Tony and I have an argument over Shakespeare. We skipped the first play of the day again, to have another lazy morning in bed. This time we missed Cymbeline, but from my pocket text, it seems to be about jealousy and revenge, which sets the tone for the rest of the day.
In fact, the next play is Othello. Tony and I have both been prone to jealousy at different times, justified and not, so this is uncomfortable for us to watch. Obviously, we were never violently jealous, but we're quite familiar with "il mostro dagli occhi verdi," the green-eyed monster.
That's not the play we have the argument about. Next is up is La Bisbetica Domata, or The Taming of the Shrew. The jealousy and vengeance are in the beginning sisterly, since Katharina is jealous of her sweet-seeming and popular younger sister Bianca. She's cruel to her but it's played for laughs, as is her cruelty to others. Yes, she's a shrew.
And then comes her tamer, Petruchio, played here as the ultimate macho Italian man, in a way that Robert Andrew Holmby III, however handsome and arrogant, was far too WASPy to capture in my college production. (I was too shy to go onstage, so I was props mistress.) I get that Petruchio treats Kate the way she has treated others, but he takes it too far, starving and humiliating her.
I manage to bite my tongue while we watch, but I don't feel like snuggling with Tony or even holding hands, as we have been, even during Othello.
Afterwards, we go to a friggitoria. No, it's not what sounds like, although the word amuses Tony and would amuse me in a better mood. It's a fry-shop, a little like they have in England, but we get crocchè di patate, which are mashed potatoes with herbs, cheese, and salami, all covered in breadcrumbs and fried. They're delicious! And nothing like fast food.
The problem is, it's not really food that should be eaten when you're arguing. (OK, I'm not sure what should be.) I don't want to argue. I don't want to talk about the play at all. However, we've been discussing all the other plays, even the ones we've skipped, so it's a hard habit to break.
"Uh, so, what'd you think?"
I shrug and take another bite of my potato.
"I knew we should've skipped that one. It's just, you said the other day that Shakespeare is something we can't watch with modern eyes."
I can't help it, I exclaim, "Tony, even at the time, what Petruchio did to Kate should've been banned by the Geneva Convention! Or the Renaissance equivalent."
"Hey, come on, Angela, he didn't do anything to her she didn't do to her sister and everybody else."
"That doesn't make it right!"
"He was just showing her what it was like."
"And what gave him the right to teach her a lesson?"
"What right? He was her husband!"
"Oh? So if I were a shrew, you would've tamed me?"
"Angela, those were different times. And I did tame you."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"And you tamed me."
I shake my head, remembering my thoughts on his domestication a couple days ago. "I wasn't taming you. And I really hope that wasn't your intention with me."
"OK, we civilized each other. Do you like that better?"
"I suppose. How was I uncivilized?"
"All right, still not the right word. But you were bossy, in a really insecure way. You ordered me and your other employees around sometimes. You didn't consider our feelings. I mean, you weren't a bully like Katharina, but you know."
I nod and sigh. "You're right. I was insecure, and I did overcompensate for it. Being a woman in what was a very male world of advertising when I started, I had to show I was as tough as the guys. And I had to be that way with Jim Peterson, because that's all he understood. But I'm not that way with the staff at my own agency."
"Right. They know you're boss, but more like Ike or JFK, not like Nixon."
"I was not as bad as Nixon!"
"No, not usually. But he felt like an outsider, and so did you."
"Ah."
"As for you taming or civilizing me, well, I was tough with Jim Peterson because if he had said filth like that about Marie or any other woman I cared about back in Brooklyn, then that's what I would've done. But I had to learn that there are other ways of defending you. You don't always want me tossing guys out into the snow, or threatening them with baseball bats."
I smile. "No, not always. But I had to learn the chivalry behind it, to understand that you weren't just being macho for machismo's sake. It was a way of showing you cared."
"Well, yeah. Maybe not when I threatened Grant. I hardly knew you then. But I think you've always brought out the protective instinct in me. Yeah, I know you're brave and strong, but you're also so innocent and girlish and vulnerable sometimes."
I nod. "I am. And I do like it when you're protective, because I never feel like you're diminishing me. Like when I was unemployed, I cried in your arms, and I felt stronger after."
He kisses me. "Good. That's what I want to give you."
"Oh, Tony." We kiss again.
"So no more literary discussions?"
"Well, there's just one more play. And we'll try to keep the discussion civilized."
He chuckles. "OK."
The last play is, appropriately enough, All's Well That Ends Well. Although a comedy, it's disturbing in its own way. Bertram refuses to be a true husband to Helena, whom the king has married him off to, unless she bears his child and wears his family ring. He leaves for Italy but she follows him and tricks him into going to bed with her, thinking she's someone else. The play "ends well" in the sense that she does get his ring and his child, and so he acknowledges her as his true wife. The title seems to imply the ends justify the means.
Tony doesn't bother trying to defend this one. As soon as he hears, "Il re è un mendicante , ora il gioco è fatto: Tutto è bene finito , se si vince questa tuta" ("The king's a beggar, now the play is done: All is well ended, if this suit be won"), he gets to his feet and picks up our overnight bags, although the King's speech isn't quite over.
He says, "Come on, we've got a train to catch." So we head back the way we came three weeks ago—the train, the ferry, and then across the bridge, back to our castle.
"Castle sweet castle," he says in the entryway.
I laugh. "Yes, very sweet."
"Angela, the festival and all that was fun but let's not do any more side trips the rest of our stay, OK?"
"OK. There's not much more than a week left anyway."
He shakes his head. "The time has gone too fast."
"I know. But we can't honeymoon forever."
"Who says we can't?" He drops our overnight bags on the floor and picks me up, then starts to carry me up three flights of stairs!
"Tony, shouldn't you be saving your energy?" It's partly a tease and partly concern. After all, he's in great shape for a man of his age, but he is, well, a man of his age.
"It's fine, Angela," he pants. I'm starting to regret all those heavy Neapolitan meals. And after two flights, he says, "Uh, Angela, would you mind if we used a different bedroom?"
"No, I don't mind."
So he takes me to the nearest one. It doesn't have our things in it, but the bed is made of course. For the moment.
He sets me on the bed and then starts kissing and undressing me.
"Maybe I haven't tamed you," I tease.
"You'd better not ever tame this side of me."
"Don't worry, I've got a side to match it."
And then, as if we're starved for each other, we strip each other down within a minute and run our hands all over each other's skin. I realize that, while I don't love him just because he's Italian, somehow being surrounded by Italians these past few days has reminded me of the Italian-ness I love in him. His dark eyes and hair, his Roman build, his Roman nose, and his olive skin. And his passion, his warm, sexy passion!
I know it's a cliché to say he devours me with his kisses, but sometimes he does. Sweet, greedy kisses everywhere, making my skin turn pink. The sweetest kiss is the one he gives me as he enters me. This time, we keep kissing as we make love. Even the sex is like kissing, although not with mouths.
It's been a long day and we fall asleep afterwards. Our usual room can wait till tomorrow. And, yes, all's well that ends well, except we are ending only the day, and our holiday within a holiday.
