British School Christmas Dinner

Created Dec 24, 2000 | Updated Oct 20, 2010

For your reading ease, all conversations have been presented here in English, regardless of the language in which they actually took place. 

 
 
 
 
  

 
 
 
 
  I heard Michelle call my name as I got to the zigzag in via Zamenhof. I got into the car with her and her boyfriend. 

 
 
 
 
  “This is my boyfriend, Carmelo,” she said. I greeted him, he mumbled something in English. “You speak Italian, right?” said Michelle. I told her I did. “You gave good directions. Every time somebody gives me direction over the phone I panic and get them wrong, and he,” here she indicated Carmelo, “rightfully gets angry because I misunderstood and can’t find the right street.” 

 
 
 
 
  “Yes, I noticed you sounded nervous on the phone, so I gave you the biggest streets to follow, even thought there’s probably a shorter way. Where do you live?” 

 
 
 
 
  “We live in Avenza. Do you know it?” 

 
 
 
 
  “I know where it is. I pass through it all the time, but I don’t have much business in Avenza itself. I know the piazza and the old ruin.” 

 
 
 
 
  “We live near the ruin, but the river,” said Carmelo. 

 
 
 
 
  “How long have you been in Italy?” asked Michelle. 

 
 
 
 
  “Over two years, but I went home for the summer,” I said. Carmelo stopped the car to replenish their stock of cigarettes. 

 
 
 
 
  “And how did you end up here?” continued Michelle. 

 
 
 
 
  I told my story, finishing up with, “—and that’s my story. What’s your story?” 

 
 
 
 
  “I came to Italy after high school, 13 years ago. I was supposed to visit Italy for three months and France for three months, and three months became 13 years!” 

 
 
 
 
  “And you didn’t end up going to France?” I laughed. I knew how Italy tends to prolong itself in your life. 

 
 
 
 
  “Well, yes, later, on vacation.” 

 
 
 
 
  Her boyfriend came back. “Do you know how to get to this place.” he asked her. “They gave me directions; it’s supposedly on the seaside avenue.” 

 
 
 
 
  “I’ve been there before,” I interjected. “I know how to get there.” 

 
 
 
 
  “Oh good,” they chorused, both quite relieved. 

 
 
 
 
  “As soon as you enter Cinquale, you go over a river and its right there,” I said, though this wasn’t very specific. Half the places anyone goes in this area is jus opposite a river; the Versilia is riven with them, running parallel from mountains to sea. 

 
 
 
 
  We chatted. 

 
 
 
 
  “I hope Michael is ok tonight,” said Michelle. “That man is going to have a heart attack some day if he doesn’t calm down. He was worried there wouldn’t be enough people.” 

 
 
 
 
  “How many are we?” 

 
 
 
 
  “50 confirmed, and more usually show up.” 

 
 
 
 
  “And he was worried there wouldn’t be enough?!” I laughed. 

 
 
 
 
  “Yes!” she laughed as well. “He’s too serious, and when Valeria tries to be goofy and funny, he gets irritated.” 

 
 
 
 
  “I’d say she’s very Italian and he’s very English,” I said. 

 
 
 
 
  “Yes, apart from the fact that he’s Irish—“ 

 
 
 
 
  “Oh, he’s Irish?” His accent wasn’t 

 
 
 
 
  “Yes, but in character he’s very English. When Paul first came, we were out to dinner together. Michael was very serious and Paul having just arrived, thought he had to be serious, too. So I said, ‘you are two perfect English gentlemen!’ Like a good Scot, I always put down the English” 

 
 
 
 
  I laughed, “and Valeria is exactly the opposite.” 

 
 
 
 
  “Yes! At last year’s dinner they were so funny to watch, because she likes to laugh and have a good time and Michael gets annoyed because he wants to take things seriously. Today at school we were talking about it and she suggested Paul wear a tie.” I was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, though both of my best, and the only thing that make me presentable was a nice wool jacket. I had no tie (I don’t even own one). We talked and laughed. Michelle is a very pleasant woman, easy to converse with, and her boyfriend seemed a decent chap as well. 

