“Good morning,” he murmured huskily. “You look wonderful.”
“Thank you, and a good morning to you.”
“Did you get some sleep?”
“Not much,” I admitted.
“How long was our phone call? I hope I didn’t keep you up too long.”
“It was good to hear from you.”
He took the initiative and bussed my cheek lightly. It pleased Donovan when I returned favor for favor. “It’s been too long,” he murmured in my ear.
“I was beginning to think you didn’t remember – or care.”
“One day I’ll tell you about all the sleep I lost. Please, join me for breakfast.”
“I wouldn’t call that breakfast.”
“I could ask for an American breakfast – or English, if you prefer? Please.”
I sat and Donovan caught the attention of the waiter. “Signor, potremmo abbiamo due colazioni Americani, per favore?” he asked quietly in flawless Italian. “Uova, pane tostato, salsiccia e pancetta? E rendere tale appassita.”
“Omelets, sausage, bacon, and toast,” I said happily. “The breakfast of champions. I’ve been dying for something like it.”
“Well, don’t expire yet – I need someone to show me around Florence.”
Yes, Donovan had a way with people, an uncanny, almost frightening way of winning you over, of manipulating you so that you were always in complete agreement. I would learn after our whirlwind courtship that he would become unyielding and inflexible about life, such as we were to share it, and become as rigid as titanium steel. And yet, it made no difference – then.
We said nothing while we waited for breakfast. Donovan smoked a cigarette and read the paper and I glanced about at the other patrons. He was studying me from behind the financial pages and I grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny. I was beginning to think there had been no chemistry between us in Verona.
“Ah, here’s breakfast.”
The paper disappeared and Donovan put out the cigarette, pushing his chair closer to the table, but still opposite me.
A feast was set before us. Donovan watched as I spread toast with marmalade, and scraped the green onions off my omelet. “Have you been here long? In Florence, I mean,” I started the conversation.
“Yesterday – my first thought was to find you. Do you want coffee or tea? They seem to have given us both.”
“Coffee, please. You said in Verona you were going to change your plans,” I commented, hinting. “I suppose that took longer than you expected?”
“Yes,” he expelled the word with a belabored sigh. “I had to move some meetings around and convince some people the delays weren’t crucial to our work. And I wanted to take in a few of the sights along the way.”
“So you’re in town for business and pleasure.”
“Now that we’re together again, yes. Yesterday I met with the team doing the excavations under the Duomo and I told them they could do without me today as I had to see a breathtaking Madonna.”
I ignored the compliment and said airily, “Oh, the Santa Reparata excavation? I’ve been going to the cathedral every morning before the shops, museums and my favorite coffee bar open, and I’ve tried to get down the stairs to see what’s going on but I get chased away as if I was a five year old.”
“Let me see what I can do about that.”
“You don’t have to go to that much trouble, Donovan!”
“Anyone who is that interested in medieval antiquities and calls me by my name is worth the trouble.”
“Tell you what, I’m meeting with a colleague at the archives to discuss the defense of my thesis this morning, but perhaps we can meet up this afternoon about the excavation – maybe go for a walk?”
“Looking forward to it. Mind if I ask what the topic of your thesis is?”
“The Guelph and Ghibelline conflict origins and its effect on Florence.”
“Obscure.”
“I like a challenge.”
“So do I,” Donovan murmured, “like finding out the secrets of lovely Alice.”
“Perhaps,” I said, looking at him with my head tilted seductively yet demurely, “you can find some answers on a walk this afternoon?”
I put a slice of toast to my lips and no sooner had I taken a bite than I was in the Curiosity Shop. Dennis was sitting at the table, his chin propped up on his hand, and he was smiling like the Cheshire Cat, as was the Proprietress.
I raised my brows in question.
“Well done, you!” they exclaimed together.
“Maybe if I’d done something,” I groused.
Expecting a summons to the travel brochure rack, or another ride on the Amtrak, I closed the laptop carefully and started putting away my things. Dennis shook his head and looked sad.
“It’s not fair, is it?” he said.
“I was actually having fun and enjoying his company. There was something about him,” I admitted.
“Well…you know what he’s like, how he is with everyone, and yet, you want to be with him.”
“She thinks she can change him,” the Proprietress sniffed.
“Why not?” I demanded. “You see how he is! He needs a makeover of the soul and mind.”
“Why didn’t you want to change Mr. Radcliffe? Why didn’t you stop him from going to England?”
“Because I wanted him to be happy, and I wanted him to succeed despite his overbearing and bullying father and complaisant mother.” Here I lowered my voice, “And because I love him.”
“What? Sorry, didn’t hear you, Alice.”
“Because I love him!”
Dennis and the Proprietress leaned back in their chairs. “Present tense, not past?” the Proprietress queried.
“Play it through, Alice girl,” Dennis said. “Play it through. You really haven’t got a choice. You have to do this. Two wrongs will make a right! Trust me, darling!”
“Can’t I just alter the next few weeks…”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” the Proprietress sighed. “Not this time.”
