Today, Mr. Manzoni is on a roll. "Attenzione! Tutti in piedi! Il Canto degli Italiani!" he shouts, waving his hands wildly as the Italian national anthem plays on a cheap boom box.
The students -- of which the headcount is notably reduced from the first class, but still includes Molly -- stare at him uncomprehendingly.
"Tutti in piedi! Tutti in piedi!" Mr. Manzoni grows increasingly mad in his gestures. Molly has no idea what he's trying to say, but from gestures alone figures out that she's supposed to stand up.
Mr. Manzoni reads several names from a sheet of paper and each time is greeted with silence. It seems that some students dropped the course. Molly wonders how they will pass the Music exam and graduate.
"Bloom!" Molly snaps out of her wonderment and raises her hand. She knows better than to actually say something.
Mr. Manzoni picks up a book, flips through it to a bookmarked page, walks over to Molly and thrusts the book into her hands. Molly wrinkles her nose. He smells. Mr. Manzoni stabs the page with his pudgy, nicotine-stained finger. "Leggi!"
Molly looks at the book. It reads:
In su l'estremità d'un'alta ripa
che facevan gran pietre rotte in cerchio,
venimmo sopra più crudele stipa;
e quivi, per l'orribile soperchio
del puzzo che 'l profondo abisso gitta,
ci raccostammo, in dietro, ad un coperchio
d'un grand' avello, ov' io vidi una scritta
che dicea: "Anastasio papa guardo,
lo qual trasse Fotin de la via dritta."
She looks back at Mr. Manzoni. Understand this: in the karate dojo, Molly fearlessly faces down bigger and stronger opponents; at the keyboard, she plunges into the most difficult scores without blinking; in the studio, she stands naked before inquisitive artists without fear or shame. But here and now, alternating glances between the text and smelly Mr. Manzoni, she feels complete and utter dread.
"In...su...less...less...lesstrem..."
Mr. Manzoni explodes. "No! No! No! No! No! Pronuncia! Sputo!" He makes a spitting gesture, which Molly correctly interprets to mean extreme displeasure.
Meanwhile, in the Dining Hall, Roderick fills his tray with an early lunch. Exiting the line, he sees Anna Zemlinsky sitting by herself. He approaches.
"May I sit here?" he inquires.
Anna smiles. "Please!"
Roderick sits. "Where are you from?", he asks.
"Milano."
"Oh, in Italy." Anna nods and smiles. Roderick doesn't know anyone from Italy. In fact he doesn't know anyone from another country. Oh, wait-- there's Bibi, the gorgeous Swedish girl and her idiot brother. Also, Mr. Cupcake is from Slovenia or something.
"You speak perfect English."
"Thank you."
"You don't look Italian."
"What do Italians look like?"
Roderick searches his mental bank of stereotypes and settles on Sophia Loren. "Dark-haired and big breasted."
Anna makes a little movement with her upper body as if to say "You don't think these are big?" without actually saying it. Roderick gets the point.
"How did you learn to speak English so well?"
"Mama and Papa sent me to school in Switzerland. I can speak Italian, German, French, English and a little Dutch." She giggles. "My best friend in school comes from Amsterdam."
"Say something in Dutch."
"Het is zo leuk je te ontmoeten."
"Can you say that in Italian?"
"E 'così bello conoscerti."
Anna's voice sends a thrill up Roderick's leg.