 
 
 
 
  I asked if Michela was coming. Michela is the secretary at the Carrara branch of the school. She has aspirations of becoming a teacher. It is quite likely that I will carpool with her to Prato if I do decide to take the teacher certification course. She’s a sexy 33, just now beginning to lose her youth, the kind of woman you mean when you say “experience with an older woman.” But it seemed she wasn’t feeling well that evening. 

 
 
 
 
  “Too bad,” I said. “She’s simpatica.” 

 
 
 
 
  “Isn’t she?” 

 
 
 
 
  We neared our destination. 

 
 
 
 
  “There’s the sign for Cinquale, here’s the river…” 

 
 
 
 
  “What’s the place called?” 

 
 
 
 
  “Hotel Eden,” I said. “There it is.” Appeared a big blue “e”. 

 
 
 
 
  “Where do I park,” asked Carmelo. 

 
 
 
 
  “There’s a lot down this street. Wow there are a lot of people here already.” We parked and went in. 

 
 
 
 
  In the lobby, the mob was milling. Michelle immediately found people and began introducing them to her boyfriend and me. Then the two of them wandered off. I located Michael near the bar. He was dressed in a not overly conservative three-piece suit (with tie). 

 
 
 
 
  “Hello Gabriel, would you like an aperitivo?” I had some prosecco. I munched some fried polenta from one of the hors d’œuvre trays. I was introduced to a woman who didn’t want to shake hands with me because they were oily from the polenta. (She did later once she’d had some herself, but used her left hand.) I wanted to ask Michael about this supposedly “English” dinner. I nearly got the question out when he saw someone over my shoulder. 

 
 
 
 
  “Ciao!” he kissed the man on both cheeks, which is perfectly acceptable between male who are particularly close. Evidently Michael thought they were, but I sensed from the fellow he was greeting that perhaps he pretended too much. 

 
 
 
 
  “I'm sorry Gabriel, what was it you wanted to ask me?” he deigned when he had finished his greeting pretense. 

 
 
 
 
  “English dinner?” 

 
 
 
 
  “Yes, with a turkey, like thanksgiving.” (Thanks!) 

 
 
 
 
  “Oh yeah?” I said, challenging, “cranberry sauce, too?” 

 
 
 
 
  “One year I made it my self, but they don’t like mixing sweet and savory.” 

 
 
 
 
  “Oh,” I said. “Is Valeria here yet?” 

 
 
 
 
  “No, she’s always late, as you should know, having spent two days in her company.” He turned to greet someone else. 

 
 
 
 
  Andrea, one of my students, came up to me. 

 
 
 
 
  “Hi, how’s it goin’? This party is lame. I’ll organize a dinner at a real good place, not at a hotel like this, and we can go to a discothèque afterwards.” 

 
 
 
 
  “I don’t like discothèques,” I said. 

 
 
 
 
  “Oh,” he said, not having expected such an answer. We stood together at funny angles like we were still talking, one social unit and not two embarrassing loners, but open to any other immediate contact. 

 
 
 
 
  Valeria appeared and introduced me to some people. 

 
 
 
 
  “This is Gabriel, our new teacher.” 

 
 
 
 
  “Why don’t we have him?” demanded middle aged women. She introduced me to her young cousin. She looked to be in her twenties, a small, blonde with a fair face, fine featured, and glasses. 

 
 
 
 
  “Mm, ok, yes.” We didn’t quite know what to make of our newfound mutual connaissance, but Valeria get more explicit as the night went on. 

 
 
 
 
  Michelle and her boyfriend found me. They were worried about their car and my guitar, that someone might break in a window of the former to steal the latter. I went out with Carmelo to bring it in. I left it by the coat rack. 

 
 
 
 
  It was time to be seated. There was no formal seating arrangement, which mildly surprised me, but ulterior motives in the “impromptu” seating soon became evident. Eight to a table, two to a side. Valeria clamed me and put me at her table. I was beside the oil-fastidious woman. On the side to my right were Valeria and her cousin, cousin between us. To my left two adults I didn’t know, across from me, another, and an empty space for Paul when he arrived. 

