Articles by: Marc edward Dipaolo

They drank too hard, they smoked too hard, and they were far too cynical and hard-bitten to admit it in public, but the reporters harbored a secret fear that their newspaper was cursed.


They had all heard the story during their first weeks on the staff of The Staten Island Advance, and had initially dismissed it out of hand as a luridly entertaining piece of modern oral folklore. The principal teller of the tale was the prematurely gray environmental columnist Bonnie Redgrave, whose only pleasure working in the newsroom was unearthing every scandal or tragedy that had ever rocked the paper and laying each one bare in hushed, reverential tones to all the new interns and reporters. In fact, one was not considered a bona fide member of the staff until one had already been briefed by Bonnie about who had snorted which drugs, who had screwed who in the elevator, and who had fallen prey to the eternally present curse of the Scalzo baby.


The curse had its roots in tragedy that had taken place, appropriately enough for the mostly liberal staff of reporters, during the Nixon administration. Legend held that, on December 23, 1973, an old man had a heart attack while driving past Silver Lake Park and plowed through the front gate into a woman pushing a baby carriage. The young mother, Maria Scalzo, took the brunt of the hit trying to protect little Michael, but she was listed in stable condition while the baby had not been expected to live to see the morning. An Advance reporter named Morgan Levinson learned from the police that the child had died that night, and rapidly typed a story for the front-page of the Christmas Eve edition: Car plows through park, kills baby. Three hours after the paper began distribution the following day, Morgan received a furious phone call from the baby’s father, who explained in a tear-strained voice that his child was still alive, but in critical condition. Mortified, Morgan informed the editors and they collectively decided to write a front-page retraction of the story for Christmas Day. Little did they expect that, by the time the new headline, Baby mowed down by car lives, hit the streets, the child would have finally succumbed to its injuries. The next day, the headline read: Car Accident Baby Dies After All.


Before the sun set the day that headline saw print, Antonio Scalzo strode into the newsroom, his face a gaunt, ruined mask of pain, and locked his hooded, bloodshot eyes on Morgan. “Curse you for what you have done,” he said, his provincial Tuscan accent, which he had failed to shed after ten years in America, adding an eerie weight to his words. He then cast his eyes about the newsroom, taking in the hive of activity, and all the reporters who were too engrossed in their own activities to notice his presence. “And curse you all. May you all live to see your dreams die as horribly as mine have.”


Before Morgan had the opportunity to apologize again, the anguished man turned his back on the reporter and hastily stalked out. Not widely renowned for his emotional stability, the thrice divorced, alcoholic Morgan suffered a complete nervous breakdown not long afterwards and was committed to the local mental institution by his reluctant son. Unlike cartoon maniacs who need to be dragged away by men in white coats, Morgan went placidly, proclaiming in a steady voice that he had committed an unforgivable sin in his carelessness and offered the vain hope that the walls of the institution might protect him from the visions of the dead baby that haunted his dreams.


Carmela Bellavita burst out laughing, making a feeble attempt to stifle the guffaw with her beautifully manicured hands after several nearby reporters cast annoyed glances in her direction. When she had recovered her composure, the novice journalist noticed that Bonnie Redgrave was scowling, looking as gaunt and disconsolate as the bereaved Mister Scalzo from her story. “It isn’t funny. The baby died, you know.”


Carmela sighed, all mirth exercised from her face. “I know. But that doesn’t make your story about the curse any less silly. It’s vintage and campfire nonsense. And why is the bad guy in these tales always an Italian who can’t speak English pretty good?”


Bonnie glanced warily over her shoulder to make sure no one was in earshot and then leaned forward until her nose was almost touching Carmela’s. “You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into joining this newspaper. Whether or not the curse is literally true, this paper has an odd black-hole effect. It sucks people in and never lets them out. You should leave while you still can.” She paused; still unaware of how theatrical she sounded, adding ominously. “Unless it’s already too late.”


I was there, too, standing just off to the side, not wanting to crowd the two women. I was interested enough to listen, but too shy to take active part in the conversation. I was also far enough away to observe the women from a more objective standpoint. At that moment, I suddenly found myself fixated by the lines and wrinkles on Bonnie’s face, which seemed long and deep at this proximity. Although Bonnie was only thirty-two, terrible stress-lines had already branched out of the corners of her mouth, crow’s feet and heavy bags surrounded her eyes, and trench-like wrinkles had dug a jagged path across her brow. Her eternal sneer and frazzled, colorless hair did little to undercut the misconception that she was racing past middle age into her golden years. And yet, underneath all these unnaturally early signs of aging, Bonnie looked remarkably like Carmela. They both had oval faces and olive complexions, shoulder-length hair, voluptuous figures and a penchant for wearing navy-blue pantsuits, only Carmela’s countenance was freshly minted, while the stresses and disappointments of a career in journalism had already scarred Bonnie’s once beautiful face.


“I’ve been here nine miserable years,” Bonnie continued. “And I’ve been sending resumes out for most of those nine years, applying to publishing companies, schools, offices, public relations firms, and other newspapers. Haven’t gotten a damn offer yet, so here I stay. And I thought this was going to be a stepping-stone to bigger and better opportunities – a job to take for a year or two before moving on to Times.”


I chimed in. “Well, if you’re that miserable, there’s got to be something. There are jobs out there. I don’t mean to sound flip, but worse comes to worse, there’s always Pizza Hut.”


“Pizza Hut.” Her tone made me wish I’d stayed safely out of the conversation. “With a husband and three kids. Pizza Hut. You know, this may be a rat trap, but it’s baited with great dental benefits and a 401K plan. You get comfortable here, and you get too scared to leave. That’s why you’ve got to leave before your first year ends and you’re eligible for the 401K plan.”


Bonnie pointed over Carmela’s shoulder at a fellow who looked even paler and gaunter than Bonnie. He was hunched over an antiquated computer, soullessly typesetting one of the borough president’s blood drive press releases. “See that guy over there? Terry Bond. He actually managed to escape from here for a while, in search of becoming a Hollywood star, he soon found himself jobless and destitute, and had to come back to his original job, a broken man. Black hole.” Then Bonnie went on to point out three other obviously depressed reporters, and regaled Carmela with their failed attempts to escape the journalist’s equivalent of the Roach Motel.


Carmela looked incredulous. “You’re saying the Scalzo curse did this?”


“Precisely. If I’d known of the curse beforehand, I’d have never taken this job.”


