between them by d. m. blake
TRANSCRIPT
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Diedr Blake/[email protected]/ CW 356
Between Them
The conversation had started long before the so litary lamp-post began to cast the familiar
amber light, prompting both shadows and people to emerge from darker and less playful places.
The appeal of tossing the cigarette on the ground had been lost upon arrival at the bus stop,
which seemed to serve as a prototype for all the other bus stops around the Trastevere Train
Station. This one, therefore, was exemplary in its collection of high caliber garbage contributed
by understanding passersby, prolific passengers-in-waiting, and the decorative homeless (who at
night called its plastic and metal shelter home. ) What then would have been the point of
adding to the mishmash of half-charred, lipstick-stained, and shoe-trodden cigarettes? No, there
was no artistry in it, no point-much like the conversation, which Antonio Vitale thought would
never end.
The ride from Largo Argentina on the number 8 tram, heading towards Casaletto , had
involved more than enough conversat ion for him. At that time of day, when everyone was either
heading home from work or happily preparing to find another Roman adventure, the tram had
been crammed with people and the resulting steam only increased the odor of the many men
who, even after a decade into the new millennium, still refused to wear deodorant; a fact of
which Antonio had sincerely been ashamed. He had thought it lucky to have gotten the two
single seats facing each other near the rear exit. He had thought it equally lucky that, in the
general din, their conversation (a mix of beautifully broken Italian and German) could not have
been eas ily overheard or understood. Antonio had spent the time listening. At least, that is how
he wanted to appear to her and others. In reality he had occupied his time by staring out the
window while half-listening to the sound of her voice and nodding at her at the correct intervals
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as well as making the appropriate Mmmhmm sounds he knew she always expected. It was
just before the tram began crossing the Ponte Garibaldi , spanning the Tiber , that Antonio had
told her that he needed to watch to see if they had arrived at the Trastevere Train Station stop. It
was an excuse, which he had understood to be obligatory and she had accepted to be untrue. It
was their relationship dance, and both knew and anticipated each others steps. H e was simply
doing as he always did, as was she . She had started talking and so Antonio had had to stop
fac ing her. Rote steps learned at the start of their re lat ionship.
Antonio had not wanted to see her eyes, light and sad. It had been her eyes after all that
had first drawn him in and fixed him in his current place. He had understood that looking at her
would have only served the purpose of giving her more strength to continue her speech. That
had been the second thing that had drawn him in: her voice, deep and sophisticated. Throughout
their relationship he had felt more often than not like a schoolboy when speaking with her,
especially the given ten-year difference between their ages. It had not helped either that their
cultural attitudes had been so vastly different. The emotions that he knew how to express
openly and physically, she had barely tolerated and had constantly reprimanded him for touching
her with Was machst du da?! Non toccarmi in pubblico ! Each time it had left him feeling
isolated and insecure, which were the only two feelings he still had had no interest in sharing
with her. Instead he had grown quieter over time and had pulled away from her, which resulted
in scheduled discussion times like the conversation today.
Hai capito, meine Liebe ? The words had snuck up on him much like the significant
deep right turn of the tram as it entered the Trastevere stop. Ja, sicher, amata mia. She had
taken his left hand as they had gotten off, and she had pulled him closer to her as they had made
their way through the crowd of people, who had also disembarked and had been hurriedly
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crossing Viale di Trastevere and heading towards the station. She had always done this.
Antonio had always smiled her when she did. Today, however, he hadn t smile d or perhaps
couldn t. Things had become too different between them, cold and isolating. Antonio glanced at
her, concentrating his gaze briefly on her still moving lips, and wondered if she understood how
one-sided everything had become between them probably not. She continued to talk even
while they had been bombarded by the three quite plump, middle-aged, half-naked drunks asking
for spare change, women who she had always looked at with sympathy but to whom she had
never given a cent.
She had paused only momentarily to pay attention to some dark-haired and dark-skinned
children-this is how she preferred to describe them, feeling it more polite than assuming them to
be gypsies-who had been drinking from and playing with the old, rusted and grimy- looking
standing water fountain (as well as the bits of trash collected around it) on the corner by the
entrance of the Piazza Flavio Biondo . A spray of water had made her smile. Children had
always made her smile, children and small animals.
