Mothers and Daughters

She did not see Renato Cristo again until the third time she drove to Rome. He was sitting at a table in the Piazza Barberini, sipping at a vermouth, his cap pulled through his shoulder epaulet, staring off across the square, the sunlight touching his hair, his big hands on the table in front of him. She came down the Via Sistina, walking with a rather jaunty swing, and at first he thought only that she was a pretty girl, her figure in silhouette against the sun. Then he realized she was an American, the sunglasses, the clothing, the regal walk, the erect posture, which all American women brought to Europe. He saw her face and recognized her, and watched her as she came down the street, still unaware of his presence. His secret observation pleased him. He sat with his hands on the table, watching her, enjoying the way her legs carried her body, enjoying the quick female motion of her head as she turned to look at the buildings, a sightseer, a tourist, and yet magically more than that. A small smile touched his mouth.

He did not call out to her until she was almost upon his table. She would not have seen him if he had not called. She walked with an intensity of concentration, determined to absorb each and every landmark on the route to an obviously predetermined goal. But there was nothing unique about this sidewalk café, a bar unfrequented by tourists, a gathering place for natives, where the drinks were generous and the food was prepared without regard for the foreign palate, and she was ready to pass it by without so much as a sidelong glance when he said her name.

“Julia,” he called, very softly.

She stopped and turned, surprised. She looked at the wrong table first, trying to locate the voice, her mouth turned upward in an expectant, puzzled smile. But she saw no one she knew.

“Julia,” he said again, and he shoved back his chair and rose.

She located the table this time. She turned her head slightly and saw him at once, and then took off her sunglasses in a quick motion of her hand, and shook out her brown hair. He made a small gesture with his hand, inviting her to the table. She hesitated. He saw the hesitation in her eyes. It seemed for a moment as if she would simply wave in greeting, put on the sunglasses again, and then walk on. A questioning look crossed his face. She nodded swiftly and came to the table. He was pleased when she addressed him in Italian.

“Hello,” she said. “What a surprise!”

“Yes. Won’t you sit down?”

“Well, I... I’m in sort of a hurry.”

“You have time for a drink.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He pulled back a chair for her. Again, she seemed hesitant. Then she sat and took off her gloves, and he watched while she performed the operation, not looking at him, pulling off the gloves finger by finger, and then placing them on the table alongside her purse and the sunglasses. She was wearing a white linen suit, her hair trailing down her back. She wore no make-up. Her nose was shining, her cheeks were flushed, her lips were bare.