As someone who has always secretly hopes that the world was overrun with ghosts and goblins, I was all ready to believe this. Carmela was clearly not. “Well, that’s absurd. For one thing, there’s Sylvia Knoblach. She’s the famous, auburn-haired cable sports reporter, she worked here in the ‘80s, and she’s ok.”


Fort he first time, Bonnie looked briefly doubtful, wondering if she really was just using the curse as an excuse to justify her life’s failings. Then she resumed her cryptic expression. “No. Something bad is going to happen to that woman. I can sense it.”


“Who the hell is that?” a gravelly voice demanded, and Carmela turned to see a spindly woman in a baggy sweater staring down at her.


“This is Carmela Bellavita,” Bonnie explained. “The paper’s latest victim. Carmela, this is our health reporter, Judy Stammers.”


Carmela offered to shake Judy’s hand but Judy kept her arms folded where they were. “I see our illustrious publisher still hires new talent based on the size of their breasts.”


Carmela froze.


“What?!” I cried, taken aback.


Before either Carmela or I could do or say more in protest, Judy stalked off to photocopy a recipe for leg of lamb.


“Nobody likes her much,” Bonnie whispered to Carmela.

            High school lunches are not renowned for their quality, and high school students are famous for making fun of them.  I take food very seriously, so when I ate school lunches, and detested them, I did not have the heart to complain in a funny manner.  However, I did like to laugh at how my friends skewered the food.  The jokes weren’t particularly subtle, but I thought it was funny when people like
Griffin and Smiley would dub the plastic cups of apple juice “urine samples” and the obviously canned lumps of strawberry preserves on toast “jelly ca-cas.”  So we laughed off our disgust with the mass-produced, processed food.

            And then there was the weird pastry with the blue icing that appeared out of nowhere one day.

            “What’s with the blue icing on this desert?”
Griffin asked.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t eat any blue food, unless it is a berry.”

            “Don’t worry,”
Griffin said calmly.  “I’ve seen it before.  Your mom put that blue icing on my penis last night.” 

            Normally, my sympathies were more with
Griffin than Smiley, but I couldn’t help but laugh loudly at that one.  I wasn’t yet used to Smiley’s outrageous humor, and it had not yet become tiresome.  At the time, I was friends mostly with the Irish, German, and Jewish kids in the school, and the Italian-American students, who I had ethnicity in common with, but little else, sat a few tables away.  My estrangement from members of my own cultural background was rooted in a variety of causes, all understandable, but the fact that the situation was understandable did not prevent it from giving me a small, but constant feeling of existential angst and regret.  My occasional, half-baked attempts to reconcile myself to the Italian-American community of
Susan E. Wagner High School generally did not go well, and on this particular occasion, things went particularly poorly.

            It was during one infamous lunch period that one of the Italian guys, Salvatore Russo, was walking back to his table with a tray of food, staring down at the pastry desert as he walked.  It looked pretty good, except for the fact that the icing was blue.  He called over to his friend Rocco, who was already seated.  “Hey, Rocco!  What’s with this pastry, man?”

            “It’s good, Sal.  Just what a growin’ boy needs.”

            “But what’s that shit they put on it?”

            Overhearing him yell this out, in his angry tone, and thick
Brooklyn accent, I couldn’t help but laugh.  Unfortunately, Sal heard me laugh at him.  He literally slammed his tray down on the breakfast table and stalked over to my side. “What’s so funny?  What, do I amuse you, or something?  Does something about me amuse you?”

            “Sorry, man,” I said.  “I hate the look of the blue shit, too.  So I’m laughing in agreement.”

            “Oh, you’re laughing in agreement?” Sal asked.  “Is that it?”

            He kept glaring at me.

            “What?”

            “What, what?”

            “I’m asking you if you’re laughing at me, huh?”

            “You were just funny, just then, that’s all,” I offered, feebly.

            “You mean, let me understand this cause, ya know maybe it's me, I'm a little fucked up maybe, but I'm funny how, I mean funny like I'm a clown, I amuse you? I make you laugh, I'm here to fuckin' amuse you? What do you mean funny, funny how? How am I funny?”

            “I don’t know, man!” I yelled back.  “You were just funny just now, man!”

            “Whaddaya mean by that?”

            “You know what I mean.”

            “No, no, I don't know, you said it. How do I know? You said I'm funny. How the fuck am I funny, what the fuck is so funny about me? Tell me, tell me what's funny!”

            I was very afraid for a long moment.  Then I said, “Wait a minute, wait a minute!”

            “What?”

            “Are you quoting Goodfellas to me?”

            Sal stepped back.  “What?”

            My friends around me, who had been shrinking in their seats up until this point, not wanting to get involved or cause a rumble between the multiethnic table and the Italian table, suddenly sat upright in their seats.

            “He is quoting Goodfellas!” David Litvinov laughed.  “He is!”

            Sal looked more confused than caught out, as if he had unintentionally quoted the scene verbatim.  “I’m not quoting nobody,” he insisted.

            “You’re quoting Joe Pesci,” I said.  “Are we playing a scene here?”

            “No, I’m serious, man.  I’m mad at you,” Sal insisted.

            “I tell you what,” I said, “if you want to frighten me and threaten me, go back and write your own speech.  Don’t bite off Martin Scorsese.”

            “I’m not biting off nobody.”

            “Dude,” I said, “go write your own dialogue, then we’ll throw down, alright?”

            I was cocky there, but my friends were there laughing with me, so I was safe.  He sat back down and said nothing of it to his friends, not even to explain to them why we laughed off his threats.  They hadn’t heard the exchange, so they didn’t know how much like an idiot Sal had made himself look.

            Of course, Sal was not the only tough who got most of his “dialogue” from Scorsese movies.  I doubt things have changed much since, but during my teenage years, in the 1990s, gangster movies were like a religion to Staten Island Italians.  Scorsese may have tapped into a really accurate portrayal of what Italians had been like during the 1960s and 1970s, but the modern-day, middle-class Italians had lost their edge and strove to regain the toughness of their parents and grandparents by doing impersonations of characters from gangster films.  It was really annoying.  Some of them were still tough, some were still blue collar, but it was often hard to tell where their real personalities ended and the characters from The Godfather and Saturday Night Fever began.

