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  • Written by Andrea Lee
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  • Written by Andrea Lee
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A Novel

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On Sale: May 22, 2007
Pages: | ISBN: 978-1-58836-633-7
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

The Italian phrase Mai due senza tre–“never two without three”–forms the basis of Andrea Lee’s spellbinding novel of betrayal. Sophisticated and richly told, Lost Hearts in Italy reveals a trio caught in the grip of desire, deception, and remorse.

When Mira Ward, an American, relocates to Rome with her husband, Nick, she looks forward to a time of exploration and awakening. Young, beautiful, and in love, Mira is on the verge of a writing career, and giddy with the prospect of living abroad.

On the trip over, Mira meets Zenin, an older Italian billionaire, who intrigues Mira with his coolness and worldly mystique. A few weeks later, feeling idle and adrift in her new life, Mira agrees to a seemingly innocent lunch with Zenin and is soon catapulted into an intense affair, which moves beyond her control more quickly than she intends. Her job as a travel writer allows clandestine trysts and opulent getaways with Zenin to Paris, Monte Carlo, London, and Venice, and over the next few years, now the mother of a baby daughter, she struggles between resisting and relenting to this man who has such a hold on her. As her marriage erodes, so too does Mira’s sense of self, until she no longer resembles the free spirit she was on her arrival in the
on her arrival in the Eternal City.

Years later, Mira and Nick, now divorced and remarried to others, look back in an attempt to understand their history, while a detached Zenin assesses his own life and his role in the unlikely love triangle. Each recounts the past, aided by those witness to their failure and fallout.
An elegant, raw, and emotionally charged read, Lost Hearts in Italy is a classic coming-of-age story in which cultures collide, innocence dissolves, and those we know most intimately remain foreign to us.


From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpt

Chapter 1 1

MIRA

P

2004 • telephone

The call comes three or four times a year. Always in the morning, when Mira’s husband and children have left the house, and she is at work in her study, in the dangerous company of words—words that are sometimes docile companions and at other times bolt off like schizophrenic lovers and leave you stranded on a street corner somewhere. There are moments when Mira, abandoned in the middle of a paragraph, sits glaring furiously out past the computer at the chestnut trees in her hillside garden and the industrial smudge of Turin below in the distance and the Alps beyond. Then the phone rings, and she breaks her own rule to grab it like a lifeline. And eerily enough, as if from hundreds of miles away he has sensed her bafflement, her moment of weakness, it is often Zenin, a man who once wrecked part of her life.

Oh, not Zenin himself, not at first. His billionaire’s paranoia is too strong for that. He never calls her on a cell phone, always from his office, never from one of his houses, from his yacht, from his jet. The call is placed by any one of a bevy of young Italian secretaries, the kind who announce their names in bright telemarketers’ voices. Pronto, it’s Sabrina. Marilena. Or Veronica. It’s different each time, but always the kind of aspirational Hollywood-style moniker that in Italian sounds slightly whorish.

È la dottoressa Ward? È proprio lei? The secretaries insist on asking twice if it is Mira. And they love her title, which is Italian grandiosity for a simple college degree. Zenin, the parvenu, loves it too, loves having a cultured woman to disturb. If anyone else answers, husband or children or maid, the girls have instructions to hang up. And after that, Sabrina or Marilena or Veronica always inquires, with arch emphasis, whether it is convenient for her to talk. Convenient as interpreted by a drug dealer or a stool pigeon, or of course a philandering wife.

Sometime during that familiar question, Mira’s body undergoes a swift unwelcome transformation: melting between the legs, throat suddenly garotted by an ancient knot of tears. Outdated reactions of the body, whose memory is longer than that of the heart.

Feelings left over from a time years earlier, when she was very young and lived in Rome. When she was still married to her first husband, an American as young and new to Europe as she was. Married and deep in adultery with Zenin, the Venetian tycoon whose cold sensuality and provincial vulgarity represented, to the girl she was back then, everything mysterious and desirable about Italy. A robber’s cave of wonders she was desperate to explore. It was a time when the dye of secrecy darkened every part of her life, and with a mixture of shame and longing she used to pray for calls like these. Because every call meant an assignation, and Zenin, at that point, was her religion.

Nowadays she hasn’t seen Zenin for nearly ten years. And when she realizes who is calling, the older Mira simply says to herself: bastard. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Italian. Bastardo. A toothless insult, but one that translates exactly.

But she doesn’t hang up. She always talks to Zenin.

This time, as usual, he asks what she is doing.

