To Rome With Love

Piazza della Repubblica, Rome March 1985

Piazza della Repubblica, Rome

March 1985Tamara shook Giorgio's hand and looked into his eyes. The bright color of his iris was amplified by the white surrounding them, which made his eyes seem even more alive set against the bronze glow of his skin.

They talked for some time about their lives – they were both thirty-two years old, both college educated – who they were and what they did for a living.

“I'm an architect,” Giorgio revealed in an offhand, unimposing way.

“I'm a CPA,” she replied. “That's certified public accountant,” she responded.

He laughed that gentle, smiling laugh of his.

“Sì, sì. I know what a CPA is. I have one – no, two! – for my company. So,” he paused, “you are good with numbers?”

Tamara shrugged her shoulders in an easy reply to the question, and added, “But so are you. You're an architect. I'm sure you're good with numbers, too.”

“Yes, well, not like you are. If an architect doesn't like the way the numbers add up, he just erases the line and moves it somewhere else.”

His voice was strong but not loud, and he expressed himself with twinkling eyes, hand gestures, and a wink now and then when he was making fun of something, especially himself. There was something so casual and easy-going about Giorgio; and Tamara wondered for a moment why he stopped to speak to a stranger at the fountain. But then she realized that his relaxed demeanor was a simple presentation for a confident, poised man – a public self that held his self-assurance in check while engaging with people.

One of the things they didn't talk about was their families, at least not at first. Tamara could feel a certain reserve in Giorgio – or was she projecting her own on him – as if they wanted to remain just two people sitting at a fountain in Rome for a while longer. As if mention of parents, siblings – spouses? – might ruin the moment. She wasn't married back then and she sneaked a look at Giorgio's ring finger. No jewelry there, and no sign of a tan line.

He didn't ask how long she would be staying in Rome. She waited for the question; it seemed like a natural segue in their discussion, natural for an American tourist to be asked. Their conversation kept her mind too busy to focus on that, but she recalled thinking back later and wondering why Giorgio wasn't interested in that point about her vacation. Maybe he thought it was trite, as in a gigolo asking a single American woman traveling alone, “so, how long will you be in town?” Maybe he didn't want to know because they were really just having a little talk by a fountain in Rome on a sunny afternoon. Nothing serious.

After a while, Giorgio looked down at the street, then surveyed the cars sweeping by. It seemed like he was bringing the conversation to an end, and wondering how to get up and move on. Then he stood and, slapping his hands on his thighs, said he would have to go. But he didn't move.

“I am very glad to meet you, Tamara.” He paused, looking for the next thing to say.

“Yes, me too,” she said. Tamara was also at a loss for words.

Giorgio turned slightly toward the traffic and smiled back at her.

“I hope you enjoy this lovely city.”

“There's no question that I will. And I have.”

He turned full on to the street and took a few steps away, then stopped. He turned back to her with a wan smile. Waving once more, he turned back away and took another few steps before stopping again.

“Tamara,” he called out, but then he ran out of words. After a few seconds, he came back to her, sat down on the fountain wall again and peered into her eyes.

“Tamara, would you be interested in joining me for a glass of wine?”