The little LCD screen that folded out from my camcorder like a little ear framed the golden stone fountain to perfection. Sprays of water glittered behind a couple sharing an intimate moment while seated on its steps. The song of the old woman we had seen at a high window hanging out her clothes swelled softly around us.
"This will be loverly," I commented to myself.
"Miss Dawes, I'm hungry."
Unless I choose to edit out the sound from this clip, all the students back home destined to watch this little production will hear me sigh angrily at the irritating teenage boy at my side and say, "Patrick! I'm recording!"
"Record this," Patrick shoved his face into the camera lens. "I'm starving! Miss Dawes tried to make us eat fish for breakfast this morning! I ain't having no fish this time. People come to Italy to eat pizza!"
"Well, Patrick. We are no longer in a coastal town," I pulled a clean cloth out of my satchel to wipe off the lens before resuming my task . "I'm sure you can find some food that isn't fish. And you can thank Signora Tunnel for breakfast." Truthfully, I had little more gratitude for the Italian teacher's menu selections than my companion.
I glanced away from the camcorder long enough to check the time before panning right towards a group of tourists making their way through the square. "Where did Jason and Tyrone go?"
"Hell if I know. I ain't waiting on them any longer." He sunk down against the fountain's edge and lazily stretched out his six-foot four-inch frame.
A rather fashionable woman led the tourists through the square while indicating various points of interest with a gloved finger. I followed the group with my camcorder and tightened the focus on two dark heads that towered well above the rest.
"There they are! What are they doing? Jason! Tyrone!" Neither of the high school seniors glanced our way, and they continued to follow along with the rest of the tourists. "Patrick, if you want to be fed, you'd better go down and get them."
Patrick didn't budge. "YO! JASON! TYRONE! GET YOUR BLACK -"
"Thank you, Patrick. That will do." I cringed as people of various nationalities turned in our direction, and I put away the camcorder as an excuse to duck my head from the attention. Being a high school teacher, I was accustomed to my students' bad manners, but that did not save me from the embarrassment that comes with chaperoning a group of boisterous American teenagers on a tour of Western Europe.
Patrick's bellowing did have the desired effect. My two wandering sheep trudged toward us rubbing their eyes as if we had woken them from their afternoon nap.
"Boys, are you not hungry? We've been waiting on you for thirty minutes," I said.
Tyrone slung an arm over my shoulder and gestured to the other side of the square where the tour guide beckoned a middle aged couple toward the growing group of tourists. "This fine mama wanted me and Jason to go on a free tour with her."
"Don't be ridiculous! This is Europe. Not even the public restrooms are free," I said. "I'm sorry guys, but we have to catch a bus in just under an hour which barely leaves us time for lunch."
"Lunch will be provided on the tour," a smooth voice interrupted. "You would not wish to miss Volterra's most spectacular attraction."
The beautiful male voice set my nerves on fire with something akin to alarm. His voice seemed affected, as if he were actively controlling its every nuance, and the accent struck me as a strange mingling of upper-class British and Italian. Perhaps this is why I was able to maintain a fair amount of composure when I turned to face a man almost entirely concealed by a cloak despite the warmth of the day. I would have been shocked to find that the voice had come from a normal person.
"Perhaps not, but we have an itinerary to keep," I replied curtly.
"Come on, Miss Dawes," Patrick pleaded as he stood and stretched. "They have food."
"No. I've never read anything about free lunch tours in Volterra when I researched our excursions. We'd better go meet Mrs. Tunnel and the others at the café. They have probably been waiting a while," I said.
"Mrs. Tunnel?" the strange man asked. "Do you inquire after that woman standing there?" He pointed toward a portly woman in her fifties who was speaking to the lovely tour guide, no doubt trying to put her Italian to use.
The other tourists, numbering at least two dozen now, hung about the two seemingly waiting for a word from their hostess. As I observed the scene, a distant memory fluttered on the edge of my consciousness, something from Sunday school perhaps.
With persuasive words she led him astray;
she seduced him with her smooth talk.
All at once he followed her
like an ox going to the slaughter,
like a deer stepping into a noose
till an arrow pierces his liver,
like a bird darting into a snare,
little knowing it will cost him his life.
"See? Mrs. Tunnel's going," Jason said.
"Oh for goodness' sake," I growled, suddenly disliking my colleague very much. I grabbed Jason's wrist without thinking and pulled him in the opposite direction. "Boys, follow me."
The stranger made as if to follow, but I ceased his approach with an upheld hand. "No. We are leaving. Now."
My three students instantly recognized my tone and obeyed. Though my heart pounded in my ears, I struggled to meet the stranger in the eye with a fierce expression that no teacher in an inner-city high school can survive without.
"Well then," he replied in a hushed tone. "I suggest you delay no longer."
I nodded sharply and herded my brood in the direction of the city gates. Our European tour ended soon after.