Without Reservations (30 page)

We finished our coffee and asked for a bill. The young waiter, who had been flirting with Carolyn all evening, made quite a show of saying in English, “It has made me the most happy to come to the table of so beautiful women.” Later, I told Carolyn it was very smart of him to include me in his flattery; it had earned him a larger tip.

Although it was almost midnight when we arrived back at the hotel, a small band of people were still setting up bridal displays. Carolyn and I stopped again to peek in the door of a room on our floor. A smartly dressed woman was sitting inside, taking bites out of a sandwich and sipping wine. When she caught sight of us, she called out
“Buona sera.”
Carolyn and I returned her greeting. “Good evening,” we said, almost in unison. To my astonishment, the woman motioned us to come in. Then, in accented English, she said, “Are you here to buy from the show?”

I explained we were just guests at the hotel who couldn’t resist the tempting display of silk and satin gowns.

“Oh, look at this one,” Carolyn said, pointing to a champagne-colored satin dress that was elegant in its simple cut and lack of adornment.

“Yes, that is the right color for your hair and fair skin,” the woman said, rising to pull the dress off the rack and spread it before Carolyn. She turned to me. “Your daughter has good taste.”

Carolyn and I exchanged glances. “Yes,” I said, “even as a little girl she showed a great deal of taste. Remember, Carolyn, how you would never wear frilly dresses?”

“Yes, Mom, I do remember.” She paused. “I always wanted to be just like you.”

Then Carolyn asked the woman a question that surprised me. “What does a dress like this cost?”

“Quite a lot,” she answered. “I think in American dollars something like three thousand dollars. Are you getting married?”

“Yes, I am,” Carolyn said. “In Florence. Next month.”

“What a beautiful city to marry in. And what a beautiful bride you will make.”

It was growing late. I could see the fatigue in Carolyn’s face. I didn’t need to look at mine to know I was dead tired. “You’ve been very kind, Signora, to take so much time with us,” I said.

“No, it is my pleasure,” she said. “Tomorrow will come only the buyers shopping for their stores. It is nice to see a real bride.”

We left for our rooms. There were so many questions I wanted to ask Carolyn, but there would be time for that tomorrow. We already had agreed to spend the day together. But I had to know just one thing before we parted. I asked if it was really true that she was to be married in Florence the following month.

“Yes, it really is true,” she said, turning to unlock her door.
Then, turning back to face me, she said: “Good night, Mom. See you in the morning.”

Over the next few days Carolyn and I spent most of our time together. We visited museums, reconnoitered the lobbies of expensive hotels, ate in cafés, trattorias, and bars, explored hidden streets, sat peacefully in parks and churches, took a day trip to Lake Como, and, in a moment of heart-pounding madness, climbed the stairs to the roof of the Duomo for a breathtaking view of Milan.

I learned a lot about Carolyn in the days we spent traipsing around the city. First of all, that she was fun to be with. She was the kind of spontaneous traveler willing to ditch a preplanned schedule in favor of seizing the moment. We also shared a number of interests. Art, for one thing. And, for another, a view of the world that was equal parts affection and amused skepticism.

During one of our dinners together Carolyn talked with enthusiasm about her upcoming wedding. “We don’t really have any plans about where or how we’ll get married. The only thing we’re sure of is that it will set the Guiness record for ‘World’s Cheapest Wedding.’ ” She said it matter-of-factly, with no trace of “poor me” in her voice.

I already knew Carolyn was on a tight budget; we factored that in each time we chose where to eat or what to visit. And she had talked a bit about taking a job in Florence to supplement her fiancé’s foundation grant. “I’m thinking about teaching English, but I’ll take any job I can find,” she said. “After all, art history majors can’t be choosers.”

By the time our last day together in Milan arrived I knew I
wanted to give Carolyn some kind of wedding gift. What exactly, I didn’t know. But since we had reserved the whole day for a tour of one of Europe’s most fashionable shopping streets, Via Monte Napoleone, my plan was to surprise Carolyn with a small gift of her choosing.

By mutual agreement, Carolyn and I dressed more grandly than usual for the deluxe occasion. Which meant a black suit and white silk sweater for me; and for Carolyn, a nicely tailored khaki pantsuit worn with a white linen blouse. We called them our “power shopping clothes.” Of course, once we hit Montenapo—as the locals affectionately call the street—we laughed at our attempts to look like the
gran’ signora
and
signorina.

The Italian women were gorgeous; the young ones as ripe and luscious as peaches, the not-so-young a glorious combination of elegance and mature sensuality. Draped in the latest fashion and wearing astonishing jewelry, they walked along the streets chatting and gesturing, carrying their shopping bags like badges of honor.

“And ye shall know them by their shopping bags,” I said to Carolyn, as we ticked off the famous designer names imprinted on the chic bags: Versace, Pratesi, Fendi, Armani, Valentino, Bulgari, Missoni.

