All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [49]
“So,” says Giovanna, “tell me about your boyfriends.”
“No boyfriends,” I say, ordering an espresso. “I have been going on a few dates here and there.”
“You always say that, and then you tell me about four different men who are crazy about you,” she says, pressing her fingers together in front of her. “You always have something simmering on the stove.”
“Not right now. Right now I’m happy to be here.” I gesture at the view of the sea.
“Giusto,” she says. That’s right.
“I mean, I suppose you can always find someone to go out with if you want to,” I say. “It’s about whether or not you want to.”
Giovanna bursts out laughing. “So the situation is not desperate.”
“There are always all kinds of stories,” I say. “For me, more short stories than novels.” I tell her I’ve had a few fun dates, but nothing ever felt quite right.
“È così,” she says. It’s like that.
“Lately I’ve been feeling like I want someone more stable, someone who will stick around. It’s the first time in my life I’ve wanted a man around so he could take care of me, give me protezione.” I don’t explain to her why I need to feel protected; I’m just glad I can even talk about dating again.
Our espressos arrive. Giovanna recently broke up with her husband, a big, clever, narcissistic personality who had likely been cheating on her for years. (Once when I was staying with them, Giovanna went to pick up friends at the airport; he looked at his watch, said, “We’ve got half an hour,” with a sexy smile, adjusted his pants, and, though he was kidding, I knew he would’ve been happy for me to take it seriously.) Giovanna is fairly upbeat, though it hasn’t been easy. She spends most of her time with her family and wide circle of female friends. She tells me she’s ready to start seeing other men.
“Are you ever afraid of getting involved with someone new because you don’t trust yourself not to make another mistake?” I ask her. “Do you sometimes date men you know aren’t right just because you’re sure they won’t break your heart?”
Giovanna sighs. “Look,” she says. “All men are stronzi.” Loosely translated, this means that all men are turds; but it isn’t as harsh as it sounds in English. In Italian, stronzi can be sort of affectionate, like saying all men are dogs, but they can be good dogs.
I nod. I more or less agree.
“You just have to let men be men,” she says. “They’re different from women. Sometimes you Americans forget about that, you’re so interested in having the man do the dishes, share his feelings, and pick out the perfect earrings for you. Sometimes it seems like you’re looking for a man who will be your best girlfriend. But you don’t really want that. You want a man. You want a stronzo.”
“You’re right,” I say. I mean, there’s no way I’m doing all the dishes, but I do want a man who is a man. “A good stronzo.”
“Sì.”
But the problem, I tell her, is that I can’t tell one stronzo from another, a good dog from a bad dog, and I don’t want to get bitten again.
“Relationships are sometimes wrong, but so you made a mistake, not a fatal error,” Giovanna says, downing her espresso in one quick gulp. “You’re smarter now.”
I pick up the sliver of lemon rind on the espresso saucer and take a tiny bite. “In English, we have a term, an acronym, for bad relationships, bad experiences,” I tell her. “AFOG. Another Fucking Opportunity for Growth.” I tick the letters off on my fingers.
“Afog,” she pronounces in her Italian accent, and we both laugh.
We head back down the hill to the ferry, the light fading, Stromboli shooting sparks into the darkening sky, and make it back to our hotel. In the morning, after coffee, Giovanna leaves for Palermo, and I go to Naples, then back to Rome and home. We kiss cheeks, and she waves as I board the boat.
When I disembark