Califone di Teatro

by Larissa Piva (Canada)

I didn't expect to find Italy

The last words of Professoressa Giorgia nipped at my ear lobes. “…pagina quaranta per domani…” Got it. Emily poked my thigh with her kneecap. “Are you going to the show tonight?” she said. “What show?” “Silenzio!” Horatio, the most mature student in the program, placed a wrinkled, bony finger to his lips. “Mi dispiace.” The bell rang and our classmates shuffled their belongings together. Horatio stared at us, angry at our English disrespect. “Fifteen euros at teatro Persiani. Were you listening?” “Listening and understanding are different.” We walked out of the room. Three flatmates waited for us in the hall. “Are any of you going to the show tonight?” Emily bumped shoulders with Dan. “What show?” he said. “Si.” Eduarda pistolled her thumbs to the sky. “It’s an Italian rock concert! Apparently, it’s a great local band. Drinks and dancing, too. We should check it out.” “I’m down.” I shot thumb pistols back to Eduarda. “I told Maria I’d hang out with her tonight. Plus that’s a lot of money for a show I won’t like.” “Fine. So, us three?” “Have you asked anyone else?” “Yeah. Everyone basically said the same thing as Dan.” “When did she say this?” “Yesterday they told us.” Eduarda laughed. Our group started to walk toward the pizzeria—this week’s ritual—and further discussed the evening plans. Just after seven, we entered the theatre. The ushers wore tuxedos and a quick peek into the theatre revealed solid oak finished red velvet seats, gold-leaf balconies, and a godly scene painted over the entire ceiling.“Is this the right show?” “Yes.” Eduarda pointed at a sign on the door. We looked at each other. “How many times will you enjoy a show performed in a seventeenth-century theatre?” Emily handed her money to the ticket-taker. “È vero.” “Okay. But if it’s opera, I might have to get wasted and come back.” We sat in our seats for almost an hour before the lights dimmed. Cheers and inaudible heckles tickled the acoustically consummate area. Five musicians footed the stage. I cannot stress the overwhelming joy to see scraggly men in jeans. After a few moments of guitar tuning, floor scuffing, supposed-to-be-water-but-everyone-knows-its-not drinking, and awkward silence, the lead singer took the mic and introduced the band. “Hello Recanati, how you doin’?” His words caused almost dead silence except for the sound of Emily and I slapping each other. “We’re a small alternative rock band from Chicago and we’re touring around obviously. We’re so glad you could have us—this is a beautiful place with beautiful people. We think it’s haunted, though, so, we’ll carry on now before the ghost returns. We think he hates Americans. Is anybody here American?” Emily’s American blood vibrated. Too shy, she relied on the bold Canadian to take the task of giving comfort to these men who were about to perform for people who had no idea what the hell they just said. I hollered and raised my arms. “Shut the fuck up. From where?” “Virginia!” “Are you being serious?” “Yes!” Emily answered herself. “Well, shit, now we actually have to play.” At that moment, the lights on stage went off and the sound cut. The musicians looked around, called for the stagehand. “It’s the ghost!” I screamed. Emily slapped my arm and snorted. The lead singer pointed in our direction. The stagehands worked on the sound for a few minutes before an electric wail erupted from a speaker. The band began to play a few notes. The lead took the mic again. “Alright, ghost, I hope you like this one. It’s from an older album. It’s called ‘Bottles and Bones’.” Eduarda hadn’t reacted. Emily turned to me, stared. “What?” “I just can’t believe this. We are in Italy in a seventeenth-century theatre listening to a mediocre garage band from Chicago. It’s surreal, isn’t it?” “Maybe. I think it’s insanely ironic how we showed up thinking we would be the only ones who didn’t know what the fuck was going on but it turns out we are the only ones who know what the fuck is going on.” "And you didn't want to come."