            Effectively, of all the thousands of movies produced during one hundred years of American cinema, only three counted as must-see viewing on
Staten Island – The Godfather, Goodfellas, and Saturday Night Fever.  And they were not only must-see films, but also a way of life to virtually all the Italian kids I knew growing up.  I wasn’t fully aware of the phenomenon until I reached junior high school, when the cult of the gritty celluloid Italian was at its most grotesquely obvious.  It seemed that everywhere I turned in Intermediate School 72, local Italian boys were dressing, talking, and behaving like the characters played by Al Pacino, Joe Pesci, Robert De Niro, Ray Liotta, and John Travolta.  I had somehow managed to reach my early teens without ever actually seeing any of these films in their entirety.  From the glimpses I did catch of the movies, they seemed tedious, depressing, and pretentious.  My mother had watched Saturday Night Fever several times when I was growing up, primarily for shots of “the old neighborhood” and the great dance segments, often complaining about how Italians were portrayed in the movie.  She really hated the spaghetti dinner scene, in which the father figure curses constantly and keeps slapping his son, Travolta’s character, in the back of the head.  The scene famously offended the Mormon Osmond family with its blue language, but it offended my mother for far different reasons.

            “My parents didn’t curse like this,” she declared each time she had to sit through the spaghetti segment when it was being broadcast on Channel 11.  “And we never sat half-naked at the dinner table smacking each other with wooden spoons.  This is ridiculous.  There’s no love in this movie.  Italian families love each other.”

            But the kids who went to school with me had no such objections.  They thought that all three films were very accurate portrayals of Italian life.  In fact, the kids had collectively decided to use the movies as a standard against which they measured how Italian they were.  If you didn’t dress like Travolta, curse like Pesci, and raise hell like Pacino, then you weren’t really Italian.  This caused me great consternation, since I was about as far from the movie stereotype Italian as one could get.  I possessed none of Travolta’s cool fashion sense, had been trained since I was an infant never to curse, and was far more concerned with getting good grades, reading comic books, and getting Melissa Venturoso out on a date than I was interested in raising hell like Pacino.

            Also many of the young boys at school liked to walk around claiming that their dad or their uncle or their cousin “Benny” (Benito) was in the Mafia.  They made it sound like a noble profession, keeping alive the Great Lie that all real-life gangsters were like Don Corleone, gentlemen of the old school who existed only to protect the Italian people from persecution.  If you believed these kids, who clearly didn’t know what they were talking about, nobody in the Mafia dealt drugs.  Gambling, prostitution, yes.  That was a service to the community, as these things should be legal anyway.  But no drugs.  And if they did deal drugs, it was only to other minorities who weren’t Italian, so that made it kinda okay.  They said.

            Now, nobody in my family or among my friends was in the Mafia, so I was again at a disadvantage.  So I found that I had two choices.  Either I accepted the verdict of my peers that I wasn’t really Italian because I wasn’t on a first-name basis with Santo Trafficante, or decide for myself that mob ties and a love of Martin Scorsese films does not an Italian make.  I chose the latter, deciding to forget about what everyone else was doing and be myself.

            To be fair to these wannabe gangster youths, I also enjoyed dressing and talking like my personal heroes, just as they did.  It was only the heroes who they emulated that I took issue with – that and the lack of any variety or creativity in their choices of heroes.  Instead of gangsters, I latched onto the heroism of the Doctor, the alien hero from the British science fiction series Doctor Who, and the cuddly, ubiquitous Spider-Man, who I knew from comic books, repeats of the 1967 cartoon, the series Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends, and episodes of The Electric Company. I actually went to great lengths to figure out and emulate how the characters of Spider-Man and the Doctor would react to a given situation.  I also took to wearing a raincoat, like Lieutenant Columbo, the only Italian role model I could find on television who I actually liked (although my raincoat was never quite so crumpled).  Years later, the actor David Tennant would don a sort of raincoat in his portrayal of the Doctor, making the raincoat still more of an iconic piece of clothing for me to adopt.  And my thick, unmanageable hair would sometimes stick up like David Tennant’s Doctor, which made the resemblance even stronger.  To hell with Champion shirts and high-top Reebok sneakers, the raincoat was the perfect trademark for
Marc DiPaolo.

            But since I didn’t talk the talk or walk the walk, a number of my young Italian comrades actually didn’t realize that I had Italian blood.  Since no real Italian would wear glasses or be caught dead reading novels on the bus ride to school, they mistook my Roman nose for a Hebrew nose and assumed I was Jewish, which meant that a lot of anti-Semitism was thrown my way.    

            “Why are you always readin’ all the time?” Salvatore Russo asked me one day, on the yellow school bus on the way to junior high school.  This was a few years before the blue icing incident.)  Russo tried and failed to pry the paperback copy of Jaws out of my hands.  Russo was always surrounded by a posse of about ten monosyllabic thugs who all dressed in sweat pants and had spiked hair. 

            “I like the movie a lot,” I said.

            “Then watch the movie,” Russo exclaimed.

            “The book’s different,” I said, not elaborating.

            “But reading ain’t fun.”

            “It’s about a shark that eats people,” I said. “Books don’t get much more fun then that.”

            Russo was beyond confused. “But yous’re reading.  It ain’t fun.”

            “It’s about a shark that eats people!” I yelled, the slumbering
Brooklyn accent returned quickly to my voice with full force as I got angrier.  “Besides, the book has cool sex scenes that aren’t in the movie.  I was just reading about Brody’s wife fantasizing about having sex with Hooper in the car while they were driving to a cheap motel.  It’s a damn good sex scene, man, and you’re ruining the buzz I’m getting off it, so give me the book back and get outta my face!”

            Sal was unmoved by my description of the sex scene.  “Well, I just think its just like a Jew to sit reading on the front of the bus dressed in dorky Jew clothes instead of hanging out in the back of the bus with the cool Italians,” Russo said stiffly.

            “Huh?”

            “I said you’re a stinkin’ Jew bastard, DiPaolo. How about that, you fuckin’ Jew bastard?”

Russo was clearly not someone who would benefit from a lecture on the evils of anti-Semitism, so I decided to respond instead by correcting their erroneous assumption.

            “I’m Italian, jackass.”

            “No way,” the Russo gentleman insisted.  “You can’t be.”

            “My name’s DiPaolo.”

            Russo looked confused.  “So?”

            “It’s an Italian name.  It ends in a vowel, and it ain’t Shapiro.”  By then, I had trained myself to use slang words like “ain’t” to blend in with the natives, but it didn’t get me far.

            Salvatore Russo blinked.  “What’s vowels got to do with it?”

            “Italian names always end in vowels.”

            “So yous ain’t Jewish?”

            “No!  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

            Sal was interested, despite himself. “So what parta
Italy you from?”

