Tracy Kelleher – Invitation to Italian (страница 11)

“That’s okay. I’m here under duress. If I really need to make any notes, I’ll enter them into my phone.” She waggled her iPhone in its black case, in keeping with her black crinkly jacket, black tank top and black pants.

The class door started to open, then stopped.

“At last, our teacher,” Julie whispered without much enthusiasm. “I gather from all the conversation that they all lo-ove her. Gabriella this. Gabriella that. They even know that she went back to see her family in Modena over the summer.”

The door opened wide.

“Unless our teacher’s had a sex change operation, I don’t think that’s Gabriella,” Julie observed. “On the other hand, if it is, it could really liven up the discussion.” She looked over at Zora, who seemed for all the world like she’d just seen a ghost.

The “regulars” started chattering away again, and Julie figured it was a false alarm. Just a late student. He looked vaguely familiar, like someone she’d seen at the dry cleaners or the supermarket—not that she had the chance to frequent the supermarket all that much.

So she stared at him, not quite placing the face and certainly not knowing the name. He was middle-aged, thin, like someone who kept himself in shape. His head was shaved, and an outline of stubble showed his red hair was starting to recede. His face was lined, not so much from laughter as from too much time in the sun, too many worries or too dissolute a lifestyle. Still, he looked pretty good for a middle-aged guy, and in his expensive leather bomber jacket—Julie pegged it for Façonnable—and faded designer jeans, he clearly had more than a passing acquaintance with high-end boutiques.

She turned to say something under her breath to Zora, but Katarina’s mother continued to appear as if she’d gone into anaphylactic shock. “Zora?” she asked, concerned.

“Zora?” Mr. Bomber Jacket asked a beat later. He stopped in the aisle and stared at Zora.

“Paul?” Zora shook her head. “I never expected to see you here.”

“I could say the same,” he said, still standing.

For an awkward moment the two just studied each other. The only movement was a whole lot of rapid blinking. Finally, Julie spoke up. “There’s a free seat over there if you want it.” She pointed to the empty desk next to Zora.

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” He swallowed and slipped into the vacant seat.

Julie stared at Zora, and when she finally looked up from straightening out her index cards and uncapping her pen, Zora acknowledged Julie’s wide-eyed inquiring expression.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you didn’t know each other. Julie Antonelli, Paul Bedecker. Paul and I went to Grantham High School together.” She held up a hand in his direction.

Paul waved a discreet hello. “That’s right. Zora and I also went to Cornell together for a while.”

“Before I transferred to Rutgers after my freshman year,” she said, setting the record straight.

Another tense beat of silence followed.

“If you’re Paul Bedecker, is that like Bedecker’s Garden Center?” Julie asked, narrowing her eyes as she dredged up distant memories. “My dad always bought his tomato plants there, and I think you used to help out at the nursery a long time ago.”

“That’s right. I remember you now. Tall, skinny kid. Your father used to call you Giuli—”

The door opened with a start, catching Paul mid-word.

“Buona sera, tutti. Scusatemi per essere in ritardo. Sono il vostro supplente.”

There was a barely stifled collective groan from the in-crowd at the news. A substitute teacher!

Julie slumped as low as possible in her chair and covered her face with her hand.

It was Sebastiano Fonterra.

CHAPTER EIGHT

AT THE SOUND OF the muffled groans, Sebastiano doubted yet again the wisdom of his agreeing to teach the class. Perhaps agreeing was not really the appropriate word. Railroaded. Yes, railroaded. He liked the sound of that. The image was almost—not quite—as painful as what he was experiencing now.

One thing was for sure. Iris Phox owed him big-time.

“Hello, everyone,” he started again and reintroduced himself, this time in English, hoping against hope that this language would bring him a better response. “I’m Sebastiano Fonterra, and I will be substituting for Gabriella. I know you all were expecting to have her as your teacher, but unfortunately at the last minute she had to return to Italy because her father needed to have emergency heart surgery.”

Immediately there were gasps.

“Is he all right?” “Do you have an address?” “Will she be checking her email?” “When will she be able to return?” “Soon?”

Not soon enough, Sebastiano thought. He forced a smile. “I don’t have all the details, and I don’t personally know Gabriella except through email. I’m just jumping in at the last minute as a favor to the Adult School, and I presume she will be able to come back in a matter of weeks.”

This last remark elicited an audible sigh.

“In the meantime, she explained the scope of the class, and how she normally emails around an article from the Corriere della Sera or another Italian newspaper, and then uses that as a starting point for discussion. She was kind enough to suggest an article for the first class, which I photocopied and brought with me.” He slid his briefcase on top of the teacher’s desk and unbuckled it.

He’d come directly from the office, having eaten half a plastic-wrapped turkey sandwich from the cafeteria at his desk. He couldn’t make it through the second half. He still wore a suit and tie, which he now realized was much too formal. The few men seated in the front seemed to favor khaki pants and sweaters. In the back? He couldn’t be sure but he thought he caught sight of Paul or at least his leather jacket.

He lifted the lid of his briefcase and fished out the material. “So, my thought was that I would pass around a pad and pen. You can sign your names and give me your email addresses.” He leaned forward and passed them to the woman in the front row. “I also have the handouts, and I thought we could pass those around at the same time.” Sebastiano circled the desk and gave the sheets to another woman.

“Grazie,” she said, thanking him, with a confident American accent. She had a gravelly voice.

“And lastly, I have here a class list that I’ll read off, so I can see who’s here and also put some names to faces. But since you all are so busy writing, why don’t I first tell you a little about myself? In italiano addesso?” he asked, switching to Italian.

He undid the button of his gray suit jacket and swung one leg over the desk, propping himself up on the corner. “Mi chiamo Sebastiano Fonterra. Sono medico ed administratore dell’ospedale.” Sebastiano explained he was a doctor and hospital administrator.

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