Across the square is a motorbike workshop that hasn’t yet opened for the afternoon. A large scooter pulls up in front of it. It’s a cherry-red Piaggio. The broad shoulders of the rider look familiar. He takes off his helmet and there’s no mistaking him. Luca. Town Casanova. He’s now wearing a dark pair of jeans and a tight-fitting black t-shirt that accentuates the muscles of his sun-kissed arms. He hasn’t seen me yet, but he’s walking towards the bar.
I stare down at my plate when I sense him approaching, looking up only when he stops in front of me.
‘Bella Mia, buonasera,’ he says in a delicious tone, tilting his head slightly, his eyes on my half-eaten piadina.
Oh, God. Is it totally Australian to be eating a piadina at five in the afternoon?
He grins at me and our eyes lock, a magnetic force holding them in place. The world closes in around the two of us. My heartbeat quickens, and I unwillingly tear my gaze away from him as my lips purse together.
Mia, just breathe.
‘Silvio giving you trouble?’ he asks.
‘Salve, Luca,’ says Silvio. Salve. Just another word for ciao. Another word for the moleskine.
‘Silvio,’ he nods, ‘un caffettino per favore.’ He pulls up a chair beside me.
I guess rules can be broken.
‘Wasn’t it any good?’ asks Silvio, appearing concerned that I’ve left most of the piadina on my plate alongside a pile of untouched rocket.
‘It was great, but I’m a little full. We had a big lunch.’
‘You eat like a sparrow,’ says Luca, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Silvio, this is Mia, Stella’s new housemate. The one I was telling you about.’
‘I know. We already met,’ he says. ‘He couldn’t stop talking about you, Mia!’ he calls, as he walks away, carrying a full tray of plates and cups.
Luca grins and raises his eyebrows.
Does nothing faze this guy?
‘You were talking about me?’ I challenge. I can’t seem to help it, I want to shake his confidence somewhat.
‘You’re hard not to talk about.’
I almost choke on my saliva, and my mind scrambles as I try to find something to say. ‘So … you work over there?’ I ask, pointing across the street.
He doesn’t follow the direction of my hand, he just nods with a cool expression on his face.
‘Uh … do you live close by?’ I ask.
Silvio returns to the table with Luca’s espresso. ‘We don’t do table service, you know. But I’ll make an exception for you today, seeing you’re in the presence of a bella donna.’ He winks at me as though we’re old friends.
Luca throws back his espresso in one shot. ‘Not too far from here. I share an apartment with Paolo. I moved to Florence when I was eighteen. I’ve been here five years.’ He pauses, his eyes travelling across my face. I’m sure he’s studying every detail of the redness in my eyes and the puffiness in my cheeks.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, frowning suspiciously.
‘I’m fine. Must be allergies.’
He gives me a slow nod that says, ‘I know you’re lying,’ but he goes with it and points out that there’s a farmacia across the road.
‘Where are you originally from?’ I ask.
‘Orvieto. There’s not much work there, so when Paolo asked me to join him in the officina I decided to move here,’ he says.
‘Do you miss your family?’ I ask, thinking about my parents and how far away they are.
In a blink of an eye his expression hardens as he clenches his jaw. ‘More than you can imagine. My parents were both killed last year in a car accident. Drunk driver. My sister lives in Orvieto with her husband and my two young nephews. I don’t see them much these days.’
I don’t know how I feel about him sharing intimate details of a life I don’t yet feel privileged to know about. The whole conversation makes me uneasy. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your parents. That must be really hard.’
‘It’s life, I guess. It can be ripped away from us at any given moment, for no good reason at all,’ he says, spinning his cup on its saucer.
Boy, don’t I know it.
My heart goes out to him. ‘Prendi la vita come viene,’ I whisper.
‘Every day, as if it’s your last.’ He leans across the table, takes my hand and plants a kiss on it. ‘Bella Mia, I need to open up the shop.’ And with that he gets up from the table. ‘Don’t go meeting any handsome Italian guys between now and tomorrow night,’ he warns in a voice so smooth I want to bottle it up.
