Audrey Hepburn's Pearls: Part I

Chapter 54.1: 1995, Georgina

Chapter 54.1: 1995, Georgina

"Come stai?" 

For a moment, I did not know how to react.

"Come sta, signora Florini? Devo riprendere la pressione sanguigna. Non è troppo male. Scommetto che è bene." How are you, Mrs Florini? I have to take your blood pressure. Its not too bad. I bet its fine.

Oh, no.

"Derek, you speak Italian? Please don't." I couldn't take it, especially these gentle tones.

"Sì, parlo italiano. Sono cresciuto a Capri. Sapete Capri? Bella città, molto in alto. Il mare è di un azzurro intenso. Ci sono molte scale." Yes, I speak Italian. I grew up in Capri. Do you know Capri? Beautiful city, very high up. The sea is very blue. There are many stairs.

I didn't know what to say, so I stayed silent. Why was he telling me these things? He lifted my arm and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around it. I couldn't look at it. It made me too sad.

"Mio padre era nel settore della pesca. Ho usato per andare sulla sua barca, quando ero un ragazzino. La mia mamma era sempre preoccupato sarei caduta, ma ero un ragazzino coraggioso." My father was in the fishing industry. I used to go out on his boat when I was a kid. My Mama was always worried I'd fall in, but I was a brave kid.

The blood pressure cuff started to pump, getting painful pretty fast. I had no choice but to listen to his Italian words. But his accent was unfamiliar to me, which provided at least a little comfort.

So Mr. Caselotti hadn't been from Capri.

"Quale zona d'Italia è la tua famiglia da? Florini. Il tuo cognome è bella. O è che il nome della famiglia di suo marito?" Which part of Italy is your family from? Florini. Your family name is pretty. Or is that the family name of your husband?

My husband. No, his family name is Caselotti. I don't know where they came from. I never asked, because I was too stupid, thinking I had a lifetime to figure it out.

"Tuscany," I lied to please him. The blood pressure cuff was easing, allowing me to breathe.

"Oh, Tuscany?! E 'così bello qui!" Its so pretty there!

"Yes." I wouldn't know. I'd never even been out of New York. Shame flooded over me, but I tried to hide it by looking down at my blanket.

He unwrapped the cuff by a ripping velcro sound and my arm was mine again.

"Dito?" He was asking for my finger, offering me the little beige finger clamp with the red light on it. I obeyed, allowing it to latch onto my pointer finger. We were silent now, but it was as if his story was haunting me.

My father was in the fishing industry. I used to go out on his boat when I was a kid.

My dad ran a dry cleaner's and I liked to watch the freshly cleaned clothes fly around on the automated racks. Florini Dry Cleaner. Improper English. I started to blush, still some vestige of embarrassment from the sign.

"C'è zuppa di patate oggi per il pranzo. Dicono che è New England clam chowder, ma non c'è vongole in esso. Tuttavia, che è tra voi e I." There is potato soup today for lunch. They say it is New England clam chowder, but there are no clams in it. However, that is between you and I.

"I don't like clams."

"Yes, clams."

I sighed inside. But I was powerless to protest. There was nothing I could do about his non-understanding. It just made my cheerfulness go even further away, like somebody was hooking it and dragging it into darkness further and further.

He unlatched the beige finger clamp and took it away.

"Siamo tutti finito qui! Grazie ancora, signora Florini!" We're all done here! Thank you again, Mrs Florini!

"You're welcome," I said quietly. He smiled, wheeling away the computer device on the stand. I sighed deeply, closing my eyes in a pinch to attempt to make this devastated feeling go away. My hands squeezed my blanket as I shuddered, a shiver going up my spine.

I did not want him speaking Italian to me. I didn't want to ever hear Italian again. If it couldn't be from my darling Frankie's mouth, I didn't want to hear it from anybody. Especially not from a handsome young Italian man, like Frankie had been. Oh, god. 

How could I communicate to him that I did not want him to speak Italian to me? Who had told him I might like this? Had he seen my name and figured? Why did he think he was close enough to me to speak to me this way? 

Another shiver. My body was creeped out. 

He had two more rounds today, which meant I'd probably have to hear him speak Italian two more times. Unless he came by at lunch. 

I wouldn't be able to take it. But to be polite, I would have to endure. Could I tell Cha Cha to tell him not to do this? She'd come by between four and seven. Would she be able to understand what I was saying about this? My head went into my hands almost as if I wasn't doing it myself. Imagine if she thought I said I liked him speaking to me this way. 

Very briefly, the image of a young man with wheat colored hair appeared at my bedside behind my closed eyes, sitting there. But he went away again. Frankie. I recalled how he had trouble speaking sometimes, but how expressive his face was. When he was stuttering so badly I knew what he was saying because of his face. 

Use my face. That's what he'd say. 

Adaptation. I breathed in and looked up at the ceiling. The beige and grey tiles, the black lines, so familiar to me now. It was like how I counted the tiles to steady myself. Adaptation was the key. I'd adapted to calm myself, and now I would adapt to communicate. 

I breathed out. Okay. 

I steadied my breathing, and tightened my resolve.