Page 13 of Marcello

Didn’t matter. I understood enough.

I ripped the hand-written sign off the door and walked over to the counter, where a fifty-something guy with a greasy apron and three days’ worth of stubble was yelling at somebody in the kitchen.

“Hey – do you still need a dishwasher?” I asked as I held up the sign.

He squinted at me and asked in a heavy Neapolitan accent, “Where the hell are you from?”

“Florence.”

“What’re you doing in Naples?”

“I just moved here.”

He paused for a second, then said, “No. We don’t need a dishwasher anymore.”

I figured he didn’t like that I was from out of town, so I pressed my case. “I’m a hard worker – I’ll do a great job, I’ll always be on time, and – ”

As I was talking, a waitress walked over beside the guy and started checking me out. She was several years older than me and very artsy-looking. She had purple streaks in her hair, eyebrow piercings, a nose ring, and glasses with black plastic rims.

She also had a couple of tattoos visible on her bare arms. One was of the painter Frida Kahlo. Another was of a mermaid.

I was telling the guy in the greasy apron how I’d been a good student at the University of Florence when he interrupted me. “No – the position is already filled.”

The girl said something to him. I didn’t quite catch it all, but her tone of voice sounded like she was reprimanding him. Plus, I heard the Italian words for still and dishwasher in there.

The old guy yelled at her, which I only half understood. Something about me being a stray cat off the street.

She yelled back at him – something about being tired of doing two jobs.

As they shouted back and forth, I only understood a few random words.

Finally the guy threw up his hands and walked into the kitchen, yelling at her as he went.

The girl gave me a friendly smile and asked in perfect Italian, “When can you start?”

“Uh… right now, actually.”

“Fantastic. I’m Federica.”

“Marcello,” I said as I shook her hand.

“Just so you know, it’s crap wages – 8 euros an hour. I hope you’re okay with that.”

“No problem.” I was desperate, after all. “Could I ask you a question?”

“Sure – what?”

“Who was that guy you were arguing with?”

“That’s Tommaso. He’s the main cook and sort of like the manager. Not the owner, though.”

“What were the two of you saying to each other?”

She grinned. “Let me guess – you only caught half of it, right?”

“If that.”

“We were speaking Neapolitan.”