By now he’s walking backwards across the street as he calls out, ‘Seven! Your place!’
I can’t help laughing.
Yes, this is what it feels like to laugh again, Mia.
‘É cotto!’ exclaims Silvio from behind our table. I have no idea what that means, but I scrawl the word in my moleskine so I can look it up later.
I do know what ‘mia’ means and I do know what ‘bella’ means. Together, they mean ‘my beautiful’, or in the case of my name, beautiful Mia. From the intonation of Luca’s voice I know he means the latter, although I can’t help admitting to myself that I wouldn’t mind the former.
I spend the next hour or so exploring the shops, quaint streets and alleys before heading home, where I find Stella preparing panzanella, a typical Tuscan salad made with pieces of tomato and soaked stale bread. I help her throw in some red onion, cucumber and basil, and we sit down to eat at eight-thirty. She tells me I’ll need to get used to late dinners this summer. Afterwards, we sit down to watch a game show with numerous glittering dancers dressed in skimpy clothing.
‘Discreet,’ I say, raising my eyebrows.
‘It’s Italy. There’s no shame in appreciating a beautiful woman here,’ she says, chuckling.
‘They’re certainly not backward in coming forward.’
‘More wine?’ she asks.
‘No thanks, I’m pretty tired. I’ll be heading to bed soon. It’s been a big day,’ I say, yawning.
‘What did you think of the town centre?’
‘It was … nice. Actually, I bumped into Luca again.’ I picture his beautiful face. ‘What does “è cotto” mean?’
‘It’s cooked.’
‘Huh?’
‘It also means … Oh, Mia!’ she says, eyes widening. ‘I knew it!’
‘Knew what?’
‘It means he’s smitten. A crush! I can’t believe it—I’ve been trying to set Luca up with girls from work for months. He hasn’t been interested in anyone. Not since …’
I wait for her to continue, but when she doesn’t, I finish the sentence for her.
‘His parents?’
‘What? He told you about his parents?’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘Why?’
‘He never talks about it. With anyone. Ever. He took it pretty hard. It’s been difficult to watch. You know what Italian families are like—very close. He used to go home every month to visit his parents, but he hasn’t been back since the funeral,’ she says. ‘Who told you he was cotto?’
‘Silvio. Barman guy. He reminds me of Roberto Benigni.’
‘Ha! Totally!’ She laughs.
‘We’re going out tomorrow night.’
‘Oh my God! You’re going to love Italy, Mia. I just know it!’ she says, rubbing my legs affectionately. She switches off the TV and turns to face me, her eyes sparkling. ‘I had a good feeling about you, you know.’
‘That’s good, because I thought the same about you,’ I say, choosing not to tell her that I’d made a list of local hotels before I’d arrived in case I didn’t like what I found here at the villa.
I retreat to my bedroom, flop onto my bed and switch on my phone.
Mum has sent me a message asking if I’ve managed to get a SIM card yet.
I can’t wait to hear your voice again. How is it there?
Better than I could have imagined. Look at the furniture, I respond, attaching a photo of the living-room furnishings. I try not to think about how Mum had
to put her interior design business on hold because of me when I got sick.
Love! That light fixture! The wall art! Imagine all the things you’ll be able to paint over there! (If you let yourself try.) I packed two boxes of paint sets for you. Bottom of your suitcase. Make sure you unpack!
She follows this with a series of messages telling me how much she loves me, how much she misses me, and how much she wishes she could be here with me. I choke back the lump in my throat. I miss her, too. I just don’t know how to say it. So I text back, I love you too, Mum, and hope that it’s enough for now.
I get changed, slip under the sheets and rest my head on the pillow. My mind drifts to a certain dark and handsome guy. For the first time in months, I’m asleep within minutes, the last thought that enters my mind one of love, not fear.
FIVE
The unmistakable sound of roosters crowing wakes me just before six in the morning. I’d usually resent the sound of farm animals waking me at the crack of dawn, but I’m as fresh as a set of clean sheets this morning, having slept through the night without my usual nightmare.
