GETTING TO CAMILLE
by
Joseph K. Novara (copyright 1997 All Rights Reserved)
Finally - my turn.
"Spaghetti al radicchio e un'insalata mista."
"Va bene," Aldo nods.
He knows us, what we usually order, what we like. I
know what I like. I like Camille. Couldn't wait to finish family
affairs in London. To get back to Rome. To her. To pick up where
we left off. I'm dead tired. But first we have to get through
this dinner with her American tourist friends.
Camille teases her fingers under my palm and strokes
with her middle finger - I miss you too - on her way to
interlocking hands in an arm wrestling grip that ends in a draw
at her lips. Not one to hide her affection under the table, my
Camille. Everything above board in plain view.
My she's beautiful. You wouldn't know she's American.
She looks so patrician- high forehead, dark hair and fair,
china-cup skin. I could get real serious about her. My Roman
aristocrat.
"So this is your first time back, in what...25 years,
Frank," Camille asks her guest?
The tourist in his teal and blue, back-packing jacket,
early fifties, trim, nods, glancing at his wife and daughter,
"Yeah - we're way overdue. I guess I wanted to share
the places I've been talking about all these years, to convince
them - me too for that matter - that it was all real..."
Or maybe Camille is a blushing medieval princess in
that wine colored velvet dress she loves to button right up to
her throat. But then she stands up and her gown turns into a
mini-skirt, and her elegant legs unfold and her fingers drag
along the back of my neck. I want to get out of here. With her.
"...so there we were in St. Peter's," Frank is saying,
"and I pointed out the place where I was ordained."
"I was there. I remember that," Camille says, "I was
six - no seven."
After a moment she addresses the fourteen year old
daughter with the large brown eyes,
"So what did you think of all that, Lucia7"
But the girl has just bitten into a bread stick and
can only point at her mouth as she hurriedly chews.
Frank pats her hand and speaks for her, "She asked me,
'Why did you want to become a priest dad?'"
"Good question," Camille remarks, "I'd be interested
in your answer. Seems like you and your classmates were forever
agonizing over that."
"Well, back then, it was so hard to realize...."
Boring. Boring. Look at his wife, she can't stand it
either. How many times has she listened to him stir this hash?
Just stuff it, why don't you? Nobody cares.
"Well I was glad you were there," Camille purrs as she
untangles her fingers from mine and smiles at Frank, "All you
guys meant a lot to me. I had a whole seminary full of uncles to
take me places and do fun things."
Then she gets a look on her face that I have never
seen before. She's a child biting into a favorite treat. Her
eyes roll sideways and up a bit. Her lips part,
"Remember that time you guys did a Chinese fire drill
right in the middle of Piazza Venezia?"
Frank laughs,
"And you sat in the middle of the back seat with your
hands folded on your lap and said, 'I don't think that was very
funny'."
"Well," Camille demurs, "I was very proper in those
days."
"I can still see that child in you."
Camille glows, pleased to be discovered.
Hey you old fart, leave off with your bloody memories
of my Camille. She isn't a little girl. Not my Camille. Mind
your own child.
Oh no, here come the musicians. He's not going to
request a song is he? Santa Lucia for his daughter Lucia. Spare
us. Poor girl looks mortified. Let me get Aldo over here with
the bill and maybe we can get out of here.
"No, no, niente cafe."
"Per me si," Camille says, "e quatro tiramisu," she
turns to her guests,"you'll want to try this dessert. It's new
in Rome. Every trattoria has it's own version. It literally
means, 'pick me up'. You'll love it."
Will this never end? Now he's got Camille talking
about her job. Yes, yes we know all that.
"So I have to catalogue and arrange the thousands of
documents that have been stored in the archives over the
centuries. It's so frustrating sometimes..."
You're frustrated? I want you and I don't want to be
sharing you with all these people. You and me. My Camille.
Finally we are outside, saying good-byes.
Yes, yes, goodbye. Good riddance. Now, what is the
duffer on about?
"You should consider yourself lucky," he's speaking to
me.
"Yes? How so?"
"You don't have to be afraid of growing older."
"Umm?"
"A man who marries an archivist will always be
cherished as he ages."
"Nice thought," I answer politely.
Everyone laughs.
Older, indeed.
Finally they're gone and we're walking back to her
flat off Piazza Farnese. We pause under a street light. She
caresses my hand and smiles invitingly but all I can see is a
little girl in her eyes and an old woman in the creases around
them. I stare for a long moment.
"Let's stop for a coffee, shall we," I suggest.