. 09

Author's note:

This is, in all its seven parts and their many chapters, one very,

very

long story. If long stories bother you, I suggest you read something else.

No part of this story is written so as to stand on its own. I strongly suggest that you start with

the beginning of Part 1

and read sequentially—giving up at any point you choose, of course.

All sexual activity portrayed anywhere in this story involves only people at least eighteen years old.

This entire story is posted only on literotica.com. Any other public posting without my permission in writing is a violation of my copyright.

A couple of months before our firstborn was due, Ellen asked me, "Phil, is it all right for me to try to bring our kids up knowing Italian?"

I thought for a minute or so. "On the one hand, I think there are huge advantages to being bilingual. And the time to start is early. Mom and Sam are good examples. For some reason I don't think I ever thought to ask you when and how you came to know Italian. But I saw that having German in high school was good, and I learned a lot, but I can't really carry on a real-life conversation, not on any real topics—even determined as they were to make us work at it. It looks like it takes time, no matter what, and the older you are the harder it gets.

"On the other hand, I'm not really eager to be the only one in the family who can be shut out of a discussion that easily. They'll learn really fast that if you're not there, they can get away with murder, because I won't know what they're up to."

"That's a fair point. I'd already thought of it, though. My next suggestion was going to be that you take some of your abundant free time and start learning Italian, too." She smiled at me, but I could see she was serious—except about my free time.

"There's another reason, too, beyond doing it for the kids. And no, I don't mean so that you can talk to me about

amore

, either. I promise, I'm not seeing things, but I look at your work, and I think, one of these days, someone is going to want to send you somewhere in Europe, to meet someone, to investigate something. Italy may not be the most obvious place, but if you're going to start preparing, I really think your choices are German lessons or Italian lessons. At least I can help you if it's Italian, and I don't have the impression that you would be all that motivated, for German. And if German ever turns out to be needed, well, you've already got groundwork, you'll just need a year or two of hard tutoring."

"Hon, how did you come to learn Italian, anyway? Sam and Mom both learned it from their mothers, at least starting out. I know you can follow Cantonese a little, sometimes, but I'm sure you've told me you can't speak it. Or read it, at that. Your parents know more, but didn't use it with you and Steve, right?"

"That's right. As far as Italian—. Um. A lot I only know by deduction, from things Mother said. But I was in a preschool, pretty young—half days, I think, maybe not even every day. Well, they tried to make it educational as well as fun, and I'm pretty sure Mother and Father did some investigating about what that actually meant and how the kids actually performed. But anyway, they had an Italian woman there and a Latina, and they let them work on teaching the kids. Immersion, not sitting at a desk being drilled. But part of the time, if you played in their areas, you had to speak Italian, or Spanish. And the play was very interactive.

"For whatever reason, I think Mother didn't think much of the Hispanic woman, and she never said why in my hearing. But I really liked the Italiana, she was my favorite, and I stayed in her area as much as I could. She talked to us in Italian, using gestures as much as she could to help us understand. She was pretty good at figuring out what we were trying to say, and helping us say it in Italian. As far as possible, she made us use it with each other, too, in her little area.

"When I was in a regular school, Mother and Father must have looked for one that taught languages from the beginning, and I'm sure it cost them, but one of my classes was Italian, all the way through.

"Then, well, you know about high school. For people just starting a language, like you, they had fairly standard classroom instruction, with individual tutoring on the side. But I was already fluent, if not really at anything like the level a native speaker has, and they really pushed me. The first two years, a whole class period was conversation, one or two on one, or sometimes up to four or five on one. Directed by the instructor, so that we covered lots of vocabulary, and at normal speed. We had to write some of our class assignments in Italian, too, during that time—I mean for our regular classes, and I have no idea how they managed the grading."

I spent some time thinking about that, but finally said, "That's interesting, but I guess it really doesn't apply to me. I really hate to think about the time it may take, but let me think about how I could work it."

