Chapter 21 from The Rotten Bridge, A Gypsy Love Story

I've locked myself in the bathroom. I mean I'm really stuck. Last night Heidi warned us about the "Roman locks as she called them. "Sometimes they stick and there is more to it than simply wiggling the key. Of course, I immediately passed it off as a gender problem because to a man it is a lock and a key, old and temperamental maybe, but no mystery.
But she is right. I can't get the old bone to engage. It's spinning in the lock, fishing around loosely like a worn spike, and it is a replay of my performance earlier as the sun spread its sneer across the cool marble floor to the bedspread where I flopped and spun in an oversized shoe, in a big hat and beard.

As far as I know the girls are still asleep but it won't be long before I wake them with this racket. Every sound clops sharply against the cold stone floor. The ancient door moans its creaking timbers and hammered brass, and I might as well be forging the iron for another key because there is certainly nothing in either cabinet that I might use to pick the lock. I give it a few more spins still believing that everyone is entitled to a break now and then.

When Heidi calls out to me from the hall I am already out the window clinging to a chink in the brick and an old copper drainpipe. My next move will put me beyond the safety net but right now I can still go back. I am weighing those odds against my embarrassment when Heidi raps discreetly on the door.
"Mac, is that you?
"Heidi? Yes, I'm locked in. I climb back through the window and walk over to the door.
"Try putting it in halfway or so. You have to turn it slowly - you can feel it.
"I'm trying that now. No, still nothing. Can I pass you the key?
"It doesn't fit under the door because of the step. Go to the window. You can pass it to the kitchen."
Of course, I was just over there.
I lean out and hand her the key. She comes around and unlocks the door.
"Don't worry, this happens to everyone who comes here.
I wonder how long she and YaYa listened to my struggle before coming to my rescue.
"Did I wake you? I ask.
"No, I was up.
"And YaYa?
"I left her in there. She motioned back over her shoulder to that icy tomb.
So they did talk. YaYa is probably waiting for me, for round two.
I creep back into the room. YaYa is turned away on the bed laughing into her hands.
"Great! I can't fuck and I can't go to the bathroom without a rescue.
"Come here old man. Let me help you. She pulls me onto the bed against her.
"Hold me. Don't think about last night if you are. There will be other times. Our story is not finished.
Our story. What a unique way she had, but I wasn't feeling so sure.
"What do you know about it? I ask.
"I'm the vecchia, the old woman seer at the Villa Borghese, remember?
Most women wouldn't have taken it as a compliment, but she knew the Bernini marble of the sagging old peasant woman with the paunch and she also thought it was beautiful.

"So what do you see for us then?
"Nothing but trouble - but I don't care. I need this, you.
"Last night.....that doesn't happen, only once before.
"It's ok, I was tired anyway. I just wanted to lie down with you. Come on, let's get some coffee before Heidi drinks it all.

Heidi has already left so YaYa walks me through the nuance of Italian espresso on the stove. The aluminum percolator, called the macchinetta, is delicate, she insists. There is torque and temperature and grind and pack. We have the coffee and then brush our teeth over the dishes in the kitchen sink, taking pictures of each other foaming and spitting. Then she stretches out on the futon and lifts her skirt for me - it is a mock burlesque. I take a few photographs from the long perspective of her toes and then flip the camera to her and she catches me licking her heel. I have a sudden premonition of these pictures rendered hairy, stippled with black ink, and the negatives destroyed but that doesn't stop the fun.

We decide to take the train together as far south as Florence. She doesn't know that I intend to follow her to Rome. While we wait in line for my ticket she calls her man.

"It's ok, I hear her say, "it's nice to be out of Rome.
"Yes, she is happy. She has a nice place and a good roommate.
"No. Stop. What are you saying Morro? Morro?
She turned and spoke without lifting her eyes.
"He's hung up. A mutual friend has told him all about our weekend. He asked how you were. I'm afraid to see him now.
"But he's moved out?
"He has to get his things which he has not even started and anyway, I don't know what to do about it all.
"Don't see him if you're worried. Do you think he'll hurt you?
"No, not really, but he will make me feel like dirt and I don't want to feel that way about us, do you understand?

