The moment he
deplaned, he started pestering me about Disneyland.
“How far? We go now?”
The 12-hour flight hadn’t impaired his goal.
“Marco, we’ll
go tomorrow. I thought you might want to
settle in and rest. Disneyland is a two-hour
drive. Like Firenze a Milano?”
“That far?” He gripped his passport tight, like it might float
away.
“How was
your flight?”
“Abbastanza
bene.” He shrugged.
I initially interpreted
the ensuing silence as jet-lag, but he was merely pouting.
Thirty-five
minutes later, we pulled into my mother’s driveway. He clapped his hands together and inquired, “Where are the movie stars?”
I guffawed. Movie stars!
Sure, Tom Cruise is my next-door neighbor.
“Julia, are you
friends with them?” His hopeful expression indicated he was serious.
I stopped
laughing abruptly. I hadn’t meant to
ridicule his childlike wonder at plastic sunshine and manufactured dreams.
“Marco, I
don’t know any movie stars,” I offered gently.
I considered adding But maybe we’ll see some tomorrow. I suddenly wished I had a “Map to the Stars’
Homes” in my glove compartment to give to him.
“How do you
know him again?” my mother had asked me after I had informed her of his trip dates. “You never mentioned him before.”
“Mom, I told
you: I met him in Napoli. He’s a friend of Silvia’s.”
Europeans
took things so literally: Yes, come stay
with us, any time! An invitation like
this in Italy was akin to an offer to move in with someone. For Americans, it meant Nice to meet you, I
am only being polite, please never call me.
Disneyland
didn’t make Marco happy. He was
convinced the ticket girl overcharged him because he was a foreigner. He accused people of cutting in front of him in
line. His anger came in unexpected pricks,
like mosquito bites.
As the sky
turned inky and we walked to the parking lot, I fantasized about putting him
back on a plane. He surprised me:
“And now you drive me to New York?”
“And now you drive me to New York?”
***********
trifecta writing challenge: 333 words about a house-guest