‘Okay, so Italian breakfast—you have two choices here. Breakfast cookies or a Kinder Colazione bar,’ says Stella, tossing me a bar that resembles a sponge cake.
‘Any chance of something a little more savoury?’
‘You could try these,’ she says, handing me a packet of toast-like crackers called fette biscottate, which are so bland that I end up reaching for the jar of Nutella to make them more palatable.
‘Sweet it is,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders.
Stella fumbles around in a drawer and hands me a map of Florence. ‘You can get your bus ticket on board or from the local tabacchi in the piazza.’ She explains that the local tobacconist in Italy sells more than just cigarettes: stamps, postcards, lotto and bus tickets. When she offers to meet me for lunch during her break, I tell her not to worry. I have some other plans in mind.
There’s no point in venturing out yet, so I spend some time flicking between TV channels before I take a book out to the garden, losing myself amongst the pages of a previously untouched copy of Pema Chödrön’s When Things Fall Apart, which Sarah gave to me a week after I met her. Once the traffic begins to pick up on the main road, I prepare my portable sketchbox easel and tuck my pad of watercolour paper into my satchel. My mind wanders to the last attempts I made at painting after I had finished the chemotherapy. Before I received my diagnosis, a painting I’d been working on as part of my VCE art unit, The Floating Leaf, was one of forty-two pieces selected to be featured in the National Gallery of Victoria’s StArt Up: Top Arts exhibition. My painting, which explored the relationship between nature and our emotions, caught the eye of one of the gallery curators, who invited me to show her my future work for consideration in a forthcoming exhibition. Only, by then, I had become incapable of producing the usual artwork that inspired me. The style of my paintings had changed, from work that generally incorporated smooth lines and gentle brush strokes, to work that was monstrous: dark, heavy, sombre. It frightened me, and after several failed attempts at painting, I eventually stopped altogether.
I lock the door behind me and consider going back to return my art supplies, but I know that if I have any hope of getting Mia back I have to take this step. On the way to the bar, I scan the officina across the square for a glimpse of Luca.
The mere thought of him makes my cheeks flush. I haven’t felt emotion like this in so long, and the intensity of it reminds me that I’m alive and that it is possible to feel again. There’s no sign of Luca; however, I can see Paolo having a lively conversation on the phone complemented by elaborate hand gestures.
The smell of fresh croissants wafts from the bar full of locals, who stand against the counters waiting for their first shots of coffee for the day. Silvio greets me with a bubbly, ‘Buongiorno, Mia!’ as if we’re now the best of friends and it’s been a lifetime since we’ve last seen each other. A familiar body turns around to face me at the sound of my name. He grins. I melt.
Luca’s lips twist into an irresistible smile. ‘Ciao, bella Mia.’
So. Incredibly. Charming.
I’m holding my breath. His eyes are staring right through me, pinning me so intensely that I can’t look away.
‘Ciao,’ I reply quietly.
‘Caffè?’ he asks.
‘Uh, yes please.’
‘Silvio, un cappuccino per la signorina,’ He takes the liberty of ordering for me.
They don’t call it a romance language for nothing.
‘Grazie.’
‘You’re welcome. So, what are you up to today?’ he asks, glancing at the easel I’m carrying over my shoulder.
‘Well, I can hear the Piazza del Duomo, Santa Croce and Piazza della Repubblica all calling my name,’ I say, feeling proud about the amount of information I’ve retained from my handy pocket guide to Florence.
‘Wait, what about the Ponte Vecchio?’ he says.
‘The Ponte Vecchio?’ The name doesn’t ring any bells.
‘The Old Bridge. The famous Florentine Bridge! Over the Arno River,’ he says.
‘Oh, right … I’ll make sure I look for it.’
‘It’s only one of the most romantic spots in Florence,’ he adds casually. ‘I’ll have to take you there sometime.’ He pauses, waiting to see my reaction.
My words dissipate before I can speak them, my attention turning to the fluttering in my stomach. Luca and the word ‘romantic’ cause me to blush yet again.
‘You’re blushing, Australiana,’ he smirks.
I purse my lips together and shyly look away.
‘So you’re going to do some painting, too?’ he asks, pointing to my easel.
