with him than I ever wanted, though, when Kat and Sin huddle in the bathroom. I figure Kat is probably primping while they analyze Guiseppe’s potential.

“Kat is very beautiful,” Guiseppe says. He sits on her bed, across from me.

“Yes, she is.”