She nods and leans slightly forward. ‘I’m listening.’
‘I stopped painting after I was diagnosed with cancer—lymphoma. I’m in remission now, but it’s been a struggle learning how to paint again, learning how to trust in myself and in life again. It’s taking a while for me to get a grasp on how my artwork fits into all of that.’
‘Goodness, Mia, I had no idea. But what you’re saying makes complete sense. I think you should share your work once you’re ready, but I also think you should work towards the goal of being ready,’ she says.
‘I think I’m very close to being ready.’
Clara acknowledges what I’ve told her with a thoughtful nod. ‘You’re obviously doing a tremendous job of moving forward in your life. It’s clear to me and anyone around you that painting makes you who you are, and in many ways it’s a creative endeavour that helps you connect with yourself but also helps you to make sense of life, wouldn’t you agree?’
I pause to think about her words. ‘Yes, I think it does.’
‘Have you given any more thought about enrolling in the Academy of Art here in Florence?’
‘Not seriously,’ I reply.
She takes a sip of wine. ‘Well, I think you should enrol.’
‘Maybe I should. I’ll have a think about it.’
‘I could help you with that,’ she says, her mouth twisting into a smile.
I finish off my last ravioli and admire my empty plate, which means so much more to me than a good meal. It tells the story of how far I’ve come.
FOURTEEN
I spend the next month settling into my sweet Tuscan life. Every day brings a new kind of awareness into my consciousness. My days start with a morning meditation on the swing outside, followed by a leisurely stroll to work, passing by Silvio’s bar for a caffè with Luca. Silvio entertains me with local gossip, and they both indulge me with stories of the quirky nuances of living in a foreign country. Amongst the many things I have learned so far is that if a pregnant woman has a craving, she absolutely must satisfy it or else she should touch her behind, because, God forbid, the baby might end up with a birthmark and the best place for one to appear would be somewhere not visible to the public. Luca’s also taught me the various meanings behind hand gestures, which I find amusing, though not nearly as much as the award-winning car-parking efforts I’ve witnessed in the piazza right under the noses of the traffic police known as the Vigili Urbani. I decide that these things should make it onto a list of why someone should visit Italy at least once in their lives.
During our work breaks and on our days off, Luca and I spend our time exploring the Tuscan countryside, stopping to sprawl ourselves under trees and in vineyards, sometimes talking, sometimes just sitting in the stillness. I’m trying to teach him how to meditate, but it always ends up in him goofing around and making me laugh. In the evenings we occasionally go out with Stella and Paolo, or we explore Florence by night. By now we have our favourite bars and meaningful spots in almost every corner of the city. Smiling comes easily, and my nightmares have become less frequent. I’ve only cried once in the last month, and I’ve painted. Boy have I painted. I cannot imagine another day passing without painting. Life doesn’t feel like a battle anymore. In fact, life could not be sweeter.
Here in Italy, inspiration for life and my artwork is all around me, in the simplest of things like a dinner-table setting or a bottle of Chianti and a bowl of grapes, or even an elderly couple who buy their bread in their best clothes every Sunday morning from the local panificio. Then there’s the young group of boys who play soccer in the piazza, stopping only when they’re called home by their screaming mothers from the apartment windows, because lunch is ready, the pasta will get cold and that will be the end of the world.
This morning I’m at the Balduccis’ helping them pack. Naturally, the twins want to take far more than will fit in their suitcases. I remove Massimo’s train set from his luggage. ‘I’m sure you won’t need this at the beach,’ I say. ‘Your mum and dad are going to have plenty of ways to keep you and your brother entertained. You love the water, remember? How about a snorkel and some flippers?’ I grab the beach toys to show him. We finally reach a unanimous decision on what should go and what should stay.
Clara returns home a few hours earlier than usual and tells me there’s no need to stay until the end of the afternoon and I should enjoy the rest of the day. When I say goodbye to the boys, they each take hold of one of my legs and beg me to come with them. I kiss both their foreheads and give them a small package containing things to keep them entertained on the plane.
