"So have I. A little tour of my own." Rick had deliberately picked a round table that was small. They were sitting close together, drinks in front of them, knees not too far apart, both working hard to appear relaxed. "What kind of tour?"
"I play professional football. My career is not working out so well, and now I'm in Parma this season, playing for the Panthers." He had a hunch that her career might be a bit off track, too, so he felt comfortable being completely honest. Her eyes encouraged honesty.
"The Panthers?"
"Yes, there is a professional football league here in Italy. Few people know about it, mainly teams here in the North--Bologna, Milan, Bergamo, a few others."
"I've never heard of it."
"American football is not very popular here. As you know, this is soccer country."
"Oh yes." She seemed less than enthused about soccer. She sipped the reddish liquid in her glass. "How long have you been here?"
"Three weeks. And you?"
"Since December. The season ends in a week, and I'll go back to Florence." She looked away sadly, as if Florence was not where she wanted to be. Rick sipped his beer and looked blankly at an old dartboard on the wall.
"I saw you at dinner tonight," he said. "At II Tribunale. You were with someone." A quick fake grin, then, "Yes, that's Carletto, my boyfriend." Another pause as Rick decided not to pursue this. If she wanted to talk about her boyfriend, it was up to her. "He lives in Florence, too," she said. "We've been together for seven years."
"That's a long time."
"Yes. Do you have someone?"
"No. I've never had a serious girlfriend. Lots of girls, but nothing serious."
"Why not?"
"Hard to say. I've enjoyed being a bachelor. It's a natural when you're a professional athlete."
"Where did you learn to drive?" she blurted, and they laughed. "I've never had a car with a clutch," he said. "Evidently you have."
"Driving is different here, so is parking."
"You are superb at parking and singing."
"Thank you." A beautiful smile, a pause, a sip from the glass. "You're an opera fan?" I am now, Rick almost said. "Last night was my first, and I enjoyed it, especially when you were onstage, which wasn't often enough."
"You must come again."
"When?"
"We perform Wednesday, and then Sunday is our last of the season."
"We play in Milan on Sunday."
"I can get you a ticket for Wednesday."
"It's a deal." The pub closed at 2:00 a.m. Rick offered to walk her home, and she easily agreed. Her hotel suite was furnished by the opera company. It was near the river, a few blocks from the Teatro
Regio. They said good night with a nod, a smile, a promise to meet the next day.
They met for lunch, and over large salads and crepes they talked for two hours. Her schedule was not that different from his--a long night's sleep, coffee and breakfast late in the morning, an hour or two at the gym, then an hour or two of work. When they were not performing, the cast was expected to gather and grind through another practice. Same as football. Rick got the clear impression that a struggling soprano earned more than a struggling itinerant quarterback, but not by much. Carletto was never mentioned. They talked about their careers. She had begun singing as a young teenager in Florence, where her mother still lived. Her father was dead. At seventeen, she began winning awards and receiving auditions. Her voice developed early, and there were big dreams. She worked hard in London and won role after role, but then nature set in, genetics became a factor, and she was struggling with the realization that her career--her voice--had reached its pinnacle.
Rick had been booed so many times it didn't faze him. But to get booed on an opera stage seemed unusually cruel. He wanted an explanation, but he did not bring up the issue. Instead, he asked questions about Otello. If he was going to watch it again the following night, he wanted to understand everything. Otello was dissected for a long time as the lunch went on. There was no hurry. After coffee, they went for a walk and found a gelato stand. When they finally said good-bye, Rick went straight to the gym, where he sweated like a madman for two hours and thought of nothing but Gabriella.