 
 
 
 
  I was unsure about my placement. I was determined not to be shy and let the fact that I didn’t know anybody make me a dud this evening. I thought my place would better have been with the high school students rather than these grownups. But Blonde Cousin, by her presence immediately to my right, convinced me to stay. 

 
 
 
 
  All chatted and Blonde Cousin seemed ever more interesting. I was talking to her. She asked my age. I felt kind of embarrassed, lately I’ve taken to lying about it. Valeria answered 23 for me, but she had already departed into social la-la land, spouting quips hither and yon. Nobody was giving her much heed, except to match her banter, as I did when I said, “Should I answer?” I told Blonde cousin my real age. She didn’t have much of a reaction, positive or negative, just “mm-hm.” I was debating in my head whether it would be ungentlemanly to ask her age, when the adults to my left addressed her, “excuse me, we were trying to figure out your age.” 

 
 
 
 
  “What do you think?” 

 
 
 
 
  “Around 25?” 

 
 
 
 
  “Yes, around 25” 

 
 
 
 
  She talked to me. I told her my story. She said she liked art but hadn’t studied it much. I told her I didn’t know it much myself, jut the renaissance guys and some Art Nouveau. She said she didn’t know a whole lot about anything, just a bit of everything. Just like me, I thought, but didn’t say it. 

 
 
 
 
  I spoke with Valeria about the marble sinks I was going to buy from her and her brother. She wanted to know my commission. I said 10%. she said 5%. I said 9.5%. She said, “you’re arguing with the wrong person.” I asked, “why?” She said, “Because I'm a Jew and I'm Genovese.” I laughed. 

 
 
 
 
  The conversation aimed back at Blonde Cousin. Valeria way saying something about her in English, very selling, very setting up, very match making. 

 
 
 
 
  “Do you understand English?” I asked BC. 

 
 
 
 
  “No,” she said. 

 
 
 
 
  “That’s a good thing,” I said. Valeria switched to Italian: 

 
 
 
 
  “She’s Jewish and Ligurian, too.” I wondered what connotations this held. BC was a serious girl, with those elegant glasses and high forehead. Hmm… ambiguous eye color. 

 
 
 
 
  We were still waiting for Paul, so when I saw the waiters bringing out bowls of soup and said, “It’s coming!” they though I meant him. (The implied subject in this case could have been either he or she or it.) But it wasn’t Paul, it was celery, tomato, and apple soup. (I suppose if you put apples in anything and boil it, it becomes English.) It was pretty good. 

 
 
 
 
  When Paul did arrive everyone clapped. He’s a funny, foppish type who seems serious and conservative at first glance, but could at any moment start talking dirty with his British accent, so funny. 30 years old. He had a new haircut. We wanted him to sit at our table and so did another table. He went to them. Valeria got up and started pulling at him. Michael said, “Sit down! Stop harassing the staff!” It wouldn’t have been good to have all the teachers at one table anyway. 

 
 
 
 
  After the first course they distributed the Christmas quizzes to the students. I helped BC with hers, thought I wasn’t supposed to and Valeria did as well. 

 
 
 
 
  The lights went down, like at the theatre, and they brought our the turkey. It was a huge beast, the likes of which does not gobble in Italy, surrounded by little torches. They wheeled it around. People oohed and ahhed and took pictures. They wheeled it back into the kitchen. BC put her quiz aside when they brought it back out, now neatly divided into individual portions on plates. We ate the turkey. 

 
 
 
 
  “Where do you live now?” she asked me. She was initiating questions. Did that mean she was interested in me? 

 
 
 
 
  “In Marina di Carrara,” I answered. 

 
 
 
 
  “Alone?” 

 
 
 
 
  “Yes” 

 
 
 
 
  “For now,” butted in Valeria. 

