Chapter 48
AFTER I HAD THAT FIRST orgasm, I went back and forth all day about whether to tell Paul what had happened.
On one hand, I wanted him to know that I had this strange new superpower.
On the other, telling him I had figured out how to orgasm—on my own—would be as good as admitting that all those times I’d whispered Yes!
Yes! Yes! into his ear had been over a whole lot of nothing.
By the time Paul arrived back at the hotel that evening, I had resolved to keep my mouth shut but to try to get him naked and see if I could re-create the whole scenario, or some version of it, with him.
I attacked Paul as soon as he walked through the door, and while he initially gave me a suggestive “Oh, hey,” he wouldn’t let me so much as undo his belt buckle. “No time,” he said, as I kissed him.
I tried harder. “There’s definitely time.”
“Nope,” he said, looking at his watch. “Not even close. I’ve got to be at the municipal building in seven minutes.”
I pulled away from him. “Why?”
“There’s a City Council meeting. And the commodore needs me to translate.”
“The commodore?” I said, stunned.
Paul was beaming. “Bill Greer asked for me personally.”
“Where’s Bornemann?” I asked, because this seemed like the type of work that was best suited to the command’s public affairs officer.
“Janine Greer needed to borrow him for some committee she’s on.”
I was genuinely surprised that the commodore had deemed Paul a suitable backup.
I’d only watched my husband order a panini and a couple of plates of pasta, but I’d gotten the impression that his Italian wasn’t that good.
I mean, it was better than mine, by a long shot, but he was by no means fluent.
“Are you going to be okay translating?” I asked him as he limped to the windowsill, where I kept the Nutella and a loaf of bread. He opened the bread bag, and since I could tell he needed a knife, I retrieved one from the bedside table. “I mean, do you think you’ll understand enough?”
Paul looked a little annoyed. “Pensi che il mio Italiano non sia abbastanza buono?”
I didn’t know what he was saying, but I knew he was showing off.
“I just mean, like, the vocabulary and stuff,” I said as I handed him the knife.
“Your grandmother was talking to you about the old country and maybe how to make a marinara, but I’m guessing she never said a word about nuclear submarines. ”
I watched him make an open-faced sandwich, fold it in half, and take a big bite. Then he said, “You know what the word nuclear is in Italian?”
“What?”
“Nucleare.”
I swatted at his arm. “You know what I mean.”
“The commodore gets by okay. I think he just wants some extra uniforms in the room.”
“Why?”
“The PCI’s introducing a resolution to kick us out of Sardinia.”
I thought of the translated flyer, still tucked inside my Intercultural Relations Seminar handbook. Let Italian ports be ports of peace. Get atomic bases out of Italy.
“Can they do that?” I asked.
“Hell, no. I mean, they can try to pass a resolution, but whether we stay or go isn’t up to some rinky-dink City Council.”
“Who’s it up to?”
Paul shrugged. “The Ministry of Defense, the PM, NATO, the pope, who the fuck knows?”
He had finished the sandwich and was looking around for his visor hat. I handed it to him, then asked, “Is the meeting open to the public?”
Paul seemed confused. “Why?”
“Maybe I could come?”
“Why would you want to?” he asked, and I was so startled by the question, I started to stammer.
“I’m here all day, and I just thought—”
Paul looked at his watch. “Babe, I’m sorry. I gotta go.”