Before Carter knew it, he was out the front door and being led by Giorgio down a side alley and back out into the other side of the village.There they emerged in front of a little neighborhood bar. Giorgio parted the beads that hung in the doorway, and the two walked in. It was, Carter discovered, a simple, one-room place, with a small bar, a few tables and chairs, and some benches pushed up against the wall. There were several men inside. Three grizzled characters sat at one of the tables, playing cards, while the others lounged about, talking and drinking. Almost all of them were puffing cigarettes. Apparently the nationwide prohibition against smoking in public establishments had not yet reached this particular outpost in Abruzzo, or if it had, no one was particularly concerned about it. At seeing Giorgio walk in with a stranger, all conversation stopped.

“Ascoltate,” Giorgio said to them. “Listen, everybody. This is my friend Carter. He just came from America to visit Antonella and me.”

Carter gave a little wave to everyone.

“Carter?” said one of the old men playing cards. “You mean like the president?”

“Yes,” Giorgio answered for him, “but it’s his first name.”

“Hey, that’s okay,” said the old man with a shrug. He raised his glass of wine. “Al Presidente,” he said straight-faced. “To the President.”

“Al Presidente!” the rest chimed in, and they all had a good laugh.

Henceforth that afternoon, Carter would be addressed as Il Presidente. He took the honorary title with good humor, and installed himself on one of the benches while Giorgio ordered two beers for them. By then everyone was talking and puffing their cigarettes again. Immersed in the smoke and the laughter and the nonstop spoken Italian, Carter did his best to understand what everyone was saying. From the snippets of conversation he was able to catch, he understood that some were talking about sports, others about politics, and the rest about women, pretty much all the same things men talked about in barrooms all over the world.

When Giorgio brought over Carter’s glass of beer, he raised his own to him and said, “Benvenuto, Carter. Welcome to Castelalto.”

“Benvenuto!” the others joined in.

“Grazie,” said Carter, raising his glass to them all. “Salute.”

“Salute!”

Carter took a sip of beer. Despite still suffering to some extent from the ill effects of the previous evening, he found the taste of it to his liking. All the same, he promised himself to drink it at a judicious pace.

“Hey, Signor Il Presidente,” one of the men called to him. “So tell us, what do you think of our country?”

“È bella,” Carter answered. “It’s beautiful.”

At this the men murmured their approval.

“But which do you prefer?” the man asked him. “America or Italy?”

The room fell suddenly quiet, and Carter got the distinct impression that he was being put on the spot.