I tell Luca about my life in Australia, skipping the dark parts of the most recent years completely. I tell him about how I used to find joy in painting everything from cafe-lined inner-city streetscapes to pristine ocean coastlines, sunburnt plains and ancient gum trees, only to turn down my chance to study art at university once a place was finally offered to me.
I want to tell him how terrifying my life was during my illness and how scared I still am, but I can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. My attention turns to the flickering candle between us; however, before I can drift into my usual space in between, he reaches over and strokes my hand.
‘Why did you turn down your spot at art school?’
‘Um … well … I couldn’t paint anymore.’
‘What do you mean?’
I take a sip of wine and consider my words. ‘When I was sixteen, I applied for entry into the Victorian College of the Arts secondary school. They only offer fifteen places for visual arts students, but I wanted a place more than anything. I’d been working on my portfolio for a year—a series of paintings that explored all the hidden places we can find beauty. A broken chair, a piece of bruised fruit, a wilted flower, or even a pair of worn-out boots. It turns out I was lucky enough to be accepted.’
‘That’s amazing. You must be good.’
‘All I know is that I loved studying there, and I learned so much. Before my diagnosis, I felt like my paintings were a translation of what I used to be able to see in my life …’
‘Go on …’
‘After I got sick my style changed. I couldn’t see things the same way, and it scared me, you know, to think I could paint pieces that were so … dark and depressing.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that though. Look at expressionism. We all go through dark times. Your emotions manifested onto canvas. Your emotions were dark at the time. We all need to experience the darkness to recognise how beautiful the light is.’
‘How do you know about expressionism? I thought you weren’t so into art, Mr Mysterious.’
‘I had a crush on my middle school art history teacher. I paid attention to what she had to say.’
‘Oh? You were cotto?’ I joke.
‘Eh, si.’ He laughs. ‘But nothing like this.’
My heart skips a beat and my eyes dart away. There’s no way I can meet his gaze now without coming undone.
‘Dolce?’ he asks.
‘Sweet?’ I say, unsure of my translation.
‘Dessert. I meant dessert. But you’re much sweeter than dessert.’
‘Dessert would be great,’ I whisper, feeling my cheeks glow.
By the time we finish dinner, I’m giddy from the wine. Luca intertwines his fingers through mine, and we take a stroll in the piazza, illuminated by a handful of street lamps. A string of Japanese tourists, adorned with their Nikons and Canons, file back onto their tour buses, after which a quiet lull fills the square. I lean over the stone railings as Luca wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.
‘This is so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like this before,’ I say, letting the panoramic view of the city cast its mesmerising spell over me.
‘Me either,’ he says, his attention on me. I try to push aside the feelings in my head that tell me this is wrong, that whatever it is I’m feeling can’t be possible or rational. Yet my heart doesn’t care that we’ve known each other for less than forty-eight hours. When he leans in and pulls me close to his warm, strong body for a kiss, I’m his. And it feels anything but irrational.
We stand there in silence, entwined in each other’s arms, the infancy of our love weaving its foundations in the stillness of the moment, until finally he whispers, ‘Bella Mia. I wish you were mia.’
I’m petrified to think that I already am.
SEVEN
Stella’s still awake by the time I creep through the front door.
‘You’re home late, signorina,’ she teases. She’s in the living room reading The Florentine, an English newspaper.
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah? Just yeah?’ She raises her eyebrows.
‘It was nice,’ I say, shrugging. I can’t hide my smile.
‘Mia, are you cotta?’ she asks, waving her finger at me. ‘C’mon, tell me all about it!’ She gestures for me to join her on the sofa, patting the cushion beside her. She shifts one of the large pillows and crosses her legs as I take my spot.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say, cupping my hands over my face and shaking my head.
‘Uh-oh!’ She’s clearly amused by my bashfulness.
‘Nothing goes back to Paolo—promise?’
‘On the Pope’s life,’ she says, crossing her heart.