‘Uh. Yeah. I’m going to try.’
‘What do you paint?’
‘Mainly watercolour, sometimes oil. It’s been a while since I …’ My voice trails off, wishing I could take back the words.
He looks at me curiously, squinting as though he’s trying to work out the meaning behind what I’ve just said.
‘I took a bit of a break from painting, so things are a little dusty,’ I add, shrugging my shoulders.
‘Word is that Picasso once said that the purpose of art is to wash the dust of daily life off our souls.’
‘Really? He said that?’ I feel myself smiling at him. Somehow I’m not surprised he would know this.
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Well, I hope he was right,’ I murmur.
I finish my cappuccino and then he says, ‘Let me walk you to the bus stop.’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I say, amused by his tenacity. The bus stop is less than one hundred metres away and he knows it.
‘Let’s go,’ he says, winking. He places his hand on the small of my back as he guides me out of the busy bar, his touch sending warmth through my entire body.
We walk to the bus stop, and he warns me to be careful of pickpockets. He asks for my phone number, and when he’s recorded it in his phone, he sends me a text message so that I have his in case I get lost, and then he waits until my bus arrives. ‘Have a good day,’ he says softly, his lips brushing my cheek.
Gucci by Gucci Pour Homme. Heaven.
‘You, too …’ I reply, still thinking about how that just felt.
‘Don’t forget about tonight!’ he calls as I step onto the bus.
No chance.
I take a window seat and can’t help smiling. Luca occupies my thoughts for the entire trip into Florence as I daydream about what could be. And in the most bittersweet way, it scares me.
I disembark close to the Piazza del Duomo along with most of the other passengers. The square is swarming with tourists, locals riding bicycles and pristinely dressed traffic police strolling around in groups of three. Facing the huge Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, referred to by Italians as the duomo, I let out a gasp. I can’t believe I’m really here. I venture over to the octagonal Saint John’s Baptistery, which dates back to 1059. Its sophisticated F
lorentine Romanesque style is mesmerising, as are its three bronze doors, but I’m especially drawn to the ‘Gates of Paradise,’ as coined by Michelangelo. These doors on the east side of the baptistery particularly intrigue me. This masterpiece tells the story of Adam and Eve and took Ghiberti twenty plus years to finish. I spend the next hour or so studying every superb detail of the artwork in the church, pulling myself away only when I hear the mid-morning bells ringing from the adjacent Giotto’s Bell Tower.
As I head down Via dei Calzaiuoli, one of Florence’s most elegant and famous streets, I see rows of street sellers displaying imitation Prada bags alongside mass-produced prints of Raphael’s signature cherubs. They appear in almost every Florentine street, on calendars, postcards, diaries and posters. It disappoints me to think that these adorable male putti have been taken from the larger painting of the Sistine Madonna, without acknowledging the much bigger work of art they belong to.
The cobblestones take a little getting used to, even if I am wearing flat sandals. Through windows illuminated with artificial light, I admire Furla handbags, handcrafted shoes by Ferragamo, and the prettiest Austrian crystals in the Swarovski store. When I reach the end of the via I find what I’m looking for. There it is, the statue of David, and to his right the gallery of the Uffizi. I soak in the beauty of this magnificent replica of the original statue and take a seat on the cool stone steps, where I observe silently, trying to decide whether certain parts of his anatomy are in fact out of proportion. Carving from a single block of marble, a frustrated Michelangelo was unable to reproduce one of the muscles in David’s back due to an imperfection in the medium. Despite its flaw, this statue has been accepted for centuries as a symbol of perfect Renaissance art. Flawed yet still able to defeat Goliath. I’m tempted to visit the Uffizi Gallery, desperate to see Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus amongst numerous other paintings I adore, but the queue is already enormous. On either side of the Piazza degli Uffizi, painters dip their brushes into pigment and layer by layer bring their depictions of Florence and Tuscany to life. Scenes of fields amassed with sunflowers, stone farmhouses amidst bales of hay and winding country paths. A watercolour of an antique bridge catches my eye.
The Florentine Bridge Page 4