“And why are you coming to me now?” asked Rosa. “Didn’t they have any Italian courses at your university for you to take?”

“Oh, sure they did,” said Carter. “But it wasn’t until just a few weeks ago that I decided to take a trip to Italy sometime this summer.”

“I see. And just what was it that inspired you to do that?”

At this question the young man grew ill at ease. He shifted his stance and looked down at his feet.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said after a time.

“Try.”

“Well, it’s just that lately I’ve become really interested in Italian culture,” he offered. “I’d like to learn more about it, so I thought studying the language would be the best place to start.”

At this pronouncement, Rosa paused and looked once more over his shoulder, eyeing the young man with a look of bemusement. He chuckled to himself as he turned around and leaned back against the edge of the desk, his arms folded.

“So tell me,” he said in a far gentler voice than he had thus far used to address the young man, “what was her name?”

“What do you mean?” said Carter, his face reddening.

“Please, Mister Quinn,” said the professor with a dismissive wave of his hand, “let’s not play games. When and if I agree to invest my time in teaching, I do it only for people who I believe are truly motivated. Otherwise it’s a waste of my time and their money. Now I know some might construe what I’m about to say to you as less than politically correct, but when a young woman comes to me and tells me that she wants to learn to speak Italian because she is interested in studying Italian culture, I usually believe that this is her true intention, because more often than not, this is truly the case. On the other hand, when someone such as yourself comes to me and says that he wants to speak Italian because he is interested in studying Italian culture, more often than not what he is really interested in studying is an Italian woman. So, Mister Carter, Carter Quinn, I’ll ask you again. What was her name?”

A long pause ensued. From what Rosa could see from the pained look on his face, the young man was feverishly turning the question over and over in his mind. At last he dropped his arms to his side and heaved a weary sigh, as if all the energy that had driven him to that place had suddenly left him.

“Elena,” he finally said, speaking the name in an almost reverential voice.

“Elena,” Rosa repeated upon hearing this confession. “A beautiful name. I trust it belongs to a beautiful young lady.”

“Very,” Carter murmured. Then, squirreling up the side of his mouth, he sighed again and added, “How did you know? I mean, is it that obvious?”