Working.

Working? Writing? Writing what—love poems? His familiar voice, with its Veneto accent, is teasing, that of an uncle talking to a beloved but difficult niece. And as always, it is surprisingly small, as the voice of the conscience is said to be. Not high, but faint and dry, as if lacking an essential fluid.

No, I’m writing an article about a cheese festival.

A cheese festival! Oh yes, laughs Zenin. I had almost forgotten how greedy you are. I’m sure you’re fat now, living in Turin with all the fonduta and truffles. Fat and badly dressed. A plump little provincial madamin. That’s what happens with a Piedmontese husband, neh? By the way, is he faithful?

Faithful enough for me.

A good wifely answer. And what about you, darling?

Don’t you wish you knew, says Mira evenly.

She can picture him clearly in his vast company headquarters in the industrial hinterland of Rovigo, a few hundred miles east across Piedmont and Lombardy. Veneto lowland country, where the great floodplain of the Brenta and the Po spreads from Petrarch’s green hills to the Adriatic in an expanse of cornfields, brick villages, grim rural factories, and the occasional lunar beauty of a Palladian facade. There, in his element, sits Zenin, tall, morose, and badly dressed, exuding his heavy aura of power over an acre of desk where he directs an empire that for children around the world is a byword for fun, a constantly evolving civilization of miniature toys and plastic gadgets, free gifts that lure them further into the sweet Cockaigne land of cereals and snacks. Mira winces sometimes at breakfast, watching her sons squabble over Zenin’s prizes.

I’d give everything I own to know, says Zenin. I’d love to fuck you again, Dottoressa Ward. Let’s meet next week. In Paris. Or New York. If you can get away for four days, come to Mauritius. There’s a new hotel there you’ll like. Just choose—I’ll arrange everything.

What is interesting is that Zenin’s voice doesn’t change when he says the word scopare—fuck. His voice takes on an erotic tremor only when he says arrange everything.

Mira agrees, as she always does. Va bene—all right—has a ceremonial sound. Like the close of a church service, a sign of acceptance and submission. She even adds a hint of comradely amusement, because after all this time she understands that Zenin has no power over her. She listens to him promise to call on Monday with plans and then puts down the phone. Knowing she won’t hear from him for months.

And as usual she sits turning the mystery over in her mind. Why Zenin bothers to go through this threadbare ritual. Why she lets him.

Her eyes run over the ranks of photographs crowded on the shelf near her desk. Mira and her present husband, Vanni, hamming it up in front of the Taj Mahal. School shots of her eight-year-old and six-year-old sons, Stefano and Zoo. Her daughter, Maddie, in a white commencement dress, brandishing a bouquet. The jacket photo for her first travel book, a dozen years earlier, where she peers rather belligerently out of a grotto in Matera. Boisterous family groups with scuba gear, on skis. Their Turin villa in the throes of restoration, the garden full of rubble, medieval brick doorways open to the weather. Her parents and sister, yellowed by seventies celluloid, waving from the steps of her childhood house in Philadelphia.

A defensive wall of memories, a gallery of life on two continents. The life she rebuilt in northern Italy after she left Rome and the ruins of that first marriage, that love affair. Yet nothing is a complete defense against Zenin. She thinks of an early story by Moravia called “Madness,” in which a rich Roman housewife amuses herself by pretending to an old flame, who lives far away, that she is an insane recluse. They have long telephone conversations in which she describes her ordinary family days as a series of hallucinations.

In the same way, when Zenin phones, the rest of the world recedes. They alone are real, two points of brightness connected by sound waves and the past. But as the connection is established, like lights on an electronic map, she imagines a third point lighting up somewhere else. Mai due senza tre, as the Italian saying goes, never two without three. The essential third point is her first husband, Nick, Zenin’s former rival. Hidden somewhere in the glass and steel corporate wilderness of Canary Wharf or Wall Street or the Bund in Shanghai. Mira never hears from him but she gets regular news from their daughter, Maddie, of his life in London, his family, his career in international finance. Nick is somehow always present at these encounters in space, where all times are one time.

It was always less like a triangle than a game, she thinks. One of those annoying electronic games her boys play, where computer-generated civilizations battle each other, or the kind of ancient board combat that people claim dates back to the Olmecs or Hittites or sunken Atlantis. A game with a dozen shifting alliances. Young married couple against the old libertine. Lovers against husband. Rich against not rich. Europe against America. A game of skill that at its hottest and hardest should have concluded, according to a military code of honor, or to the rules of storytelling, with an execution. At least a suicide. Except that the three of them obstinately remained alive. All three of them, Zenin, Nick, and Mira, have one thing in common besides a susceptibility to passion. And that is a stubborn, rather bourgeois attachment to life and its consolations.

