Despite the cool, damp weather, as he sat there in the living room of Giancarlo Rosa, Carter felt a sheen of sweat forming on his brow. From the time he first sat down to begin the lesson through that very moment, il Professore, as Carter liked to address Giancarlo, had been cracking the whip. It was Wednesday, the first week of July.There would be no lesson that following Friday, for it fell on the Fourth of July, so it seemed his teacher was intent on reviewing everything he had taught Carter since the very first day he came to the house. The days of the week, the months of the year, the hours of the day, what to say and do in a restaurant and a bank, how to ask for directions, numbers, the names of the colors, a seemingly endless stream of nouns and verbs and adjectives he had learned.

All of it.

“Ripeta!” Giancarlo would command him, impatiently tapping his pencil against the table when his student did not respond to a question in quite the right way.

“Pensa!” he told him, imploring Carter to think.

On and on it went in this way, Giancarlo drilling him on everything they had covered, and Carter struggling all the while to keep pace, his brain scouring its every corner to find the right words. It was an exercise that required in its own way as much effort as any he had ever put forth in the gym or on the playing fields, and he felt physically tired when at last Giancarlo stopped, sat back, and eyed his student for a moment, the briefest hint of a look of satisfaction coming over his face.

“Bene,” the professor grunted, eyeing Carter with a look of approval, as might a coach whose player has worked hard in practice and was now beginning to show signs of real promise.

Carter himself was suddenly filled with a sense of accomplishment as he thought back over the volume of material they had just reviewed. It had been barely a month since he began his Italian lessons, but he had worked very hard and learned—at least so he thought—a great deal. Still he was curious about where he stood, for he had no way of knowing how his performance compared with that of the other students his professor had taught. He sat there for a moment, considering how best to put the question into words.

“Faccio progresso?” he finally said in a tentative voice, asking if he had made progress.

“Enorme!” cried Giancarlo, throwing his hands up in a rare gesture of enthusiasm that conveyed to Carter that the strides he had thus far made in the language had been great. It was the first time he had seen il Professore so animated. “Yes, you are doing exceedingly well,” his teacher added in English. “A very good start.”