I turn to Clara before leaving and say, ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said. I’d like to show you my work when you get back.’
‘That’s great, Mia. Before I forget, I have something for you.’ She unzips her briefcase and hands me a white envelope. ‘We can talk about it when I return.’
The morning gives way to a soporific afternoon where I lie on the grass, basking in the sun, flicking through the prospectus Clara has obtained for me, seriously considering whether enrolling in the academy could be an option for me. I’m dissuaded somewhat by the fee schedule and turn my attention to one of Stella’s recipe books instead. Tonight I’ve resolved to give handmade gnocchi a try.
When the sun slips away and the receding heat morphs into a pleasantly cool evening marked by the first hum of cicadas, I make my way into the kitchen, getting to work with peeling the potatoes, boiling them and turning them into the delicious little dumplings my nonna would have been proud of.
Luca calls me just as I’m rolling the last gnocchi on the kitchen table. He’s been working in Siena for the day, helping Silvio’s parents on their farm.
‘Listen, Silvio’s parents have asked me to stay for dinner. I can’t say no—it’s their way of saying thank you. But they’d like you to come, too, and Silvio said he could give you a lift. He’s closing the bar early tonight,’ says Luca.
‘So, I guess the gnocchi will have to wait until tomorrow.’ I laugh, trying to keep the phone cradled between my ear and shoulder.
‘I’ll let Silvio know to pick you up from the villa.’
I’ve learned that I can’t show up at someone’s house empty-handed, but I can’t find any new bottles of wine lying around in the cellar and it’s too late for me to go out shopping. So instead of a bottle of wine, I take one of my paintings. This one happens to be of Silvio’s bar.
‘Bella Signorina Mia!’ says Silvio, as he opens the door of his black Giulietta for me. He looks much younger out of his usual uniform. ‘It normally takes me forty minutes to get to Siena, but Luca warned me not to speed with precious cargo, so we should arrive safe and sound at around seven o’clock,’ he tells me with a wink. He’s always been so sweet, and I wonder how someone so likeable could still be single. I decide that it simply must be a timing thing. Destiny, maybe.
We spend the trip singing to music at the top of our lungs and in between I try to teach Silvio advanced English while he tries to correct my Italian accent. He tells me my Italian has improved considerably.
‘For someone not looking for love, look at what you found in Italy,’ he says as we get closer to Siena.
‘Yeah, he’s pretty special,’ I say, as I stare out the window.
‘He never stops talking about you. He’d do anything for you.’
‘I know.’ I lean back in my seat, reflecting on my life now compared to a few short months ago. Hearing Silvio’s words sends a small pang of fear through me. We are in so deep. I push aside those fleeting thoughts that have the potential to torment me if I let them.
When we arrive at Silvio’s parents’ house, his mother, a stocky woman of short stature, is waving at the front gate, excited to see her son.
‘Ciao, Mamma,’ says Silvio as she kisses him through his open window. Italian sons have a reputation for being mamma’s boys, and I find it amusing seeing it in action. The Italian word for it is mammone. And Silvio, despite his
age, is a big mammone.
‘When are you going to bring a girl of your own home to me, Silvio?’ she asks, her chubby arms raised to the heavens in exasperation. She’s wearing a worn-out apron and a scarf around her head, looking as though she’d be ready to start dancing on a barrel full of grapes at any moment.
‘Mia, this is my mamma. Everyone calls her Zia Flora.’ He chuckles.
‘Nice to meet you, Zia Flora,’ I say, waving from my side of the car.
‘Buonasera, signorina Mia,’ she says in her thick Tuscan accent. Her face is that of a woman in her early seventies, but the wrinkles sit on velvety-smooth skin and rosy cheeks. She checks the letterbox and then trails behind the car with the mail tucked into the front pocket of her apron, and a small dog by her side. Further up, Luca is leaning on the wooden fence, one hand in the pocket of his jeans. He looks so relaxed, and tonight I see something fresh in his smile. Something new stirs within me, as if our love has shifted a gear. I’m so distracted by him that I don’t notice the presence of Silvio’s dad, who has approached the car door to open it for me, until I hear the click.