So now, nearly two decades later, they’re all alive, widely separated, no longer hagridden by lust and jealousy, grown older and lazier, less exacting about their pleasures. Zenin, Mira reminds herself, is actually a grandfather. Nick has a beautiful second wife and two girls besides their own daughter, Maddie.

She herself is so immersed in the controlled chaos of family and work that she barely notices she is happy. The only thing that revives their game, their three-sided connection, is the empty liturgy of these phone calls from Zenin, which recall a moment in time when raw excess made them a casual aristocracy, apart from the rest of the world.

It’s nostalgia, thinks Mira, returning to her work. Not for love, of course. For being young.

But later she thinks that the calls are a way of saying, You still belong to me. And she knows that some part of her does belong to Zenin. And a part to Nick as well. As we always belong forever to people who have hurt us badly, or been badly hurt by us.

1985 • in the air

The story of Nick and Mira and Zenin begins with an act of generosity. Anonymous and spontaneous, the noblest kind. A graceful impulse on the part of a woman Mira never met. That’s the reason, one July afternoon, that she is sitting in a first-class lounge at Kennedy Airport.

Because a secretary or administrative assistant in the bank that has sent Nick Reiver, her husband, from Manhattan to its Rome office, has done him a friendly turn. Devised an illegal treat for his wife. For her transfer to Europe, a first-class ticket, where company policy barely stretches to business class. Afterward, Mira always pictures this generous secretary as a Billy Wilder character, a Fran Kubelik grown older, full of wisecracks but with a kind of virtue that goes deeper than a heart of gold. A sort of elemental sweetness that only Americans have. And this well-meaning woman stretches the rules for Nick not just because he is fair-haired and handsome in a way that always tempts secretaries to make exceptions for him, but because he has the same sweetness. It shines in him. It inspires the favor, and what eventually comes out of the favor blows it all away.

The immediate result, though, is that Mira, twenty-five years old and very pleased, is sitting in the first-class lounge. Having kissed her mother at the gate and disposed of the shamingly huge old suitcase from the attic of her parents’ house in Mount Airy, Philadelphia. The kind of strapped mastodon of a cracked-leather case that is meant to be dragged over borders in the wake of famine or pogrom, and appears in old pictures of Ellis Island.

Except that the Ward family is black, a clan of teachers and lawyers rooted in Philadelphia for generations, set in their ways and their neighborhoods as only middle-class mulattos can be. Still, the suitcase has always been upstairs under the eaves, legacy of some flighty distant cousin or great-aunt, and when Mira’s mother came to help pack up Mira’s West Side apartment, she bullied Mira into accepting it, arguing its practicality with a vigor that suggested the bag was stuffed with maternal wisdom. Its presence looms over Mira as her mother’s car inches through La Guardia traffic on a simmering August afternoon, her mother calculating dollar-lira exchange rates and reminiscing about a trip she took to Rome in 1966, where near the Campidoglio, she and her sister Marjorie were asked directions in broken Italian by a group of tourists from Alabama.

Poor ignorant things, they thought we were natives.

And you were natives, says Mira smartly. Only not Italian. You were the kind of natives who wear grass skirts and carry bananas on their heads. The kind of natives they used to string up back home in Alabama. Oh, hush. Mrs. Ward, a widow belonging to the frugal, wary Depression-bred generation of African Americans who call themselves “colored,” is always easy prey for her two quick-witted daughters, Mira and Faith, with their Ivy League diplomas and scathing tongues. She is crushed at losing Mira to Europe, but also troubled in her private sense of justice, this because Mira, the impertinent younger child, the one who never listened, the one who against all good advice married a white boy and rejected law school to take up the precarious trade of writing, Mira now is blithely setting off for a new life of adventure and entirely unearned luxury.

That first-class ticket, for example. Neither of them understands what it really means until they wrestle the barn-size suitcase onto a cart and propel it wobblingly toward Alitalia check-in. And, with the display of the magic ticket, the bag and all complications are wafted away. It’s a slow afternoon at the airport, and suddenly Mira is surrounded by the attentions of men and women who seem to live for deference. Lackeys, she thinks with delight. Minions.