Chapter 15
Due to a rugby conflict, Wednesday's practice began at 6:00 p.m, and was much worse than Monday's. In a cold, light rain the Panthers slogged through thirty minutes of uninspired calisthenics and sprints, and when they were over, it was too wet for anything else. The team hurried back to the locker room, where Alex arranged the video and Coach Russo tried to get serious about the Milan Rhinos, an expansion team that had played the year before in the B division. For this reason alone, the Panthers had no trouble dismissing them as a viable opponent. There were jokes and cheap shots and plenty of laughs as Sam rolled the video. Finally, he switched discs and went back to their game against Naples. He began with a sequence of missed blocks by the offensive line, and before long Nino was bickering with Franco. Paolo, the Texas Aggie and left tackle, took offense at something said by Silvio, a linebacker, and the mood turned nasty. The cheap shots grew more pointed and spread around the locker room. The squabbling took on sharper tones. Alex, handling the Italian now, offered scathing critiques of just about everyone in a black jersey. Rick sat low in his locker, enjoying the bitch session but also aware of what Sam was doing. Sam wanted trouble, infighting, emotions. Often an ugly practice or a nasty film session can be productive. The team was flat and overconfident. When the lights came on, Sam told everyone to go home.
There was little chatter as they showered and changed. Rick sneaked away from the stadium and hurried to his apartment. He changed into his finest Italian threads, and at 8:00 p.m. sharp was seated in the fifth row from the orchestra in Teatro Regio. He knew Otello now, inside and out. Gabriella had explained everything. He endured Act 1, no Desdemona until the third scene, when she eased onto the stage and began groveling at the feet of her husband, the crazy Otello. Rick watched her carefully, and with perfect timing, as Otello wailed on about something, she glanced at the fifth row to make sure he was there. Then she began to sing, back and forth with Otello as the first act came to a close.
Rick waited for a second, maybe two, then began applauding. The hefty signora to his right was at first startled, then slowly put her hands together and followed his lead. Her husband did the same, and the light applause spread. Those inclined to boo were preempted, and suddenly the crowd en masse decided that Desdemona deserved better than what she had been receiving. Emboldened, and not one to give much of a damn anyway, Rick served up a hearty "Bravo!" A gentleman two rows back, no doubt as struck by Desdemona's beauty as Rick, did the same. A few other enlightened souls agreed, and as the curtain fell, Gabriella stood at center stage, eyes closed, but with a slightly noticeable smile. At 1:00 a.m., they were in the Welsh pub again, having drinks and talking opera and football. The final performance of Otello would be the following Sunday, when the Panthers were in Milan slugging it out with the Rhinos. She wanted to see a game, and Rick convinced her to stay in Parma another week. With Paolo the Aggie as their guide, the three Americans caught the 10:05 train for Milan Friday night, not long after the last practice of the week. The rest of the Panthers were at Polipo's for the weekly pizza party.
The drink cart stopped at their seats, and Rick bought four beers, the first round, the first of many. Sly said he drank little, said his wife did not approve, but at that moment his wife was in Denver, very far away. She would become even more removed as the night progressed. Trey said he preferred bourbon, but could certainly handle a beer. Paolo seemed ready to drink a keg. An hour later they were in the sprawling lights of Milan's perimeter. Paolo claimed to know the city well, and the country boy was visibly excited about a weekend in town. The train stopped inside the cavernous Milano Centrale, Europe's largest train station, a place that had thoroughly intimidated Rick a month earlier when he passed through. They squeezed into a cab and headed for the hotel. Paolo had handled the details. They had decided on a decent hotel, not too expensive, in a section of town known for its nightlife. No cultural excursion into the heart of old Milan. No interest in history or art. Sly in particular had seen enough cathedrals and baptisteries and cobblestoned streets. They checked into the Hotel Johnny in the northwest section of Milan. It was a family-run albergo, with a little charm and little rooms. Double rooms--with Sly and Trey in one and Rick and Paolo in the other. The narrow beds were not far apart, and Rick wondered, as he quickly unpacked, just how cozy things might get if both roommates got lucky with the girls. Food was a priority, at least for Paolo, though the Americans could have grabbed a sandwich on the run. He selected a place called Quattro Mori because of its fish, said he needed a break from the endless pasta and meat in Parma. They ate freshly caught pike from Lake Garda and fried perch from Lake Como, but the winner was a baked tench stuffed with bread crumbs, Parmesan cheese, and parsley. Paolo, of course, preferred a slow proper meal with wine, followed by dessert and coffee. The Americans were ready for the bars.