Free Only in Naples by Katherine Wilson Page B

Polish-American relations during the cold war needed. For my sister and me, it was just the first act in the show that was dinner at the Wilsons’. Our job as daughters was to entertain and to look beautiful as we did it. After the meal, we might perform an Andrew Lloyd Webber duet or a dance routine to “Endless Love.” Anna, just one year older than me, was blond and thin. She was more beautiful than me, played the piano better than me, danced better than me, and was cooler than me. I was not only overweight but severely nearsighted. I had tinted glasses (blue on the top and pink on the bottom—I thought they were
very
cool) and, my sister tells me, I smelled like peanut butter.
    I could not compete with my Claudia Schiffer sister (no amount of lemon juice at the beach could get my hair so blond; no diet could make my thighs as skinny), so I excelled at school and played the clown at home. It was left to me to perform the postshow (that is, after-dinner) imitation of Ambassador Wisniewski, snorting as he tried to shell grilled shrimp with his Stalinesque fingers.
    We were so unlike the families that we socialized with in suburban Washington. Our friends were always at peace with each other and with the world. Girls wore Laura Ashley, boys J. Crew. Everyone used soft, respectful voices in the dining room of our country club. In the midst of “Could you pass the salt, Chet?” and “How was field hockey practice, Ashley?” we were different: theatrical and argumentative and, I realize now, so very Neapolitan.

    Gary Coleman was screwing up his face and saying,
“Che cavolo stai dicendo, Weelles?”
(translated literally, “What kind of cabbage you goin’ on about, Willis?”) when Salvatore came into the living room. He had been crying, and his eyelashes were stuck together with tears. He kneeled down and put his head on my lap. I could feel him taking huge post-sob breaths.
    Salva was looking for solace on my big American thighs.
    A door slammed. Plates clinked as Raffaella put things away in the kitchen. Nino and Benedetta silently licked their wounds.
    In Salvatore’s body, I could feel the depth of his love for his family. And as he held on to me tight, I felt like it wasn’t just love for his family—it extended to me, too. Maybe this wasn’t simply attraction or youthful infatuation on his part. Maybe it was something more.
    When he looked up, I could see that his face was wet. His voice trembled as he explained,
“A mio padre non piace Mauro.”
My father doesn’t like Mauro. Salva flicked his hand under his chin in the Neapolitan gesture meaning nothing, zero,
niente.
The guy, his hand gesture said, had no chance.

M y internship at the Consulate became part-time at the end of October. We weren’t exactly busy, so I asked Cynthia if I could start teaching English in the afternoons to earn some extra money. It didn’t take much to convince the establishment, since I wasn’t being paid.
    The English-language schools I applied to in Naples had names like the London Institute, Wall Street Academy, and Cambridge Centre, and were located on the second or third floor of crowded apartment buildings downtown. They were made up of two classrooms at most, with cartoonish American and British flags on the walls. I was hired immediately because I was mother-tongue. The school I chose to start at paid 10,000 lire an hour (about five dollars), handed to me in cash by the director at the end of each lesson. He spoke no English whatsoever.
    Unbeknownst to the director of the language school, my classes centered on two topics of conversation: What does everyone think of the United States? And, What does everyone think of my relationship with Salvatore and our future?
    Like many Americans, I was fascinated by what my students, most of whom had never been to the States, thought about my country. Could it be that I was homesick? In part, but it was more that slightly adolescent and narcissistic curiosity common to a lot