Looking at Silvio’s dad is like looking at an older version of Silvio. He’s as equally animated as his son, and he reaches for my hand like a gentleman, guiding me out of the car.
‘Ciao, sono Beppe,’ he introduces himself. ‘Welcome to our home.’
He helps Silvio unpack the boot, and I walk over to Luca, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we pulled up. He’s still standing in the same position. He winks at me and takes my hands, guiding me towards him.
‘I missed you today,’ he whispers, his breath tickling my ear.
‘Me, too,’ I whisper back.
His lips brush mine in a way that tells me he’s not concerned with the public display of affection. As much as I’d love to play in this world of ours, I gently pull away.
‘Guess what?’ I say.
‘What?’
‘I’m going to show my work to Clara when she gets back.’
‘Really? That’s great,’ he says, giving my hand a squeeze of encouragement.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘It almost makes me feel like a real artist.’
Beppe shows Silvio the work they did during the day on the farm, briefing him on what else needs to be done in preparation for the vendemmia, the grape harvest, in September. His property is home to a large vineyard, and he has a good feeling about the wine this year. Last year was a bad year. And it had nothing to do with the weather, but rather the malocchio (the evil eye) from his jealous neighbours. I want to laugh, although he is so serious that I can only nod my head and agree that the malocchio is a terrible thing. Luca glances at me and smirks, reading my thoughts, making it harder for me to not burst out laughing. The malocchio, Beppe explains, can be cast on the most unsuspecting victim in a number of different ways. A simple glance, a stare or a passing jealous thought can trigger its ill effects. It can manifest itself with a range of different symptoms, from a long string of bad luck to a splitting headache. He tells us that the curse can be removed, but in last year’s unfortunate grape debacle, Beppe only realised he’d been affected when it was too late.
We make our way into the farmhouse, and I present Zia Flora with my painting.
‘This is for you,’ I say. She shrieks with joy and tells Beppe he must display it immediately in a prominent position.
‘I think they like it.’ I laugh, turning to Silvio.
In true Italian fashion, our dinner amongst friends lasts hours. After we clear the table, Zia Flora starts complaining about a toothache. She asks Beppe to get her some medicine and he taps her on the shoulder and signals for her to sit. He goes to the kitchen and returns with a clove of garlic, which he peels and then inserts into her ear.
‘What is it?’ she exclaims, touching the clove and pulling it out of her ear to take a look.
‘A mighty clove of garlic,’ he says proudly.
‘Oh,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders. She places the clove back where it was.
Beppe explains the unlimited uses of garlic to fight infection as well as some other important remedies. A glass of warm wine is called for a cold, and for the flu a mixture of milk, honey and garlic will do the trick. ‘But it has to be raw honey, not the rubbish they sell in the supermarket,’ he warns.
To my disbelief, half an hour later Zia Flora declares that her tooth is no longer causing her pain. Silvio shakes his head and Beppe grins at me, saying a quiet, ‘I told you so.’ The word ‘placebo’ comes to mind, but I keep my mouth shut.
‘We’ll see you again for the vendemmia,’ says Beppe as we leave.
‘Does it involve stomping on grapes?’
‘Of course, we can arrange that.’ He laughs. ‘You’re family now.’
Zia Flora gives me a basketful of produce from the farm, which I place into the boot of Silvio’s car.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ asks Luca, trailing behind me. He grabs me from behind and twirls me around. ‘How does Siena by night sound?’
FIFTEEN
Stella heaves a large bag into Paolo’s arms. ‘Another one?’ he says, rolling his eyes.
She pinches his cheek. ‘Yes, bello, another one.’
Paolo’s family has a holiday home in Sardinia, where he and Stella will be staying until the end of August. She hugs me affectionately before getting into the car. ‘Hey, my share of the rent’s on the kitchen table. Would you mind taking it to my uncle? I’ve left his address with the cash.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I say, realising that I never told Stella about my chance meetings with Signor Fiorelli all those weeks ago. ‘Have a great time! I’ll see you both when you get back.’
