Playing for Pizza

  really going to last for four hours? Rick asked himself. But then, he was anxious to see more of Desdemona. More booing, and he might scurry up to the fifth floor and punch someone.

  In Act 3, she made several appearances without provoking any boos. Subplots spun in all directions as Otello continued to listen to the bad guys and became more convinced that he must kill his beautiful wife. After nine or ten scenes, the act was over, and it was time for another recess.

  Act 4 took place in Desdemona’s bedroom. She got murdered by her husband, who soon realized that she was faithful after all. Distraught, out of his mind, but still able to sing magnificently, Otello produced an impressive dagger and gutted himself. He fell onto his wife’s corpse, kissed her three times, then died in a most colorful fashion. Rick managed to follow most of this, but his eyes rarely left Gabriella Ballini.

  Four hours after he first sat down, Rick stood with the audience and applauded politely at the curtain call. When Desdemona appeared, the booing returned with a fury, which provoked angry responses from many of those on the floor and in the private boxes. Fists were pumped, gestures made, the crowd turned on the disgruntled fans way up there in the cheap seats. They booed even louder, and poor Gabriella Ballini was forced to take a bow with a painful smile as if she heard nothing.

  Rick admired her courage, and adored her beauty.

  He thought Philadelphia fans were tough.

  · · ·

  The palazzo’s dining room was larger than Rick’s entire apartment. A half dozen other friends joined them for the post-performance feast, and the guests were still wrung out from Otello. They chatted excitedly, all at the same time, all in rapid-fire Italian. Even Sam, the only other American, seemed as animated as the others.

  Rick tried to smile and act as though he was as emotionally charged as the natives. A friendly servant kept his wineglass full, and before the first course was finished, he was quite mellow. His thoughts were on Gabriella, the beautiful little soprano who had not been appreciated.

  She must be devastated, ruined, suicidal. To sing so perfectly and emotionally, and not be appreciated. Hell, he had deserved all the booing he’d received. But not Gabriella.

  There were two more performances, then the season was over. Rick, deep in the wine and thinking of nothing but the girl, thought the unthinkable. He would somehow get a ticket and sneak into another performance of Otello.

  Chapter

  14

  Monday’s practice was a halfhearted effort at watching game tapes while the beer flowed. Sam ran through the film, growling and bitching, but no one was in the mood for serious football. Their next opponent, the Rhinos of Milan, had been easily thumped the day before by the Gladiators of Rome, a team that rarely contended for the Super Bowl. So, contrary to what Coach Russo wanted, the mood was set for an easy week and an easy win. Disaster was looming. At 9:30, Sam sent them home.

  Rick parked far from his apartment, then hiked across the center of town to a trattoria called Il Tribunale, just off Strada Farini and very near the courthouse where the cops liked to take him. Pietro was waiting, along with his new wife, Ivana, who was very pregnant.

  The Italian players had quickly adopted their American teammates. Sly said it happened every year. They were honored to have real professionals playing on their team, and they wanted to make sure Parma was hospitable enough. Food and wine were the keys to the city. One by one, the Panthers invited the Americans to dinner. Some were long meals in fine apartments, like Franco’s, others were family feasts with parents and aunts and uncles. Silvio, a rustic young man with a violent streak who played linebacker and often used his fists when tackling, lived on a farm ten kilometers from town. His dinner, on a Friday night, in the renovated ruins of an old castle, lasted four hours, included twenty-one blood relatives, none of whom spoke a word of English, and ended with Rick sprawled safely on a bunk in a cold attic. A rooster woke him.

  Later he learned that Sly and Trey had been driven away by a drunk uncle who couldn’t find Parma.

  This was Pietro’s dinner. He had explained that he and Ivana were waiting on a newer, larger apartment, and the one they were presently in was simply not suitable for entertaining. He apologized, but he was also quite fond of Il Tribunale, his favorite restaurant in Parma. He worked for a company that sold fertilizer and seeds, and his boss wanted him to expand their business into Germany and France. Thus, he was studying English with a passion and practiced on Rick every day.

  Ivana was not studying English, had never studied it, and showed no interest in learning it now. She was rather plain, and plump, but then she was expecting. She smiled a lot and whispered when necessary to her husband.

