Come to Como

“I can’t write jokes, I am a joke.”

She tore another page out of her tiny notebook, crumpled it up, and tossed it in the general direction of the already full bin.

She let out a heavy sigh, slumped in her chair.

Her roommate glanced over, vaguely concerned but not wanting to interfere unless it was a true emergency, which it obviously wasn’t.

She went back to her reading.

“Arghhhhh I can’t believe I thought this gig would be good for me, I’m a poet not a comedy writer,” she mumbled, half to herself, half to The Muse.

“Sure, but when has anyone ever bought one of your poems, Dom? Bang this out, send it to the editor, then let’s go get a drink.”

“I can’t afford a drink, and if I know you at all, which I do, you probably can’t either - crap who’s this calling?”

As she answered the phone, she scrunched up her brow in confusion. She mumbled something to the person on the other end. Finally,

“Listen I think you have the wrong number or something. I’m sure I didn’t have any living relatives back in Italy. I think I would know. But I’m very sorry anyway, for - what was the name you said? Genevria, right. Sorry to hear about Genevria. Good luck finding the person you’re looking for.”

She hung up.

“Jane, I kid you not, that was some weird identity theft scammer calling saying they were a life insurance company in Italy and my ‘great aunt’ had died and I needed to come take care of her ‘effects’ - I mean seriously what the—“

“Ha! What will these robocallers think of next? Come on, it’s after seven. That was a sign, it’s time to throw in the towel. We can buy one of those little cans of crappy champagne you love so much and ride the ferry at least.”

“I mean, we are very classy ladies.”

The ride on the Staten Island Ferry did cheer her up a bit, especially since it was free, and Jane paid for the bubbles. She felt like she was actually on a trip for a moment, the sun dipping into the green gray water behind Lady Liberty. She even sketched her friend, wind whipping around her face, then tucked her notebook back in her breast pocket.

//

She woke up late the next day, to a knock on the door. A courier was standing on the small crumbling stoop, late morning sun making him squint. He held a small creamy white envelope with about a dozen stamps on it.

“Ms - ah - Domenicia? Domina? Sorry, I —“ he stammered.

“Domenica, ya, that’s me, call me Dom, it’s fine.”

He thrust out the envelope.

“Urgent international mail! Sent express. Should’ve been here this morning, and now, well…” he paused, looking at her and realizing she had obviously just woken up and had not been frantically awaiting this particular piece of post.

She smiled to try to help him understand he had done his job well and she would not be filing a complaint with whatever obscure delivery service has contracted him. She held out her hand to take the envelope, startlingly soft between her fingers, and joked, “And it isn’t even my birthday! Lucky me.”

The man was clearly so relieved at her mild attempt at her humor that he laughed way too hard. He smiled, turned on his heel, and ran away.

Sure enough, the envelope was actually addressed to her, and sent from Milan.

“You’re kidding me,” she said to no one.

She pushed her finger between the seal, and pulled out a note addressed to her.

Domenica,

Please forgive if the English is bad. My girlfriend helped me, she’s better than me.

I don’t know how to say this. I don’t know if you’ll even read this.

I’m your cousin.

I - this is a crazy, but please believe me - when your parents left for the big New York,

The family couldn’t take it to. They cut them off, swore to never speak to them again.

Sure enough, my dad, your dad’s brother, he never spoke to your dad again.

Never he forgave your mom for took him away from the family I guess.

But when my dad passed away a since few years, he finally admitted to me that he

knew about you! I have a cousin! Which is pretty cool because I have no brothers.

Listen, the insurance company will call you about auntie Genevria, but I think you should come to here to see

for yourself, you know? Come to Milan, I can take you to Como. You can meet the family.

I know your parents are gone for a long time now. I know you maybe think it is stupid.

But if you can come, come. Come to Como and I will tell you everything I know.

Aldo

PS Come straight away if you can - call me (+39 02 8909 2219) when you land in Milan and I will take you to Como.

She read and re-read the note probably a dozen times before Jane came over and gently pulled it out of her hands.

