Amy J. E.

MacKenzie

Ciao Bella was originally published in the Spring 2016 Issue of The Truth About the Fact:
International Journal of Literary Nonfiction.

Ciao Bella

Ciao bella! Scusi bella! the Italian painter said. Im sorry, but I must ask you something.

I was admiring his paintings, which were scattered strategically along the ancient

cobblestone of Romes Piazza Navona.

He walked closer. Are you looking for a husband? He raised his right hand to his chest.

Because here I am! He stretched his arms out and stared deep into my knock-off designer

sunglasses.

I was wearing a lovely floral print dress, with black lace around the back, cut slightly

above my knees. My hair was in a ponytail that bounced from side-to-side as I walked from

street artist to street artist. My skin was tan; Id spent days walking around Rome. I was about

ten pounds overweight and a little self-conscious. Hang in here, maybe he likes the well-fed

American look.

Thats one hell of a line there, bello, I said. I looked over to the painters friend,

standing behind an easel, smiling like he was in the presence of a celebrity or at least a blonde

American woman who used the Italian word for handsome correctly.

Although the painter couldnt see my eyes, there was no way he couldnt see my cheeks

beginning to flush. I imagined he was thinking, its working; American women do love assertive

European men. Please, pick out any painting, bella, he insisted. He walked closer and began

analyzing his paintings with me.

Quanto costa? I asked, trying to impress him with my knowledge of Italian.

For you, my love, take whatever you like of mine. I give to you freely.

He looked around the square.

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I noticed you are alone. If you were my woman, Id never let you out of my sight. You

are too angelic to walk the streets of Rome by yourself. You could get into trouble.

Startled, I decided to respond to his previous offer. I explained that I wouldnt feel right

taking one of his paintings for free, while, of course, hoping he would insist.

S, you are right, he said. It would not be fair. You must allow me to take you to

dinner tonight. One painting for one evening in your presence. Does this seem fair, bella? He

stared at me with mahogany eyes.

I grinned. So, I get a free painting and a free meal? Am I understanding your offer

correctly?

S, s, this is my final offer.

What if I want gelato, too?

Dinner and gelato, my love? he asked and took my hand. If that is what you want, then

you must take two paintings, it is only fair. What is your name, lovely lady?

Mi chiamo Amy, I said, but personally, I liked lovely lady. E tu?

He smiled. I enjoy listening to you speak my language, it is very attractive, as are you,

he leaned down and kissed my hand. My name is Paolo, bella. He asked me to accompany him

to dinner; he squeezed my hand tighter.

I wanted to say no. I always said no. But before I realized there was an alternate answer

to no, I heard myself say yes.

We decided to meet at 9:00 in front of Berninis Fountain of the Four Rivers, in Piazza Navona.

That night I took the tram from Marconi to Largo di Torre Argentina; I had been in Rome for a

couple of weeks on a study abroad and was starting to navigate the city easily on my own. There

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was no need to carry a map like my classmates. I could never figure them out tiny lines that

represent streets that look nothing like streets maps cause me nothing but irritation. Between

my remedial Italian and my wildly exaggerated charades-like antics, I figured I would never find

myself wandering aimlessly for too long. At 29 years old, I was a returning adult student, a

junior in college, majoring in Art History, with a concentration in Italian Renaissance art and

architecture. I was participating in a six-week study abroad program that covered both major and

minor works from Antiquity through the Baroque. It had only been two weeks, but I had fallen in

love with the city, its people, its history, its art, its architecture, its food oh how I loved the

food and its atmosphere. The atmosphere was relaxed, in stark contrast to the fast-paced,

stressful atmosphere Id left behind in America. I could spend the rest of my life here, I thought,

as I made my way to my stop; I stared out the window of the musty tram and marveled at the

medieval architecture that lined the streets of Trastevere.

