Chapter One
On a chilly sunny December afternoon, Darcy Arlen slipped down Via della
Conciliazione, away from the Hotel Abitazione, and slid her hands into her
coat pockets. Across the river, she turned south and settled into a quick,
steady walk. The headiness of her solitude – stolen while her roommate,
Rhonda, was in the shower and the tour guide, Mrs. Abignale, napped – carried
her onward into the city. The group was leaving soon for another
of the great ruins, the Baths of Caracalla, but Darcy was already tired of
ruins and museums and history, and this was only the second city of the
seven they were to visit on this month-and-a-half-long tour, a combined birthday and
finally-you-graduated-from-high-school-and-only-six-months-late gift from
her parents. She knew now she should have expected this.
At first she stayed close to the river so as not to come too near the
monuments and ruins in the center of the old city. The embankments of the
Tiber curved west and then east again, bringing her close to the Circus
Maximus, but once past that, she cut into the city, onto streets she’d
never seen. She loved just being in this place, breathing this ancient
air.
For a long time she followed the wide Via Ostiense, past the monolithic
Cathedral of Saint Paul, until she finally came into a part of the city
that was not for tourists: the real city, office towers and high terraced
apartment buildings, where real people, Italians, worked and shopped and
didn’t have to pretend to like speaking English.
She rested on a bench in a small corner park where two young children
squatted on the hard-packed dirt, pitching seeds to the pigeons clustered
about them. An older woman, their grandmother she guessed, sat nearby. It
felt good to sit and breathe. It felt good to be here alone. The
titillation of her rebellion, her sneaking off, the tingling it brought to
the soles of her feet and her fingers had of course worn away by now, but
not the self-satisfaction. She knew it was really out of any proportion to
the mildness of the act. It wasn’t as if she’d stood up to anyone and said
something, as if she’d told Mrs. Abignale, the tour director, to get
stuffed because she was almost worse than Darcy’s mother, and that was
really saying something. It wasn’t as if she’d said anything to anyone.
Still, sitting there with all these Italians who weren’t even looking at
her, as if she were just another part of this world, a regular person, she
felt, well, contented. And tired. And a little chilly now.
She bought some sticky dates from a street vendor and wandered north
again. Later, near the Ostia Station, she gave most of them to a filthy
woman begging with her filthier child. She came upon the Vialle Marco Polo
and, thinking it ran vaguely in the direction of the hotel, followed it.
Now the afternoon was growing thin, the light coming from lower in the
sky, and the streets had fallen into shadow.
Her legs ached and her lips stuck to her teeth. She felt a sheen, a
membrane of perspiration, coating all of her body. It was a long way back.
She imagined having a quiet dinner somewhere, away from the group, maybe
with Rhonda if she wasn’t sulking too hard at Darcy’s having left without
her, and then settling into the deep bed and reading herself to sleep. In
the morning, early, they would leave for Florence. She passed through a
square with a pyramid in it, and the Vialle Marco Polo became the Via
Marmorata. She pulled her coat around her and shivered, but ahead now she
could see the river. It cheered her. She’d cross it, she decided, see how
she felt, and maybe then find a taxi.
On the bridge, which was nearly empty of pedestrians, a young man leaned
over the stone parapet, looking into the water. He wore stained work
boots, ripped jeans, and a Carhartt work jacket. As she passed him, he
glanced at her. Her momentum carried her past even as she drew a sharp
breath when the shock of incongruous recognition made her dizzy. From
where did she know him? Which life? Which world?
She’d noticed before, when she had traveled to new or foreign places with
her parents, that sometimes a face made her look again, startled her with
its familiarity. It was never anyone she knew, of course, and she often
couldn’t even name who she once knew that the face resembled. It was just
the mind playing tricks with the broad familiarity that one pocket of
humanity bore to another. Perhaps that was this, she thought. It must be.
But she stopped in the middle of the bridge over the Tiber on that clear
late December afternoon and told herself that this time she was almost
certain.
She walked back and stood beside him so that the sleeve of her coat
brushed his. He continued to stare down, as if he were watching something
particular. She peered over.
"It’s just that it’s mesmerizing," he said in perfect American.