I knew what was to come, and I swallowed hard. The Proprietress let her eyes slide toward the door and then, in an unexpected move, patted my hand gently as I got up to leave. When she let go, I was standing on the Ponte Vecchio near the entrance to the Vasari Corridor, waiting.
A young Italian about my age sauntered up in that cocky, self-assured manner of men in discotheques and clubs who knew or assumed they knew they were going to get lucky.
“Signorina,” he greeted, leaning over the bridge as if looking into the muddy water of the Arno. He rocked back and forth, sighing, and then looked at me. “So. You are an American?” he asked in English.
“Cosi vuoi?” I answered, looking about my person to make sure I wasn’t carrying a tour guide or map, something that would give me away.
“You want a drink of something? Maybe come with me?”
“No.”
“You’re very pretty – not many girls are pretty like you. You look like our beautiful Florentine women.”
“Grazie no, signor.”
He leaned in and ran his fingers up my bare arm. “You say that, but don’t mean it. You look like a girl who would know how to give it. So…what do you say? You let me show you how Florentine men make love.”
I let him move even closer and then I moved purposefully so that my knee connected with his groin. He staggered back, clutching himself. “Figlia de un’cane!” he swore.
“Lasce me no fare, no me molesta!” I hissed.
“Figlia de un’cane!” he continued to gasp, hopping about in pain.
“Lasciami in pace, è inutile cazzo!”
“Signorina!”
I turned at the voice, since I was the only woman on the bridge at that moment. Two carabinieri, police officers had seen the exchange and now waved me over. I dropped my head in shame, ready to plead out my crime when I noticed both were smiling.
“Signori? Dov’e la problema?” I inquired sweetly.
�
��Sometimes the bridge isn’t the safest place for a pretty young woman, Signorina,” one of them said sympathetically.
“I was waiting for my date,” I began and was relieved when Donovan showed up, joining us. He looked at me questioningly when I kissed his cheek.
“Should I ask?” he murmured.
“No,” I replied and slipped my arm through his as we began our passaggio through Florence.
We crossed the bridge into the Oltrarno, had a coffee in a nearby café, then crossed to the Piazzale Michelangelo with its iconic view of Florence and shared a picnic lunch.
“Yesterday it was the march through the Uffizi and Pitti, the day before, it was a cloister walk and pub crawl – or, given our location, café crawl,” I said, building a sandwich of salami, cheese and a sourdough roll. “What’s today?”
“Let’s just wander.”
“Hmmm, done that – got lost in this neighborhood, only it was raining then.”
“You didn’t tell me you’ve been to Florence before.”
“Once.”
“For your research or writing?”
I took a bite of the sandwich and carefully thought out my response. “To forget. Strange, that to me the most romantic city in the world would be a place to forget.”
“And did you?”
“Yes, I think I did.”
I could tell that answer pleased Donovan, for he nodded and paid particular attention to his sandwich and can of soda. I’d learned already that when he was pleased, he said nothing. And so we ate our lunch in silence and studied the landscape.
“Do you ever wonder what it would have been like to be a part of the construction of that?” Donovan asked between bites, pointing with his sourdough roll towards the cupola of Santa Maria dell Fiore, the magnificent dome of the cathedral that dominated the skyline.
“It would make an interesting read – even a novel,” I commented.
“Do you have one in mind?”
“Oh, I have several…”
“Your area of concentration is the eleventh through sixteenth centuries, correct?”
“Yes – and your memory is good.”
“The History department at Brown has an opening; you could apply for the position now if you’re close to defending your dissertation. I can make an inquiry.”
I started to laugh, remembering our conversation at dinner in Verona. “And what do you want in return? And will this be academic and honorable?”
“Honestly, it is a bona fide offer with no strings attached.”
“No strings.”
“Well, a small down payment: one kiss.”
He received from me a kiss that had all the promise of our night in Verona. Holding hands, we strolled back down to Florence and found ourselves in a narrow street with vaulting and arches. The skyline of Florence with its compass of the Duomo had all but disappeared.
“Do you know where we are?” Donovan asked, spinning around to get his bearings.
“We’re lost, and I’ve been lost here before, a couple of times. There’s a shop – here it is.”
An antiquarian bookshop and printing press was at the end of the dark vaulted street, a nineteenth century style sign hanging beside the door proclaiming the proprietors, M. Cavalli e Fratelli.
“Buon giorno,” the elderly gentleman behind the desk greeted us. “Ah! Signorina Martin!”
“Signor Cavalli,” I greeted, shaking his hand. “You remember me.”
“It’s hard to forget a little girl from California who appreciates Angelo Poliziano! You bought something else last week – was it the Alberti?”
“I’m almost done with it,” I said, and turned to Donovan. “I purchased a first edition of theirs – La Rime by Poliziano, and Alberti’s treatise on painting. Do you know them?”
“I imagine Signorina Martin knows more about them than I do,” Donovan said, reaching around me to shake Signor Cavalli’s hand.