It was a dangerous intersection to cross, going from the numerous tram lines of Viale di
Trastevere to Via degli Orti di Cesare with its decrepit and curving wall that hid the oncoming
vehicles from the forever busy Via Portuense, a road leading to the popular local and tourist
attraction of the Sunday Porta Portese flea market -Everything about this part of Trastevere had
felt dangerous to her. Katrina Brasch had had more than enough of walking alone in the evening
and late at night in an effort to see him. Even walking with him this evening hadnt felt
particularly safe, but that may not have had anything to do with the scenery, she had conceded.
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It wasnt that she couldnt see the old charm of Trasteveres buildings, each having taken
a dirtier and more worn-out version of a rainbow color. It wasnt that she had not enjoyed
learning the Roman dialect via conversations in high fidelity being held through the windows by
neighbors in buildings, each on the other side of the courtyard of the apartment complex. She
hadnt minded the awkward and leering stares in response to her waist-length light white blonde
hair, silvery grey eyes, and suntan-resistant pale skin. Simply, it had been that she needed
cleanliness and order. After all, she was German and believed in, at least, in her life that
Ordnung mu immer sein. And Katrina had hoped that she could bring some order to his life.
The bus stops nefarious scent, composed of cooking meat, fresh and stale cigarette
smoke, old and new alcohol, animal (and potentially human) fecal matter, and undoubtedly urine
from every possible source, had been a contaminating component of every one of their
conversations. He had always insisted, however, that they talk while waiting for the bus that
would take her home even though his apartment was a short walk from the stop. It had been like
this for some time now. Looking at him, she wondered when he stopped allowing, or perhaps
was it wanting , her to visit him. She could feel the heaviness of the large black leather
messenger bag that she always carried, digging into her left shoulder. She needed to go home
and work. She wanted things to change in the conversation, which had been consistently one-
sided.
Katrina had been attracted to the contrast between them: his darkness to her light. It
was the way he had smiled at her that first day on Via Bocca di Leone , openly and warmly. She
had felt safe to let down her guard. She had been warned about Italian men by both Italian
women and non-Italian women. It was the fact that he had never approached her that appealed
to her, that he had never tried to break her routine as she made her way through the many tourists
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in search of The Spanish Steps, or the fashionistas who had somehow veered off the
cobblestoned path to the luxury-lined Via dei Condotti . She hated being jostled by the crowds,
having to clutch her bag too tightly against her body, being pointed at or thinking that it was
happening, giving directions in broken Italian and English, meeting other Germans, and being a
part of what seemed to her an insane mass of chaotic energy. It had been her attempt at getting
away from the crowds that had brought her to that somewhat quieter and narrower street where
he stood silently and unmoving in the heat of the midday.
She hadnt been able to explain to her friends and she hadnt brought herself to tell her
family about their relati onship. After all, what could she say when she didnt understand it
herself? In response to the relationship, her friends had shared comments and stories about
Italian men from the South, none of which she cared to hear but had to endure. More horrifying
had been the discussion on older women and younger men, and how chic they thought she had
become. She hadnt wanted to think about all of that today. She hadnt wanted to think about
any of the past things. She had just wanted him to speak with her. Che stai pensando adesso,
Liebe?
She watched him as he purposefully flicked the cigarette butt he had been holding
towards the road as a black BMW with tinted windows drove by. She watched him as he leaned
against the bus shelter and removed another cigarette from the pack, put to his lips, and lit it.
She heard him as he replied, Ja. Oggi ho deciso di smettere di fumare. Bist du glcklich
adesso? She heard the ambulance sirens as it rushed by, the angry drivers yelling because they
had to stop to make way, the terrified hiss of a cat that was somewhere close to the top of the
stairway that led from the station, the sizzle of tobacco as it burned with each inhale, and her
own silence.
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who was sleeping peacefully in her stroller. She wondered then why she felt something close to
nothing in response.