Invitation to Italian

The door opened with a start, catching Paul mid-word.

“Buona sera, tutti. Scusatemi per essere in ritardo. Sono il vostro supplente.”

There was a barely stifled collective groan from the in-crowd at the news. A substitute teacher!

Julie slumped as low as possible in her chair and covered her face with her hand.

It was Sebastiano Fonterra.

CHAPTER EIGHT

AT THE SOUND OF the muffled groans, Sebastiano doubted yet again the wisdom of his agreeing to teach the class. Perhaps agreeing was not really the appropriate word. Railroaded. Yes, railroaded. He liked the sound of that. The image was almost—not quite—as painful as what he was experiencing now.

One thing was for sure. Iris Phox owed him big-time.

“Hello, everyone,” he started again and reintroduced himself, this time in English, hoping against hope that this language would bring him a better response. “I’m Sebastiano Fonterra, and I will be substituting for Gabriella. I know you all were expecting to have her as your teacher, but unfortunately at the last minute she had to return to Italy because her father needed to have emergency heart surgery.”

Immediately there were gasps.

“Is he all right?” “Do you have an address?” “Will she be checking her email?” “When will she be able to return?” “Soon?”

Not soon enough, Sebastiano thought. He forced a smile. “I don’t have all the details, and I don’t personally know Gabriella except through email. I’m just jumping in at the last minute as a favor to the Adult School, and I presume she will be able to come back in a matter of weeks.”

This last remark elicited an audible sigh.

“In the meantime, she explained the scope of the class, and how she normally emails around an article from the Corriere della Sera or another Italian newspaper, and then uses that as a starting point for discussion. She was kind enough to suggest an article for the first class, which I photocopied and brought with me.” He slid his briefcase on top of the teacher’s desk and unbuckled it.

He’d come directly from the office, having eaten half a plastic-wrapped turkey sandwich from the cafeteria at his desk. He couldn’t make it through the second half. He still wore a suit and tie, which he now realized was much too formal. The few men seated in the front seemed to favor khaki pants and sweaters. In the back? He couldn’t be sure but he thought he caught sight of Paul or at least his leather jacket.

He lifted the lid of his briefcase and fished out the material. “So, my thought was that I would pass around a pad and pen. You can sign your names and give me your email addresses.” He leaned forward and passed them to the woman in the front row. “I also have the handouts, and I thought we could pass those around at the same time.” Sebastiano circled the desk and gave the sheets to another woman.

“Grazie,” she said, thanking him, with a confident American accent. She had a gravelly voice.

“And lastly, I have here a class list that I’ll read off, so I can see who’s here and also put some names to faces. But since you all are so busy writing, why don’t I first tell you a little about myself? In italiano addesso?” he asked, switching to Italian.

He undid the button of his gray suit jacket and swung one leg over the desk, propping himself up on the corner. “Mi chiamo Sebastiano Fonterra. Sono medico ed administratore dell’ospedale.” Sebastiano explained he was a doctor and hospital administrator.