  After ten minutes, Sly and Trey strolled in and collected a few of the customary second looks from the other diners. It was still unusual to see black faces in Parma. They settled around the tiny table and listened as Pietro practiced his English. A thick wedge of parmigiano arrived, just to munch on while food was contemplated, and soon there were platters of antipasti. They ordered baked lasagna, ravioli stuffed with herbs and squash, ravioli smothered in a cream sauce, fettuccini with mushrooms, fettuccini with a rabbit sauce, and anolini.

  After a glass of red wine, Rick glanced around the small dining room, and his eyes locked onto a beautiful young lady sitting about twenty feet away. She was at a table with a well-dressed young man, and whatever they were discussing was not pleasant. Like most Italian women, she was a brunette, though, as Sly had explained several times, there was no shortage of blondes in northern Italy. Her dark eyes were beautiful, and although they radiated mischief, they were, at that moment, not at all happy. She was thin and petite, fashionably dressed, and …

  “What are you looking at?” Sly asked.

  “That girl over there,” Rick said before he could stop himself.

  All five at their table turned for a look, but the young lady did not acknowledge them. She was deep in a troubled conversation with her man.

  “I’ve seen her before,” Rick said.

  “Where?” Trey asked.

  “At the opera, last night.”

  “You went to the opera?” Sly asked, ready to pounce.

  “Of course I went to the opera. Didn’t see you there.”

  “You were at opera?” Pietro asked, with admiration.

  “Sure, Otello. It was spectacular. That lady over there played the role of Desdemona. Her name is Gabriella Ballini.”

  Ivana understood enough of this to glance a second time. She then spoke to her husband, who did a quick translation. “Yes, that’s her.” Pietro was very proud of his quarterback.

  “Is she famous?” Rick asked.

  “Not really,” Pietro said. “She’s a soprano, good but not great.” He then ran this by his wife, who added a few comments. Pietro translated: “Ivana says she’s having a rough time.”

  Small salads with tomatoes arrived, and the conversation returned to football and playing in America. Rick managed to contribute while keeping an eye on Gabriella. He did not see a wedding band or engagement ring. She did not seem to enjoy the company of her date, but they knew each other very well because the conversation was serious. They never touched—in fact things were rather frosty.

  Halfway through a monstrous plate of fettuccini and mushrooms, Rick saw a tear drop from Gabriella’s left eye and run down her cheek. Her companion didn’t wipe it for her; he seemed not to care. She barely touched her food.

  Poor Gabriella. Her life was certainly a mess. On Sunday night she gets booed by the beasts at Teatro Regio, and tonight she’s having an ugly spat with her man.

  Rick couldn’t keep his eyes away from her.

  · · ·

  He was learning. The best parking places opened up between 5:00 and 7:00 p.m., when those who worked in the center of the city left for home. Rick often drove the streets in the early evenings, waiting to pounce on a fresh opening. Parking was a rough sport, and he was very close to either buying or leasing a scoo
ter.

  After 10:00 p.m., it was almost impossible to find a space anywhere near his apartment, and it was not unusual to park a dozen blocks away.

  Though towing was rare, it did happen. Judge Franco and Signor Bruncardo could pull strings, but Rick preferred to avoid the hassle. After practice Monday, he had been forced to park north of the center, a good fifteen minutes by foot from his apartment. And he’d parked in a restricted space reserved for deliveries. After dinner at Il Tribunale, he hustled back to the Fiat, found it safe and un-towed, and began the frustrating task of finding a spot closer to home.

  It was almost midnight when he crossed Piazza Garibaldi and began prowling for a gap between two cars. Nothing. The pasta was settling in, as was the wine. A long night’s sleep wasn’t far away. He cruised up and down the narrow streets, all of which were lined with tiny cars parked bumper to bumper. Near Piazza Santafiora, he found an ancient passageway he had not seen before. There was an opening to his right, a very tight squeeze, but why not? He pulled even with the parked car in front, and noticed a couple of pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalk. He shifted into reverse, released the clutch, turned hard to the right, and sort of staggered back into the space, hitting the curb with the right rear wheel. It was a lousy miss, another effort was required. He saw headlights approaching but did not worry. The Italians, especially those who lived in the center, were remarkably patient. Parking was a chore for all of them.

