che cosa voule imparare in questa classe.” Let’s begin by everyone telling me what they would like to get out of the class, he continued—again speaking rapidly. He gestured for a young man two seats away from Juliette to begin. Juliette felt the same blind panic she used to get when she was in high-school geometry and was about to be called on to solve a mathematical problem when she only had a vague sense of how to do it. As the student answered, she worked hard to concentrate on what he was saying and was relieved she understood most of it. She took a deep breath as he finished and all eyes moved on to the student who was next to her. Juliette could feel her face getting hot and cursed herself for the hateful blushing trait. It was the bane of the fair skinned, and she had inherited it from her father’s side. Her mother’s Italian genes would never have betrayed her so brutally.
Juliette was able to glean that the woman she was seated next to was saying something about taking the class because she worked in the family restaurant and wanted to expand her skills. Or at least something close to that.
When she finished, all eyes turned to Juliette and there was nothing to do but to dive in, so she took a deep breath and did just that.
“Buon giorno,” she began slowly, thinking about each word and pronouncing it carefully. “Il mio nome è Juliette Brice e mi sono trasferita qui per migliorare la mia conoscenza dell’arte culinaria italiana.” Hello, she said. My name is Juliette Brice and I moved here to improve my Italian cooking. She wished she knew how to say she was on an extended visit, but that was beyond her, so “moved” would have to do. At least that’s what she hoped she said—although she wasn’t entirely sure she had used the correct tenses and wondered if there were different verbs for “to move an object or move residences.” She used to feel so confident in her ability to speak Italian and hoped desperately that it would come back quickly.
She decided not to worry about it and was just happy her turn was over. It must not have been too off base because a quick peek around the room told her that the other students didn’t think she had said anything strange and the next student began to speak about why he was in the class.
She ventured another peek at Roman, and was startled to find him looking at her. On closer inspection, she guessed that he must be in his early thirties. He was tall for an Italian man, and had a slim build. He had dark, slightly shaggy hair, dark eyes and elegant features that seemed intelligent and serious. She smiled when she saw that his jeans were ironed so crisply that there was a perfectly straight line down the middle of each pant leg.
She wondered why he was still looking at her. Had she said something odd after all?
He gave her a slight smile and a nod, and she felt immediately relieved.
There were only about ten students so the introductions were quickly completed and the instructor began to explain the structure of the class. This time he spoke more slowly, she gratefully assumed, for her benefit.
She was listening intently with one part of her brain, while the other part was wondering about her teacher.
What had Odessa said about him? She searched her brain.
“Signorina Brice?”
Juliette looked up, suddenly aware that she had been caught thinking her own thoughts.
“Si, Signor Capello?” she tried to act as if she had been paying attention but was just confused by the language.
“Will you please answer the question I’ve asked the class?” he looked at her expectantly, but with slight humor because he realized he had unwittingly caught her mind wandering.
“I’m sorry,” she replied in her slow Italian. “Could you please repeat the question for me once again? I didn’t quite understand all of it.”
“Certamente,” he said, and then elaborated, “How do you know if a gorgonzola is ripe?”
“Um,” she stammered. She could answer in English no problem, but it wasn’t so easy in Italian. It took three to five months after the cheese mold was added and the cheese was pierced to increase circulation, but saying “pierced” was beyond her skills in the language and she didn’t think “poked” would do. Nonetheless, she took a deep breath and tried. She was pretty sure the class understood that the stabbing motions she made with her pencil were supposed to represent the piercing of the cheese rounds rather than the possibility that she had a violent streak.
From the encouraging look on her teacher’s face, she guessed he understood what she meant, and soon she was so absorbed in the conversation that she was no longer embarrassed about being caught daydreaming and lacking in fluency.
By the end of the day, she was exhausted yet exhilarated. Thinking in and speaking Italian all day was tiring enough, but add standing while chopping, dicing, grating, crumbling and sautéing and she was ready to relax. Juliette was proud, though. She had made it through her first day, and aside from a few language mishaps and a misconstrued gesture or two, it had gone well. The polenta with gorgonzola they made was superb. It never failed to amaze her when simple foods transcended the everyday and became sublime. She didn’t even like polenta much, but what they had made today was truly delicious.
She was almost to the door, trailing a couple of the other students, when she heard her name called.
“Signorina Brice? Un momento, per favore.” Roman called to her from where he was standing in the kitchen, so she turned back to see what he wanted. Her pulse quickened when she realized he was keeping her to chat a moment.
“How was your first day?” he asked her in English, not looking at her, but gathering printed recipes to put back in his leather satchel.
“Meraviglioso, grazie,” she answered in Italian. Wonderful, thank you. She smiled at him, wondering what else he would say. Roman was the perfect name for him, she thought, because his features were, in fact, classically Roman.
“Keep working on your Italian,” he looked up at her and smiled, “and if there’s something you don’t understand, ask me in English. I can try to make it more clear for you. My English is far from perfect, but between the two of us, we should be able to stumble through.”
“Oh, ok,” she stammered, surprised at the generous offer and the unexpected breadth of his ability to speak English. “Thank you. A domani,” she said. See you tomorrow, and she smiled and waved as she walked out into the cool Italian afternoon.
CATARINA, THE ANGUISH OF SAYING GOODBYE, AND A STEAM SHIP DEPARTURE
Catarina looked into the rickety wooden chest and then up at her sister.
“How am I supposed to fit everything I want to bring with me in this one trunk plus a suitcase?” she asked. “Babbo said he reinforced it, but it looks like this chest is going to fall to pieces.”
“How practical you are, Catarina. Who cares about what you bring or whether this trunk becomes kindling wood. I’m more worried about what it’s going to be like to kiss a stranger than how you’re going to fit your things into this old trunk. And what about trying to make a baby with him? You don’t even know him.”
“Aurulia, don’t talk of such things!” Catarina focused on the empty trunk, so she didn’t have to look at her sister’s face. She was shocked that her sister would bring up such a subject. But in truth, it was something she, too, had thought about many times. She could put it aside during the day, while she kept herself busy, but at night when she lay in bed trying to sleep, she couldn’t put it out of her mind. She was terrified about it all. She was marrying a man who might as well be a stranger to her and leaving her home for an unfamiliar country. What if she couldn’t stand him once she met him again? What if he had oozing sores on his face and bad breath all the time? There had to be some terrible reason he had to ask for a bride who couldn’t remember what he looked like. She felt desperate, but she wasn’t sure what she was desperate for. Desperate to know exactly what she was getting