As the Romans Do by Alan Epstein

Author:Alan Epstein
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

18

For Men Only: Dinner After Eight (and You Don’t Want to Be Late)

Manlio, a swarthy, lively, gregarious, fellow papà, gives me the sign one day at school that he wants to talk. He uses the Roman hand gesture that signifies that someone wants to have a word with you later—rotating the wrist at eye level in a motion toward the other person, a gesture so natural you wonder why—with the possible exception of a basketball coach wanting to indicate a full court press—you don’t see it more in the United States. In Rome it is used constantly, as a way of indicating something to someone you see but can’t talk to because you’re engaged elsewhere, usually in conversation with another person who is in midsentence. At that point it would be rude to say, “Scusa, ma potrei avere una parola un attimino col mio amico là?” “Excuse me, but could I have a word for just a moment with my friend over there?” You know that the conversation, which is often just for conversation’s sake anyway, can end at any moment or go on indefinitely, so you briefly use the wrist rotation gesture and continue listening to the person with whom you are conversing.

This sign, Romans tell me, is also the one preferred in church, as Sunday mass is an occasion to wave to all your friends, and since you can’t greet them as they enter the door at the back and you’re already seated, you use the “Telephone me” sign—thumb and little finger extended outward, middle three fingers folded down on the palm—simulating a telephone receiver—thumb toward the ear, little finger toward the mouth—followed immediately by the “later” sign. The telephone hand gesture is also useful because when the thumb is tilted toward the mouth, head somewhat back, wrist pivoting slightly so that the thumb moves down as the little finger goes up, it is the drinking hand gesture. I know because when Manlio asked if I wanted to join a few of his friends for dinner at a trattoria a few nights hence and I accepted without hesitation, I also asked whether the evening would include the mogli, the wives. He smiled, shook his head once or twice, and said, “No,” and then, as if to offer an explanation, gave the drinking sign. I nodded knowingly. We are in Rome. When guys want to tie one on, they leave their wives at home.

At the last moment, however, the dinner is canceled as tragedy strikes our little group of school parents. Silvia, a mother of three, was hit by a car while crossing the street in the pedestrian strip and is in a coma with possible brain damage. The news has cast a pall on everything, and we are instructed not to tell our kids what has really happened for fear that they will tell her daughter Flavia, who knows only that her mother fell in the street and is in the hospital. Neither Manlio nor I feel much like merriment, as we are all stunned that our safe little world has been ripped apart.

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