            “My mom’s family is from Salerno and
Naples.  We haven’t checked my dad’s family genealogy yet.”

            Salvatore looked triumphant.  “So you ain’t from
Sicily, then?”  He clearly saw Sicilians as superior to mainland Italians.

            I shrugged.  “Well, you know what they say.  There’s two kinds of Italians.  Italians and Sicilians.”

            “Yeah?  Well, fuck that.  You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.  Fuckin’ Italian or no fuckin’ Italian, I’m gonna fuck you up all over this fuckin’ bus, you fuckin’ fuck.”

            My eyes widened.  “Try saying that five times fast.”  I looked at the thug standing next to Salvatore.  “Does he know any other words, or just the one?”

            “What the fuck is he talking about?” thug number one said.

            “Fuck me,” Salvatore said.

            “That’s what your aunt said last night while I was giving it to her doggy style,” I said, not knowing whether or not Russo had an aunt with honor to insult, but he obviously did, and he must have been really attached to her, because he got right up in my face about it.

            “Don’t you talk about my aunt!”

            I tried to remain blasé as I added, “I’m not talking about your aunt.  I got no complaints.  She’s a great lay.  As opposed to your mother, who’s kinda like fucking a dead rhino.”

            Since Salvatore Russo was told he shouldn’t hit a man wearing glasses, he knocked the glasses off my head, so that I was, functionally, blind as a bat and unable to defend myself.  Satisfied that it was now okay to hit me, since I wasn’t wearing glasses any more, and it was now a fair fight, Sal hauled off and punched me in the face. 

            The fight which ensued lasted 89 seconds.

I lost.

It had been several days since Colin tinkered with the keyboards outside the music shop where he’d impressed the beautiful Italian babes. He’d grown weary of trying to recreate that success after several failed attempts, but he was sure this time he’d be able to draw a few hot chicks out of hiding. There was something in the air tonight. There was an atmosphere of change, as if everything was coming to a head, and he wanted to be a part of it. Besides, he needed something to do to amuse himself while his friend was fooling around with Eileen. (What a frickin’ bore that was.) And so, Colin decided to stop off in his room for some sheet music, totally unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

The bedroom was a yin-yang of chaos and order, with Marc’s half of the room the picture of destruction, and Colin’s half as perfectly pristine as he had left it. The bedcovers had been violently torn off Marc’s mattress and hurled into the corner of the room, leaving three empty suitcases in sole possession of the top of the bed. There was clothing hanging from the bedpost, the lamp, the front door, the closet, and the end table. Souvenir posters, postcards, and miniatures were scattered about the floor like spilled bits of candy. One randomly tossed shirt seemed to land at exactly the midpoint of the room, refusing to stray any farther over to Colin’s side for fear of being accused of invading Colin’s sanctuary and dirtying it up. It was as if a violent storm had briefly erupted in the bedroom, focusing its entire wrath on Marc’s possessions while maintaining just enough self-control to stop itself from succumbing to the temptation to vent its fury on Colin’s luggage as well.

In the midst of the wreckage sat Marc, his back turned against the side of his bed, his arms hugging his legs to his chest, his forehead resting on his knees. “Sorry about all that,” he muttered, his face still buried against his jeans. “Lost a bit of control there. Won’t happen again.”

“Oh, man.” Colin looked first at his side of the room, then at Marc’s and scratched his head. He tried to figure out what might have caused Marc to go on this strange rampage. It didn’t take long for him to strike on the right answer. “Eileen running hot and cold again?”

Marc looked up at the room, amazed at his own display of frustration. “Look at this place. It’s the work of a nut. I don’t do things like this normally. This is totally out of character for me. I’m going crazy, aren’t I?”

“I don’t blame you.” Colin walked over to his end table and opened the drawer, rummaging through his music for songs to play.

“Like Baldrick, I had a cunning plan,” Marc said, smiling to himself over an inside joke. “It backfired. I tried to provoke Eileen into pursuing me and all it did was chase her farther way.”

“What happened?”

Marc chuckled. “Let’s put it this way. Me and Eileen aren’t speaking each other’s language. I’m talking feelings and living for the moment, and she’s talking ‘reason’ and planning for tomorrow. Talk about sense and sensibility! I feel like Dr. McCoy trying to make love to Mr. Spock’s more stoic twin sister.”

Colin pulled out the three pieces of sheet music he was most interested in and returned the others to the drawer. “Please stop with the Black Adder and Star Trek references so I can understand what you’re talking about.”

“I dunno. Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I’m not handsome enough.”

“Nonsense,” Colin scolded. Suddenly worried about his sword, Colin peered under his bed and found it resting where he had left it, concealed within a large plastic poster tube. Impulsively, he scooped the tube out from its hiding place and decided that he’d be taking his sword out with him. In case any girls showed up to watch him play, he could always impress them further by showing off this lovely weapon that he had purchased at a Florentine antiques store.

“Is it?” Marc asked rhetorically. "Women have given me all kinds of 'reasons' they won't date me. I’m too religious. I’m not religious enough. I move too quickly. I'm too slow. I'm a member of the wrong political party. I don't like the tv show Friends and I should. Unless, of course, those are all rationalizations to explain away a lack of physical chemistry.... Unless, of course, those religious and political tensions are strong enough to defeat a genuine attraction... Unless … I don’t know! How is any of this supposed to make me feel good about myself?”

“Now, I can’t stand talk like that. That’s stupid stuff.” Colin adjusted his collar, noticing at that moment how hot it was. The weighty conversation was not the only thing making the room stuffy. It was a humid night out. He went over to the window to let a breeze in. He hand was on the lock, primed to open it, when he saw Eileen standing on the street below talking to an Italian paratrooper. Although Colin couldn’t hear what Eileen and the soldier were saying to one another, their body language spoke volumes. Friends didn’t stand as close together as they were standing.  They were already more than friends.

Uh-oh, Colin thought.

“Maybe I’m just boring and sexless,” Marc thought aloud, trying to sound as if he were analyzing himself dispassionately, from afar, but each word was soaked in tortured emotion. “I’ve always known it. That’s why I hate reading stuff like Madame Bovary and The Awakening and A Room with a View. I’m the bad guy in all of them: the boring, nerdy bourgeois husband or suitor who the woman tosses over for the dumb handsome guy with the enormous ... sex appeal.”

