‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Thank you, signorina. It’s the famous Ponte Vecchio, just around the corner,’ says the man. ‘You paint, too?’ he asks, nodding at my easel. He’s an old man, frail, possibly in his eighties, faultlessly dressed in a grey suit and tie with a white flat cap from which contrasting silver tufts of hair protrude. I can tell that in his youth he would have exuded a certain exuberance. His deep-blue eyes have a gentleness to them that intrigues me.
‘I thought I’d try to,’ I say.
‘Bene. Straight down there you’ll find the magnificent Arno. Turn right and you’ll see the Ponte Vecchio,’ he tells me in his Florentine accent.
I follow the man’s directions. The bridge is dreamier and more captivating than Luca could have described. Rows of quaint jewellery stores are lined up on either side, one after the other. As I stroll along the gentle rise of cobblestones, I feel as though I’ve stepped into a different time and place in history. After taking in some of the details, I return to a quiet spot on the bank of the Arno and set up my easel. I spend some time studying the bridge’s contrasting hues of yellow and sunbaked orange, its three lower arches and the rectangular and square mismatch of windows, most of which are fitted with rust and dark-green wooden shutters. I carefully take out a sheet of paper, realising in this instant that I’m not so different from it. For a painter, the paper is an integral part of the work itself. White paper lends itself to the brightest images, and longevity is dependent on it being acid-free. My sick body was everything except white, bright and acid-free; however, today I am a clean sheet of paper, ready for a new picture, for a new story to be brought to life.
After such a long break from painting, my brush feels unnatural in my hands, so for several minutes I stand, simply playing around with it, running my thumb over the soft tuft. Then I close my eyes, sliding my dry brush over the paper, letting the rhythm come back to me. I centre myself with my breath, knowing that opening myself up to this fearful experience means that I’m upholding my end of the bargain in my quest to find myself again. I wet my brush and begin painting. My brushstrokes sweep across the paper, and in my mind the soft sounds of ‘shh, shh’ repeat themselves, as if I’m lulling a baby to sleep, though in reality I’m willing the voice of self-doubt to quiet.
I slip into a meditative state; even though I can hear the French, German and English chatter of tourists around me, inside I am still. There are two lovers standing in the middle of the bridge, locked together in an embrace, watching the river flow. They come to life on my sheet, a snapshot of their love captured forever. Taking my time, I add more colour: browns, yellows, burnt oranges, and then finally a bright, clear sky blue that promises no chance of showers. It’s early afternoon by the time I finish. I take a step back to assess the picture I’ve created. My hands cup my mouth as I marvel at my work. It’s anything but dark and sombre. It’s a direct reflection of the love and beauty I witnessed today. An enormous sense of relief settles in my heart, lifting away months of doubt.
I pack up my gear, my heart bursting with a giant thankyou to the universe for second chances and for the small part of myself that I rediscovered today. On the way back to the bus stop, I pass the painter near the Uffizi again. Most of the paintings that were on his stand this morning are no longer there, having been sold to eager tourists, keen to bring home a slice of Florence in watercolour.
He nods, recognising me. ‘How did you do, signorina?’ he asks with a gentleness that matches his facial expression.
‘I’m Mia, by the way,’ I say, extending my hand.
‘Giovanni Fiorelli,’ he says, reaching out a hand mottled with age spots.
‘Lovely to meet you, Signor Fiorelli.’
‘So, your painting. Was it all you’d hoped for?’
I nod thoughtfully. ‘Yes … I think it was.’
‘Bene,’ he says as he slowly turns back to his work. I stand there, watching as Signor Fiorelli brings to life a bustling piazza of tourists with meticulous, confident brushstrokes. The central focus of his painting is the statue of David, but then I see a woman appearing. She’s sitting at the cafe on the periphery of the piazza, reading a book. Although it’s subtle, the attention of the painting is actually focused on her.
‘Your work really is beautiful.’
‘A lifetime of love,’ he says casually, not lifting his gaze.