“And so you are lost again,” Signor Cavalli said, winking at us.
“I know this may seem like a silly question, but do you have an edition of Shakespeare?” I asked, offering my most beguiling smile.
“The sonnets,” Donovan chimed in.
“Shakespeare! Everyone thinks he invented Italy, especially Giulietta and Romeo.”
“He did a pretty good job of plagiarizing bits and pieces from Bandello, dal Porto and Brooke,” I added. We had a pretty good laugh at Will Shakespeare’s expense.
Signor Cavalli, a spry gentleman in his eighties who looked like a barn owl with his large eyes and bushy eyebrows, scratched his nose and then studied the shelves. He muttered something in Italian under his breath and then reached for a book on one of the corner shelves, blowing the dust off the little leather-bound volume. My heart started to pound when I saw the book, for it was the color of lapis lazuli and had silver engraving on the cover.
The Proprietress did not materialize, however.
“Signorina Alicia, if you want an English poet who writes lovely sonnets, why not Thomas Wyatt?” Signor Cavalli asked. “It was found in a fourteenth century townhouse in the Via Bentaccordia about eighty years ago – it comes from the nineteenth century.”
I stared reverently at the little volume and fingered the engraving.
“How much?” Donovan asked, taking out his wallet.
“No, you shouldn’t! I can pay for this.”
Signor Cavalli picked up the book and flipped to a back page, eyed Donovan carefully. “Sixty-five hundred lire, signor.”
“How much?” I gasped. “That’s a hundred dollars in American currency!”
“This is the very first book made in a limited run,” he explained and winking at Donovan added, “but she’s worth the price.”
The transaction was made and when we left the shop, Donovan chuckled, “Was he talking about the book or you?” Then he added, “By the look on your face, I take it you know Wyatt intimately?”
“Not as well as I’d like to,” I replied. “He wrote some pretty romantic poetry.”
“Maybe you’ll read some to me later – after dinner?”
“I could do that.”
“In Fiesole – c’mon.”
We spent the rest of the day above Florence in the town of Fiesole, wandering the ancient Roman ruins, touring the Medici villas and finally having supper on the terrace of the Café San Francesco with the spectacular view of Florence in the distance. While I enjoyed ravioli made with butternut squash, and Donovan attacked bistecca alla Fiorentina, a steak grilled with mustard and peppercorns, with great relish, I thumbed through the book.
“Have you found anything you like?” he asked, charging our wine glasses with vintage Chianti.
“Plenty,” I said, looking up and meeting his smile with one of my own.
The light was fading and the waiter brought over candles set in Chianti bottles wrapped in straw, setting them before me. Cheese and fruit were brought and Donovan pulled his chair around so that we were sitting close.
“Ah, here’s something,” I murmured, and then began:
And wilt thou leave me thus?
That hath lov'd thee so long?
In wealth and woe among:
And is thy heart so strong as for to leave me thus?
Say nay! Say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus?
That hath given thee my heart,
Never for to depart; Neither for pain nor smart:
And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! Say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus?
I took a breath and silently read the words to Wyatt’s love song again. Then aloud, “Wow…”
“They say Wyatt was in love with Anne Boleyn when he wrote that, and they were lovers – he lost his head over her.”
“No, Anne lost hers,” I quipped. Turning the page, I said, “I recognize this one!” I began to read with Donovan now looking over my shoulder:
In thin array, after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown did from
her shoulders fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
And therewithal sweetly did me kiss,
And softly said, 'Dear heart, how like you this?'
It was no dream; for I lay broad awaking:
But all is turn'd now through my gentleness,
Into a bitter fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go of her goodness;
And she also to use new fangleness.
But since that I unkindly so am served:
How like you this, what hath she now deserved?
I put the book down and pushed away from on the table. Donovan was pouring another glass of wine and studying me carefully, as if making note of every curve and line of my body and consigning them to memory.
“I wonder if he would have been happy with Anne if he’d been given a chance, and she with him.” I pondered aloud. “Though what good does it do them now? Wondering doesn’t make it happen. Actions do.”
“Dear heart, how like you this,” Donovan murmured and leaned in for a kiss that made my heart pound. He drew his hand up my arm to my neck, where it rested while he kissed me again, and then slid down to rest lightly on my breast while he kissed my neck. “And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay, say nay!” he whispered.
What we both wanted was obvious by glance and touch, and we sped back to Florence. Neither of us had to speak, neither had to ask.
A full moon was shining through an open window in his hotel room, allowing in what little air there was to inhale on that stifling summer’s night. I was leaning on the sill, watching the skyline, and waiting. However much I had wanted to throw myself in his arms when we arrived, I thought better of those actions. Fortunately, Donovan had gone downstairs for a bottle of wine – as if we needed any more! – and a light meal, and I was given instructions not to go anywhere…
“Don’t go anywhere.”
I was in Quinn’s bed on that afternoon so long ago. The romantic, universe-stopping moment, the moment, the moment every girl fantasizes about, dreams about, was anything but.
Tallis' Third Tune Page 13