Colin had a moment of hope when the soldier grabbed for Eileen’s waist and she pulled away, pointing towards the hotel. Colin couldn’t tell if she was objecting to the advance because she wanted to be loyal to Marc or because she was afraid they’d get caught. Colin wondered if he should tell Marc what he was looking at. He didn’t relish the thought of being the one to break the news, but he certainly didn’t want to be the one to withhold it.

“Unfortunately, it’s kind of hard to be an English major and not read four thousand books about why adultery is the greatest thing since sliced bread,” Marc rambled on. “Being a middle class nerd myself, these books sure don’t make me feel good about my prospects keeping my prospective girlfriend happy and sexually satisfied, that’s for sure. They’ve got me convinced the only way I can make a sexy, independent women wet is to toss her in a swimming pool.”

The soldier grabbed Eileen again, seizing her roughly in his arms and kissing her passionately. All her prospects ended in that moment and her body melted against the paratrooper’s.

Marc uncurled himself from his fetal position and pulled his protesting body off the floor. He was already becoming more himself again. It seemed that wrecking the room and complaining to Colin had the therapeutic effect needed to return him slowly to his old self. “But that kind of talk is ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s defeatist. I should just be happy that I had the time with her that I did. She is very beautiful after all.”

And a very enthusiastic kisser, Colin thought, watching Eileen and the paratrooper continue exchanging lusty kisses. “Um, Marcus?”

“Yeah?” Marc walked casually over to the window, curious to know what Colin was staring at.

Colin held up a hand to stop Marc from going any closer to the window. “I don’t know if you want to see it, but Eileen’s outside making out with some Italian guy.”

“What are you talking about?” Marc frowned and brushed past Colin to see for himself. He looked down just long enough to identify Eileen and get a good glimpse of the man’s face. Then he retreated from the window as if it reeked of skunk spray.

“You’re right. I really didn’t want to see that.” Marc’s expression told Colin that the recovery his friend had been on the verge of making had just come to a crashing end.

“Come on, man,” Colin said, frustration now filling his usually deadpan voice. “Don’t get depressed. Get angry. Women get depressed about stuff like this and blame themselves. Men get angry and blame other people. That’s what you should be doing. It’s her fault. It’s that frickin’ paratrooper’s fault. It ain’t your fault.”

“I’m gonna go for a walk in a little while and get some air,” Marc announced. “I’ll wait until they’re gone first, of course.”

“Wanna go to that Irish pub?” Colin suggested eagerly. “I haven’t been there yet.”

“Nah,” Marc waved vaguely. “I figure I should just get some time alone.”

“You can’t be alone at a time like this. Come on. Come out with me and get blasted. You’ll feel better if you’re drunk.”

Marc sighed. “Maybe later. Maybe I’ll meet you there later.”

Colin shook his head slowly. “Okay. If that’s what you want. I’m going to tinker with the keyboards a bit. I’ll head over to the Irish pub around ten o’clock. We’ll meet there, okay?”

“Maybe,” Marc replied. “Maybe. You go out and have fun. Forget about me for now.”

* * *

Eileen slipped furtively into the hotel, casting her eyes about to see if anyone was about who might have caught her with Giuliano. She hadn’t intended to kiss the swarthy soldier, even though she had been attracted to him from the outset, because she didn’t want to do anything that would make her feel as if she’d done something unfair to Marc. She had dodged several of Giuliano’s advances, including his none-too-subtle invitations to go straight to bed, out of respect for Marc, but her resolve had broken down at the last possible instant in the worst possible location. Giuliano had pleaded for a goodnight kiss, and she could not turn him down, no matter how hard she tried.

Much to her dismay, Eileen discovered Drusilla and Adnan dining together at a table right by the entrance display window. Given that they were both staring at her with odd expressions on their faces, Eileen knew that they had seen everything. “Hello,” Eileen said bashfully.

“Hi,” Drusilla said.

Adnan remained silent.

“That was Giuliano,” Eileen explained.

“Looks like a handsome guy.” The coolness in Drusilla’s tone brought all the nausea that Giuliano had dispelled from Eileen’s stomach return in one great rush. She thinks I’m scum, thought Eileen. She thinks I’ve betrayed Marc. But how could she jump to that conclusion without hearing my side of the story?

Knowing that the longer she lingered in the restaurant the more panicked she’d become, Eileen left the couple behind and proceeded upstairs to her room. She wasn’t looking forward to it, but she knew she’d have to finish things with Marc, break it off cleanly so that she could pursue Giuliano without any feelings of guilt. Giuliano would only be able to receive her for the next two days before having to return to his post, but that would be enough. She had arranged to meet him in two hours before the D’Uomo and she hoped her conversation with Marc would be over before then. Giuliano had promised to write to her when she returned to
America, so even though it would be a long distance relationship, and somewhat impractical, she was already planning to fight to keep in contact with him once she returned to
America.

Her mind was still reeling from everything that had happened to her when she met Colin on the steps. He was clutching a large plastic tube in his left hand and had a folder of music pinned under his arm. She tried to squeeze past him with a mere, “hello,” but he blocked her with his arm.

“I just want to say, you really are a dumb slut, you know that?”

Eileen’s breath caught in her mouth and her eyes widened. “What?”

“You think that guy’s interested in anything more than just screwing you and dumping you out on the street?” Colin sneered. “There’s no difference between him and all the other horny Italian guys that have been muscling in on you and Drusilla all month. ‘Hello, beautiful American ladies.  Would you like a rose for a beautiful American ladies?’  He’s only handsomer than those oversexed stalkers, that’s all.”

What, did the whole hotel see me with Giuliano? Are they all going to vilify me and stand in Marc’s corner? Am I going to get crucified for this one little mistake? "You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eileen shot back. “Now let me pass.”

“All Marc wanted to do was make you happy. And he would have. He’s a real gentleman, with a real interest in getting to know who you really are. This other guy doesn’t give a flying frig about you. He won’t be buying you flowers, I can guarantee it. He ain’t the type. But you’re willing to ditch Marc for this gigolo. You’re a real moron, you know that?”

“You have no right to say those things to me!” Eileen yelled. “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

Colin leaned forward, nearly touching his enraged face to Eileen’s. “Did I hurt your feelings? Good. I want to see you look crushed and miserable.”

Eileen grit her teeth together angrily. “You bastard.”

“What? Do I sound mean and heartless? Maybe it’s because I saw the look on Marc’s face when he found out about you and the soldier. It’s kind of hard to feel anything but disgust for you after seeing the consequences of your stupidity firsthand.”

“Consequences?” Hot tears flushed Eileen’s eyes. “He knows already? It just happened!”

