Dirty Lies

MORE QUESTIONS

My plan to back away from Luca had fallen to the wayside the hour I walked into his house, the minute he kissed me, the second he put his arms around me in a long embrace. No man had ever treated me this tenderly, this carefully.

On Friday night, Luca cooked. He gave me a foot massage. He tried to teach me how to play Scopa, a card game from Naples, but we ended up laughing too hard as he explained the rules, so we abandoned the effort.

Saturday, we lounged in bed and he read Italian news on his laptop while I scrolled through the New York Times on my iPad. We read passages of articles to each other, or began conversations with, "Did you know?" and "Wow, listen to this!"

We spent at least an hour reading aloud from the Twitter feed of Florida Man, an account that posted funny, crazy stories about weird Florida stories. I'd followed the feed earlier in the week and showed it to Luca. I'd known he'd love it, even though he wasn't on Twitter.

"Oh God, listen to this one. 'Florida Man goes to police to report stolen drugs,'" Luca read, practically crying he was laughing so hard.

"No, no, how about this one?" I cackled. "'Florida Man surprised to learn mannequin he brought to dump is actually real dead body.'"

I was so comfortable around him. This weekend was all about us. Like we were a thing.

Despite all my recent concerns, it was like we'd known each other forever. He didn't stop touching me as we lazed about. His leg was always on top of mine, or he would lean over while reading and nuzzle my shoulder, or play with my hair. Every now and then, he'd give me a devastating deep kiss that sparked my skin, then turn back to his laptop.

It was interesting how much attention Luca gave to the news. He devoured several different newspaper websites from around Italy, and I tried to sneak glances at his screen. He spent a long time on an article with a headline that had the word "Camorra" in it.

I wondered about his parents, and probed gently at various points in their conversation. Had I been interviewing him, I wouldn't have hesitated to pepper him with questions, but because I was becoming attached and knew he was hiding something—pain or something darker—I treaded lightly.

"What's Italy like?" I asked, interrupting his reading. "I've always wanted to go. Everyone always talks about Tuscany and the food. My mom used to love that movie, Under the Tuscan Sun."

Luca shut his laptop and held it in his hands. He didn't meet my gaze. We were both sitting upright, propped up on pillows.

"I wish Italy was that appealing in real life," he said. "I wish it had that magic on my people. That's not the Italy for the Italians."

I scowled. "What do you mean? I thought Italy was like a paradise."

"The country is a disaster, amore. There's been decades of political corruption. Incompetent politicians. Fraud. And the organized crime is completely out of control. The violence, the fear that the Camorra and the other groups bring to the country...it's something you cannot imagine."

Luca inhaled, and I watched him clutch his laptop, the veins in his hands straining from his grip.

"What's happened to my country makes me angry. I spent many years in a rage because of it. Everyone stays quiet, and the whole corrupt situation just continues while things get worse for the average Italian— who is apathetic and just worried about surviving day-to-day. If you don't watch out in America, things could become like that here too."

I shook my head. "What do you mean? That sounds nothing like the United States."

"Amore. You're still young and...what is the word in English? Naïve? Yes. You're naïve. You haven't noticed how most people in your country are apathetic, just like in my country. Apathetic people don't vote, and this means the worst leaders get into office. It's ripe for corruption here, whether you want to admit it or not."

I wasn't sure what to say. His usual honey-toned voice was cold and jarring. This flash of emotion was tied to Luca's past, I knew. How could it not be, given that his parents had died in that fire, maybe tied to a Mafia syndicate?

But his assessment of the U.S. seemed wrong to me. He was basically saying I knew nothing because I was young. And I was somewhat annoyed he hadn't come clean about his past.

"That's a cynical view of America," I said. "And of your own country."

Luca stared at me for a moment then relaxed his grip on his laptop. He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, and his expression was wistful. "I'm sure someday you'll get to Italy, amore, and you'll see only what's good and right. As an American—as a tourist—you'll only see la grande bellezza. The great beauty."

He opened his laptop again and continued to read.

I went back to my iPad and tried to read an article in The Miami Herald, but Luca's words distracted me. I put my tablet on the nightstand, about to say something, but he scooted down and folded me in the crook of his arm.

I reached over his chest to run a finger over the tattoo on his bicep.

Chi più sa, meno crede.

The more one knows, the less one believes.

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