"Every bit of it," she answered.
He turned to look at her. He had very dark eyes and nearly blond hair that
fell across his forehead.
"I’m sorry," she said. "But you look familiar."
He nodded. "I get that."
"No. I know you. I’m sure of it."
He looked back at the water. He said, "You don’t know me."
"I think we went to the same high school."
"Did we?"
"Ulysses County, Ohio. Indian Bend?"
He turned around and leaned back against the parapet now, his elbows
cocked behind him, and looked across the bridge and down the river toward
the failing sun. He smiled. He was several years ahead of her if he was
really who she was thinking of, a senior, class of ’84, when she started
her freshman year. She’d never spoken to him. He’d be twenty-two or three
now, but he looked as if he’d been traveling for a long time. The solitude
and the dust of the miles had worn him. It was no longer the face of a
cute teenage boy-man. It had become, she thought, one of the most
startling faces she’d ever seen.
"Old Indian Bend High. There’s a place you don’t go around thinking
about."
"I don’t remember your name," she confessed. "I mean – we didn’t know
each other. I just remember – I’m Darcy."
"Will," he said. "Call me Will."
It didn’t sound like the name of the boy she remembered.
Still without looking at her, he said, "It turns out that wherever you go
in the world, of all the Americans you meet, half will be from Ohio. It’s
some kind of weird natural law."
"Is that true?"
He looked at her then, and she felt something shift and give way. Perhaps,
it occurred to her, this was what she’d been waiting for.
"I don’t know," he answered. "Do you believe it?"
"I don’t know," she said. "I’m just really thirsty."
Some time later, after they’d eaten, they walked in the deep dusk north
along the river.
"Where do you stay?" she asked him.
"At the Olympic Village."
"Ha-ha."
"They were here in ’60."
"I knew that."
"And now one of the dorms is a hostel."
"Really?"
"It even has a bar. Just beer and wine, but what the hey."
She said she’d never heard of a hostel with a bar, but then she’d never
actually stayed in one.
"Best party in Rome. You should come up. Get off the tour for a while.
It’s not very far from here."
"We leave in the morning."
"Then come tonight. I can at least buy you a couple beers."
"That sounds sooo good. But they – Mrs. Abignale got us all tickets to
the opera. Le Nozze di Figaro."
"Oh, that one."
She laughed. "I’d rather come with you," she said. "I’d love to. A real
birthday party."
"So come."
On Via della Conciliazione the traffic was dense and close, and the
exhaust fumes did not smell like the exhaust fumes in other places. The
crowds parted and rushed around them, and the air was so clear, the world
so sharp, that she felt for a moment she could see her future in it.
Then the wine and the food and the fatigue swirled together. She tottered
and gripped his arms. He put his hands on her sides to steady her, and
when she rested her head against his shoulder, she could smell him, the
mingled odors of sweat and wine and the faint remnants of something she
could not identify, some strange boy scent. She could feel his wrists
pressing against the lateral swell of her breasts.
She raised her face suddenly then and kissed him. When they kissed again,
she put her arms around his neck and held on as if it meant something. She
felt as if she were falling, with all the attendant dangers and fears, but
she did not care. This was life. This was Europe. Not some dried-out
corpse she was forced to pick over, but a real warmth. Life.
"Forget it," she said so close to his ear that she could feel her breath
against him.
"You’re not coming?"
"No. I mean the opera. Forget that."
"Really?"
"Why not?"
He said, "Is it really your birthday?"
"Nineteen."
"Ancient."
"Me and Rome."
"You really want to come? It’s not that far."
"I do. I should check in, though."
He looked disappointed now – as if this were her dodge, as if he were
certain that once she got back into her warm room or the clutches of Mrs.
Abignale, she would not come out again.
"I just -" She turned and pointed at the hotel. "I’d like to get cleaned
up. Change and stuff."
"Sure," he said.
"I’d have to tell them, you know -"
"Right. Okay. Well -"
"Later, then?"
"Whatever. The invitation’s open. I’ll be there. Cab’ll know where it is."
"You don’t think I’m coming, do you?"
"No."
He almost looked relieved.
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"We’ll just see."
"I guess we will."
"Bye then. For now."