I burst out laughing, and it dawns on me how much I’ve missed having a friend to laugh with.
‘So, where did he take you?’ asks Stella.
‘Piazzale Michelangelo. Dinner at La Loggia.’
‘That’s a winning first date. Impressive. Okay, and …?’
‘He’s … just … beautiful,’ I say dreamily, picturing him in my mind.
‘Yes, he’s hot. We all know that,’ she says impatiently.
‘I don’t mean it like that! I mean, yes, he’s completely sexy and good-looking, but he’s just … a really nice guy.’ Although I know my eyes are glazing over, I can’t help it.
‘Kiss?’
‘Mmm. Incredible.’
‘Oh my God, Mia. You’re falling for him, I can see it in your eyes,’ she says, her own eyes wide.
‘It’s insane, isn’t it?’
‘He’s a catch. Go with it,’ she tells me. ‘He has girls lining up at the door. Like I said to you yesterday, he hasn’t shown interest in anyone since his parents died. Nothing. Niente. Zip. Until you.’
‘Maybe it’s not a good idea,’ I say, feeling myself plummeting from the clouds into reality, albeit I’m relieved that he isn’t actually the local heartbreaker of Impruneta.
‘Oh, please—don’t overthink it.’
‘But I probably won’t be around for long. And it’s too rushed,’ I say, dropping my head to my chest so I don’t have to meet her gaze.
‘Wait until you fall in love with Florence. Then talk to me,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen many a holiday turn into a lifetime love affair with Tuscany,’ she adds with a chuckle. ‘In fact, I see it every day on my desk over on Lungarno Vespucci, where a pile of visa applications sit waiting to be processed.’
I smile, wishing I could tell her that’s not what I mean.
‘Listen, I’m beat. Time for bed.’
‘Yeah, me, too. I thought you’d never arrive,’ she says, glancing at her watch.
‘You waited up?’
‘Bet your ass I did!’ She giggles. I grab a pillow and toss it at her as we both burst out laughing.
Hours later, I’m awoken by a particularly frightening nightmare in which Luca is walking on a soft blanket of grass, carrying a bunch of colourful flowers in his arm. I’m smiling and waving and then suddenly the surface he’s walking on turns into a gravel road, and the crunching beneath his feet gets louder as he approaches me, until it’s almost deafening. When he’s an arm’s length away from me, the sky turns grey, and everything around me turns from vivid colour into black and white. The flowers wilt away and it becomes apparent that we’re now in a cemetery. He walks right past me, a distraught look on his face. I reach out to touch him, but he walks right through me.
‘Luca!’ I scream, suddenly jolted out of my dream.
‘He’s not here, Mia. It’s me, Stella.’
‘Oh my God, I can’t breathe,’ I cry, reaching for my chest as I gulp for air.
‘It’s okay. You’re okay. It was just a bad dream.’ She reaches over me and switches on the lamp, and I squint from the sudden influx of light.
‘I’m so sorry. It felt so real.’
‘You were crying.’ She tilts my chin up. ‘You were reaching out, calling Luca’s name.’
‘I don�
��t know if I can do this.’ I untangle myself from the damp bedsheets and make my way into the en suite to splash some water over my face. Stella follows me in.
‘Do what? Mia, what are you talking about?’
‘I’m sorry I woke you; it was nothing.’ I pat my face dry and return to bed.
‘You were thrashing around and telling me you didn’t want to die.’
A desperate plea escapes my lips. ‘I don’t.’ I look at her long enough to catch her expression, which tells me she can sense something is off.
‘You should get changed, you’re soaking wet. I’ll go get you some water,’ she says.
‘Honestly, thanks, but I’m fine.’
She ignores me and begins to get up. Before she can stand, I reach out for her hand because I feel like I owe her at least some kind of explanation. ‘They happen pretty often. Just so you know.’
‘Right.’ She waits for me to continue.
‘I usually wake up and fall back to sleep. You don’t need to check on me.’