I leave behind the slip of paper Stella has handed to me with Signor Fiorelli’s address on it because I already know where to find him. I ride into Florence and sure enough, he’s sitting under the shade of a small umbrella affixed to his stand in the Piazzale degli Uffizi.
‘Signorina Mia!’ he calls in his poetic voice. ‘I haven’t seen you in a while.’
‘I’ve been busy settling in. I got a job. I’m working as a nanny for twin boys, for a family in Impruneta. Their mother’s an art dealer, actually.’
‘The Balducci family?’
‘That’s the one! How did you know?’
‘Oh, I know Signora Clara very well,’ he says, gesturing towards his paintings as if offering an explanation as to how they know each other. ‘Over the years she’s commissioned a few pieces of artwork from me.’ Almost as an afterthought he asks, ‘How is she?’ and I know that he’s referring to her loss.
‘She’s actually doing pretty well.’
‘Tell me, has she seen your work?’
‘Not yet, but soon.’
‘Nervous about sharing?’ he asks with a knowing look.
‘Something like that,’ I say.
‘Aah, bella Mia. The artist’s cure for self-doubt isn’t success, nor is it approval from others. It’s knowing in your heart that the creative process itself is enough to carry you through life’s good times and not-so-good times. Your painting is an outermost expression of your inner self. So paint and share your art, knowing that your work is a gift, no matter what is reflected on the canvas. And do it because it is part of you, because when you don’t do it, you aren’t living the truest version of yourself,’ he says.
I smile, contemplating his words.
‘Mia, you seem preoccupied. Is there something else you want to say to me?’ he asks.
‘Uh, yes there is, Signor Fiorelli. I have your rent money.’
He cocks his head to the side and frowns, his lower lip protruding from his mouth as if scanning his thoughts before asking, ‘You live with my niece?’
‘Yes. You have a very nice home.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘I didn’t know if I should. I saw your studio and Stella told me about—’
‘Ah, my amore Amelia. Every time I went to paint I wanted to paint her.
And so I resisted it, until such time that I understood that allowing the memories of her to come through my paintings was in fact the best thing I could have been doing.’
‘And so you come here every day?’
‘Every day, Mia, every day, since I realised that painting had the power to heal me.’
‘If you don’t mind, maybe one day I could keep you company? We could paint together?’ I ask, hoping I don’t sound too forward.
His face lights up. ‘If you would like, I would love that.’
Luca calls me in the late afternoon, telling me he’s closed the officina for the month and he’ll be passing by in fifteen minutes. Like every other time, my heart skips a beat at the thought of seeing him again. Today we end up in Fiesole, a small, picturesque town located in the Florentine hills. He points out the Villa di Maiano, before we drop in to the Fattoria di Maiano, an organic agricultural estate with its origins dating back to the fifteenth century. The friendly staff of the Lo Spaccio restaurant make sure our lunch is more than a delightful experience complemented with the local Chianti wine, which I’ve become accustomed to drinking with my meals.
When in Rome … err, Florence.
After lunch we stroll through an olive grove before following a secluded path through some overgrown woods that eventually lead us to a clearing, revealing an almost hidden small lake, which is more like a large pond. There’s nothing to be heard here except for the singing of birds and the sound of our own hushed whispers.
‘Where are we? It’s like we’ve stepped into a different world.’
‘It’s a secret lake. A client from the officina told me about it years ago, but I’ve never actually seen it,’ he says.
I’m grateful for the drop in temperature after our long walk. Unlike a traditional lake, the small laghetto is surrounded by a rock wall on one side, where a quaint statue of the Madonna sits, carved into the stone. On the other side is an ancient tower with a small balcony, arched windows and a metal studded main door. Luca and I sit with our legs over the edge of the laghetto, our feet swishing around in the emerald water.
The Florentine Bridge Page 12