“He knows.”

Eileen slumped against the wall, mortified that she couldn’t stop from crying in front of her antagonist.

Colin paused to look with satisfaction at her miserable expression. Then, scowling again, he walked down the rest of the stairs and headed outside to play his music.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, when Eileen knocked on Marc’s bedroom door, he wouldn’t answer. She tried for several minutes to get him to open up, but he was resolute.

Distressed, she left the hotel and took a long evening walk once again, speaking to no one as she went out into the night…

* * *

The next day, Eileen was once again cold to me.

I was stumped.

I thought about it all day.

What to do?

Then it hit me.

Flowers.

This would be the first time I ever bought roses for a girl outside getting my mother a bouquet on Mother’s Day, and I was looking forward to stepping into the role of boyfriend. What fun. And so, I ventured out into passegiata, enjoying the bustle of people. 

On a side note, since I was no longer new, or burdened by luggage, I was able to appreciate passegiata for what it was: a great nightly tradition in which the Sienese would take a stroll after dinner to work off some calories and be social with their family members and friends they happen upon in the street.  There were no traditions like this in the American suburbs.  Suburban Americans were too scared of their neighbors, whom they assumed to be Charles Manson or Ed Gein.  And urban Americans were too rich or too poor to be bothered with such things.  They were too afraid of looking undignified, or walking into a neighborhood controlled by the Bloods or the Crips. 

Yes, Americans hated and feared one another, and were not as cool as Italians.

Having mentally established this, I decided to enjoy passegiata more than dwell on American antisocial customs. 

Anyway, my spirits were lifted by the plan to buy flowers. I remembered vaguely a flower shop nearby a local “fast food” pasta outlet and found my instincts to be correct.

As I explained my mission to the friendly proprietress, I discovered that I was becoming quite good at conversational Italian by now. The woman was very impressed by my attempt at the language, kindly ignoring my rather large oversight of addressing her in the informal “tu” instead of the formal “Lei.”

The bouquet she presented me with was uncomfortable large, considering I assumed I had only paid the equivalent of twenty dollars worth of lire for it. It was not the kind of thing I could make invisible by tucking under my arm as I walked into the hotel, and I knew that the last thing Eileen would want is for me to broadcast to the rest of the students that I was buying her flowers. It would embarrass her. So I slipped my raincoat off and started to drape it over the bouquet. No. The coat would crush the flowers. The large set of red petals and long green stems wrapped in a clear plastic vase would have to remain visible. I decided all I had to do was walk casually as I approached the hotel and hope that nobody saw me.

As I walked past the Palazzo Pubblico down the sidestreet where the hotel rested, I found himself crossing paths with Drusilla Horowitz and Adnan Elshenaway, who were headed out for a walk. Much to my mortification, Drusilla asked in a teasing, sing-song voice,

“Who are the flowers for, Marc?”

“Nobody,” I smiled as I walked past the two and continued up to the hotel entrance.

“I’m sure Eileen will love them,” Drusilla called back.

***

[WARNING: A Sudden Perspective Shift is Coming.

I have decided that too much of the action that follows involves events that I did not witness myself.  This leaves me with two options: 1) tell you only what I saw myself, resulting in a narrative that reads much like P.G. Wodehouse’s Jeeves and Bertie novels, in which important things happen and the narrator is, amusingly, never there to see it.  2) Jump into the heads of real people, and composite characters, and give you my sense of what they (probably? somewhat probably? not remotely?) were thinking and doing while I was elsewhere.

I have chosen option 2.

After all, this autobiography is only 87% true, leaving me the leeway to make stuff up at this juncture.  Enjoy the somewhat accurate account of what followed that overcast January in
Siena in 1997.]

* * *

After I disappeared into the hotel, leaving Drusilla and Adnan alone to continue walking towards the Campo, Drusilla turned to Adnan and said, “Why don’t you think my boyfriend back home ever buys me flowers?”

[Remember readers: Drusilla looks like Liv Tyler, if you need someone to picture.]

Adnan shrugged. “Bob? He’s a loser. That’s why he doesn’t buy you flowers.”

“I’ve been thinking of giving him the heave-ho lately,” Drusilla said. “He’s clingy and possessive and he clearly has decided that I’m some kind of mother replacement for him. He makes me feel like I’m on a leash 24/7, you know? Like I’m his to own and command at a given moment.”

“You wouldn’t be much of a feminist if you kept dating a guy like that,” Adnan observed.

Drusilla nodded decisively. “You said it. From now on, I take crap from no one. Least of all Bobby.”

“You’re in
Italy,” Adnan said. “Love is in the air. Be reckless. Cheat on the loser.”

“I dunno,” Drusilla sighed. “It wouldn’t be nice. I should go back home and break up with him first. Then it would all be on the up-and-up if I went off with someone else.”

“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t be in
Italy any more,” Adnan said. “And it would be too late for a romance in
Italy.”

“Yeah.”

“What, are you married to the guy, or something? Go have a fling!” Adnan commanded. “You wouldn’t be much of a feminist if you didn’t cheat on him. Remember A Doll’s House? The Awakening? Lady Chatterly? Your favorite books!”

[By the way, Adnan looks a little like Ajay Naidu from the movie Office Space.]

“I like Anna Karenina better than all of those.”

Adnan spread his arms wide. “Well…”

“Yeah,” Drusilla shrugged. “You’re right.” She paused. “But I don’t want to dump him. I’m not ready to dump him. I may keep him yet. I just want to set some new ground rules when I get back. Like giving me some space.”

“Fair enough. But before you go back to him … while you’re here … do me a favor and have some sex with a hot Italian guy.”

“No sex. But I’ll make out with one for a good five hours. Maybe third base. Or a long lead off third...”

“Okay,” Adnan said. “Good enough.”

They fell silent for a full minute as they walked.

“I’d make out with you if you weren’t gay,” Drusilla concluded.

“And I’d make out with you if you were a guy,” Adnan said diplomatically.

* * *

Whenever a problem preyed on Eileen Harris’ mind, she began to feel the tension build in her stomach. The greater the problem became, the tighter the knot in her stomach was pulled. By now, the nausea had risen to a crescendo, sapping her of all her strength, keeping her too dizzy to stand. For the past sixty-seven minutes she lay on her back diagonally across the double bed that she and Drusilla shared, pressing a damp white cloth to her forehead.

Marc, Marc, Marc. It was so wonderful when she was with him. He was so sweet and funny. He made a wonderful friend. So why did he have to go and ruin it by kissing her? Now everything was so complicated.

