Italian King by Zoe Beth Geller
Juliet
If only my dad liked to travel. But he doesn’t, so I’m stuck in Tuscany. “Stuck” is the wrong word for it. It’s beautiful, but there are so many places in this beautiful country to explore. Pranzano, Rome, and Sienna are just a few I’d love to see. I’ll get there some day.
“You look like a princess!” my roommate, Ava, gushes as she puts a fake tiara on my head like I’m a ten-year-old. When do girls get over this princess shit, anyway? I don’t see it. She’s from the United States and came all this way just for a summer internship in Florence. Now, that’s what I call a princess lifestyle. If one is going anywhere to study art, this is the place for it. Home of the Greats, I like to call it.
Don’t get me wrong, I really like Ava, but she’s only here for the summer and she’s from New York, Long Island to be exact. She says it a bit funny, overpronouncing the last vowels in the word and dragging them out.
She giggles. “Well, in New York, all the girls from wealthy Italian and Jewish families are princesses. Then you have the CAP, the Catholic American Princesses, and the JAP, the Jewish American Princesses. The tiara has become a staple for all teenage girls on their birthdays.”
She snags the tiara off my head and plops it atop her long, blond locks. “We are getting a bit old for it, though, aren’t we?” Her nose crinkles as she speaks.
“I’ll say,” I agree, having never fantasized about being a princess. I’m an ordinary girl in an ordinary world. I never imagine any man is checking me out because they are always looking at other girls, the ones who can curl their eyelashes without poking their eye out and who know how to put together a flawless outfit. Girls like Ava.
Did my father adore me? Yes, of course, and I’m grateful for it. It probably kept me from hanging out with bad boys and getting the wrong kind of attention out of loneliness.
“So, what do you want to do today? Being Saturday and all, we have the whole weekend ahead of us.” She flits excitedly around the room, using her phone to turn up the music streaming from a portable speaker that she lugged thousands of miles to use for just two months.
“Whatever you like,” I reply. I don’t have any plans. I live a pretty quiet life compared to most girls my age. I’m more comfortable being alone than I am with a crowd of acquaintances. Maybe it’s because I’m an only child and the town I grew up in is so small, it wouldn’t even be on a map were it not for our pottery that the tourists stop to admire.
Ava’s company is a welcome change from the girls who are more into their boyfriends than their studies, even if she is just a foreigner who came to paint our jaw-dropping scenery, eat our amazing food, and join me in the dorm to live like a local for the summer.
I like Ava and I’m happy to have her as a friend. The campus thins out in the summertime and the number of tourists escalates to the point it’s hard to walk anywhere as the sidewalks are packed.
I like hearing about America and hope to visit someday, but for now, I’m content to live here. This is my home, and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. But some day? Put me on a plane and I’ll go anywhere.
“Maybe we can find a pretty spot and work on a sketch and then practice with oils on it later,” I venture enthusiastically.
“That sounds like fun. It’s gorgeous outside. Afterwards, we can grab a sandwich at our favorite place and have a glass of wine.”
“Ava, it’s ten o’clock in the morning!”
“Oh, don’t roll your eyes at me. You know you love a great Sangiovese,” she teases me.
I can’t deny it.
“Okay, let me just pack some art supplies.” I open a cloth tote and put in my 11 x 12 sketchbook and my boxes of treasured charcoals.
I glance over at Ava, who’s fluffing up her hair and painting her smile a little more thickly with a bright red lipstick. Princess.
“I’m just going to add some bronzer to my face and then we can head out,” I announce, so she knows to be ready.
Looking like a model takes time and is one lesson I’ve learned from her. Not that I aspire to be a model, but I couldn’t turn down her offer to help, Besides, she makes me seem more accomplished and confident in a way. I’ve never been on to fit in.
Ava is the first roommate I’ve had who doesn’t have a steady boyfriend. I don’t have one either, never have. My take on boyfriends is that they consume and monopolize a girl’s entire life. Girls drop everything when a man comes along. I mean, is it the guy? The thrill of something new? Or is the sex so great that they forget all their dreams and goals when they drop out of school?
Even though I’m young and have this incredible, vibrant city at my disposal, I lonely at times. I’m not one for joining clubs, and making new friends is intimidating for me, so I never get an invite to hang out with other students or to attend off-campus parties. I have no one to blame but myself. These are issues I should have overcome by now, I’m twenty-one and I expected to be further along in my career goals, but Mom calls me a late bloomer and I guess she’s right.
At the end of summer, I’ll get another roommate. I don’t like not knowing who I’ll get in the roommate lotto, but Dad thinks it’s safer for me to live in the dorms and I’m sure he knows best. Plus, rent in the city is crazy expensive. I don’t want my parents going broke paying for me to pursue my dreams, dreams that may never even materialize.
It’s difficult to break into the art scene anywhere, let alone here! But I want to work in the creative field as that’s my true calling. I can’t shut down my creative mind—whether it colors in a painting, or settling into graphic artwork I’m sure I’ll find something that fits me which is why I’m savvy with all the software artists use today.
“Ready.” Ava announces as she walks to the door with her tote in hand, one that matches mine. They were given to us at summer registration and have our school’s emblem on them with the Fleur-De-Lis.
I lock the door behind us before we make our way into the courtyard where students gather on benches to draw the surrounding evergreens that line the banks of the Arno River. The trees provide welcome shade as well as a touch of nature in the city.
I’m wearing a cherry red sundress as it’s warm outside and the color complements my dark olive skin tone. My skin is darker than most Tuscans and definitely darker than my parents. We joke that someone way back in the family tree must have married a Sicilian.
