“Ugh” was the only thing that Lora could utter. Her phone lit up with a call coming in from a +39 phone number. Who would be calling her from Italy? She tapped the phone to answer.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice began a tirade in Italian. She could not understand anything but a few words, of course, and pulled her head away from the phone.Wait, was it Franca?
“Giada, I don’t understand one word. Can you help?”
“Sì, sì,” she said, reaching for the phone. “Pronto. Io sono Giada, amica di la Loretta—ah, ciao, Franca.It’s Franca.” She listened as Franca went on and on, occasionally repeating “Sì, sì” until she finally said “Ciao” and ended the call.
“And so?”
“She said she tried to contact Andrea, but he is not answering his phone, so she called you directly. She mentioned that you should learn Italian.” She rolled her eyes, then shook her head. “There’s something wrong with your citizenship papers? She said to call Andrea and get him to call her back immediately.”
Lora was already dialing Andrea as she walked out of the café.
“Hi, I’ve been meaning to thank you for the scanner in person, but I’ve been so busy—” he said upon answering.
“Are you in town?” She cut him off. “Franca just called me. Giada helped with translation. There’s a problem with the documents. I don’t know what.”
“I’m here. I’m near the piazza,” he said, his voice unsteady as though he were walking fast. In a moment, he appeared at the north end of the square and locked eyes with her where she stood. He wore carpenter’s pants and one of those T-shirts that had made her stutter the first time she saw him. “I’m calling her now,” he said, tapping the call to end. Lora watched him connect the next call as he came closer to her. His voice strained as he paced around an ancient bronze hitching post. Finally he finished and took the few remaining steps to reach Lora.
“You have a middle name.”
“I do.”
“Which is written on your birth certificate and passport, but when you filled out the application for citizenship here, you did not specify the middle name. Or at least not all of it. You wrote ‘Loretta E. Giordano.’ Your birth name is—”
“Loretta Elaine Giordano.”
“Why didn’t you write it out?” he asked.
“I usually only write ‘E’ in the US.”
“This is not the US.”
“I understand that now,” she said, reaching up to straighten her bangs. She started to sweat.
“They plan to reject the documents, and you can apply again in sixty days, but…” he said. She felt her blood pressure rise to its limit. She clutched her chest, but he covered herhand with his own. “I am going to make a phone call that I probably shouldn’t.”
“What should you not be doing? Don’t do something you shouldn’t be doing!” She was fully panicking now.
“Lora,” he began. He dropped her hand and pointed to his phone. “It’s either this or you’re not making it to Zurich. We don’t have a lot of choices. Just give me a minute.”
“But you have so much to do! Isn’t there any way I can manage this on my own?”
“No,” he said, his eyes burning hers. “There isn’t.”
She watched him walk away from her again to the center of the piazza, tap his phone, and wait for the call to connect. She backed up into the café instinctively, as if trying to get away from a blast, and slumped back onto her stool. Even if she was right next to him, she wouldn’t understand what he was saying. He paced, and she could see him trying to restrain the tone of his voice, gesticulating with his hands into the air. She and Giada exchanged an alarmed look while his voice raised and the movements of his arms became wider, his strides longer as he crossed and recrossed the stones.
“No, no, no, assolutamente, no,” he said. It was the only phrase she understood. Her stomach was in knots watching him and knowing that this was all about her. After what seemed like a half hour, it appeared that he was winding down the conversation. All of the “No, no, no” turned into “Sì, sì, OK” and the veins in his neck started to hide again. He finally stood still, raised his eyes to hers, and tapped the phone ending the call.
He walked back toward the café, looking like he’d run a 1500-meter sprint.
“I spoke directly to the office of theprefettoin Genovaand asked him to intervene. I tried to impart to him the urgency of the situation. He will speak directly to the immigration officer, which is something that is”—he paused, took in a deep breath—“unexpected. It will be taken care of. Crisis averted.”
“How do I—” she stammered. “How do I thank you?”
“You have to stop thanking me. I only want you to get where you want to go.”