"Actually, I have an idea on that, too. You know that if we're at a party or something, I usually wind up talking a lot to Maria Ferrari, if she's there? With Giuseppe, too, if he is?"

I nodded. Maria was one of my coworkers, but not one I worked closely with very often. She and her husband, Giuseppe, were Italian-Americans. Both their sets of parents were immigrants. A lot of Maria's work involved cataloging and summarizing Italian publications in the museum's collection, and especially helping people who came to us to do research and who weren't able to handle Italian themselves. She also provided some similar help with Spanish and French. In some ways, she did much the same kind of work I did, except that I helped people with historical questions and she with linguistic and cultural ones. She was knowledgeable in matters beyond the language, too, things that made her an asset to the museum. Well, I guess this was true of me, too, and in fact of most of us. I thought one reason they liked to talk to Ellen was just for the chance to speak Italian, though I was sure they had other opportunities, too. And I knew for sure that was one reason Ellen liked to talk to them, but far from the only reason. They were both friendly, and I was pretty sure they just clicked.

I got along with Maria very well, and occasionally we worked together, when issues of Italian history came up, or works by Italian historians. She was pretty and very nice, enough so that Jenny and Sam would have been making comments about it if they'd been involved. But our work didn't overlap all that often, even with our relatively small employee pool.

I knew Giuseppe, but not really that well. Anyone could see he was smart and nice. Both of them were friendly, and animated in conversation, gesturing a lot more than most Americans. Their English had a hint of an accent, but no more. For example, when Maria said my name, it was clearly pronounced "fill" not "feel"—but I could hear a faint echo of an English long "e" in it, somewhere. An Italian "i," I should say.

"You know Giuseppe teaches high-school Italian, right? He also does some tutoring on the side, freelance. I asked, and he would be willing to work with you. It would need to be a couple of sessions a week, either Monday and Wednesday evenings or Sunday afternoons with one of those—that's what he has open." She told me how much it would cost, and while it would stretch our budget a little, we could manage it. I was more worried about the time, though.

"And there's a bonus! Maria offered to try to schedule her lunch breaks to eat with you, when you both can, and work with you, and that wouldn't cost anything more."

I looked at Ellen. "You really want me to do this."

She took a deep breath and let it out. "Yes. I don't know why it feels so important to me. Maybe it's just that I'm thinking of the kids, and I think I'll need your help. But yes, I really want you to."

So my Wednesday evenings and much of Sunday afternoons were spent with Giuseppe, pretty consistently. And Maria and I managed to eat our lunches together at least a couple of days most weeks, and sometimes every day.

Giuseppe insisted, during our formal time, on using Italian only. That sharply limited what we could talk about—but gave me a lot of incentive to build my vocabulary. If we were talking outside that time, he still wanted me to use Italian—but if the topic was beyond my ability, he would let me use English, or use it himself, if really necessary. He was patient and thorough.

We started in a neutral environment, typically a coffee shop, but after a few weeks I asked him to come to our apartment instead. It took that long partly because I waited until I was sure we were comfortable enough with each other, and partly because I had to ask in Italian. I managed, albeit badly. He took the opportunity to improve my vocabulary: I had asked using, "

a casa nostra

," and he asked, "

Al vostro appartamento?

"

So after that, most times, he came to us. I had noted what he usually ordered and told Ellen, so we had his preferred coffee and some of the pastries on hand. The first time, though, he told Ellen that she didn't need to buy him anything like that. They spoke to each other slowly, for my benefit, but didn't—I thought—dumb down their wording. After that, we made sure we had some kind of minor dessert on hand, our standard cookies if nothing else, and he was quite willing to have some if I did.

When Ellen was there, she didn't take part in the lessons, but she listened when she wasn't too busy with other things.