She stands up and begins to make her way out of the bedroom. When she reaches the door, she turns around and faces me. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to check on you.’
I change into a fresh pair of pyjamas and lie down, wondering why my past continues to haunt me even when things seem to be going right. Stella returns a few minutes later with a glass of water. ‘You know, Mia, you can trust me,’ she says, placing the glass of water on my nightstand.
I pretend I’m already asleep.
‘Hey, I need to look for a job today, where do I start?’ I ask Stella at breakfast.
‘Already?’
‘Yep. And I’ll do anything. After paying my share of the rent, if I don’t find a job soon, my time here will be a lot shorter than what I’m beginning to hope it will be.’
‘Try going into Florence. A lot of the stores advertise for staff in their windows. Look for the cercasi signs.’ She pours herself an espresso and asks whether I want one, too.
‘No, thanks, I thought I might grab one at the bar this morning.’
‘And that you might just bump into a certain someone across the square,’ she teases.
‘Enough!’ I giggle.
‘I’ll walk with you. I’m taking the bus today.’
Our stride to the square is filled with mindless chatter until Stella stops walking. She pierces me with her emerald eyes and I immediately know what she’s going to ask me. ‘Mia, the nightmare you had last night—something must be causing them if you’re having them regularly. Were you … I don’t know … assaulted or something?’
I swallow down the rapidly forming lump in my throat.
‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ I reply.
She waits patiently for me to elaborate, but I can’t seem to find the right words.
‘I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business. You can tell me when you’re ready.’ She moves towards me and gives me a kiss on each cheek outside the bar, where she then points to the officina. ‘You should go say hi,’ she says, before giving me a wink and turning on her heels as she rushes to catch the bus.
I catch a glimpse of Luca in the officina. He’s talking to a customer who’s showing him something on a scooter. As I study the movement of his body, my lusting is interrupted by a bubbly Silvio, who has come out to open the umbrellas at the outside tables.
‘Salve, Mia! Let me guess! A macchiato?’ he asks.
‘Si! Grazie. And a croissant, too please,’ I say, feeling like a local already. I’m surprised at how croissants, sweet pastries and biscuits form such an integral part of the Italian breakfast.
‘Of course!’ he replies.
‘Mind if I take a seat out here?’
‘Go for it, Australiana,’ he says, pulling out a chair for me. He opens up the red-and-white umbrella and switches on some background music, which he hums to as he stocks the fridge with fresh bottles of water. I can see why Silvio enjoys his work so much. A social butterfly, he greets almost everyone who walks past, and receives packages of fresh produce from at least two passers-by in addition to a wrapped package from the butcher. He delivers espressos to shops on the other side of the square, and I’m almost certain that in the short while I’ve been watching him, he has spent more time chatting with the locals than behind the bar. Everyone seems to love him.
I drop my sketchbook on the table and sharpen my pencil. I open and close my hand to get the circulation going. The first pencil stroke lacks the smoothness I’m accustomed to and my hand feels heavy until I change my grip. In frustration I toss away three attempts at sketching the busy square. Discouraged, I take a short break while I finish my coffee. Rolling the pencil between my fingers, I contemplate going home, but I want to prove to myself that yesterday’s painting wasn’t a fluke. I think about the girl on the aeroplane and tell myself that I have no expectations of my work, that I will accept whatever ends up on the page, no matter what. Wiping the perspiration from my brow, I lift my head to get the right perspective on a different subject matter.
The morning sunlight is streaming across the square into the officina, bouncing off the metallic bikes and scooters. Luca’s working on a bike through the open roller door, the rays of the sun highlighting the curves of his toned body. I start creating a light map, cross-hatching for the right amount of tonal depth I’m looking for. Silvio asks me if I’d like a drink, which I decline, unable to pull myself away from my drawing. By the time Luca’s body comes to life on my page, I have an intimate knowledge of how he carries himself, which contributes to my growing attraction to him. I’m heavily focused on my work, just as he is on his. He stops only once to answer the phone, giving me another glimpse of the radiant smile that lights up his face. Ninety minutes later, I rest my pencils on the table and study my work. I relive the emotions I felt while sketching and a strong sense of relief sweeps through me like a warm hug. Silvio brings me a bottle of water and asks if I’ll share my drawing with him. Nervously, I hand over my sketch.