 
 
 
 
  I tried hard to be interesting to BC, to keep up the flow of conversation, but valeria was making me self-conscious. I didn’t want to seem overt, and my strength in charm was never dinner conversation, anyway. I could put in a witty remark here and there, maybe, but I work best when I’m alone with some helpless female victim, free to spin my web of glamour, weave my sticky net of dripping sweetness, with deep scarlet words and undulating incantations. 

 
 
 
 
  I drank lots of wine to make up for my public deficiency. 

 
 
 
 
  There were more quizzes and a drawing to win a trip to London. BC wrote her name on the entry slip (and I was thus spared the embarrassment of having to ask her after having already been introduced and had a conversation with her): Anna Ricci. ‘Twas brilliant for her to be called that. 

 
 
 
 
  “Your last name’s Ricci? I know a Ricci family in Carrara.” 

 
 
 
 
  “It’s a very common last name.” 

 
 
 
 
  “I suppose it is.” 

 
 
 
 
  Dessert, lots of announcements. We were supposedly going to have chocolate log and trifle (God save us!) but instead it was a normal cake, and champagne. 

 
 
 
 
  “The school offers the dessert and champagne,” said Valeria. If she hadn’t told me she was Jewish, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Anna didn’t drink alcohol and had very little of the very heavy cake, just a corner. 

 
 
 
 
  Michael got up and started announcing things. He gave Christmas presents to the two teacher without whom the school could not go forward: Paul and Michelle. I didn’t expect a present, but then, I suppose they didn’t either. There were presents for the quiz winners, too. 

 
 
 
 
  “And now for the drawing for the trip to London, we’ll have Michelle draw a name from the hat—” 

 
 
 
 
  “No, let’s have Gabriel do it!” said Valeria. 

 
 
 
 
  “No, Michelle,” said Michael. 

 
 
 
 
  “No, Gabriel! Gabriel!” 

 
 
 
 
  “Sit down, Valeria! Behave!” 

 
 
 
 
  Somebody won a trip to London, then I went to get my guitar. 

 
 
 
 
  “And now we have the pleasure of Gabriel playing his guitar for us.” Fuck! Why couldn’t I just play and let listen those who would? If everyone listens I have to please them all. Why do we need a fucking official announcement for everything? 

 
 
 
 
  “What should I play?” I said, stalling, hoping to lose some attention. “Umm… I dunno what I should play…” I waited, softly playing the riff on “Whole Lotta Love.” Finally I got out the sheet on which I’d scribbled the chords and lyrics for “War is Over”, the only Christmas song I cared to play. Valeria snatched it up and held it. I played but couldn’t see very well what I’d written, which made it difficult to follow me for those who wanted to sing along. Valeria is loud and tone deaf with no concept of phrasing, and consecutive notes less than two steps apart become the same tone in her larynx, but she had control of the sheet music, they key to it all. The result was disastrous, but had the positive effect of making the people at the further table turn away and lose interest. I followed up with “Stray Cat Strut” which had the double benefit of nobody knowing the words and being impressive at parties. 

 
 
 
 
  “Can you stop for a moment Gabriel?” said the town crier who is my boss just before making another announcement. Then somebody passed out a sheet with some misspelled Beatles lyrics on it: Hey Jude, Yesterday, and Let it be. Classic boring Beatles songs. 

 
 
 
 
  “Can you play these?” asked Anna, and for her I wished I could. I tried to explain that they were all the same chords, C, G, F, and Am, in different orders that I couldn’t remember. Some other idiot knew the chords and played them on his own guitar, with everyone singing along to the provided lyrics. Curses! Beaten by superior organization! But hell, I sang along too. 

 
 
 
 
  Afterwards Anna got up and moved about talking to some other people from her class. Michael said, “Can they borrow your guitar?” and this dork from another table used my baby to play songs by some Italian version of Bruce Springsteen. I was left alone and unarmed. 

 
 
 
 
  Then Andrea came over and sat in Anna’s place. He’s about 30, single and more than a tad sleazy, with half closed bloodshot eyes. Commendably, he spoke English. 

 
 
 
 
  “Do you have a girl friend?” 

 
 
 
 
  “No,” I said. 