I kiss her head and step up to get my ticket. They make the boarding call for our train. YaYa runs. There is never enough time for us. This is the last train she can catch to make it back for work tomorrow, and because her boss is a friend to Morro's mother, her job is always a question. It's not just her job though - it's everything. She lives week to week, pooling together her meager earnings with his, just to afford a flat in the barrio. There are no extras. Whatever they have is the minimum. I am touched by her willingness.

I run off after her through the tunnels and across the platform, slowed somewhat by my pack. By the time I make the train she has staked two spaces between the cars where we can squat next to a young man who has already inhaled about half a joint for the ride. He is sitting down in the well of the steps and grinning at life. YaYa smiles at him and nudges me. Yes, I see him. So what I think, he's smoking some weed? But she keeps on digging him. He offers us a hit and we both decline, but she keeps right on. I think she's already had some and I don't get her just now. These are our last moments together for a while - at her request I should stay away from her and Rome until things settle - and she prefers to insulate herself in some sort of druggie camaraderie as the train creaks on toward Florence. I try not to dwell on it but delicacy isn't one of my strong points.

"I had a dream this morning, I said. "About us.
"And what?

The guy with the spliff is still more interesting and I can't blame her. I feel foolish talking about dreams but I go on.

"We were somewhere else. We walked into a pizzeria and there was my family at a table but they didn't acknowledge us.
"Do you remember how you felt?
I lied. "Well, I was fine. We took another table and I was proud.
But I wasn't. I knew the real life disappointment I inspired. I was always running up against their idea of what was best. In this case it was Cassi and they have been waiting for years for grandkids.

YaYa looked at my face and somehow got the message.
"The reason I ask is because they say that morning dreams are the true ones. It's good to know how you felt. I guess we're ok then.
We rode along, sitting on the floor, detached from our touching.
"When do you think we can see each other? I asked.
"I don't know. I have things to work out with my man and my living situation. I can't afford the extra rent if he leaves. And then there is us.

She paused and looked straight into me, and before I could look away she said it.
"The next time I see you I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to marry me.
I can see she is serious. I have to say something. I look out the window at her words plunging into the fertile hillsides.
"Really?
"Yes, really. I mean it that way.
"But that scares the hell out of me.
"Please, I'm sorry. I don't mean to do that, but I want you to understand how I feel.

I understand, I think, that this is a mistake. How can she talk like that? Is it a test? If so, it makes her seem desperate and weak, and I don't like it. Or does she think I am that simple - that I will just scoop her up and take her back to the States because she proposes to me on a train? Of course there is another possibility, and even more nagging, and that is that she means it. But what do you say to that?

"I understand how you're feeling, I think. But we both have a lot to take care of. We need time before we start talking like that.

I lean in to give her a hug. I am moved physically, despite her promise. YaYa notices and takes a subtle jab.

"You will like Firenze. You must go down to the river and think of me."

We kiss quickly and speaking with our lips pressed together exchange passionate tender maunderings good-bye.

"Here, I want you to have this.
She shivs me with her elbow and pulls a wooden bracelet from her wrist.
"It isn't much, but I have worn it as you can see, and it is special - you can think of me when you wear it.
It's a strand of faded wooden peas. The worn out thread of red elastic has been double knotted to accommodate her skinny wrist. She tries to put it over my hand but it's too tight.
The train slows down and stops. I hold the bracelet up and kiss it. I taste her - the scent of her skin and sweat and cigarettes.
"It smells just like you.
I kiss the back of her neck.
"I want to stay with you. She makes a three inch gesture between her thumb and finger and folds herself into my shirt pocket.
I smile. Those parting words that never come.
"Ok then, she says, "I will come along but only you will know. You can take me where you like now and show me things.
I gather up my pack and say one more goodbye. We are in the doorway blocking traffic in and out.
"Ciao clandestino - I will wait to hear from you!
This might mean something additional to her, speaking of her proposal, but I pretend it's business as usual, just in case.
"Ciao big eyes - I will see you very soon.

I hop out of the train and pass the window where she has quickly gotten a seat. She makes a bulging face in the glass as the train pulls out and I step into the stream of travelers on the platform.