Dom finally looked up and blinked, looked at her dear friend, and whispered, “I guess the robocaller was right. I’m going to Italy. Tonight.”

//

Strangely, she slept well on the flight. After sipping a tiny bottle of wine and writing herself a shred of a poem in her book,

her head lolled over toward the window and she was lost to the world as the Atlantic slipped away beneath her.

She had been known to be impulsive before, but maxing out a credit card for a same day flight to a place she’d never been to meet a man she’d never met?

That was impressive. She knew hypothetically she should be worried, but she couldn’t explain it; She just… wasn’t.

Her mom had once told her, “Worrying is paying in advance for something you might not even need to buy.”

They were a frugal family, while they lasted.

Suddenly, scratchy words in a language she barely recognized piped over the intercom. Something like,

“Ora stiamo atterrando all'aeroporto internazionale di milano”

“Well, here we are… I guess?”

She tucked her notebook in her pocket, patting it to make sure it was secure, grabbed her small carryon, and wandered off the jet, eyes slightly glazed. She absentmindedly stepped on a fellow passenger’s fine stiletto, and heard, “Che cazzo!”

She stopped in her tracks, about to apologize, then exclaimed, “Wait, you really say that here??? Amazing. I mean, mi scusi???”

Maybe this trip was going to be funnier than she thought, considering she was about to learn about the death of her estranged secret mysterious Italian family.

//

It was early morning, and the voice on the other end of the line sounded a bit groggy. But when he realized it was her, Aldo exclaimed, “No way cousin! I am coming. Now. Yes, I am coming. Wave to me, I am the little red one.”

“The little red wha—“

He hung up.

//

He was easy to find, in the car so tiny, shiny and bright it may as well have been a maraschino - wait were those Italian too? - cherry.

She waved, still amazed at how not afraid she was, and he careened over to the curb, leaping out within seconds to grab her and kiss her no less than ten times total, cheek to cheek.

“Welcome my cousin! I googled you you know! You are a funny girl. Maybe you will write me some jokes about Italy. About espresso. Wait, maybe we should take an espresso in fact.

You look so tired. Really really tired.”

“Oh, no, that’s just how my face is,” she smiled.

“Ey!! A joke already. I like you cousin, get in.”

//

Over the tiniest coffee she’d ever seen, Dom listened while Aldo filled her in on a few of the details, albeit in his own artistic order. Apparently being a failed, obscure, confused writer was in her blood.

“Listen me Domenica, I tell you, our great auntie Ginevria could have been great. She was the craziest one. She had, how do you say ‘spirito creativo!’”

“I’m gonna have to go ahead and guess ‘creative spirit’”

“Exacto.”

“So we’re going to drive in Il Maraschino up to a mysterious Alpine Lake so you can show me all her weird old poetry books and writings and things?”

“Exacto. Let’s go.”

//

As it turned out, the place where her great aunt had lived just happened to be the most beautiful tiny village on earth. A waterfront forested cluster of tan, coral, and golden buildings covered in moss and flowers she’d never seen before. Ginevria’s tiny villa looked like it had emerged straight from the ancient stone. Running her fingers over the musty old books, flipping through newspapers and magazines and sheafs of yellowing papers, she saw a tiny black notebook amongst the chaos. Confused, she patted her breast pocket, thinking maybe hers had fallen out.

“Wow, we seriously had the same little black book of thoughts? No way,” Dom muttered.

She picked up the book, and began flipping through. The words were amazing, written in small slated script, but legible. Many, many poems, but some short stories about herself, musings about her life, gossip about neighbors, and even - she couldn’t believe it - some perfectly crafted jokes.

“Aldo! Come here! You won’t believe this.”

//

Over espresso again, now in a sleek Milanese office, Domenica waited patiently while the man slid a paper over to her.

For your collected writings and story of Ginevria and Domenica, The Company is pleased to offer you 16,546.02 Euro as your advance

“How much is this in American dollars?”

“Oh, about 20,000.”