you get in foreign newspapers,” Adam said, pacing around the living room of Philip’s East Village walk-up. “It will be about Rome: the local politics, the best restaurants, the latest exhibits. And it won’t be written by Italians trying to promote their favorite tourist traps. I’ll hire journalists who have their finger on the pulse of the city.”
Philip loved crossing the Piazza di Trevi and climbing four flights of stairs to the newspaper’s cramped headquarters. He didn’t mind sharing his office with the fax machine and the microwave and the coffeemaker. He enjoyed putting dinners at Alfredo’s on his expense account and writing about the Tintoretto exhibit at the National Museum.
But Adam discovered that American expats weren’t interested in Rome, they only cared about news from America. The minute they touched down at Rome Airport and rented an apartment in Trastevere, they wanted to know if the Yankees were winning or which actor was entering rehab.
The glossy weekly edition became a two-color bimonthly and Philip became the style editor and the sports columnist. He watched Adam pour over the monthly ledgers, chewing packets of TUMS and drinking bottles of Coca Cola.
Philip started looking for freelance work at La Repubblica and La Messengeria and Le Tempo . But every college kid who spent the summer abroad decided to try their hand at writing. Philip saw them loitering in the reception area in their pressed blue jeans and collared shirts. They were happy to work for the price of a plate of linguini and a glass of Chianti.
Philip skimmed through his e-mails, wishing he could approach the Rome office of the Wall Street Journal or the New York Times . But after three years he didn’t know if his name rang a bell and if the editor in chief knew he had been fired.
He pictured his old cubicle at the New York Times with the quote by Edward Morrow above his desk. He remembered the constant smell of cigarette smoke and sweat. He imagined his byline on the financial page and felt like he had been punched in the stomach. He closed his laptop and poured the remains of his coffee in the sink.
“It smells like bacon,” a male voice said. “I haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast and I’m starving.”
“Help yourself.” Philip pointed to a plate of half-eaten bacon on the kitchen counter. “The coffee is cold but there’s toast and orange juice.”
“The countess’s chef made egg white omelets with prosciutto and porcini mushrooms.” Max pulled out a chair. He had wavy blond hair and blue eyes like a young Robert Redford. He wore blue jeans and a yellow shirt and white sneakers. “We sipped Bellinis on the balcony and listened to Verdi and Puccini.”
“No thanks.” Philip wiped plates with a cotton cloth. “I’d rather eat dry toast than sleep with an aging countess.”
“Mirabella Tozzi is a European woman of a certain age, there’s a difference.” Max buttered a slice of toast. “I enjoy a lot more about her than her chef’s cooking.”
“That’s because you’re young and think happiness lies between the sheets,” Philip sighed. “Wait until your heart gets trampled or your wallet is emptied.”
“I’m like the Tin Man, I don’t have a heart.” Max poured a glass of orange juice. “And I don’t have enough money to buy a woman a steak dinner.”
Max bent down and picked a white silk ribbon off the floor. He glanced at the rumpled bed and whistled.
“It looks like you had company.”
“It’s not what you think.” Philip draped the dishcloth over his shoulder. “I met a girl at the taxi stand, she was sopping wet so I offered to share my cab. She forgot where she left her purse and asked if we could drive around, the next thing I knew she fell asleep on my shoulder.”
“So you brought her here?” Max spluttered.
“What was I supposed to do?” Philip demanded. “I let her sleep in my bed and I camped on the sofa. It was the most uncomfortable night I’ve
Philip loved crossing the Piazza di Trevi and climbing four flights of stairs to the newspaper’s cramped headquarters. He didn’t mind sharing his office with the fax machine and the microwave and the coffeemaker. He enjoyed putting dinners at Alfredo’s on his expense account and writing about the Tintoretto exhibit at the National Museum.
But Adam discovered that American expats weren’t interested in Rome, they only cared about news from America. The minute they touched down at Rome Airport and rented an apartment in Trastevere, they wanted to know if the Yankees were winning or which actor was entering rehab.
The glossy weekly edition became a two-color bimonthly and Philip became the style editor and the sports columnist. He watched Adam pour over the monthly ledgers, chewing packets of TUMS and drinking bottles of Coca Cola.
Philip started looking for freelance work at La Repubblica and La Messengeria and Le Tempo . But every college kid who spent the summer abroad decided to try their hand at writing. Philip saw them loitering in the reception area in their pressed blue jeans and collared shirts. They were happy to work for the price of a plate of linguini and a glass of Chianti.
Philip skimmed through his e-mails, wishing he could approach the Rome office of the Wall Street Journal or the New York Times . But after three years he didn’t know if his name rang a bell and if the editor in chief knew he had been fired.
He pictured his old cubicle at the New York Times with the quote by Edward Morrow above his desk. He remembered the constant smell of cigarette smoke and sweat. He imagined his byline on the financial page and felt like he had been punched in the stomach. He closed his laptop and poured the remains of his coffee in the sink.
“It smells like bacon,” a male voice said. “I haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast and I’m starving.”
“Help yourself.” Philip pointed to a plate of half-eaten bacon on the kitchen counter. “The coffee is cold but there’s toast and orange juice.”
“The countess’s chef made egg white omelets with prosciutto and porcini mushrooms.” Max pulled out a chair. He had wavy blond hair and blue eyes like a young Robert Redford. He wore blue jeans and a yellow shirt and white sneakers. “We sipped Bellinis on the balcony and listened to Verdi and Puccini.”
“No thanks.” Philip wiped plates with a cotton cloth. “I’d rather eat dry toast than sleep with an aging countess.”
“Mirabella Tozzi is a European woman of a certain age, there’s a difference.” Max buttered a slice of toast. “I enjoy a lot more about her than her chef’s cooking.”
“That’s because you’re young and think happiness lies between the sheets,” Philip sighed. “Wait until your heart gets trampled or your wallet is emptied.”
“I’m like the Tin Man, I don’t have a heart.” Max poured a glass of orange juice. “And I don’t have enough money to buy a woman a steak dinner.”
Max bent down and picked a white silk ribbon off the floor. He glanced at the rumpled bed and whistled.
“It looks like you had company.”
“It’s not what you think.” Philip draped the dishcloth over his shoulder. “I met a girl at the taxi stand, she was sopping wet so I offered to share my cab. She forgot where she left her purse and asked if we could drive around, the next thing I knew she fell asleep on my shoulder.”
“So you brought her here?” Max spluttered.
“What was I supposed to do?” Philip demanded. “I let her sleep in my bed and I camped on the sofa. It was the most uncomfortable night I’ve
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