Hugging, yes. Even kissing each other on each cheek, or-strange to Americans-patting each other on the behind, all of those things I’d seen. But a full kiss on the lips between two men? That could only mean one thing.
The encounter was over by the time I went outside, the man with the briefcase gone, but I couldn’t help voicing my curiosity.
“Who was that?” I asked as Nico offered me a hand and I stepped onto the boat.
He glanced at me in surprise as I settled myself on a seat. “Just a friend.”
“Looked like a very good friend,” I remarked, hiding a knowing smile.
“He is, still.” The gondolier untied and pushed off, and we were on our way again. “He lives in Sicily now. I see him very rarely. It was a coincidence to run into him here.”
He was so cavalier about it, not embarrassed at all, but it was clear to me-Nico was gay. Which, I had to admit, relieved me of some of my trepidation, and I began to look back over our conversation with a different lens.
“So are you ready for a real Italian Shrove Tuesday?” he asked as we maneuvered back down the little canal. “My mother has been cooking all week for today. If we get there early enough, we can eat all the Zeppole before my sisters arrive. What do you say?”
I’d denied myself the revelry and masked silliness in the streets, but I had to admit, I’d been longing for some company, a little good food and wine and conversation. Who could turn down homemade Italian cooking on Carnavale? Why not?
Smiling, I accepted. “ Si, signor! You’ve convinced me.”
Nico smiled as we headed into the more open water of the Grand Canal, steering us toward his home.
“Nico brought a girl home!” Nico’s mother-“Call me Mama Dorotea!”-stage-whispered into the phone to one of his sisters, glancing over at me perched on the edge of the sofa. I got the feeling Nico didn’t bring girls home often-go figure-and they were all trying to be casual but I’d heard the phrase, “Nico brought a girl home!” at least ten times since I’d arrived.
“No, a girl.” Mama Dorotea cupped the mouthpiece with her hand as she spoke, as if it might make sound travel slower in my direction. “Are you coming soon?”
That was the third daughter on the phone, I deduced-the other two were already present and accounted for. The oldest, Anna, was married and had two children, a boy and a girl, who ran straight to the kitchen when they arrived to “help” grandma with the food. Helping, of course, involved a great deal of tasting. The youngest daughter, Caprice, still a teenager, seemed intent on beating her older-and only-brother at Scrabble. Nico was sprawled out with her on the floor. Out of his gondolier uniform, wearing jeans and a gray pullover, he was even more handsome. It never failed-the cute ones were always gay.
“Another glass of wine, Daniella?”
“It’s Dani,” I corrected her again, accepting the glass from Anna, the oldest daughter. Her husband had parked himself in front of the television for a football game-which, in Italy, meant soccer-and hadn’t said a word to anyone. His wife, on the other hand, had attached herself to me, talking almost non-stop since I arrived.
She paid no attention to my words, going on about the issues they were having with their flat, the landlord refusing to fix things. Nico, from the floor, offered to help repair the leaky sink, but Anna didn’t listen to him either. She seemed more focused on complaining about her problems than she was on actually solving any of them.
I sipped my wine-homemade, according to Mama Dorotea-and watched Nico. Strangely, now that I knew he was gay, I gave myself more freedom to really look at him. His olive skin still retained a bit of a summer tan from working outside all year round. He was my age, probably early-to-mid-twenties, sandwiched somewhere between his younger teenage sister and the next oldest, who had just gotten married the year before. The siblings all had the same dark hair, the girls’ long and thick and wavy, Nico’s short and curly; the same striking, bright blue eyes; even the same full, sensual mouth.
Nico glanced up at me and winked, putting tiles down on the Scrabble board as his youngest sister protested using “Qi” as a word. I still couldn’t believe I’d said I’d come to dinner, with his family no less. I was clearly more lonely that I wanted to admit. But he was sweet, and more importantly, he was safe. Maybe we could even be friends. I’d been in Italy eight months and didn’t have any real friends to speak of, aside from Cara Lucia.
“I’m getting a dictionary!” Caprice jumped up, racing for the bookshelf in the corner.
“Look it up.” Nico rolled to his back, putting his hands behind his head, and grinned. “Fifty-four points, triple letter, double word score. I win!”
“You’re far too proud of yourself,” I commented, sipping my wine to hide a smile. Beside me, Anna had thankfully been distracted by one of the children, the girl, Maria, coming in to ask her mother a question. Everyone spoke Italian and no one seemed to notice that I wasn’t a native speaker. It was quite a compliment and I was rather proud of myself.
“You want to play the winner?” Nico asked me.
“You’re so sure you’re the winner.”
“I am.” He shrugged. “Qi is a word.”
“It’s not an Italian word,” I replied. We were all speaking in Italian and I was proud of myself for holding my own. “I don’t even think it’s an English word.”
“It’s an Oriental word.” Caprice sighed, reading from the dictionary. “Oriental medicine, martial arts, etcetera. The vital energy believed to circulate around the body in currents.”
“I win!” Nico pumped his fist in the air and his sister stuck her tongue out behind his back.
“Time to eat!” Mama Dorotea appeared in the doorway wearing an apron, stained and covered in flour. That was a good sign. My stomach was growling and I definitely needed to eat something-I’d had far too much wine on an empty stomach and my head was swimmy.
“What about Giulia and Will?” Anna herded her kids toward the dining room table.
“They’re going to be late,” Mama Dorotea announced, using the remote to turn off the television. It was the first time Anna’s husband, Sal, had looked at something other than the screen since he sat down. He grunted, getting up, and followed his nose toward the table. “They said to start without them.”
The family gathered around the food, practically drooling, as Mama Dorotea said a prayer, mentioning her dead husband at the end, asking the family to remember him. I’d noticed the urn and photo of the mustachioed man on the fireplace mantel when we came in and wondered how this woman had raised four children nearly to adulthood on her own.
“ Ti amo, Padre, ” Anna whispered at the end of the prayer, reaching over and squeezing her mother’s hand. Mama Dorotea’s eyes were shiny as she started passing around dishes full of gnocci, tortellini and castagnole. It didn’t stay quiet for long. The two kids fought over who got the biggest and best piece of lasagna while Anna continued her diatribe about their dilapidated flat, and Caprice interjected with her own teen angst-a girl at school who liked the same boy who refused to speak to her now.
Nico sat next to me, passing me dish after dish, forcing me to fill my plate. There were frittelle-fritters fried to a perfect golden brown, filled with meat and gravy. The migliaccio di polenta — polenta and sausage-was so aromatic my stomach actually growled as I put some on my plate. I lost count after a while of how many plates were passed piled with all sorts of pastas filled with sweet prosciutto, smoky pancetta, and buttery sopressata.
“What did I tell you about the food?” Nico asked, nudging me, his mouth half-full. I could only whimper in response, sweet, heavenly pasta melting on my tongue. If there was something I loved almost as much as the Italian language, it was Italian food, and this was the best I’d ever had in nearly a year living in Italy.
“Nico made the lasagna,” Mama Dorotea said, smiling over at me. “And the Zeppole for dessert. Wait until you taste!”