‘This is amazing,’ he exclaims, praising my work, his eyes widening.
‘Grazie,’ I reply.
He’s right. It is amazing. He’s amazing. Everything is amazing.
And now, I just need to find a job.
While I’m on the bus to Florence, I check my phone to find a couple of text messages from Sarah asking how I’m doing. When I was at my lowest point during chemo, Sarah was one of the only people who really got me and wasn’t afraid for me when everybody else was. I didn’t have to be strong for Sarah or open up to her completely, but she was one of the few people who was strong for me. I reply, telling her that things are going great and that I’ve started drawing and painting again.
See how when you let go you become closer to your truth? she replies. I think about the framed quote she gave me on the day I got news of my remission, which is now hanging on my bedroom wall at the villa: Enjoy the present moment. Do not look backwards, do not project forwards. Life will lead us to where we need to be.
I text her back. I think I’ve found my light. Followed by, I never want my time here to end.
She texts back three smiley faces, a laughing buddha and too many love hearts to count.
I disembark close to the train station and start scouring the streets of Florence for the cercasi signs taped to the windows of various shopfronts. First up, I try a restaurant. The lunch crowd has dissipated, and I approach the cashier, lifting my head up high. Discreetly clearing my throat, I give it all I have.
‘Buongiorno, mi chiamo Mia. Sto cercando lavoro.’
‘Ah, si. Gisella!’ she calls. Her indifference causes me to shuffle uncomfortably to the other side of the counter. A woman in her forties appears.
‘Gisella,’ she says, extending her hand.
‘Mia, nice to meet you. I saw the sign outside. I’m interested in the job.’
‘Where are you from, Mia?’
‘Australia.’
‘Experience?’
‘Ah, well,
not so much waitressing, but—’
‘How many languages do you speak?’
‘How many?’
She nods impatiently and strums her manicured nails on the counter. It’s hard to not be distracted by her rudeness.
‘Uh, just one. I speak a little Italian. So that would be two, I suppose.’
‘We need someone who speaks English, German, French and Italian.’
I struggle to hide my shock.
‘We deal with many tourists here,’ she says bluntly.
‘I understand. Thanks all the same.’
The next cercasi sign I find is advertising the need for a commessa, or shop assistant, for a clothing store. This experience is marginally more pleasant as the manager invites me to have a chat in the back room of the store. She introduces herself as Loretta, pulls out a chair and we exchange the usual details about where I’m from, how long I’ve been in Florence, and what brought me here. She glances over my resume.
‘I see you’ve worked as a shop assistant for a while. Cosmetics. What’s your interest in fashion?’
‘Well, I enjoy working in customer service, and I’ve always loved Italian fashion,’ I say, only slightly bending the truth. My mind immediately turns to the fashion-conscious Luca.
She looks at me as if she’s waiting for me to expand on my interest in fashion, but I can’t think of another thing to say. ‘Who doesn’t love Italian fashion?’ I smile weakly.
‘Do you speak Italian?’
‘I can get by.’
‘And any other languages? French or German?’
‘No, but I’d be willing to take a course. I’m a quick learner.’
‘How long are you intending on staying in Florence?’
‘Oh, well, I don’t have any plans to go back home just yet.’
She uncrosses her legs, then sets her pen and clipboard on the desk beside her. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mia. Finding a job here in Florence isn’t easy. There are hundreds of foreigners like you competing for work. I need someone with solid sales experience who’s going to be around for the long term. We see a lot of girls coming and going. Since you’ve only recently arrived, it might be best to see how you like it here first. If you’re still here in six months, come back to see me.’
The Florentine Bridge Page 6