It was a balmy summer night; the air was thick with cigarette smoke and perfume. I

stepped off the tram and said hello to a few of the cats hanging around the stop. Do you kitties

know youre walking around on the very spot where Julius Caesar is believed to have been

assassinated? Right there, at the Theatre of Pompey! I informed them all in that recognizable

high-pitched voice most people reserve for babies and animals. The cats may not have been

impressed, but I was. I still couldnt believe I was walking along the very streets my favorite

Italian men had walked along centuries before: Raphael, Botticelli, Dante, Brunelleschi,

Michelangelo, Donatello, Lorenzo de Medici. I gotta go kitties, I have a date with an Italian

man from this century, one whos waiting for me, for me, just a few blocks from here. Who

knows, maybe hell make my list of favorite Italian men before the night is over!

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The moon hung over Piazza Navona, illuminating the square with a soft amber hue. I

rounded the corner into the square and began looking for Paolo in the crowd. There were

hundreds of tourists crammed into the piazza, which was filled with a hum from all the voices,

voices speaking various languages at various octaves, so that they all seemed to blend together

into one loud, discombobulated universal language. Accompanying the voices were the sounds

of dishes and glasses clinking together, utensils dinging, fountains flowing, street performers

some singing, some playing the accordion and off in the distance, at the other end of the

piazza, I could make out a violinist playing Eleanor Rigby. I continued walking towards the

fountain; I saw Paolo leaning up against it, smoking a cigarette and looking around the square.

He was tall, with an athletic body, dark wavy hair, a five oclock shadow, dimples, and a broad

jaw. He was wearing jeans and an Armani tee shirt. I was only a few feet away when Paolo

looked up and we made eye contact. He pushed off from the fountain and began walking towards

me.

Amy, bella, you are here. He took my hands, pulled me close to his face, and gave me a

kiss on each cheek.

I giggled and felt my face flush with color again. He took one last drag before tossing his

cigarette to the ground. Come. Come, Paolo ordered, taking my hand in his. The food here in

the square is not the best; this is because they tailor their menus to tourists. I will take you to a

place around the corner, my love, one that serves the best pasta in Rome, and the bread, oh my,

the bread! He pinched his fingers together, raised them to his lips, kissed them, and then opened

his hand in an animated gesture. Magnifico! he exclaimed, shouting above the crowd.

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Paolo led me down a cobblestone street that was less populated than the square; I could

immediately sense the difference from the environment we were just in. No more perfume and

cigarettes. The air was sweet with the smell of jasmine and fresh baked bread.

Here we are darling, Paolo said as he pulled out a chair from a table outside the caf.

He motioned for me to sit down, pushed my chair in, and then darted back to his side of the

table. Lorenzo! Paolo blurted out, snapping his fingers in the air. Lorenzo, due Mojitos!

Lorenzo, the owner of the establishment, remained inside, but I took note they obviously knew

each other well. What kind of room do you like, Amy?

Room?

Yes, room, darling.

Does he think hes taking me to a hotel room? Embarrassed, I blurted out, RUM! Are

you asking me what kind of rum I like?

S, room, for your Mojito.

Trying to seem worldly and nonchalant, I replied that Id have whatever he was having. I

dont know one brand of rum from another; Ive never been much of a drinker.

Theyre green, Paolo said softly. Earlier, you had your sunglasses on and I could not

see your eyes. You have lovely eyes. They are, how do you say, seductive? I smiled, not sure of

what to say next. Lorenzo sent out the Mojitos, equipped with straws, a basket of warm bread,

two small plates, and a bottle of olive oil. I reached for a piece of bread before the basket

contacted the table. Carbs be damned. Apparently, he really does like the well-fed American

look.

Raise your drink, darling. Let us toast, to your beauty, for it has brought us together.

Cin! Cin! Paolo held my gaze; he raised the glass to his lips. There is something sensual about

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your mouth, Amy, especially when you speak my language. Your lips become softer, they even,

how do you say, quiver, a little, like you are nervous and unsure of the words you are saying.

Youre very observant, Paolo. I sipped on my Mojito, twirling the straw with my

fingertips between sips.