A tanned Italian in a green jacket flashes a brilliant smile at her and relieves her of the suitcase. Which, instead of a humiliating encumbrance, suddenly becomes a charming piece of eccentricity. And Mira thinks, This is what it means to be rich. This sudden grand simplicity, this rescue from petty embarrassment. A revelation so absorbing that it makes her kiss her mother goodbye with the same pitying impatience that she felt when she left on her honeymoon. An embrace at the gate, a promise to call, a wave, and Mira is gone, confusing a departure for Europe for a departure into the world of money.

A weekday in late August. Except for Mira and an attendant, the first-class lounge is empty.

Though in the future Mira will try many times to recall the details of where she first met Zenin—two places, the lounge and the first-class section on the Rome flight—she can’t, of course, because they are nowhere. They are part of those outposts of anonymous functional opulence where languages and nationalities crisscross promiscuously. Enclosures of nonstyle upholstered in weird uncolors of blue-gray, green-brown, and apricot, garnished with laminated briarwood or funereal fresh flowers. Places that, like expensive hotels, represent the bland apartheid of wealth. The kind of places where they will meet when they are having their affair.

To Mira it is new, so she acts bored. Is anyone in the airport trying and failing so emphatically? She leans back on a couch and sips a glass of white wine and picks at a little square of salted pastry, and has no idea that her face is tense and glowing with excitement, like that of a child on Christmas morning.


From the Hardcover edition.
Andrea Lee|Author Q&A

About Andrea Lee

Andrea Lee - Lost Hearts in Italy

Photo © Alex Sarginson

Andrea Lee was born in Philadelphia and received her bachelor’s and master’s degrees from Harvard University. She is a former staff writer for The New Yorker, and her fiction and nonfiction writing has also appeared in The New York Times Magazine and The New York Times Book Review. She is the author of Russian Journal, the novel Sarah Phillips, and the short story collection Interesting Women. She lives with her husband and two children in Turin, Italy.


From the Hardcover edition.

Author Q&A

A Conversation with Andrea Lee

Q: Having lived in Italy for a number of years, do you ever attempt to write in Italian? How does living in a non-English speaking country affect your writing?

AL: Though I have lived in Italy for over fifteen years and speak fluent Italian, I’ve never once considered writing in Italian because I have such a passion for the English language. It’s a love affair that began very early in my childhood when I realized that a word like “secret” could darken and embellish an entire conversation–not just because of what it stood for, but how it sounded, and felt in the mouth. English is such a fabulous language, so flexible and voluminous with its mixture of Latinate and Germanic roots. I went deep into its past as a student of Old and Middle English in college, and though I enjoyed studying other languages–French, Russian, and of course Italian–I have always known that my element, my invaluable craftsman’s tool, is my native tongue. It takes a certain amount of upkeep, because as any expatriate knows, during daily life in a foreign country the language of your birth tends to evolve into a peculiar kind of patois mixed with the local language. My Italian husband and our kids gossip, joke and argue in an Italian-American hodgepodge–a habit that could infect my written English, if I didn’t rigorously immerse myself in literature–not to mention overpriced imported magazines, newspapers, and lots and lots of satellite TV.

Q: How did you come up with the premise for Lost Hearts in Italy? Was it an idea you’d been thinking about for a while?

AL: Lost Hearts is a story of a love triangle, of adultery and betrayal, and it is a plot I have had in the back of my mind for many years. Since I began writing, I’ve been obsessed by this theme. As a child, I was haunted by the Arthurian tales of Lancelot and Guinevere and Tristan and Iseult, and as I got older, by Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina. Adultery, of course, is one of the great literary themes, summing up everything that is best and worst in human nature. It encapsulates our ability to trust, to form idealistic bonds like marriage, and our equal ability to blast those bonds to smithereens, impelled by the irrational but very human power we call passion. It is a terribly sad and terribly beautiful theme, and an inexhaustible source of inspiration for a writer.

Q: Much of your writing centers around expatriot characters. Do you write from some of your own experiences? What draws you to explore characters in unfamiliar territories?

AL: I draw my plots, place descriptions and characters from a mixture of my own experience, the experience of people around me, and a whole gallery of people, places and things I have simply invented. The last part is the most fun.

I am interested in expatriate characters because not only do I live in Italy, but also spend several months a year in Africa, where I have a house in Madagascar. So my daily experience tends always to be connected to the expatriate role of living in a place where you never quite belong.

