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been staring at me since I came into this compartment.”
    Vialli grimaced. “Sorry . . .”
    She started reading again.
    “I didn’t mean to offend you,” Vialli said. He checked his watch. The trip was only thirty minutes, and they had left Naples fifteen minutes before. He tried to concentrate on the countryside as the rails clacked rhythmically beneath him. He could see Mt. Vesuvius in the distance, the now-dormant volcano that had buried Pompeii centuries ago. You could see it from Naples for that matter, or from thirty miles out at sea, or from a hundred miles if the weather was clear and you were flying high enough. He couldn’t stand it. “Where are you from?”
    She placed a bookmark in her book and laid it on her lap. “The American conversation,” she said. “Where are you from, what do you do, where did you go to school. Right?”
    He looked at her directly, and she noticed his intense brown eyes under his dark brown hair. “Doesn’t hurt to be friendly,” he said.
    She relaxed slightly. “No, it won’t hurt. I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath and shrugged her shoulders. “I live in a town in northern Italy called Trento. It’s just south of Austria.”
    “Must be nice.”
    “It is very pretty, and very old. A wonderful town.”
    “What do you do?”
    “See?”
    “Come on,” he said.
    “I am a schoolteacher, at least by training. I don’t teach right now. I’m waiting for an opening.”
    He nodded and looked out the window again, trying not to show that he was really focusing on her reflection in the glass.
    “What do you do?” she asked suddenly.
    He looked at her with surprise. “I’m in the Navy.”
    “The American Navy?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Are you on a ship?”
    He nodded. “More or less. I’m a pilot — I fly off a carrier.”
    “Of course,” she said. “You’re on that big carrier in the bay.”
    He smiled and nodded. “That’s me. The
George Washington
. Largest class of warship ever built.
Nimitz
class.”
    “Is it really?”
    “Nothing else is even close. Some of the battleships were almost as heavy, but nothing nearly as big in every dimension.”
    “What do you fly?”
    “Do you know airplanes?”
    “Not really.”
    “Fighters. F-14s. Tomcats. You know, two tails, wings that move back and forth . . .”
    “I think I’ve seen them. I think we have them too.”
    Vialli shook his head. “No, only the U.S. and, unfortunately, Iran.”
    “What do we have that looks like that?”
    “We who? Italy?”
    She looked puzzled, then understood. “Yes. Italy.”
    “Nothing really. Just Fiats and those sorts of things. Gnats. Bugsmashers. Noisemakers. Nothing serious.”
    “Well, you shouldn’t belittle it . . .”
    “I didn’t mean to. I’m sure Italy’s Air Force is
truly
formidable,” he said. He tried to get her to look at him, which she was reluctant to do. “Do you mind if I ask you your name?”
    She hesitated before she answered. “Irit.”
    “What?” he said, leaning forward, as if he hadn’t heard her.
    “Irit.”
    “That’s an odd name. Is it Italian?”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Tony Vialli.”
    “That’s an odd name. Is it American?”
    “Very funny. No such thing as an American name,” he said, “except maybe Sitting Bull,” he added. “No, my name is Italian, and my family, some time ago, I think my grandparents’ parents, came over to the States. I’ve heard they were from Genoa, but I’m not really sure.”
    “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Vialli.”
    “Thanks,” he said. “Where are you going?”
    She looked amused. “This train only goes to Pompeii.”
    He nodded, trying to imply he knew that. “But are you going to see the tourist trap, where all the dead people are, or what?”
    “Yes, I’m going to see where the dead people are. What else would I be doing there?”
    He shrugged. “Don’t know. I figured there may be a town there too.”
    “Not really.”
    “So you’re playing tourist