neatness, and was, to me, totally sexless.
“There’s so much to discuss.” He chose a restaurant on Newbury Street called Villa D’Este, which had “al fresco dining.” “It’s me, Bryce Rossi,” he told the maitre d’, and then tried a few lines of Italian. His performance meant little to the staff, and we were given a corner table next to a small concrete cupid. “I spent a magnificent year in Padua, studying abroad. I find the whole Mediterranean world so simpatico. Healthier, more sensual.” He reached across the table and ran his skeletal finger down the back of my hand.
The waiter saved me from having to respond. Judging by his flaxen hair and name tag (“Dmitri”), he was Slavic, which seemed to disturb my companion a great deal. “Isn’t Luciano here tonight? He always knows exactly what I want. He can all but read my thoughts.”
“He returned to Milan last January, sir.”
“What about Mauritzio?” Bryce relished pronouncing these names with shameless Italian gusto.
“Mauritzio left a while back. He’s working in a restaurant in Chicago.”
Bryce gave a haughty snort. “Things certainly have changed.”
“We’re under new management.”
“As I feared. But your wine list is still respectable, I trust?”
Before I could refuse any liquor whatsoever, Bryce had ordered a bottle of Palazzo Barbarini 1992, costing forty-eight dollars. “I know exactly what to have. Veal Umbria, you’ll swoon.” The vermillion dots on his tie seemed to move surreptitiously. He was the sort to hijack a conversation unless thwarted, so I made a preemptive strike: “Were you close to Genevieve?”
He leaned over the bread and extra virgin olive oil. “We were soul mates.”
But surely not bed mates, I thought.
He dipped his heel of bread into the olive oil, pressed it, and thrust it into his thin-lipped mouth. “Genevieve had a passion for history. That we shared. She was a world-class researcher. Why she was enamored of that fool at Harvard, I never knew.”
“Fool?”
“Zack Meecham. You didn’t know him? Consider yourself blessed. What a fraud. He taught a course about post-Civil War America. She got permission to audit it. He was insufferable.”
“Why?”
“Oh, please. Don’t make me lose my appetite. Let’s not bring him up unless we have insecticide handy. He makes my skin crawl.”
“But he’s…dead.”
“Mercifully. He should have won a Darwin Award. Or perhaps we might give it to that tree on the Jamaicaway. I’m sorry, but I refuse to discuss him.” Bryce had a prominent Adam’s apple, and as he spoke, it was getting a workout, so he liberated it by unfastening the top button on his shirt.
“I warned Genevieve. But she was headstrong, as you must have observed.”
The waiter brought the bottle of wine and expertly poured us each a glass. Bryce sipped. “Magnificent? Don’t you agree? Good heavens! Don’t guzzle it like it’s Orangina. You must let it bloom on your tongue.”
“Of course,” I said, laughing, and somehow he thought I was laughing with him rather than at him. Then, quite rapidly, the veal arrived, a pallid piece of meat all but floating in a viscous vile sauce, and I knew consuming it would take effort. I asked how he had first met Genevieve and he paused, holding one admonitory finger in the air while chewing his veal with squirrel-fast jaws. “She was climbing her family tree.” Then he laughed, roared, at his own anemic joke, showing the mercury fillings of his upper teeth. “I think she had issues, the poor thing, about finding a family tree dripping with knights and countesses. But it yielded only mill girls and the occasional clerk. The fantasies we spin about the past. They’re a guilty pleasure.”
“Why did she work at Mingo House? Was it just an internship?” I didn’t really care for this veal or any other; I kept imagining the small fattening calf, confined to its pen and awaiting slaughter. In a way the calf’s plight seemed
“There’s so much to discuss.” He chose a restaurant on Newbury Street called Villa D’Este, which had “al fresco dining.” “It’s me, Bryce Rossi,” he told the maitre d’, and then tried a few lines of Italian. His performance meant little to the staff, and we were given a corner table next to a small concrete cupid. “I spent a magnificent year in Padua, studying abroad. I find the whole Mediterranean world so simpatico. Healthier, more sensual.” He reached across the table and ran his skeletal finger down the back of my hand.
The waiter saved me from having to respond. Judging by his flaxen hair and name tag (“Dmitri”), he was Slavic, which seemed to disturb my companion a great deal. “Isn’t Luciano here tonight? He always knows exactly what I want. He can all but read my thoughts.”
“He returned to Milan last January, sir.”
“What about Mauritzio?” Bryce relished pronouncing these names with shameless Italian gusto.
“Mauritzio left a while back. He’s working in a restaurant in Chicago.”
Bryce gave a haughty snort. “Things certainly have changed.”
“We’re under new management.”
“As I feared. But your wine list is still respectable, I trust?”
Before I could refuse any liquor whatsoever, Bryce had ordered a bottle of Palazzo Barbarini 1992, costing forty-eight dollars. “I know exactly what to have. Veal Umbria, you’ll swoon.” The vermillion dots on his tie seemed to move surreptitiously. He was the sort to hijack a conversation unless thwarted, so I made a preemptive strike: “Were you close to Genevieve?”
He leaned over the bread and extra virgin olive oil. “We were soul mates.”
But surely not bed mates, I thought.
He dipped his heel of bread into the olive oil, pressed it, and thrust it into his thin-lipped mouth. “Genevieve had a passion for history. That we shared. She was a world-class researcher. Why she was enamored of that fool at Harvard, I never knew.”
“Fool?”
“Zack Meecham. You didn’t know him? Consider yourself blessed. What a fraud. He taught a course about post-Civil War America. She got permission to audit it. He was insufferable.”
“Why?”
“Oh, please. Don’t make me lose my appetite. Let’s not bring him up unless we have insecticide handy. He makes my skin crawl.”
“But he’s…dead.”
“Mercifully. He should have won a Darwin Award. Or perhaps we might give it to that tree on the Jamaicaway. I’m sorry, but I refuse to discuss him.” Bryce had a prominent Adam’s apple, and as he spoke, it was getting a workout, so he liberated it by unfastening the top button on his shirt.
“I warned Genevieve. But she was headstrong, as you must have observed.”
The waiter brought the bottle of wine and expertly poured us each a glass. Bryce sipped. “Magnificent? Don’t you agree? Good heavens! Don’t guzzle it like it’s Orangina. You must let it bloom on your tongue.”
“Of course,” I said, laughing, and somehow he thought I was laughing with him rather than at him. Then, quite rapidly, the veal arrived, a pallid piece of meat all but floating in a viscous vile sauce, and I knew consuming it would take effort. I asked how he had first met Genevieve and he paused, holding one admonitory finger in the air while chewing his veal with squirrel-fast jaws. “She was climbing her family tree.” Then he laughed, roared, at his own anemic joke, showing the mercury fillings of his upper teeth. “I think she had issues, the poor thing, about finding a family tree dripping with knights and countesses. But it yielded only mill girls and the occasional clerk. The fantasies we spin about the past. They’re a guilty pleasure.”
“Why did she work at Mingo House? Was it just an internship?” I didn’t really care for this veal or any other; I kept imagining the small fattening calf, confined to its pen and awaiting slaughter. In a way the calf’s plight seemed
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