But my interest in the experience of outsiders springs from two other sources. The first is simply that, like every other writer, I am always somewhat apart–taking a step backwards from life to observe patterns and notice details. Being a writer is like being a spy–you are always gathering information, listening to conversations, memorizing faces–but the information is for your own use. I might give a character a face I saw a year ago on a street in Florence or New York.

The second reason I write so often about the experience of outsiders is that, as an African American I grew up in a family both deeply involved in the Civil Rights movement, and also with a long tradition of being both privileged and mixed race–my family tree includes Native American, Irish and Danish ancestors. And just as every American of color feels excluded from the American image of its ideal self, so my family felt a bit adrift in that we fit in neither with stereotypes of American blacks, nor with the Caucasian ideal. As one of the few black children in white private schools–an experience I wrote about in my novel Sarah Phillips–I had early experience in feeling like a foreigner.

Q: You’ve written novels, short stories, a memoir, and a number of journalistic magazine pieces. Which format comes most easily to you, and which do you enjoy writing most?

AL: I’ve written in many forms, but what I really love writing–and reading–are short stories. Short stories are like poems: the limitations of the form compel a writer to concentrate her powers–to distil a character description into two sentences, for example, instead of two pages. Writing a short story is a more intense experience than writing a novel, where you have the luxury of space and time to amble in many directions.

Q: What are the cultural differences between Americans and Italians you want to convey in your writing? As you spend more time in Italy, do these changes become more apparent or more difficult to pick out?

AL: The cultural differences between Italians and Americans that emerge in my writing are those that I have always noticed over the years since I married into an Italian family. They all boil down to one thing: the ever-present sense of the past, and the weight of tradition. This atmosphere is quite natural in a place where, as I drive to the gym or the supermarket, I pass over land that was successively occupied by Roman legions, by Napoleon’s troops, and by Italian partisans fighting the Nazis. It is easy to observe that Italians, like most Europeans, are more attached to family and birthplace than are Americans. This to me seems both positive–families are wonderfully close, and no one is ever at a loss for a hot meal or a babysitter or the means to keep an elderly relative comfortably at home–and also suffocating–I’ve seen too many talented kids deny career dreams that would involve moving to other cities or countries, and too many forty year old bachelors still living with their parents. By contrast, our American ideal of independence and individualism seems rootless and scary, but at the same time rather magnificent.

Q: Lost Hearts in Italy spans a number of years and a multitude of characters–it possesses the widest scope of your work yet. What were the challenges of writing from different viewpoints and different time periods?

AL: Lost Hearts is the most challenging book I have written so far, largely because of its complex structure. It’s divided into two time periods–the late 1980s , when the love triangle existed, and the present day–and into three major viewpoints–that of Mira and Nick, the young American married couple, and that of Zenin, the older Italian man whose love affair with Mira destroys the marriage. In addition, there is a sort of “Greek chorus” of random people–sometimes friends, sometimes passers—by, who comment on parts of the drama.

One thing that has always struck me is how every story has thousands of angles of approach, and that the one way to get close to any kind of truth is to observe and acknowledge dispassionately as many facets of a situation as possible. This was what I was trying to play with in Lost Hearts to take a standard melodrama, a love triangle, and look at it through a kaleidoscope.

It was difficult to make a pattern that did not grow too monotonous or bear too heavily on one character or one period. At a certain point I had to lay out all the pages on the floor and arrange them like parts of a puzzle.

Q: The novel is a coming-of-age story, a love story, a story of betrayal, and a story about living in an unfamiliar land all at once. Which component was most important for you to convey?

AL: Lost Hearts is above all a novel about the different ways people have of being foreign to each other. It’s about the basic curiosity we all have that, throughout life, attracts us to new places, new experiences, that even tempts us out of a good situation–say, the security of a happy marriage–toward a seductive unknown that may hold pain and destruction. Moving from the known to the unknown is, also, how we grow up, and become aware of our human condition. It’s the old, old story of Adam and Eve’s apple, which made them alien to their former protected life and forces them to travel into a completely new, completely mortal world.

The novel plays with this idea in a number of ways. Nick and Mira are of different races–he is white and she is black–and are initially attracted to what is mysterious in each other. But when they almost too easily overcome these differences and melt into a premature “happy ending”, they are still lingering in an extended childhood. Their move to Europe is a further step toward maturity, and it coincides with Mira’s move into infidelity with Zenin, who represents all the mysteries of age, of wealth, of foreignness. For Zenin, Mira is irresistible because she is both foreign and educated, and at the beginning, at least, independent of his money. For Nick, Zenin is the undefined menace of the old world, the nameless, powerful rival.