As a painter, I must observe, it is my duty, no? Like earlier today, I was watching you

for a long time, before you walked over. I saw you and you took my breath away. It was like the

heavens opened, he raised his arms up and out and looked to the sky, and you, you became

illuminated in the square. I think I blacked out standing up for a moment. We both laughed. I

felt like Gene Kelly in An American in Paris, only I was an American in Rome. Who could ask

for anything more? Paolo continued, Your laugh, it is infectious. I must continue to make you

laugh, bella.

The Mojito was starting to take effect; I was beginning to feel more uninhibited. Do you

do this often? Flirt with American girls, and then try to liquor them up?

Paolo sat quietly, trying to compute my accusation. He leaned back, keeping one hand on

his glass, the other on his thigh; he tilted his head to the left, and smiled coyly, You are asking

me if I do this as a sport? A game? For fun? S? No, I date, do not get me wrong, but you, he

leaned closer and continued, almost in a whisper, You leave me wanting more. You are not like

the others, my dear Amy. He reached across the table and laid his hand down, palm up.

Maybe it was the Mojito, maybe it was the smell of bread and jasmine, maybe it was the

moonlight, or maybe it was because I wanted the fantasy so much, that I was willing to ignore

my inner voice, the one that was screaming, RUN! You dont want to end up a top story on the

eleven oclock news back home! A girl can never be too safe. There I sat in a foreign country,

with a man I just met; he could spike my drink, he could kidnap me, he could assault me. I took

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another sip of my Mojito and told my inner voice Silenzio! I took my hand away from my

glass and placed it on top of Paolos. Our eyes locked.

We ate and drank for what seemed like days, though only a few hours had passed. We

talked about our childhood, our education, and even some of our former flames. Paolo revealed

his father was an important politician back home with a lot of power and prestige. He also

informed me he had six siblings, five sisters, all older, and one baby brother. He was born in

Sardinia, the second largest island in the Mediterranean Sea. This discussion led to a discussion

of islands in general, which prompted Paolo to ask, Have you ever been to the Isle of Capri, my

love?

No, but I hear its beautiful.

We must go, then! I must take you! On a weekend, when you are not in class, we will go

to Capri. Grotta Azzurra! We will see the Blue Grotto while lying in each others arms!

Our conversation continued into the night, as we strolled, hand in hand, around the

backstreets of Rome. He learned about my obsession with Patrick Swayze, my career goals of

becoming a published writer and college professor, that I love cinnamon, and that I must sleep

with a nightlight on. Of course, I didnt explain why I had a crush on a deceased actor, twice my

age. How it was safe and innocent, though sexually charged. How my fantasies about Patrick

Swayze helped keep me sane during my childhood; how Patrick Swayze was my escape my

haven. I didnt explain that, at 29 years old, I had to sleep with a nightlight on because I was

scared to be alone in the dark because my father used to molest me. I chose not to confide such

things in this beautiful young man who knew nothing about my past except for what I wanted

him to know.

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I learned he studied politics at the University of London; his time in England is why he

could speak with a flawless British accent, without warning, which made me laugh so hard, the

first time he used it, I snorted. You sound like Russell Brand! I laughed, and then snorted

again. Paolo shook his head and grinned; I leaned into his left arm and we locked hands. It was

nice to laugh with a man and to feel, not safe, but not in immediate danger, either. Love, or

something like it, was in the air that night as we held onto each other in the waning moonlight.

Amy, I wish to show you some of my paintings!

That would be nice.

Here, he stopped walking and pointed to his right, this is where I live. Come upstairs,

we can enjoy a glass of wine and I can show you my artwork, he insisted.

Oh, I dont know, Paolo. I thought you meant another time. I dont know if thats such a

good idea.

S, it is a good idea. Come. Come. You wont regret it, I give you my word.

I followed him into a small courtyard, complete with colorful potted flowers and a small,

concrete fountain. We entered his apartment through a wooden door with a stone archway. I took

note of the ancient vaulted ceilings, what had to be the original sixteenth century peperino-

marble capitals, the porthole windows (in peperino marble), and the rustic brickwork. The

apartment consisted of one large room, complete with an elegant cooking alcove, and a loft area.