I slip away unnoticed, elated with how my first afternoon in Florence has unfolded. Inside I feel invigorated, as though something dormant has been stirred to life; on the outside, however, I’m exhausted. I nod off to sleep on the bus ride home and am woken by the sound of my phone ringing.
‘Pronto! I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. How’s your day been?’ Luca asks, his deep voice as smooth as honey. It feels as though we’ve known each other for a lifetime rather than the mere twenty-four hours since we met.
‘I’m about to get off the bus. Lucky you called, because if you didn’t I probably would have ended up back where I started. I fell asleep.’
He laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh and it makes me feel all kinds of happy.
‘See you soon, painter girl,’ he says, before the line goes silent.
Back at the villa, I find a note from Stella telling me she’s working late tonight because she has to catch up on a heap of visa applications at the consulate.
It’s a warm night so I opt for a dress and sandals. I try several updos before deciding on a low chignon with a side-swept front. I play around with the pillow of hair until it’s as perfect as I can get it. Deciding not to go overboard with makeup, I fumble through my beauty case for some lip gloss and mascara. I don’t have time to find my perfume because the toot of the scooter tells me he’s already here.
SIX
Straightening my shoulders, I tell myself I can do this. I really can do this.
Oh, God, I can’t do this. What was I thinking when I decided to wear a dress?
I open the front door to see Luca leaning against the archway, legs crossed in his signature position, one hand in his pocket. I let the breezy summer air fill my lungs, and my mouth turns upwards into a smile. It’s like I have no control over what I’m feeling right now, and I can’t explain the logic, but he’s more beautiful than he was this morning.
‘Buonasera, bella Mia,’ he says. Two kisses. One for each cheek.
He smells so good.
He’s wearing a pair of cream capri pants and a meloncoloured twill shirt with rolled-up sleeves and he looks so … Italian.
‘Ready to visit Firenze, City of Art, painter girl?’
‘Yeah, sure. I’m just going to get changed first,’ I say, pointing to my dress.
‘Ma sei bellissima,’ he says.
Oh, God, he thinks I look beautiful.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say, turning around.
Luca reaches for my hand and twirls me around to face him. ‘Mia, you’re in Italy. Women here wear dresses and skirts much shorter than that one every day, even when they ride scooters,’ he says, his eyes shifting to my legs. ‘Besides, you’ve got very beautiful legs,’ he murmurs, gazing back into my eyes.
I clear my throat. ‘Fine. Where’s the helmet?’
‘That’s the way, Australiana! You know, I’ve never dated an Australian girl before.’
‘Who says we’re dating?’ I ask, almost dropping my helmet.
‘Isn’t this a date?’ he counters innocently.
‘I guess so …’ I say, trying to keep a straight face. I can’t help smiling back into those irresistible chestnut eyes as I return the stare. I put on my helmet in an effort to distract myself and end the conversation before it gets any hotter.
‘Then, bella Mia, that means we’re dating,’ he says, clicking the strap shut under my chin. He keeps his captivating eyes locked with mine for what feels like minutes. It takes all the effort I can muster to look away. ‘So … I’m guessing you’ve never been on a scooter before?’
; I shake my head. ‘I’m … uh … scared of …’
‘You’ll be fine. It’s much safer than a motorbike. I’ve been riding since I was sixteen. In seven years, not even a parking ticket,’ he says. ‘Well, actually, maybe one or two.’ He winks as he mounts the scooter.
‘Jump on!’ he says, adjusting his helmet and breaking into a luminous smile. He has perfectly straight white teeth and I’m convinced that if he wasn’t a mechanic, he’d have no problem being a model.
Despite my reservations, I do as I’m told and climb onto the scooter.
He turns his head over his shoulder to face me. ‘Relax,’ he whispers, which makes it impossible to do just that, and not because I’m thinking about how scared I am of bikes. He turns on the ignition and now I need to touch him. Well, actually … embrace him. I’m too nervous to do either, so I place my hands on my legs, pulling my dress down as far as it will go.
‘You’re going to need to hold on,’ he tells me.