It wasn’t that Marc was a bad kisser. It wasn’t that she wasn’t attracted to him. He was fairly good-looking.

That wasn’t the problem.  So what was the problem?

It wasn’t that he was a little overweight.

It wasn’t that he had a few too many pimples.

It wasn’t that his glasses were too large and lacked style.

It wasn’t that he kept ordering the same five Italian meals over and over again since he got to
Italy, showing a distinct lack of adventurous spirit and a rigidity of taste.

It wasn’t that he talked too much about Doctor Who and was a little self-absorbed.

It wasn’t that he had some symptoms of arrested development and liked comic books too much.

It wasn’t that he was poor with money and spent it too quickly and would probably not be a good provider.

It wasn’t any of that.

But she couldn’t stop thinking, even when he held her in his arms last night, first outside the D’Uomo and then back here in the hotel room. She enjoyed making out with him tremendously, but she couldn’t stop her mind from racing through every possible ending to their relationship.

When they weren’t in school together during the semester, she lived near
Buffalo and he lived six hours away in
Staten Island. Six hours. After they graduated, would he have to drive six hours each weekend just to see her? And, for God’s sake, the boy was allergic to cats. How could she date anyone who couldn’t set foot in her house without breaking out in hives? Would he drive six hours to see her just to spend the entire visit talking to her on the front steps of her house? And where would he sleep? In a sleeping bag on the lawn under her apple tree? In a hotel? The hotel bills for the first month of their relationship alone would be enormous.

How could she allow herself to fall in love with him when the dynamics of their relationship would be so complicated? Besides, it was destined to end badly, of that she was certain. She had always vowed never to get married, never to have children, and that was what Marc wanted from her more than anything. If not now, then if their relationship really went somewhere…

Ridiculous. Patently absurd. The deck was stacked against them and Eileen was not much of a gambler to begin with. She liked to be in control. She liked to be prepared for every possible contingency, and there were too many variables. Her logical mind was on the verge of a short circuit.

She would have to talk to him about it. But what could she possibly say to him? He seemed so excited about this so-called relationship. Colin was just saying this morning that Marc was giddier than he had ever been during his entire college career. Would Marc even understand what she was talking about? For an intelligent person, he could behave very illogically, very melodramatically.

Well, hopefully Marc’s romantic streak will take a rest, she thought. I’m sure he noticed I gave him the cold shoulder on the bus ride home. That was a clear enough message that he’s pushing me too hard. He’d have to be an idiot not to realize that I need some space. If he keeps his distance from me for a few days, I’m sure our feelings for each other will die down and we’ll be able to go back to being just friends. That’s much easier. Much safer. It’s the only logical decision.

There was a timid knock on her bedroom door.

“Yes?” she groaned.

Marc poked his head in. “Can I come in?”

Eileen sighed and sat up. “Yes.”

“I noticed you weren’t yourself today, so I got you something to help make you feel better.” At that, Marc jumped dramatically into the room and, striking a heroic pose, presented her with a giant bouquet of roses. “Ta-da!”

Oh, shit.

Beaming, Marc handed her the bouquet. “Here you go.”

Eileen turned the bouquet over in her hands, staring at the vibrant red flowers. They were lovely. They also looked expensive.

I’m definitely going to throw up. Any second now. Puke all over the place.

“What do you think?” asked Marc, who was starting to look nervous.

“Very…nice. Pretty.” Eileen tried to smile, but it came out more like a frown. I think I’m gonna die. Dear God, I’m gonna die.

Marc shuffled from one foot to the other. “So, I was worried about you. I don’t like to see you looking so glum, you know. You’re very cool and you should be happy.”

“Thanks,” Eileen murmured. Go away, please. Go away, go away, go away, go away, go away, go away. I can’t take it anymore.

Marc looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. First he put them behind his back, then he put them in his pockets, then he dropped them at his side. “I hope I haven’t offended you by getting you these flowers.”

Eileen didn’t respond right away to that one, and the tension level in the room jumped four hundred percent. Marc, fully aware that he was losing ground with each passing second, tried to find the right words and failed.

“I know you don’t like it when I open doors for you and pull chairs out for you. I’m not really sure what the etiquette is these days for…you know…hanging out with…women who think old-fashioned stuff like flowers is repressive and all that jazz.”

“No, no,” Eileen said, too quickly to sound natural. “They’re fine.”

“So I got you flowers, because I figured it was what I was supposed to do, and I wanted to do it because I like you, but I hope that you’re not someone who reacts badly to flowers, you know? So if the gift is bad, then I’m sorry.”

“They’ll need water.” Eileen stood up and walked over to a large thermos of water on her bureau. She pulled the roses out of the clear plastic vase they were in and slipped them into the thermos.

“Do you need water?” Marc blurted out. “I mean, if you’re not well, I can ask Marcello to make you some tea. I can get you some cookies, or something. Or aspirin.  Or earplugs”

Eileen smiled weakly at him and sat down again on the bed. I’m torturing him. I’m tearing him to pieces and all he did was buy me a present. Why am I doing this? Does he deserve this crap I’m giving him? Why can’t I smile at him? Why can’t I give him a real “thank you” for these lovely flowers? What the heck is wrong with me, anyway?

“No, no aspirin,” she said. Damn, she thought. That was a mistake too. I should have given him a mission. Something to make him feel useful. Something to help him save face and give him a graceful escape from this horrible, stifling room.

Now sweat was gathering on Marc’s brow. “Well, I can see you still look a little sick, so I’ll let you get some rest.”

“No.” Eileen jumped to her feet and grabbed Marc by the wrist. “Wait.”

Marc was afraid to look her in the face. “Yes?”

There was a lump in Eileen’s throat that made it hard for her to speak. “I want to thank you. Really. Thank you for the flowers. I do like them. I really do. You look like you don’t believe that, and I don’t blame you, but I really like them.”

Marc looked at her, searching her eyes to see if she was telling the truth.

Then the thought, unbidden, jumped into Eileen’s mind. Kiss me again, Marc.

He saw the invitation in her eyes and brought his lips up to hers.

***

Marc and Eileen were rolling around on top of the bed covers, kissing each other amorously. With the pleasure came relief, for Marc knew he’d been granted an eleventh hour stay of execution and he was enjoying every moment of it. Terrified of doing anything to end this bliss, Marc fought the urge to try to take her clothes off, contenting himself with exploring the curves of her body through her clothes. The night before they had made out for minutes at a time, pausing a few times to rest, holding one another and stroking each other’s hair, before beginning again. He knew she had enjoyed it last night just as he had, and he expected that they would spend at least as much time together tonight.