The modern orange couch seemed out of place with the rest of the dcor, but I thought the color

was quite chic. Beside the couch was a small rectangular dining room table and chairs, complete

with a white tablecloth. Where do you paint, Paolo?

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Upstairs, in the loft. Please, have a look around my love while I pour us some wine.

Paolo walked into the kitchen. I began admiring the artwork that adorned his walls, which were

made of terracotta blocks.

I asked if he had painted all the paintings in his apartment. I looked closely at one which

hung over the orange couch. It was a bright painting, of what, I couldnt tell, but I was impressed

by the lines of force he used, which were reminiscent of a Boccioni painting.

Paolo entered the room with a glass of wine in each hand. S, I did paint them all.

Your use of color and line to evoke emotion in your viewer is spectacular. Good job,

Amy! Color, line, emotion very artsy.

Specta, what? What is this word you used to describe my work? I do not know this

word, my dear Amy. He sat both glasses down.

Spectacular. It means, well, it means, I laughed. I dont know how to define it without

using other adjectives that you may not understand. Impressive! Do you know what impressive

means?

S, you find my artwork impressive, he walked closer to me, in much the same way

that I find you impressive, no?

We stared into each others eyes. Paolo leaned closer, embracing my face with his hands.

He didnt kiss me immediately; instead he created intense anticipation by caressing my face and

admiring my lips. Then he began kissing me. Softly and slowly. My past, my trust issues, my

fear of men, seemed to soften, briefly, in that moment. Paolos lips moved with such sensuality,

warm and enticing against my lips. I put my arms around his neck and grasped his hair, while our

bodies began twisting and winding closer and closer. He lifted me in the air, my legs wrapped

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around his waist. We made our way to the couch, our lips never parting. He sat down; I straddled

his lap.

Paolo whispered, You are so beautiful. His words breathed out on my flesh. I must

have you, all of you, there is a hot ache deep within me, which tortures me when I look at your

beauty.

I leaned back. Im sorry, butII cant.

Why not, what is wrong, bella? Paolo asked, trying to catch his breath.

I wanted to say: Everything is wrong. Youre a man. Youre kissing me. Youre touching

me. Youre making me forget about the pain and anguish that lies dormant right below the

surface. I dont know you but your passion is making me long to be the girl with no past, no trust

issues, no fear of men. Dont touch me. Touch me. Leave me alone. Dont stop. Stop reminding

me. Help me forget. Instead, I said, Im not that kind of girl. I just met you. I cant do this. Im

so sorryI need to go.

He explained that I didnt need to leave; in fact, we could stop. Of course, he didnt want

to stop and neither did I but he was willing to respect my wishes. Im not sure what

immediately followed the awkward silence, but I do remember a long discussion about Lacrima

Christi, the wine produced from the grapes around Mount Vesuvius. The volcanic ash provides

rich soil suitable for producing quality grapes.

Quality grapes the last thing I remember talking about before falling asleep.

The morning sun pierced through the windows in Paolos apartment, cascading streaks

throughout the room. I awoke to Paolos soft whispers the keyword being croissant. He was

wearing nothing more than a pair of jeans; he sat down on the couch beside me, drinking his

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espresso. His brown skin was illuminated by the intense sunlight that was enveloping him from

the porthole window. I asked him what time it was and when he responded 6:00 a.m., he asked

why. I didnt answer. I was too consumed with the sight of his half-naked body, clad in a pair of

faded jeans that seemed to cling to his body in much the same way I wanted to. I wanted to walk

up to him and slide my hands against the taught flesh above the waistband of his jeans, to

unfasten them, to pick up where we had left off the night before, but I stopped myself and tried

to remember what he asked me before he left the room.

Paolo walked out of the kitchen with a plate of croissants and a cup of espresso that he

placed on the dining room table. Croissant, darling? Espresso? You must have something, no?

