Playing for Pizza (Page 33)

A few minutes before five he found a table outside of Gilli’s, ordered Campari on the rocks, and tried not to look at every female who crossed the piazza. Yes, he admitted to himself, he was quite nervous but also excited. He had not seen Gabriella in two weeks, nor had he spoken with her on the phone. No e-mails. No contact whatsoever. This little rendezvous would determine the future of the relationship, if indeed there was a future. It could be a warm reunion with one drink leading to another, or it could be stiff and awkward and the final dose of reality.

A small pack of college girls descended on a table close by. They all talked at once–half on cell phones, the others rattling on at full volume. Americans. Accents from the South. Eight of them, six blondes. Jeans mainly, but a couple of very short skirts. Tanned legs. Not a single textbook or notebook among them. They slid two tables together, pulled chairs, arranged bags, hung jackets, and in the flurry of properly settling in, all eight managed to keep talking. Rick thought about moving, but then changed his mind. Most of the girls were cute, and the English was comforting, even if it came in torrents. From somewhere inside Gilli’s, a waiter pulled the short straw and ventured forth to take their orders, primarily wine, with none of the requests in Italian.

One spotted Rick, then three more glanced over. Two lit cigarettes. For the moment, no cell phones were in use. It was now ten minutes after five. Ten minutes later, he called Gabriella’s cell and listened to the recording. The southern belles were discussing, among other things, Rick and whether he was Italian or American. Could he even understand them? They really didn’t care. He ordered another Campari, and this, according to one of the brunettes, was clear evidence that he was not an American. They suddenly dropped him when someone mentioned a shoe sale at Ferragamo. Five thirty came and went, and Rick was beginning to worry. Surely she would call if there was a delay, but maybe she wouldn’t if she decided not to meet him. One of the brunettes in one of the miniskirts appeared at his table and quickly fell into the chair across from him. "Hello," she said with a dimpled smile. "Can you settle a bet?" She glanced at her friends, and so did Rick. They were watching with curiosity. Before he could say anything, she continued: "Are you waiting on a man or a woman? It’s half-and-half at our table. The losers buy the drinks."

"And your name is?"

"Livvy. Yours?"

"Rick." And for a millisecond he was terrified of using his last name. These were Americans here. Would they recognize the name of the Greatest Goat in the history of the NFL? "What makes you think I’m waiting on anyone?" Rick asked. "It’s pretty obvious. You glance at your watch, dial a number, don’t say anything, watch the crowd, check the time again. You’re definitely waiting on someone. It’s just a silly bet. Pick one–male or female."

"Texas?"

"Close, Georgia." She was really cute–soft blue eyes, high cheekbones, silky dark hair that fell almost to her shoulders. He wanted to talk. "A tourist?"

"Exchange student. And you?" Interesting question with a complicated answer. "Just business," he said. Quickly bored, most of her friends were talking again, something about a new disco where the French boys hung out. "What do you think, man or woman?" he asked. "Maybe your wife?" Her elbows were on the table and she was leaning closer, thoroughly enjoying the conversation. "Never had one."

"Didn’t think so. I’d say you’re waiting on a woman. It’s after business hours. You don’t look like the corporate type. You’re definitely not gay."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Oh, definitely." If he admitted he was waiting on a woman, then he might look like a loser who was being stiffed. If he said he was waiting on a man, then he would look stupid when (and if) Gabriella arrived. "I’m not waiting on anyone," he said. She smiled because she knew the truth. "I doubt that."

"So where do the American college girls hang out in Florence?"

"We have our places."

"I might be bored later."

"Care to join us?"

"Certainly."

"There’s a club called…" She paused and looked at her friends, who had moved on to the urgent matter of another round of drinks.

Instinctively, Livvy decided not to share. "Give me your cell number and I’ll call you later, after we make some plans." They swapped numbers. She said, "Ciao," and returned to her table, where she announced to the pack that there were no winners, no losers. Rick over there was waiting on no one. After waiting for forty-five minutes, he paid for his drinks, winked at Livvy, and got lost in the crowd. One more phone call to Gabriella, one final effort, and when he heard the recording, he cursed and slapped the phone shut.

An hour later he was watching TV in his room when his phone rang. It wasn’t Arnie. It wasn’t Gabriella. "The girl didn’t show, did she?" Livvy began cheerily. "No, she didn’t."

"So you’re all alone."

"Very much."

"Such a waste. I’m thinking about dinner. You need a date?"

"Indeed I do." They met at Paoli’s, a short walk from his hotel. It’s an ancient place, with one long dining hall under a vaulted ceiling covered with medieval frescoes. It was packed, and Livvy happily confessed that she had pulled strings to get a table. It was a small one, and they sat very close together. They sipped white wine and worked through the preliminaries. She was a junior at the University of Georgia, finishing her last semester abroad, majoring in art history, not studying too hard, and not missing home. There was a boy at Georgia, but he was a temp. Disposable. Rick swore he had no wife, no fiancee, no steady relationship. The girl who didn’t show was an opera singer, which of course changed the direction of the conversation considerably. They ordered salads, pappardelle with rabbit, and a bottle of Chianti. After a hearty pull of wine, he gritted his teeth and addressed the issue of football head-on. The good (college), the bad (the nomadic pro career), and the ugly (his brief appearance last January for the Cleveland Browns).

"I haven’t missed football," she said, and Rick wanted to hug her. She explained that she had been in Florence since September. She did not know who won the SEC or national title, and really didn’t care. Nor did she have any interest in pro football. She had been a cheerleader in high school and had endured enough football to last a lifetime. Finally, a cheerleader in Italy. He briefly described Parma, its Panthers, the Italian league, then moved the topics back to her side of the table. "There seem to be a lot of Americans here in Florence," he said. She rolled her eyes as if she was fed up with Americans. "I couldn’t wait to study abroad, dreamed about it for years, and now I’m living with three of my sorority sisters from Georgia, none of whom has any interest in learning the language or absorbing the culture. It’s all shopping and discos. There are thousands of Americans here, and they stick together like geese." She might as well be in Atlanta. She often traveled alone to see the countryside and to get away from her friends. Her father was a noted surgeon who was having an affair that was causing a protracted divorce. Things were messy back home, and she was not excited about leaving Florence when the se mester ended in three weeks. "Sorry," she said, when she wrapped up the family summary.

"No problem."

"I’d like to spend the summer traveling in Italy, away, finally, from my sorority, away from the frat boys who get drunk every night, and very far away from my family."