 
 
 
 
  “Do you want to meet some girl? I take you to discoteca and we can find some girl for you.” I liked the way he used girl as an uncountable noun, like water, sugar, or pussy. “Ahh, but you don’t like the discoteca… hmm…” 

 
 
 
 
  I smiled and nodded, much preferring the position of authority I had over him during our lessons to this role of benefactor he was assuming with me. 

 
 
 
 
  “Do you like girls?” 

 
 
 
 
  “Er, yes.” 

 
 
 
 
  “Because if you’re gay, I know some nice men…” 

 
 
 
 
  “No thanks, I prefer girls.” 

 
 
 
 
  “I have a friend, she’s a lesbian and many of her friends are lesbian, too.” So one would assume. “When you want to meet some girl, I take you to the discoteca?” 

 
 
 
 
  “Ok, ok!” I said, eager to be rid of him. Luckily he was tired and soon left. But Anna didn’t come back. She had taken a place at the far side of the table: too far to talk, but not too far to smile, so I smiled with all my might whenever I could catch her eye. 

 
 
 
 
  Meanwhile dork had switched to Battisti, the Italian version of Bob Dylan. I couldn’t take it anymore. I got my guitar back from him, and Anna moved back near me. I played “Tender” which I knew Valeria liked. She sang along, which had the effect of everyone hating the song and me never being allowed to play it again in their company. So I planned to cycle through some Pearl Jam, their acoustic stuff. 

 
 
 
 
  “What you played before, it was Led Zeppelin, right?” said Anna. Put the universe on pause. 

 
 
 
 
  “You mean this?” and I played the first five notes of Whole Lotta Love. 

 
 
 
 
  “Yes, that. Can you play Stairway to Heaven?” I couldn’t believe my ears. A 25 year old blond Genovese Jewish Italian lawyer was asking me to play Stairway to Heaven! There’s no stereotype to account for this! Tentatively I started into the intro, as she explained to those sitting nearby, “this is a beautiful song, in three parts. It starts quiet and gets hard at the end, with a solo that’s just bellissimo!” 

 
 
 
 
  Darling! Lover! Soulmate! 

 
 
 
 
  Never would have expected… So unlikely… But then, tragedy! Just as I got to the strumming part, about 5 measures in, the D string broke! All the contradicting probabilities had set up stress fields and the vibrations were just too much for the poor string. Everyone else was displeased, too. 

 
 
 
 
  “Can I hold it for you while you play?” asked Anna, trying to line up the string in its place. 

 
 
 
 
  “No, it needs over ten kilos of tension.” 

 
 
 
 
  “Can you unwind a bit from the top, to make up for the difference?” asked someone else. 

 
 
 
 
  “No, it’s broken by the ball end that holds it. I’m afraid the only thing to be done is get a new string.” 

 
 
 
 
  “That’s too bad…” 

 
 
 
 
  “I’m sorry.” 

 
 
 
 
  By that time many people had left and those remaining were gathered around our table. There was lots of party conversation in which I participated a little. Comments on Paul’s new haircut. How it was good. “Blow-dry or blowjob?” laughed Michael. 

 
 
 
 
  “Let me get this straight,” said an Italian. “You’re Scottish, Irish, American, and English?” nodding at each national in turn. 

 
 
 
 
  “Yes,” answered someone. 

 
 
 
 
  “We’re missing a Canadian and an Australian,” I said rather lamely, but my comment was followed up rather than ignored. “A New Zealander,” said someone. 

 
 
 
 
  Around 1:30 or 2 AM they kicked us out of the hotel. We got up, coated ourselves, and milled about, slowly migrating towards the exit. Some people were going for a drink at some bar. 

 
 
 
 
  “Am I getting a ride with you again?” I asked Michelle. 

 
 
 
 
  “Of course,” she said, “but we’re going to a bar. Do you want to come?” 

 
 
 
 
  “Sure!” 

 
 
 
 
  Some people were going and others weren’t. I wanted to say goodbye to Anna and do mly hand kissing scene. 

 
 
 
 
  “Goodbye,” I said to her, and took her hand. 