I walked over to him and reached for a croissant, before sitting down at the table. I have

class at 8:00, I said, remembering his earlier question.

What are you studying today? Tell me everything. I must know, he pointed to the cup

of espresso.

The Pantheon. I took a bite of my croissant.

The Pantheon? Paolo sat down with me. Well, it is a good thing that the sun is shining

today.

Why is that, Paolo?

Because, if it rains outside, then it rains inside. You stand outside, you get wet, you

stand inside, you get wet. The rain, it rushes in through the oculus in the dome. You simply

cannot avoid it. This is a true story, bella, Paolo chuckled.

I felt like I missed the punchline to a dirty joke. Then I sure hope it rains while Im

here, I said, blushing, and taking another bite out of my croissant.

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For the next week and a half, we became inseparable, though we didnt have sex. I went

to class during the day, while Paolo sold his paintings in the piazza; every evening we would

meet in front of Berninis Fountain of the Four Rivers and spend the night exploring Rome. One

evening, after sharing a passionate kiss in the doorway of a closed Tabaccheria, Paolo informed

me that we would leave Thursday afternoon to spend a three-day weekend exploring the Amalfi

Coast.

Wedged on a ledge under the mountains and over the sea, Sorrento is spritzed by lemon

and orange groves, which we can walk through, together, he explained with the excitement of a

child. It sounded like he was reciting this from a travel brochure. As a day trip, we can catch the

early morning boat to the Isle of Capri, the vacation hideaway of Roman emperors.

Seriously?

S, I want to show you the world, my love! But we will start small. We will stay local

for now. He laughed.

We arrived in Sorrento around 6:00 Thursday night; Paolo took care of all the

arrangements. We spent three nights at the Palazzo Starace Relais, a small, intimate guesthouse

located in the historic center of Sorrento, overlooking Piazza Tasso. I was impressed with the

dcor, which was modern, yet somehow classic. The room was small. There was a double bed

against the left wall, flanked by two little wooden nightstands, each with a glass lamp on top;

above the bed hung a framed painting of a local lemon grove. To the right of the room was a

wooden armoire and vanity, both painted a dark rustic gray, which matched the nightstands.

I opened the glass doors and stepped onto the balcony. Oh, Paolo, look at this view!

Paolo stopped directly behind me. He placed his left hand on my left hip and leaned toward my

right ear. Look down there. He pointed to the street below. Were overlooking Piazza Tasso

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square and the main street, Corso Italia, he kissed me on my cheek. I looked up and down the

narrow, cobblestone street, lined with boutiques, cafs, and restaurants.

Im hungry! I said.

Me too, my love. We shall eat an early dinner. I know just the place Ristorante il

Buco. Originally the cellar of an old monastery, it is now a small restaurant, serving, how do you

say, delightfully, s, delightfully presented food.

It sounds lovely.

S, it is, bella. I know the owner, Peppe; he designs his menu around whatever is fresh

and he explains each course to his guests.

We strolled hand in hand to Ristorante il Buco. Paolo impressed me along the way with

brief history lessons, explaining that Sorrento dates to ancient Greek times and that the name

Sorrento comes from the Greek word for Siren. On his legendary Odyssey, Ulysses sailed by

the coast and overcame the treacherous lure of the seductive Sirens who once lived here, he

stopped walking. Ulysses was fortunate, he did not have to try to overcome the treacherous lure

of your seduction, bella, he said, laughing loudly.

I noticed a small shrine, made of colorful tile, embedded in a rock wall. Ive seen a lot

of those shrines since we started walking.

S, tiny shrines like this one decorate walls throughout southern Italy. The Catholic

faithful pray to Mary in hopes that she will advocate for them in heaven. Italians venerate Mary

and Italian men also venerate their mothers. Paolo stopped and pointed to his right. Even so,

Italian men have women-free zones, like this one, at the Sorrento Mens Club. Men play cards

under a historic emblem of the city and a frescoed sixteenth-century dome.

A sixteenth-century fresco? I want to see it!