He knew he was wrong when he felt her start to fight him. He couldn’t believe it. She was still fighting him. Why? If she didn’t want him to kiss her, then why didn’t she pull away the moment he tried to make a move? Why stop now? What was the problem?

He remembered what had happened last time they stopped kissing. She gave him the cold shoulder for nearly a day. What would happen if he stopped kissing her now? Would she ever let him kiss her again? He decided he would try to ignore her wriggling for as long as possible. Maybe if he could make his kisses and caresses all the more pleasing to her, focus all his energy on electrifying her senses, she wouldn’t break away from him. It was what he had been trying to do all along, but he redoubled his efforts, knowing that he only had a few moments to prove himself before her protests grew too great.

“We have to stop,” she whispered between kisses.

Jesus Christ.

Marc stopped, burying his face in the covers.

“Can you - ?”

“Yes, yes,” Marc grumbled, rolling off of Eileen and sitting up on the bed. Eileen sat up and traced her fingers through her hair, combing the wild strands back into place. She had that long-suffering look back on her face. The one that made him feel like he was as pleasant to be around as an eighty-year-old vicar with roving hands and a massive erection. Well, he wasn’t about to let her tear his heart out for the third time in one day.

Marc stood up abruptly and shot Eileen an angry look. “Look, if I make you feel that uncomfortable, then I’ll stay out of your way.”

His fists balled at his side, he stalked across the room and stopped in front of the door. He looked at her again, waiting for her to stop him from leaving. She was staring glumly down at her own hands, folded on her lap.

“I’m tired of pushing you. I’m tired of being the bad guy.”

Eileen didn’t say a word.

“It’s your move now. If you want me, I’ll be upstairs.” Furious and humiliated, Marc tore open the bedroom door and strode outside, almost crashing into Joachim’s barrel chest.

“Marc, I wanted to –“

Marc continued past Joachim and head up the stairs to his room. “Not now, Joachim. Please.”

***

Does he want me to follow him? Eileen wondered. Or am I the last person he wants to see right now? No. He wants me to follow him.

Eileen started to stand up, but her nervous stomach replied with a nauseous lurch that dragged her back to her seat. No. She was in no condition to go chasing after him. He’d made her too upset. He’d done this to her, made her sick with worry. The bastard. If only she could lay down a little while, until the nausea passed, but her room seemed smaller now than it had been even a few minutes ago and now she was beginning to understand where the cliché “the walls felt like they were closing in” came from.

Decisively, she fought the sickness in her stomach and stood up, tossing on her long emerald coat and darting out of her room. She raced past a taciturn Joachim, who was loitering like a lost soul in the second-floor parlor, and proceeded down the spiral staircase to the main floor restaurant. Thankfully, there was no sign of Marc or her archenemy Colin. She couldn’t take any sniping at this particular moment. She had to get some air. She had to get to the D’Uomo. Maybe if she stood outside the church, a place she had found so inspiring in so many ways, the place where she and Marc had first kissed, she might know better what to do.

She crossed the Campo, navigating past several picnicking couples and groups of friends standing in ill-defined circles talking with one another in various and sundry languages. From what she understood of Italian, she overheard one bald man insisting that Savonarola was a great man and didn’t deserve being executed on the spot in the past, just missing the substance of his friend’s rebuttal.

Marc’s right. I’m being unreasonable. Why won’t I give him a chance to prove himself? What am I so afraid of? What if Marc and I can work something out? What if he’s willing to make the commute to see me each week? Maybe, for once, I can have a boyfriend who possesses some small degree of intelligence instead of having to settle for some of the terrible boys I went to grammar school with. Or is this what I’m afraid of? Have I been alone so long that I’m afraid to take the risk of being with someone?

Eileen was so consumed with self-doubt and self-reflection, psychological and romantic analysis of Marc’s motivation, and strategic planning of how their next meeting would go that she barely realized her feet had carried her to the D’Uomo until she came to a stop in front of the black-and-white striped giant. Once the sight of the mammoth structure sank in, Eileen felt the tears start to fill her eyes. She realized that she couldn’t think her way around this problem. She had to clear her thoughts and see what her heart told her. She had to pray. Before she could begin her invocation, she was distracted by the approach of a handsome Italian soldier.

“I hate to see someone so beautiful look so depressed,” said the young man.

Eileen rubbed the tears away from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m not depressed,” she protested, ridiculously.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, his noble brown eyes searching out hers.

Eileen laughed humorlessly. “I wish there were.”

“Is it your boyfriend?” the soldier asked without irony.

“He’s not my…,” Eileen began hastily, and then realized she might be lying. “Well he’s…it’s my…it’s…well, I suppose he’s something of…unless he just broke it off, or unless I did. I don’t know what he is. I don’t know what we are.”

“And that’s the problem?” said the man, as if he now understood the situation completely. “You do not know how you feel about him yet, and he’s run out of patience.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly,” Eileen confessed miserably.

“It’s too bad he’s felt the need to put so much pressure on you,” the man said sadly, pressing a hand on her shoulder. His touch was cool, but reassuring.

Eileen turned to look at the tall man. “It’s just all happening so fast. I didn’t expect anything like this to happen. The last time I came here with students they were all so insipid. I never expected to meet another student who affected me the way Marc does. It all came as a total surprise to me.”

“But that is a good thing,” the man smiled.

“Is it?”

“But of course. Surprise is the greatest gift life can give us. It keeps things exciting. It keeps us off balance. If we were able to predict everything that would happen to us before it happened, wouldn’t life be the most colossal bore?”

Eileen shifted her eyes sideways, avoiding the soldier’s searching gaze. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I love surprises. Take now, for instance. I’m on leave from my assignment for the next two days. I was just going out for a little while to enjoy the night. The last thing I expected to see was a woman as lovely and enchanting as you standing outside the D’Uomo looking for a friendly person to talk to. I didn’t expect any of this, but it’s a surprise, and it’s a wonderful one.”

Eileen felt herself starting to cry again and didn’t know why. “It’s a wonderful surprise?”

She didn’t expect the Italian paratrooper to place his hand gently under her chin and lift her face slowly up to his. His deep-set eyes were filled with affection and concern. Eileen felt herself start to blush.

“A wonderful surprise,” he repeated, smiled a perfect white smile.

Eileen smiled back. “Thank you.”