  As Rick pulled back into the street, he had the quick thought of moving on. The space was very tight, and it could take some time and effort to maneuver into it. He’d try once more. Shifting and turning and trying to ignore the headlights that were now very close behind him, he somehow allowed his foot to slip off the clutch. The car lunged, then died. The other driver then sat on the horn, a very loud shrill horn from under the hood of a shiny burgundy BMW. A tough guy’s car. A man in a hurry. A bully unafraid to hide behind locked doors and honk at someone struggling. Rick froze, and for a split second thought again about racing off to another street. Then something snapped. He yanked open his door, flipped the bird at the BMW, and started for it. The horn continued. Rick walked to the driver’s window, yelling something about getting out. The horn continued. Behind the wheel was a forty-year-old asshole in a dark suit with a dark overcoat and dark leather driving gloves. He would not look at Rick, but chose instead to press the horn and stare straight ahead.

  “Get out of the car!” Rick yelled. The horn continued. Now there was another car behind the BMW, and another was approaching. There was no way around the Fiat, and its driver wasn’t ready to drive. The horn continued.

  “Get out of the car!” Rick yelled again. He thought of Judge Franco. God bless him.

  The car behind the BMW began honking, too, and for good measure Rick flipped the bird in its direction, too.

  How, exactly, was this going to end?

  The driver of the second car, a woman, rolled down her window and yelled something unpleasant. Rick yelled back. More horns, more yelling, more cars approaching on a street that had been completely silent one minute earlier.

  Rick heard a car door slam, and turned to watch a young woman start his Fiat, shift it quickly into reverse, and thrust it perfectly into the parking space. One easy effort, with no bumps or scrapes, second or third tries. It seemed physically impossible. The Fiat came to rest with twelve inches between it and the car in front, and the same for the car in the rear.

  The BMW roared by, as did the other cars. When they passed, the Fiat’s driver’s door opened, and the young woman jumped out—open-toe pumps, really nice legs—and began walking away. Rick watched for a second, his heart still laboring from the encounter, his blood pumping, his fists clenched.

  “Hey!” Rick yelled.

  She did not flinch, did not hesitate.

  “Hey! Thanks!”

  She kept walking, fading into the night. Rick watched her without moving, mesmerized by the miracle at hand. There was something familiar about her figure, her elegance, her hair, and then it hit him. “Gabriella!” he yelled. What was there to lose? If it wasn’t her, then she wouldn’t stop, would she?

  But she stopped.

  He walked toward her and they met under a streetlamp. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he started to say something stupid like “Grazie.” But she said, “Who are you?”

  English. Nice English. “My name is Rick. I’m American. Thanks for, uh, that.” He was pointing awkwardly in the general direction of his car. Her eyes were large and soft and still sad.

  “How do you know my name?” she asked.

  “I saw you onstage last night. You were magnificent.”

  A moment of surprise, then a smile. The smile was the clincher—perfect teeth, dimples, and her eyes sparkled. “Thank you.”

  But he had the impression she did not smile often.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to say, uh, hello.”

  “Hello.”

  “You live around here?” he asked.

  “I’m close.”

  “Got time for a drink?”

  Another smile. “Sure.”

  · · ·

  The pub was owned by a man from Wales, and it attracted Anglos who ventured into Parma. Fortunately, it was Monday and the place was quiet. They found a table near the front window. Rick ordered a beer and Gabriella ordered a Campari and ice, a drink he had never heard of.

  “Your English is beautiful,” he said. At that moment, everything about her was beautiful.

  “I lived in London for six years, after university,” she said. He guessed she was about twenty-five, but perhaps she was closer to thirty.

  “What were you doing in London?”

  “I studied at the London College of Music, then I worked with the Royal Opera.”

  “Are you from Parma?”

  “No. Florence. And you, Mr….”

  “Dockery. It’s an Irish name.”

  “Are you from Parma?”

  They both laughed to relieve some tension. “No, I grew up in Iowa, in the Midwest. Have you been to the U.S.?”

  “Twice, on tour. I’ve seen most of the major cities.”

  “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 Il 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.”

  “Wh
y 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.