I really enjoyed my lunches with Maria. Ellen knew I found her attractive. Well, anyone who saw her knew she was very pretty, and Ellen knew the kind of woman whom I found attractive in personality, but I also had a policy of telling her if I found a woman attractive—at least, anyone I would be in regular contact with, as I was with Maria even before all this. Ellen trusted me, but I thought this was important. I also told her if someone flirted with me, whether or not I found the woman attractive. Of course, some women are just a little flirtatious with all men, and it's be nothing more than their manner—but some are definitely suggesting more than flirtation. If something like that continued, I normally would say something to the woman in question, and I usually managed to get across that I meant it. A couple of times, though, nothing I said seemed to make any difference—or maybe it just seemed like a challenge—and Ellen went and talked with the woman. Whatever she said solved the problem. I didn't ask for details. I occasionally wondered again whether she'd had a course or two in mind control, though.

This never was a problem with Maria. She was expressive, normally greeting friends with a hug and a kiss on the cheek or cheeks—more like a cheek-to-cheek kiss toward the cheek, maybe—but that clearly was nothing more than friendship. Giuseppe greeted women friends similarly, and while I wasn't really sure of customs, I kind of thought that in Italy he might have greeted male friends the same way—that he'd learned that American men found this uncomfortable. I had been a friend—in this sense—to Maria for some time, but it was a while longer before Giuseppe treated me as a friend as well as a pupil. With him, that meant a handshake, but somehow he made it mean more than most Americans managed.

As we ate, Maria and I spoke mostly in English, not limiting our topics to my knowledge of Italian, but we used Italian as much as I was able—which of course increased over time. If she thought I would understand, that's how she spoke to me. From the first of these lunches, and in fact whenever we were in contact thereafter, we greeted with something like, "

Ciao, come stai?

" and replies starting with, "

Non c'è male

," and working up some as I learned. She would correct me—pronunciation, grammar, vocabulary, or usage—but she was willing to explain in English, especially regarding usage. Everything about our talks was enjoyable, but her language help made things much easier for me.

So after a while I invited her to come with Giuseppe on Sunday afternoons, when it was convenient for her. When she came, she usually sat with Ellen and talked quietly enough that it was no real distraction for Giuseppe and me. Since much of Ellen's time at first was taken caring for a newborn, this was very welcome to her—she wasn't getting out as much as she would have preferred. After my lesson, we all sat and talked for a bit. Giuseppe tended to use Italian unless I was really out of my depth, but the women took pity on me a little more.

We both really liked them. They were affectionate and devoted to each other, which we were happy to see. They were practicing Catholics. I really didn't know whether that translated to habit and tradition or to a living faith, in their case. I hoped that as my linguistic abilities improved and widened, we could talk about those things.

At any rate, by the time little Abraham—Avi—was starting to talk—really talk—I could handle enough Italian to avoid getting in the way too much. I actually felt more comfortable with Italian than I did with German, where I still had a much greater vocabulary and understanding of grammar even after a few years of not using it much. My German classes had been classroom style, lots of vocabulary and grammatical memorization, with conversation secondary and pretty artificial. Tutoring on the side, yes, but that had been primarily drill and a chance for the tutor to evaluate me, to make sure I didn't fall behind.

I could see that we would eventually have to work with Avi to make clear that English and Italian were separate and needed to be used with different people.

Mom was surprised when we told her I was working to learn Italian, and started speaking it with me, way beyond my abilities. That probably wasn't bad for me, as an added opportunity for practice, but I got very tired of saying, "

Non capisco!

" I was pretty sure she would help teach the kids, probably more than I could.

And when Ellen's parents came to visit, I was surprised at how pleased they were. I eventually decided that they thought it was evidence of initiative on my part, even though we told them it had been Ellen's idea.

They had approved likewise of my working at taekwondo, I realized. Maybe it was initiative and willingness to work hard toward a goal—or maybe my willingness to do something like that at Ellen's instigation. I never asked—how could they answer a question like that, anyway?—but I was always glad of their approval.

Revision: 8/15/2019