I gingerly place my hands on his shoulders. He turns his head around to look at me, half smiling, before he faces forward and reaches behind his body for my hands. My palms are completely sweaty and my heart feels as though it’s going to burst out of my chest at any moment. My legs are complete jelly. Luca places my hands around his waist so they meet at the front and I’m forced to move in closer behind him.
‘You smell nice,’ he says as he releases the stand. I can see his mouth curl into an amused smile in the rear-view mirror. I’m sure my cheeks have just flushed crimson and I hide my face behind his back in case he catches a glimpse of me in the mirror.
As we take off slowly down the path I call out, ‘Where are we going?’
‘It’s a surprise!’ he replies, over the thrumming of the scooter.
His body is warm and strong and I’m willing myself to breathe deeply to slow down the pace of my heartbeat. We make our way down the winding roads through expansive countryside and rich green vineyards passing through the small suburb of Galluzzo, when he calls out and asks whether I’m okay.
‘I’m fine!’ I reply. Surprisingly, I am fine.
We pass an old monastery and a few restaurants, and shortly after we reach the city centre. We begin darting in and out of traffic and I close my eyes, holding on tighter. We stop at a set of traffic lights and he checks on me again.
‘How are you doing back there, painter girl?’
‘I’m doing okay,’ I reply. He takes one of my hands that is gripping his waist and holds it in his, placing it gently back around his torso when the light goes green.
Eventually we stop, parking the scooter close to the Arno, which is even prettier by dusk than it is by day. There’s a lazy vibe to the city now, as tourists tuck away their cameras and head back to their hotels to freshen up, and the local artists along the Arno pack up their supplies.
We reach a medieval city gate and Luca explains this is the Porta San Niccolò.
‘Can you tell me where we’re going now?’ I ask.
He smiles. ‘Piazzale Michelangelo. The most stunning view you will ever get of Florence is from that square,’ he says.
As soon as we pass through the gate we find ourselves on a steep and winding road. When I almost lose my footing, Luca is there to catch me. He leaves his hand on my back long after I’m steady, and I’m unsure of whether to squirm away or leave him be. We chat a bit about the differences between Melbourne and Florence, and he reels off ten reasons why he’s sure I’ll fall in love with Florence, his main compelling arguments being the food, the art and the people.
‘You won’t go home the same person you are today,’ he tells me. ‘That’s guaranteed.’
‘That would be nice.’
He glances at me curiously. We continue to walk up some stone steps and take a rest midway.
‘Why did you really come to Florence?’ he asks, his eyes piercing mine. I can tell his question goes much deeper than a simple getting-to-know-you one.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, taken aback by his directness.
‘I can see it in your eyes. You’re hiding something.’ He shrugs, looking at me intensely, his dark-brown eyes seeing right to my soul. ‘I don’t think you’re here just for a change of scenery.’
‘Well, maybe you’re wrong.’
‘And maybe I’m not …’ He blinks a couple of times, and before I can look away, he says, ‘Am I?’
Without reflecting on my words, they tumble out. ‘I wanted to start afresh. I mean, I’m better now … in remission … but for a while they … I … we all thought I wouldn’t make it.’ My eyes begin to glaze over as I move from my body to that familiar space in between. That space where I don’t have to think, or feel, or whatever, because it’s all too hard.
Luca’s silent for what feels like an eternity. I try to bring myself back into my body. With each passing second, the familiar lump forms in my throat and instantly I regret telling him.
He knits his eyebrows together as if he’s trying to work it out. ‘Cancer?’ he finally asks.
I nod, without meeting his gaze. He looks surprised and without me commanding it to, my body subtly shifts away from him. He waits patiently for my words to surface. ‘Hodgkin’s lymphoma. It’s hard for me to talk about it. Like I said, I’m okay now, and I have been for nine months. Cancer’s one of those things, though. It knocks you down, and if you’re lucky enough to live, your life is forever changed.’
