Playing for Pizza (13 page)

A loss to Naples would ruin the season. With only eight games on the schedule, and with Bergamo poised to again run the table, there was no room for a bad day.

After twenty minutes of impressive abuse, the
Panthers hustled back to the field. Rick felt like he’d suffered through another NFL halftime.

The Bandits tied the game with four minutes left in the third quarter, and the Parma sideline took on an intensity Rick had not seen in years. He was telling everyone, “Relax, just relax,” but Rick wasn’t sure he was understood. The players were looking to him, their great new quarterback.

After three quarters, it was obvious to both Sam and Rick that they needed more plays. The defense keyed on Sly every snap and double-covered Fabrizio. Sam was getting outfoxed by the very young Naples coach, a former assistant at Ball State. However, the offense was soon to discover a new weapon. On a third and four, Rick dropped back to pass but saw the left corner coming on a blitz. There was no one to block, so he faked a pass and watched the corner go sailing by. Then he dropped the ball, and for the next three seconds, an eternity, worked feverishly to pick it up. When it was retrieved, he had no choice but to run. And run he did, just like in the old days at Davenport South. He scooted around the pile, where the linebackers were preoccupied, and was immediately in the secondary. The crowd erupted, and Rick Dockery was off to the races. He faked out a corner, cut across to the center, just like Gale Sayers in the old footage, a real broken-field ace. The last person he expected help from was Fabrizio, but the kid came through. He managed to roll under the weak-side safety just long enough to allow Rick to sprint past, all the way to the promised land. When he crossed the
goal line, he flipped the ball to the official, and couldn’t help but laugh at himself. He had just galloped seventy-two yards for a touchdown, the longest of his career. Not even in high school had he scored from so far away.

At the bench, he was grabbed by his teammates and offered all manner of congratulations, little of which he understood. Sly, through a wide smile, said, “That took forever.”

Five minutes later, the running quarterback struck again. Suddenly anxious to show off his moves, he scrambled out of the pocket and seemed ready for another jaunt downfield. The entire secondary broke coverage, and at the last second, two feet from the line of scrimmage, Rick zipped a bullet thirty yards across the middle to Fabrizio, who galloped untouched into the end zone.

Game over. Trey Colby picked off two passes late in the fourth quarter, and the Panthers won 48–28.

·  ·  ·

They gathered at Polipo’s for all the beer and pizza they wanted, at Signor Bruncardo’s expense. The night went long, with bawdy drinking songs and dirty jokes. The Americans—Rick, Sly, Trey, and Sam—sat together at one end of a long table, and laughed at the Italians until the laughter was painful.

At 1:00 a.m., Rick e-mailed his parents:

Mom and Dad: Had our first game today, beat Naples (Bandits) by 3 touchdowns. 18 for 22, 310 yards, 4
td’s, one pick; also rushed for 98 yards, one td; kinda reminded me of the old high school days. Having fun. Love, Rick

And to Arnie:

Undefeated here in Parma; first game, 5 td’s, 4 by air, one by ground. A real stud. No, I will not, under any circumstances, play arena football. Have you talked to Tampa Bay?

Chapter

13

The Bruncardo palazzo was a grand eighteenth-century edifice on Viale Mariotti, overlooking the river and a few blocks from the duomo. Rick made the walk in ten minutes. His Fiat was tucked away on a side street in a fine parking space, one he was reluctant to relinquish.

It was late Sunday afternoon, the day after the great victory over the Bandits, and though he had no plans for the evening, he certainly didn’t want to do what he was about to do. As he strolled up and down Viale Mariotti, trying to analyze the palazzo without looking stupid and searching desperately for its front door, he asked himself once again how he had been boxed into this corner.

Sam. Sam had applied the pressure, with help from Franco.

