then. Do you do catering?”
Sr. Riggio seemed uncertain how to answer. “Well, we haven’t yet,” he said. “But if you wanted something special, I am sure that…”
“I am here looking for to buy land on which to build a palazzo ,” Vicky said, ignoring the three stunned faces gaping at her, and using the thickest Anna Magnani Italian movie accent she could muster, without working her dentures loose. “There will be many parties; people from the embassies in Washington and New York to come. They must have only the best, capisce ?”
“Oh, si ,” said Sr. Riggio . “I capisce very well. Yes. Yes, indeed.” He was nodding with vigorous enthusiasm, his black tie bobbing with each word, like a novice bat preparing for takeoff.
“ Bene ! ” said Vicky. “Then bring us the best you have to offer, so we may judge for ourselves.”
“Yes, ma’am… er , pardone , Contessa .” He backed away from the table with a series of bows worthy of a Japanese sumo wrestler, and then rushed toward the kitchen.
Vicky’s companions sat, unmoving, like three mannequins propped at the table, staring at her with varying degrees of disbelief. Vicky held her back straight, looking very much a regal matriarch, her smile primly innocent. She leaned slightly over the table, glancing from one to the other, then rasped, “Ain’t this groovy ?” She burst into giggles, keeping the sound sedately within the confines of the table.
Burton roared, his laughter infecting everyone in the party. There arose from the circle, tumultuous billows of hilarity. “You’re incredible!” Burton said when he was once again able to speak. “No wonder poor Sarah believed you. You went through that whole performance without cracking a smile. And where on earth did you dig up a name like La Contessa dei Strioni ? Do you know what it means?”
Vicky’s lips pursed into a sly smile. “Yes, I do. Do any of you?” Roger and Doris shook their heads, while Burton nodded, his grin tipping his white goatee toward his chest. “ Strioni , in Italian, means ‘actors,’ or ‘comedians,’” Vicky said. She folded her hands beneath her chin and batted her eyelashes, a silent-screen star’s version of coyness. “So I told Sr. Riggio right off that this was a joke. It’s not my fault that a man with a name like his doesn’t speak Italian, is it?” She looked at Doris, who was still staring at her with a look of awed disbelief. “Well, is it?” she asked her.
Doris shook her head, slowly, from side to side, as if awakening from hypnosis. “No,” she blurted. “I guess it isn’t. I’m still a bit dazed, not having seen you in action before. Why do you do it?”
Vicky was taken aback by the bluntness of the question, surprised at being placed in a position of having to answer truthfully, which she would not do, but not wanting to insult her friends by lying. “I have my reasons,” she said, looking thoughtful for a moment. Then she shrugged. “Why not? If a real contessa came in here, she’d get the royal treatment, wouldn’t she? And she wouldn’t pay a cent more than anyone else—maybe less. So, why shouldn’t we get exactly the same treatment? Americans are so impressed by titles, for some reason. But in Italy , where there are so many people with titles they could start their own country if they could afford to, no one pays any attention to them.”
Sr. Riggio rushed up to the table, followed by the sommelier. “Our finest wine,” he announced. “Compliments of the management.” He stood back to watch as the bottle was uncorked with a pop and a taste poured into Vicky’s waiting stemware.
As Vicky lifted her glass to take her first sip, she smiled at Burton , then at Doris , then at Roger. Without a word, her raised eyebrow inquired, Need I say more?
Chapter 6
As the craft show drew near, Vicky grew anxious. The winners, she learned, would receive not only a ribbon but would have their entries shown at the county fair
Sr. Riggio seemed uncertain how to answer. “Well, we haven’t yet,” he said. “But if you wanted something special, I am sure that…”
“I am here looking for to buy land on which to build a palazzo ,” Vicky said, ignoring the three stunned faces gaping at her, and using the thickest Anna Magnani Italian movie accent she could muster, without working her dentures loose. “There will be many parties; people from the embassies in Washington and New York to come. They must have only the best, capisce ?”
“Oh, si ,” said Sr. Riggio . “I capisce very well. Yes. Yes, indeed.” He was nodding with vigorous enthusiasm, his black tie bobbing with each word, like a novice bat preparing for takeoff.
“ Bene ! ” said Vicky. “Then bring us the best you have to offer, so we may judge for ourselves.”
“Yes, ma’am… er , pardone , Contessa .” He backed away from the table with a series of bows worthy of a Japanese sumo wrestler, and then rushed toward the kitchen.
Vicky’s companions sat, unmoving, like three mannequins propped at the table, staring at her with varying degrees of disbelief. Vicky held her back straight, looking very much a regal matriarch, her smile primly innocent. She leaned slightly over the table, glancing from one to the other, then rasped, “Ain’t this groovy ?” She burst into giggles, keeping the sound sedately within the confines of the table.
Burton roared, his laughter infecting everyone in the party. There arose from the circle, tumultuous billows of hilarity. “You’re incredible!” Burton said when he was once again able to speak. “No wonder poor Sarah believed you. You went through that whole performance without cracking a smile. And where on earth did you dig up a name like La Contessa dei Strioni ? Do you know what it means?”
Vicky’s lips pursed into a sly smile. “Yes, I do. Do any of you?” Roger and Doris shook their heads, while Burton nodded, his grin tipping his white goatee toward his chest. “ Strioni , in Italian, means ‘actors,’ or ‘comedians,’” Vicky said. She folded her hands beneath her chin and batted her eyelashes, a silent-screen star’s version of coyness. “So I told Sr. Riggio right off that this was a joke. It’s not my fault that a man with a name like his doesn’t speak Italian, is it?” She looked at Doris, who was still staring at her with a look of awed disbelief. “Well, is it?” she asked her.
Doris shook her head, slowly, from side to side, as if awakening from hypnosis. “No,” she blurted. “I guess it isn’t. I’m still a bit dazed, not having seen you in action before. Why do you do it?”
Vicky was taken aback by the bluntness of the question, surprised at being placed in a position of having to answer truthfully, which she would not do, but not wanting to insult her friends by lying. “I have my reasons,” she said, looking thoughtful for a moment. Then she shrugged. “Why not? If a real contessa came in here, she’d get the royal treatment, wouldn’t she? And she wouldn’t pay a cent more than anyone else—maybe less. So, why shouldn’t we get exactly the same treatment? Americans are so impressed by titles, for some reason. But in Italy , where there are so many people with titles they could start their own country if they could afford to, no one pays any attention to them.”
Sr. Riggio rushed up to the table, followed by the sommelier. “Our finest wine,” he announced. “Compliments of the management.” He stood back to watch as the bottle was uncorked with a pop and a taste poured into Vicky’s waiting stemware.
As Vicky lifted her glass to take her first sip, she smiled at Burton , then at Doris , then at Roger. Without a word, her raised eyebrow inquired, Need I say more?
Chapter 6
As the craft show drew near, Vicky grew anxious. The winners, she learned, would receive not only a ribbon but would have their entries shown at the county fair
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