 
 
 
 
  “You’re going to La Perla, too, aren’t you?” she said before I could kiss it. 

 
 
 
 
  “Oh we’re all going to the same place then?” 

 
 
 
 
  We got into cars. I ended up riding with Valeria, and Paul with Anna. The whole way, Valeria was asking me: “So, what do you think of my cousin?” until Anna parked and she and Paul transferred themselves to our vehicle. 

 
 
 
 
  We finally arrived at the place, but it was closed. I got out and ran to Michelle’s car. She said they were going home. 

 
 
 
 
  “So what do we do?” Valeria, Paul, Anna, and I spent half an hour searching for another pub. I expressed my doubts on finding one at 2 in the morning on a winter’s Thursday night along our stretch of coast, and that it would probably mean going all the way down to Viareggio, which was a bit far. 

 
 
 
 
  We tried the second most likely Forte dei Marmi. “War is Over” came on over the radio, and we found an open bar. We parked, got out, went in, sat down, and ordered some drinks. Paul and I had screwdrivers; Anna had fruit juice; Valeria had something I don’t remember. 

 
 
 
 
  Talking. Valeria and Paul tended to drift into English, dragging me with them. I kept trying to make them speak Italian so Anna could join in. She’s one of those false-shy types. She seems like she doesn’t talk much until she does and so reveals herself to be a cogent and fluid speaker. The trick is to get her into it. Valeria wanted to talk about sex (as middle aged women tend to do when in younger company). I stumbled and fell into a pattern of rivalry with Paul. He 30, me 20, and Anna smack in the middle, the contended prize. Neither of us scored any spectacular hits with our deadpan wit, and I called it a draw when we left. It was to be on the following occasion that Paul would not be able to rival me. 

 
 
 
 
  Drove back to Anna’s car and divided as before. 

 
 
 
 
  “What do you think of my cousin?” Damned nosy busybody. 

 
 
 
 
  “She’s nice.” 

 
 
 
 
  

 
 
 
 
  *       *       * 

 
 
 
 
  

 
 
 
 
  Maybe it was a jolt—and a beneficial one—to your life to get that job and accept the invitation to dinner that came with it. May be you knew it and understood it when you accepted another invitation to another dinner exactly a week later, this time at Michael and Valeria’s home. Maybe you chose not to notice the obvious manipulation in the fact that Anna was invited to the small gathering (teachers and friends, total: 9). Perhaps it was inevitable that there would be much of the same raunchy conversation (brandy sauce) and guitar disasters (In My Time of Dying). Maybe you said you didn’t like going to the discothèque and apologized in advance just to stupefy them when you all went after dinner and you cut loose and danced like a madman. Maybe it is possible to enjoy yourself to that music. Maybe the enjoyment of it is pre-intellectual; whereas real music requires rational comprehension of notes in sequence, the pulsing beat tickles something more primal, like ancient fish DNA purring deep in your cells. Perhaps the Europeans do benefit from their four thousand year head start. Maybe you were the only non-European there, but were finally being assimilated. I could be that good company was the answer to enjoying these locales. And maybe there was this girl named Anna, quite likely dressed in black leather trousers. Maybe you’d already talked to her—on more that one occasion and more than one subject—and were ready to proceed with seduction on another level. Maybe between bumping hips with Irishmen and Scots, with increasing frequency as the night went on, you faced this Anna and danced with her, closer, closer, swinging limbs, tossing hair, shaking booty. Did you put your hands on her small body, smiling at those jade eyes, put your fingers on her hips, following the rhythmic movement. Maybe she was dancing with you, too. Maybe at moments your faces and indeed your entire bodies got very close together, but never for more than a moment, for dynamic is the operative word and static to be abhorred. Perhaps all you ever needed was an excuse, the impulses have always been within you, trapped by themselves saying, “you could never touch a girl like that, or under these circumstances, or after this little time knowing her.” Maybe when you move, you are master of all that moves with you. Maybe now that you know it, you’re better for it. Certainly there is a girl named Anna.

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