He finally found the doorbell, and an ancient butler appeared without a smile and reluctantly allowed him to enter. The butler, dressed in black with tails, quickly scanned Rick for proper attire and appeared not to approve. Rick thought he looked rather nice. Ink-colored navy jacket, dark slacks, real socks, black loafers, white shirt, and tie, all purchased from one of
the stores Sam had suggested. He almost felt like an Italian. He followed the old goat through a great hall with high frescoed ceilings and shiny marble floors. They stopped at a long parlor, and Signora Bruncardo came rushing forth. She spoke sultry English. Her name was Silvia. She was attractive, heavily made-up, nicely nipped and tucked, very thin, and her thinness was accented by a sparkling black gown that was as tight as skin. She was about forty-five, twenty years younger than her husband, Rodolfo Bruncardo, who soon appeared and shook hands with his quarterback. Rick had the immediate impression that he kept her on a short leash, and for good reason. She had the look. Anytime, anywhere.

With a thick accent, Rodolfo said in English that he was so sorry for not having met Rick sooner. But business had kept him out of town, and so on. He was a very busy man with lots of deals. Silvia watched with large brown eyes that were easy to dwell on. Mercifully, Sam appeared with Anna, and the conversation became easier. They talked about yesterday’s win and, more important, the article on the Sunday sports page. NFL star Rick Dockery had led the Panthers to a smashing win in their home opener, and the color photo was of Rick crossing the goal line with his first rushing touchdown in a decade.

Rick said all the right things. He loved Parma. The apartment and car were wonderful. The team was a blast. Couldn’t wait to win the Super Bowl. Franco and Antonella entered the room and the embracing
rituals were carried out. A waiter stopped by with glasses of chilled Prosecco.

It was a small party—the Bruncardos, Sam and Anna, Franco and Antonella, and Rick. After drinks and appetizers, they left on foot, the ladies in gowns and high heels and minks, the men in dark suits, everybody speaking Italian at once. Rick smoldered quietly, cursing Sam and Franco and old man Bruncardo for the absurdity of the evening.

He’d found a book in English on the region of Emilia-Romagna, and though most of it was about food and wine, there was a generous section on opera. Very slow reading.

·  ·  ·

The Teatro Regio was built in the early nineteenth century by one of Napoleon’s former wives, Maria Luisa, who preferred life in Parma because it kept her far away from the emperor. Five levels of private boxes look down on the audience, the orchestra, and the expansive stage. Parmesans consider it the finest opera house in the world, and they also consider opera their birthright. They are acute listeners and fierce critics, and a performer who leaves with applause is prepared to face the world. A faulty performance or a missed note often leads to noisy disapproval.

The Bruncardo box was on the second level, stage left, excellent seats, and as the party settled in, Rick was awed by the ornate interior and the seriousness of the evening. The well-dressed crowd below them buzzed with nervous anticipation. Someone waved. It
was Karl Korberg, the large Dane who taught at the university and was trying to play left offensive tackle. He had missed no fewer than five clean blocks against the Bandits. Karl was wearing a fashionable tuxedo, and his Italian wife looked splendid. Rick admired the ladies from above.

Sam stayed at his elbow, anxious to help the novice through his first performance. “These people are crazy about opera,” he whispered. “They’re fanatics.”

“And you?” Rick whispered back.

“This is the place to be. Believe it or not, in Parma opera is more popular than soccer.”

“And more popular than the Panthers?”

Sam laughed and nodded at a stunning brunette passing just under them.

“How long will this last?” Rick asked, gawking.

“Couple of hours.”

“Can’t we just skip out at intermission and go have dinner?”

“Sorry. And dinner will be superb.”

“I have no doubt.”

Signor Bruncardo handed over a program. “I found one in English,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“You might want to give it a glance,” Sam said. “Opera is sometimes hard to follow, at least from a plot angle.”

“I thought it was just a bunch of fat people singing at full blast.”

“How much opera did you see in Iowa?”

The lights dimmed slightly and the crowd settled
down. Rick and Anna were given the two tiny velvet seats at the front of the box, very near the ledge, with perfect views of the stage. Tucked in closely behind them were the rest.

Anna pulled out a pencil-like flashlight and pointed it at Rick’s program. She said softly, “This is a performance of
Otello
, a very famous opera written by Giuseppe Verdi, a local, from Busseto.”

“Is he here?”

“No,” she said with a smile. “Verdi died a hundred years ago. He was the world’s greatest composer when he lived. Have you read much Shakespeare?”

“Oh sure.”