I can’t help but glance over to check his reaction. His jaw is clenched, and I can sense he’s holding his breath. I wish I could take back the words. The last thing I want or need is pity. He takes a few moments to blink away the surprise, and when his breathing returns to normal, he moves closer to me. He reaches out a hand and gently tilts my chin so that our eyes meet. I feel almost naked, as if he’s looking right through me. He plants a gentle kiss on my forehead and moves some loose strands of hair away from my eyes.
‘Is that why you were crying yesterday?’ he asks, his voice low.
Oh, God. Too many questions.
I let out a deep breath and search his face for a reason—any reason—not to trust him, to keep my guard up, to give myself permission to retreat and keep the gate to my soul closed. I find none.
Defeated, I nod. ‘I’m still working through some stuff. Emotional stuff. It’s kind of messy. I suppose I don’t see life the same way I used to and I’m trying to feel my way through that. Today was the first time I painted in a really long time.’
‘Well, that sounds like progress. It also sounds like you’re a bit of a fighter, painter girl.’
‘I’m not as strong as you think.’
‘I get the feeling you might be.’
‘It scares some people,’ I whisper, as I play with the hair elastic that’s wrapped around my wrist. ‘The whole cancer thing, I mean. I lost a lot of friends because of it. It makes people uncomfortable … the whole idea of potentially losing someone.’
He shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. You said you’re better now, right?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘But what?’
‘There’s a ten per cent chance it could come back.’
‘That also means there’s a pretty high chance it won’t.’
‘What if I’m unlucky?’
‘What if I get hit by a bus tomorrow?’
The thought makes me shudder.
‘Tell me … what did you paint today?’ he asks, changing the subject.
‘The Ponte Vecchio.’ I smile as I think about how good it felt.
‘Benissimo. Wait until you see it by night. Hai fame?’
‘I’m starving,’ I reply, feeling sweet relief at the conversation moving to food, but not only that, I’m delighted that I have an appetite.
‘Me, too. There’s a restaurant in the piazzale. La Loggia. We should go there,’ he says. ‘Let me warn you though, the views will be pretty average.’
My forced smile doesn’t go unnoticed.
‘Hey, what
did I say to you the other day?’ he asks softly, tilting my chin up.
I search his face for answers. I’m not sure what he’s referring to.
‘Take life as it comes, remember?’
Oh yes. Of course. Do as the Italians do.
‘I’m trying.’
‘You’re doing a great job so far—I mean, you said yes, right? You’re here, with me right now,’ he says, grinning. ‘And tomorrow night, I’ll take you to the Ponte Vecchio.’ His eyes sparkle mischievously.
‘Oh, really?’ I tease. ‘And what makes you think that I’ll say yes?’
‘This,’ he says, as he leans in and plants a series of slow, soft kisses on my mouth, holding my face tenderly as though I might break. He stops and allows our eyes to meet.
‘So what’s your answer?’ he murmurs.
‘Si. My answer is yes.’
‘I knew you’d say that,’ he says, tickling me.
I squirm and giggle; I feel about fifteen, but it feels good. So good. And I know that I want more of this.
‘Stop it!’ I squeal, defending myself. He’s ticklish, too. He takes my hands and places them around his neck, moving his own hands around my waist. He’s smiling as his face draws closer to me. His lips brush over mine softly and unhurriedly, and once our kiss comes to an end, I almost have to remind myself to open my eyes again.
‘Let’s go eat,’ he says, pulling me up from the steps.
‘Perfetto,’ I say.
Everything is perfect. Too perfect. Scarily perfect.
We walk to La Loggia, and Luca pulls out my chair at an outside table on the terrace, the live music drawing me deep into the moment. We spend the next hour chatting about the vast contrast between our two lives. Luca grew up on a farm where his parents owned an olive grove, and he’d spend his weekends helping out in the family business. After he moved to Florence, he eventually became part-owner in the business he and Paolo built up together. He’d always had a love for cars and bikes, so making the move was an easy decision for him, especially since he considered Paolo to be the older brother he never had.
The Florentine Bridge Page 5