Advice for Italian Boys by Anne Giardini Page A

the distance behind them. Nicolo ran through the channels but ended up at the first program again. The pace of the music had slowed,the throbbing beat replaced by the breathy tootling of pan pipes against a background of rippling harp chords, and the women were now sitting in formation on pink and blue mats. Their legs were propped opened in wide leotarded Vs, and they reached and strained their torsos in synchronized arcs toward their toes. Nicolo winced at the way they forced their lean bodies and outstretched arms forward. The woman at the front, the only one with her hair cut short, was relentless, with the manner of a drill sergeant. “Four more! Three more!” she barked, and the women behind her complied cheerlessly, their glistening expressions undented, their arms and legs in perfect alignment. The sharp angles of their hard bodies glinted under the lights.
    Enzo came into the room, dropped heavily onto the couch next to Nicolo and reached to take a piece of toast from Nicolo’s plate. He stretched his legs out and let his shoulders fall back into the cushions.
    “You look like a wreck,” Nicolo said.
    Enzo didn’t answer. He chewed Nicolo’s toast and stared at the absurdly smiling women on the screen. He was unshaven and unshowered. His hair lay around his head in tufts and valleys and his expressionless face looked rumpled and colourless.
    “Coffee?” he grunted, without taking his eyes off the television screen.
    “I’ll check,” said Nicolo, but before he could get up from the sofa, Nonna appeared at the doorway carrying a cup for Enzo, a flowered, gold-edged cup with a saucer, taken from the cabinet of never-used best china in one corner of the dining room.
    “ Sposa bagnata, sposa fortunata ,” she announced, holding the coffee out to Enzo ceremoniously. A wet wedding is a fortunate wedding.
    Nicolo and Enzo turned their heads and looked out the window behind the couch. The clouds were breaking and scattering and had begun to surge southward like a defeated armada of ragged ships. Patches of blue-white sky were breaking through where the clouds were retreating. Thin streams of pale sunlight breached the gaps as they opened and light shone down onto the wet houses and hedges and cars of their street. Enzo shrugged and accepted the cup. Nonna gave a satisfied smile and headed back toward the kitchen. Soon she returned with a large piece of St. Honoré cake on a plate with a fork balanced beside it, the last remaining from the rehearsal dinner two nights before. She gave the plate and fork to Enzo. The women on the screen finished their toe stretches and switched to sitting cross-legged on their mats, breathing in and out in rhythm and rolling their heads from side to side as instructed by the leader, who held her own head high like a border collie’s and continued to call out commands. Enzo ate his cake, scraping the fork against the plate to get the last crumbs, and drank down his coffee.
    “Today’s the day,” Nicolo tried again.
    A grudging but unrevealing sound emerged from deep inside Enzo’s chest.
    “You’re all right with this?” asked Nicolo. “You’re okay with marrying her—Mima?”
    Enzo didn’t reply. Nicolo reached and pressed the button to turn off the TV.
    “Hey. Earth to Enzo,” Nicolo said into the silence, without turning his head.
    “What do you want me to say?” said Enzo. He shrugged, and his plate and fork and cup bounced and rattled on his stomach.
    “I want to know. What’s it like?” Nicolo persisted.
    “Well,” said Enzo. “If you want to know the truth, I don’t love her, if that’s what you mean. I don’t hate her, but I don’t love her. She reminds me of Ma a bit, you know? She’s bossy; she knows how to do things; she means well; she’s organized. She told me she couldn’t get pregnant, that she had taken care of things, but she hadn’t done anything at all. It’s hard not to feel like I’ve been made a fool of, you know?”
    “Does she