The courtyard has students coming and going, and I hear shouts and car horns coming from the busy streets and bouncing off the surrounding buildings.
“It’s the dean.” Ava nudges my arm with her elbow.
“Really?”
“Oh, yes, he’s involved in the exchange program. Like a good will ambassador, I guess. And look at that hunk talking to him!”
I check out the man standing next to Dean Santini. The stranger is dressed in black, and even though it’s just a casual dress shirt and slacks with leather designer shoes, he looks sharp, like James Bond without the jacket and tie. He preens like a peacock, proud and confident. The dean appears to shrink in his shadow.
“I wonder who he is.”
“No idea. I’ve never seen him before, but boy, I wish I had,” she murmurs quietly as we draw closer to him.
Ava puts one hand casually on her Marc Jacobs tote and slides her canvas bag onto the same arm, leaving one hand free as we approach.
I shy away, but they are standing near our exit, making it difficult for me to not engage should the situation arise.
“Good morning, ladies,” the dean addresses Ava with a smile, so we stop and chat.
It’s such an Italian thing to do, to take time out for a brief chat with an acquaintance or a friend when you casually bump into them. There is never an excuse that you’re in a hurry because in Italy, everything can be a few minutes later and it’s never a problem.
“Hello, how are you?”
“Just fine, thank you. I want to introduce you to Mr. Micheli. He’s one of our benefactors here at the school.”
“I love the arts,” Mr. Micheli adds without a smile.
Ava extends her hand to the sexy stranger, who takes it in his before leaning in to exchange the traditional small kiss on both cheeks before turning to me.
“Mr. Micheli, nice to meet you . . .” He leaves the sentence unfinished, suspended in the air between us.
“Juliet. Juliet Accordi.” I gaze up at him through my long lashes, captivated by his intense brown eyes holding my gaze. “It’s nice to meet you.” I notice that his face is cold, and his voice devoid of emotion.
“Likewise,” he says as he leans in to kiss my right cheek, then my left. The hair on the back of my neck stands up at his touch. “Are you enjoying your studies here?”
“Oh, yes,” I assure him, and my flesh tingles with mixed feelings, on the one hand excited and yet scared on the other. I have no idea what is triggering this fight or flight response. I want to follow my body’s urge to run and leave immediately, but I don’t want it to look obvious.
He turns his attention back to Ava and chats with her for a minute, but I can’t help feeling he’s watching me even though his eyes are clearly on her.
There is something about him, but I can’t put my finger on it. He’s observant and a man of few words, which implies he’s either very smart or he’s used to playing things close to his chest.
He’s definitely sure of himself, his posture exuding strength and virility. I bet he has us both committed to his memory, and he probably has me pegged right down to my black bikini underwear.
“Would you ladies like to join us for an espresso?” he asks, looking at both of us as the church bells from the Duomo chime and echo down the streets of the city.
We wait for the bells to finish before resuming our conversation.
“Thank you, but we were just heading out,” I explain, putting my arm firmly through Ava’s.
“Another time then, perhaps,” he says, wishing us a good afternoon before he nods and walks away with the dean in the opposite direction.
After we exit the courtyard, I turn my head to take one more look at the handsome stranger when I overhear him asking the dean about the art program and the future funding needed, but I can’t catch any details after that.
“That was weird.” I still have my arm through Ava’s as we hit the narrow sidewalk, making our way to our favorite park near the Arno River. The sky is partially cloudy, so the water will not look blue today, which is a pity. I’ll have to tweak the color later. I hate the look of muddy rivers.
“What? He seemed perfectly fine,” she replies as we step inside the café on the corner for a quick espresso.
“Due espresso, per favore,” I pull euros out of my knock-off Gucci purse that I wear slung from my shoulders and across my chest to prevent it from being ripped off by a professional pickpocket. The city is rife with them.
I had to teach Ava how to do these things or she would have lost her good camera on her first day of sightseeing.
I pay the man behind the counter for our drinks and buy a bottled water as well. I can feel the day heating up and moisture is starting to build on the nape of my neck.
“Do I look flushed?” I stir a packet of sugar into my espresso and turn to face her.
“God, I’m addicted to this.” Ava lets her drink cool for thirty seconds before downing it in two gulps and checking out my face. “Nope, you’re fine. Maybe it was that hot Italian dude making you sweat,” she snickers.
“Well . . .” I fumble for words as I remember the chance meeting.
“Well, what? Hottie! He had an air of mystery or danger about him,” she volunteers. “You have everything here in Italy—hot men, coffee, food, tons of antiquities to take in, it’s amazing. I love it.”
“We’re pretty lucky.” I’m grateful for the distraction off of the mystery man, and we stroll down to the park. We need an entire bench to ourselves as our art supplies fill up all the empty space between us.
Birds chirp in the lush trees overhead as Ava asks me how to say ‘happy birthday’ in Italian. I teach her and she tries to say ‘buon compleanno’ but botches it terribly, and we both laugh at her attempts.
I appreciate that she’s trying to learn, but honestly, foreigners can get around easily without knowing any Italian, at least in the city. Most waiters will know English so they can earn better tips and many of the under thirty-year-olds speak English because it was integrated into the schools three decades ago.
But it helps to know some Italian if one wanders outside of the tourist areas. Granted, the train stations sell tickets from kiosk or red machines with English signage at the press of a button. But tickets for the city buses are sold in Tabbachi’s—small shops that carry items like newspapers, candy, cigars, and cheap souvenirs. Typically they are run by one person who speaks Italian and the native language of his home. So, I’ll teach Ava enough Italian to get around.