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Getting over it | page 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Today I walk to a cafe to write. Yesterday Giorgio had showed me the rough slivers of his chafed palms, the black stains on his hands where the grapes had bled through the gloves. "From work," he had said and then took my smooth hands and laughed, "No work." But then he ran his thumb over the callus on the side of my index finger, stained with the blue blood of my pen, and murmured, "Ah, here." Attention is oppressive today. I can't walk without men in cars or on scooters insisting they give me a ride. They don't seem to understand that I want to ramble aimlessly about. "You like to walk?" they tease. "To see the boys?" says one. "So boys see you?" leers another. I feel weary and spend all day searching for some private space. In the cafe I cannot concentrate because I feel eyes boring through the back of my head. When I turn to look, a green-eyed man licks his lips, raises his glass and cries out, "Bella!" Where are the women in this town? I have seen the nonnas knitting sweaters in cafes and clucking their tongues as I pass. Giorgio has told me that most young women here are Catholic and don't have sex outside of marriage (or at least not openly). In fact, an unmarried or even divorced woman is rarely seen without an escort. My lone wanderings must appear somewhat suspect to the women of this village. I leave the cafe and enter a church, and am admiring the pastel frescoes when a man rushes upon me hissing "No look good in church," waving a hand over my dress. People turn to stare and I glare at him as I leave. Walking back toward the inn I pause before a statue in the piazza, of a woman on her knees grasping the bleeding hand of a man who shields his eyes away from her as if in shame. I trudge on and sigh wearily when I hear the slowing of a car behind me. "Me gusta caminar!" I mumble grumpily for the hundredth time. "Why are you speaking Spanish?" returns an English accent. I turn to face a handsome man in a Mercedes. Welcoming the opportunity to speak English, I accept his offer to share a drink back at the inn. His name is Christian and his mother is Scottish, father, Italian. For two hours we talk of local politics. He says, contrary to what the locals say, people can find work here. They don't have to be poor. "In fact, gypsies live quite well off their robbing and begging," he laughs. "Yes, the government is corrupt, but so is everything." Suddenly Giorgio arrives and I invite him to sit. The two men regard each other stiffly. Christian abruptly rises, kisses my cheek and says he has to see to some business. Giorgio ignores Christian's departure and flips noisily through a newspaper. I stare at him a moment and then ask him to translate the local headlines. He folds up the paper, "You know Christian?" "No, he just gave me a ride home. You don't like him ..." I say, stating the obvious. "Christian is rich and arrogant," Giorgio spits forth with a vehemence I haven't yet seen. "He doesn't work yet looks down on us." He scowls, then waves his hand. "No matter, I don't like to speak bad of people." He lights a cigarette. "So what to do today?" I feel a surge of warmth for this moody man. "Well, Jean-Franco told me about a swimming hole nearby ..." "Wait, I have better idea," he says, exhaling a stream of smoke.
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