The shops themselves were imposing monuments to the power of achieving status through fashion. The saleswomen inside were no less imposing. As elegantly turned-out as their customers—some more so—each ruled her domain like a queen, favoring this one with a smile and that one with a look that said “tourist sightseer.” It required a whole lot of Attitude just to enter such a shop. But Carolyn and I hit on an approach. Before pushing open a door, we took a minute or two to slip into the right Attitude. Like actors rehearsing for an audition, we practiced being haughty and dismissive. Sometimes it worked. And sometimes it didn’t.

As the day progressed I grew worried about coming up with a wedding gift for Carolyn. She really hadn’t expressed an acquisitive interest in anything and, more practically, nothing we saw was even remotely affordable.

After a late lunch at a café in the Galleria San Babila, we walked to the nearby Piazza San Babila. As we strolled along, we noticed that many of the women passing by had extraordinarily becoming haircuts. “Do you suppose they’re models?” Carolyn whispered.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s mysterious, seeing all these women with great hair walking around this small piazza. It’s like seeing the Stepford Wives in Milan.”

Another half-block, however, and the mystery was solved. From the door of a hair salon exited women with perfect haircuts of every style and length: short and spiky; curly and tousled; blunt-cut bobs; classic pageboys. Carolyn seemed transfixed. She moved to the door and peered inside. The interior was a model of good design; it looked very expensive.

Then, turning to me, she patted her ponytail and said, “Maybe I should get my hair cut. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got to Milan. What do you think?”

What I thought—but didn’t say—was that advising a friend about matters of the hair was fraught with peril. It was something I’d learned the hard way, more than once. The truth was, I thought Carolyn would look great with short hair. But suppose it didn’t suit her or she hated it? She was, after all, getting married in a month. What if it shocked her fiancé? I brought up this last point.

“How do you think Rob would feel if you looked like a totally different person at your wedding?” I asked. “I’ve always thought it was nice if the bride looked natural on her wedding day, not like some stranger walking down the aisle.”

Carolyn laughed. “Oh, he’s been after me for a long time to cut
my hair. Besides, he’ll have a month to get used to it.” Having said that, she opened the door and walked into the salon. I followed.

Carolyn began to speak in halting Italian, but the receptionist cut her short. “I speak English,” she said, speaking English. “How may I help?”

After explaining to her that she had no appointment, Carolyn asked if it would be possible for someone to cut her hair that afternoon. The receptionist’s exquisitely arched eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Without an appointment! I think it is not possible.” She consulted her book. “But we could take you one month from today.”

“I think it is not possible,” Carolyn said, “as I will be getting married in Florence in one month.” She said it with her usual sly humor but her face showed her disappointment.

A young man standing nearby interrupted, telling the receptionist in good but not perfect English, “Yes, but I have been canceled. Now I can take her.”

The receptionist looked at Carolyn who, for some reason, was hesitating. “Vincenzo is very good,” she said reassuringly to Carolyn.

By this time Carolyn’s face was quite flushed. “I’m sure he is. But I need to ask … I should have asked first … but what I wanted to know is … what do you charge for a haircut?”

“For Vincenzo that would be 210,000 lire.” Carolyn’s flushed face turned pale. By this time we both were able to convert lire into an approximate dollar figure without consulting a currency converter. The haircut would cost close to $150. I knew Carolyn couldn’t afford this. Suddenly I knew what my wedding gift would be.

“She’ll take the appointment,” I told the receptionist. Then turning to Carolyn, I said, “Please allow me to do this. It will be my gift to you. After all, I am the mother of the bride.”

I waited in the reception area, relishing the chance to watch some of the most stylish women in Milan enter and exit. It was like being at the theater, only here the drama lay in the expectations, hopes, and disappointments surrounding a new hairstyle. I worried that Carolyn might be among those who emerged disappointed. Or worse, that Vincenzo, like many hairstylists, might get carried away and do something drastic. I looked at my watch. An hour had passed. What could be taking so long? I grew apprehensive, as though this were a hospital waiting room and Carolyn a patient.

Five minutes later, Carolyn reappeared. She was smiling. And with good reason. She looked wonderful. Her hair was parted on the side and cut to a length that just brushed the top of her shoulders. “Well, Mom, what do you think?” Carolyn asked.

“I think you’re going to make a beautiful bride,” I said.

The next morning Carolyn went off to Florence to get married and start a new life. We had said our good-byes the night before, but I walked down to the lobby with her for a final farewell.

“Be a good daughter now and write,” I said.

“I will, Mom. Promise you’ll write back.”

I stood outside and watched her walk toward the train station, her newly cut red hair bouncing up and down with each step. I envied her, off to start a new life. But even more than that, I envied the fact that if her new life didn’t work out, she had plenty of time to start another one. Carolyn had made a commitment, a big one, but there were many more important choices to be made in her future.