Years after their intimate triangle has ended, they all look back ruefully and realize, to a certain extent, that the glamour of otherness is an illusion, and that a step into the unknown always ends in knowledge, with its harrowing mixture of good and evil, and in a further awareness of our common mortality.

Q: Are there certain authors who have inspired your writing? Which books have been the most influential over the course of your career?

AL: My two favorite books are Kipling’s classic adventure novel, “Kim”, which is a meditation on identity and the varieties of truth, and Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita, which is about the various ways of looking at good and evil. Other writers who have been important to me range from Anthony Trollope, to Isak Dinesen, to Phillip Roth, to Jean Toomer. But the two books I had most in mind when I wrote “Lost Hearts” were Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast” and “The Children”s Bach” by the great Australian writer, Helen Garner. Both novels deal with a kind of innocence in marriage, that is eventually destroyed.

Q: Each of your characters possesses unsympathetic qualities–Mira betrays her husband and child;
Zenin is cold and calculating–and yet they are entirely identifiable and understandable to the reader. How do you go about creating such complex, human characters?

AL: When I create a character, I try to be simultaneously inside and outside his or her brain. Inside, weaving a language of memories and emotions, and outside, looking on with a kind of amused compassion. You can become very attached to the most unpleasant characters. For example, I loved creating Zenin.

Q: What is your writing process like? Do you have a set schedule or routine?

AL: I have an office in my house in Turin, and a set writing schedule from about eight-thirty in the morning until about three-thirty , when my eleven year old son Charles returns from school.

Q: What are you working on now?

AL: My next two projects are already under way. One is a novel called The Red Island House, about sexual tourism in the beautiful country of Madagascar, where I spend part of every year. The second is a series of interlinked short stories about the complicated, sometimes scandalous life of a large Italian family, as seen through the eyes of their adopted South African daughter. So, as usual, I am exploring race and culture, and the many ways of being foreign.

Discussion Questions

Discussion Guides

1. Andrea Lee has created complex characters who have multifaceted emotions and motives–Zenin shows both coldness and tenderness, Nick is caring and bitter, Mira both loves and betrays. Which character do you identify most with, and which do you find most and least sympathetic?

2. When Zenin invites Mira on his yacht, she surprises herself and Zenin with her sudden forward behavior. Lee describes the moment as Mira “struggling not against him but against something in herself” (40). What motivation lies behind her action, and what effect does it have on both of them? What emotions are Mira grappling with?

3. When Zenin invites Mira on his yacht, she surprises herself and Zenin with her sudden forward behavior. Lee describes the moment as Mira “struggling not against him but against something in herself” (40). What motivation lies behind her action, and what effect does it have on both of them? What emotions are Mira grappling with?

4. How would you characterize the bond between Mira and Zenin? Is it mainly comprised of physical attraction, or is it a power struggle? Do you believe they love each other? Discuss how their relationship progresses over the course of the novel.

5. Discuss the theme of displacement–geographical, racial, and romantic–in Lost Hearts in Italy. Explore the ways Mira, Zenin, Nick, and other characters are foreigners.

6. Zenin is a character who doesn’t lack material goods, women, family, or career success, yet he lives in “a dark world of things lacking.” What is missing in his life? Do you think it is possible for Zenin to ever be content?

7. Dreams make frequent appearances throughout Lost Hearts in Italy. What is their purpose, and what insight do they shed?

8. The second time Mira goes to meet Zenin, she “feels as if she has come to the center of her life, to the center of a wood in which all the leaves on the trees are eyes. Or to the hidden center, the secret heart she has been searching for in the labyrinth of Rome” (116). What is Mira’s epiphany here?

9. When Nick finds out about Mira’s infidelity, he states that she’s lost her country now. What does his statement mean? What do you think is the point when Mira has gone too far for her marriage to remain salvageable?

10. What is the significance of the Bangladesh woman, Roushana, in Chapter 27? Compare and contrast her with the other women in the novel.

11. Nick has a theory that the more foreign places you live in, the less you absorb. Do you agree with this opinion? What have your traveling experiences been in relation to his statement?

12. How have Mira, Zenin, and Nick changed by the end of Lost Hearts in Italy, besides losing their naiveté? In which ways are they more content, and how do they remain unfulfilled?


  • Lost Hearts in Italy by Andrea Lee
  • May 22, 2007
  • Fiction - Romance; Fiction - Literary
  • Random House Trade Paperbacks
  • $13.95
  • 9780812971132

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