“Good.” The lights went dimmer. Anna flipped through the program, then aimed the light at page four. “This is the summary of the story. Give it a quick look. The opera is in Italian, of course, and it might be a bit hard to follow.”

Rick took the light, glanced at his watch, and did as he was told. As he read, the crowd, quite noisy in anticipation, settled down and everyone found a seat. When the theater was dark, the conductor marched out and received a rousing ovation. The orchestra came to attention, then began playing.

The curtain rose slowly to a silent, still audience. The stage was elaborately decorated. The setting was the island of Cyprus, a crowd was waiting for a ship, and on the ship was Otello, their governor, who’d been off fighting somewhere, with great success. Otello was suddenly on the stage singing something
like “Celebrate, Celebrate,” and the entire town joined in the chorus.

Rick read quickly while trying not to miss the spectacle before him. The costumes were elaborate; the makeup thick and dramatic; the voices truly sensational. He tried to remember the last time he had watched live theater. There’d been a girlfriend at Davenport South who starred in the senior play ten years earlier. A long time ago.

Otello’s young wife, Desdemona, appeared in Scene 3, and the spectacle took a different turn. Desdemona was stunning—long dark hair, perfect features, deep brown eyes that Rick could see clearly from eighty feet. She was petite and thin, and fortunately her costume was tight and revealed marvelous curves.

He scanned the program and found her name—Gabriella Ballini, soprano.

Not surprisingly, Desdemona soon attracted the attention of another man, Roderigo, and all manner of backstabbing and scheming began. Near the end of Act 1, Otello and Desdemona sang a duet, a high-powered romantic back-and-forth that sounded fine to Rick and those in the Bruncardo box, but others were bothered by it. Up in the fifth level, the cheap seats, several spectators actually booed.

Rick had been booed many times, in many places, and the booing had been easy to shake off, no doubt helped by the sheer magnitude of football stadiums. A few thousand fans booing was just part of the game. But in a tightly packed theater with only a thousand
seats, five or six rowdy fans booing heartily sounded like a hundred. What cruelty! Rick was shocked by it, and as the curtain dropped on Act 1, he watched Desdemona standing stoically with her head held high, as if she were deaf.

“Why did they boo?” Rick whispered to Anna as the lights came on.

“The people here are very critical. She has been struggling.”

“Struggling? She sounded great.” And looked great, too. How could they boo someone so gorgeous?

“They think she missed a couple of notes. They are pigs. Let’s go.”

They were on their feet as the entire audience stood for a stretch. “So far, you like?” Anna asked.

“Oh yes,” Rick said, and he was being truthful. The production was so elaborate. He had never heard such voices. But he was baffled by the boo birds in the top level. Anna explained: “There are only about one hundred seats available to the public, and they are up there,” she said, waving at the top. “Very tough fans up there. They are serious about opera and quick to show their enthusiasm but also their displeasure. This Desdemona was a controversial selection, and she has not won over the crowd.”

They were outside the box, taking a glass of Prosecco and saying hello to people Rick would never see again. The first act lasted for forty minutes, and the break after it lasted for twenty. Rick began to wonder how late dinner might be.

In Act 2, Otello began to suspect his wife was
fooling around with a man named Cassio, and this caused great conflict, which, of course, was played out in dazzling song. The bad guys convinced Otello that Desdemona was being unfaithful, and Otello, with a hair-trigger temper, finally vowed to kill his wife.

Curtains, another twenty-minute break between acts. Is this really going to last for four hours? Rick asked himself. But then, he was anxious to see more of Desdemona. More booing, and he might scurry up to the fifth floor and punch someone.

In Act 3, she made several appearances without provoking any boos. Subplots spun in all directions as Otello continued to listen to the bad guys and became more convinced that he must kill his beautiful wife. After nine or ten scenes, the act was over, and it was time for another recess.

Act 4 took place in Desdemona’s bedroom. She got murdered by her husband, who soon realized that she was faithful after all. Distraught, out of his mind, but still able to sing magnificently, Otello produced an impressive dagger and gutted himself. He fell onto his wife’s corpse, kissed her three times, then died in a most colorful fashion. Rick managed to follow most of this, but his eyes rarely left Gabriella Ballini.