He smiled. She could feel him watching her run toward the soft, pretty
light that spilled out between the heavy draperies of the lobby of the
Hotel Abitazione.
Mrs. Abignale, who was five-two and had an absurdly wide mouth and hair
almost exactly the color of Mercurochrome, was by the front desk when
Darcy went in. The woman had obviously been waiting there for her for some
time and was as red in the face from perturbation as Darcy was from the
eating and drinking and walking and kissing she’d done.
Mrs. Abignale almost jumped in the air. "Darcy," she said. "You just have
time. They’re still serving dinner …"
"I already ate," Darcy informed her.
Mrs. Abignale stopped for a full second, her great mouth dangling open,
then recovered and said, "You have to get ready. We need to be on the bus
in an hour. One hour." The opera. Just the thought of it made Darcy cramp.
As she walked past, Mrs. Abignale added, "Please don’t do this again."
"Do what?"
"It’s my responsibility to keep track of everyone, and if you all decide
to go wandering away …"
"All?"
"You."
Darcy said, "But I’m not your responsibility." She wasn’t arguing, really.
She didn’t mean it to sound argumentative – just factual.
"You certainly are."
"I certainly …" Darcy felt her face grow even redder.
"Dear, no one’s saying you can’t go for a walk. But you’re part of a
group, and you just need to let me know where you are and when you’ll be
back. Basic courtesy."
"Miss?" It was the clerk behind the counter. He held a folded sheet of
paper.
"Oh, yes, you got a call," said Mrs. Abignale as Darcy went over. "Your
parents." When Darcy gave her a look of "How do you know that?" she
hurried on. "I spoke with them. Or, rather, they asked to speak with me.
They were concerned when no one knew where you were."
"And how are the old folks?"
"Fine, I take it. Darcy … they said they called to wish you a happy
birthday. Why didn’t you say anything? I could -"
"I didn’t want to say anything. I just wanted to go for a walk."
"Well," Mrs. Abignale said, "all right then. Let’s just hurry on."
In the room it was Rhonda’s turn to bitch, but she just flounced at first,
not speaking at all. She huffed and hummed and jammed some weird cookies
into her mouth. If the girl would just limit it to meals, Darcy had
thought when they first started rooming together, she’d drop fifty pounds
in a month. Finally, when Rhonda was suitably fortified, she said, "So.
Have fun?"
"I just went for a walk, Rhonda."
"For five hours?"
"And I had dinner."
"Alone?"
Darcy looked at her. "What’d you do?"
"Nothing. We went to these stupid caves, then just came back here. I think
Abignale needed a nap."
"Why didn’t you go out then?"
"I did. I went biscuit shopping."
Darcy had just gotten out of the shower and was finishing toweling off
before the mirror when the phone rang.
Rhonda said, "You know who that is. They’ve been calling all stupid
afternoon."
Darcy wrapped a towel around her hair and answered on the fourth ring.
"Hi, Mommy. Daddy." Daddy wouldn’t say much, but she knew he was there on
the extension. She then held the phone a good foot away from her ear, at
which distance her mother’s voice, a high, nasally trumpet of a thing, was
still easily audible, or at least certain of the more heavily stressed
words were.
"… were you?" Darcy heard.
She brought the phone to her mouth to speak. "I had a date. And I’m going
out again. How about that? Pretty amazing, huh? And on my birthday."
Phone away. "… date?"
Phone in. "Someone I went to high school with."
"… possible?"
"We just happened to run into each other and had dinner. He’s asked me out
tonight…. Yeah, he’s on a tour, too. A hotel not far from this one."
"… ticket … opera?"
"Well, I’m sure they can carry it off without me there."
"… paying for this … hate Americans …"
"Yes, I know. I’m careful."
"… responsibility …"
"I can’t hear you very well, Mommy. I’m meeting him at his hotel. I should
really go. Thanks for calling!"
She set the phone down and finished drying her hair. Even with the rubbing
of the towel she could hear the voice blaring on for at least a full
minute before it was finally silenced.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Matala
by Craig Holden
Copyright © 2007 by Craig Holden.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Simon & Schuster
Copyright © 2007
Craig Holden
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7432-7499-9