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I am sorry my love, but you cannot. There are simply some things that you are not

meant to see.

We spent Friday exploring Sorrento. On Saturday, Paolo took me to the fabled Blue

Grotto. We caught the early morning jet boat to the Isle of Capri; I spent the ride looking at the

bird life, the local fishermen in their colorful boats, and the dramatic limestone cliffs which

jetted straight down into the water. When we arrived at the mouth of the grotto, we found a busy

distribution center of boats, where we were greeted by a local rower on his dinghy. Inside the

cave, our rower sang a little O Sole Mio, as we held onto each other, admiring the grotto and

its brilliant blue waters and the iridescent magic of the moment.

Toward evening, we rode a chairlift to the top of Monte Solaro, Capris 1,900-foot

summit. We floated over lush orchards and well-tended gardens. At the top, we enjoyed the

commanding panorama of both the Italian mainland in the distance and the Isle of Capri. The

cliffs were busy with birds, some sleeping, some tending scenic nests, and some soaring on a

steady sea breeze. I was admiring the view, but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Paolo was

admiring me. He gently turned my face towards his, so that his mouth could feather slowly

against my skin until it came to rest against my lips. The moist warmth of his lips and their

gentle persuasive movement was almost more than I could bear. I could feel Paolos tongue

between my lips, and in that moment, I became so enamored with him that I forgot to breathe.

It was after dark when we arrived back at the guesthouse. Settling in, I could hear Paolo

breathing behind me. I turned to face him; he rested his hands on my waist, propelling me

forward to close the gap between our bodies. In that moment, I was the girl with no past. Our lips

touched, he unzipped my dress, he began stroking my bare back, one hand lightly brushing a

path along my spine, the other hand sliding under my hair to caress the warm nape of my neck.

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His mouth was moving slowly, subtly, seductively on mine. He briefly hesitated, as if he were

asking me for permission to possess my body. I had already given him permission without

words. I ached for him, knowing that whatever might follow, hed be with me forever, even if I

never saw him again. In that moment, there was no one in the world but the two of us; nothing in

the world except the intimacy we were sharing inside that guesthouse. The only sounds

disturbing the peace of the evening were the soft ones of pleasure I smothered against Paolos

skin.

Less than two weeks later, the day finally arrived. I had to leave the comfort of Paolos arms to

return to the stressful, chaotic, and unromantic life I left behind in America. I had to depart for

the airport with the rest of my class from our shared apartment building in Marconi, so Paolo had

to say goodbye to me at the tram stop in Largo di Torre Argentina. He leaned back against the

green, metal railing. I pressed my head against his chest. Dont forget me bello, I whispered.

That will never happen, my love. I plan to visit you in America. I will bring you back

here, after you graduate. We will live the rest of our lives the way we have lived these past four

weeks.

I looked up at him. I want more time, I said. I need more time, we need more time.

Paolo leaned down and kissed me. If I could make days last forever, if words could

make wishes come true, Id save every day like a treasure, and then, again, I would spend them

with you, Paolo whispered against my lips.

That is beautiful, Paolo.

That is a Jim Croce song, Amy.

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We both laughed. I could hear the tram approaching. I leaned into his chest, my hands

wrapped tightly around his waist. Bella, it is time, Paolo said in a serious tone.

I know, but I dont want this moment to end.

Amy, moments come and go. Remember that. Memories though, memories are like a

fine wine aged, powerful, and capable of making your head spin and your knees weakbut the

effects are all too fleeting.

I pulled away; we stared at each other. The air was thick again with cigarette smoke and

perfume. I turned away from Paolos gaze to board the populated tram. I made eye contact with

an attractive Italian man, wearing a three-piece Armani suit. Ciao bello! Scusi bello! I said as I

made my way onto the tram. I turned around to face the railing where Paolo had just held me in

his arms, but he was no longer there. As the doors closed, I could see Paolo walking toward an

attractive blonde woman who had just stepped off the tram. Ciao bella! Scusi bella! he said.

Im sorry, but I must ask you something.

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