Alberti

The guidebooks call it a faded jewel, worth the little extra money (in its category) for the splendidly detailed, if now slightly shabby, ambiance. The third-floor two star pensione at Palazzo Alberti is owned by two ancient women and a man who seems to have been at one time, and perhaps still is, one of the women’s husband, or, maybe, they are all cousins. Once, they must all have been merely related, each with a life of their own; now, they seem to be literally inseparable, a single soft chatting pile of beige tweed, grey cashmere and comfortable calfskin shoes arrayed across three delicately carved armchairs lined up behind the flat walnut desk in the lobby. As far as I can tell they never get up, but simply disappear late in the afternoon to reappear early the next morning, each with a small cup of tisane from which they never drink.

I say hello and bow to the trio of good luck charms in their chairs as I pass down the hall, through the dark salon with its vague painted ceiling and step into the long, bright breakfast room. Apricot-colored walls and tablecloths are framed in the golden oak of the paneling, shutters and gleaming parquet floor. Opposite the double glass doors four enormous deep-set windows like balconied opera-house boxes peer down into the partially enclosed courtyard, a tentative orchestra with only a few stone benches; a string of chestnut trees draped in crimson and topaz autumn leaves forms the proscenium and curtain of this makeshift theater. An elegant middle-aged woman stands gazing out the window in the far end of the room, hands clasped together under the tip of her chin; cold morning light flickers in sharp colorless notes off the slim gold bracelets jumbled on one wrist and the well-tended cataract of silver-streaked hair hiding her face. She does not notice my entrance.

Trying to preserve the silence in the room, I tiptoe over to a small table under the nearest window. Before I sit down a large uniformed waitress appears, more sentry than serveuse, pointing to a different table. I look around, there is no one but we three-- surely, my gesture inquires, I can sit by the window? Her strong, crisp voice fits the room perfectly, like another chandelier, illuminating the quiet without disturbance. --Non; prego, signor. It is not a request. She points again to the table along the wall, smoothing her pale green linen apron with the back of her other hand. As if I cannot be trusted, and here she is correct, she walks to the table and waits-- glancing at the floor, the meter running-- until I relent and follow. As I sit down feeling the injustice of my circumstance and the probability that all Americans must feel that way any time the slightest freedom is curtailed, I notice a small dark handbag hanging from a chair at the neighboring table.

On her way to the kitchen for coffee and rolls, the waitress pauses, whispering something to the woman at the window, who turns and thanks her, Maria, by name. Gliding to her table, the one next to mine, the woman inclines her head to one side: --Bonjour, monsieur. --Bonjour, madame. -- Ah, you speak English; she cracks the spine of the napkin into her lap and snaps her head the other way, ready to spar. --Where are you from? I am from… Chile, my name is Clarice. I tell her my name and that I am from New York, which is accurate, for now.

The extent to which Clarice is rapidly calculating her moves and making allowances for much more than just my age shows only in the piercing sparkle of her eyes but does not alter her expression of her mouth, which is hard and beautiful; she is used to higher stakes and more refined circumstance. Smiling, she enunciates with razor clarity a long sentence in Italian that I cannot possibly comprehend, no matter how slowly she might speak. -- Sorry, I don’t speak Italian. -- Surely, some? Of course, we could just practice simple phrases? Her language skills are so refined that she can speak in English but use the Romance syntax to confirm her rights as the Lady of the house and imply that I am witholding something I posess. -- I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t know Italian at all. There is really so little I do know except that Clarice is looking more familiar and more American by the minute; she is accustomed to getting her way and I want to get away.

Clarice begins a sentence in French, with which she needs no practice, and I must again suggest that, if she wishes to speak with me, it must be-- je suis desolé, madame-- in English; my simple and fragmentary French will wear out long before the first cup of coffee is finished. I am as humiliated by this as is she. As if to the empty cup in her hand: --Ah, yes, American. But her voice no longer carries the electric shocks of challenge and disapproval by which she hoped to snap me to obedience, if not attention. She softens and an almost imperceptible sigh lingers in the curve of her lower lip. I wonder what on earth she is doing in this place.

To me she is already suspect because of the reference to Chile- I don’t know the details or what to think, and it will be years before I understand how the dictator she approves was first installed. For now, no matter what we each may think or want, Clarice and I are the only people in this room, about to break bread together. For what I suspect might be very different reasons, or not, we both relent: she will ask for less and I will offer more, each in our own way.

--As a girl, I would come here with my sister and mother, to buy clothes. I am even staying in the same room. Then, Maria’s mother oversaw the Dining Room and, sometimes, Maria and I would wander in the little garden there below while the grown-ups had tea and drinks; my sister was always ill and rarely left our room. My sister is still ill, and living in Rome where I must now go, too.