‘You can’t give up on someone like that,’ I say, the heat from the pit of my stomach rising up, burning my cheeks.
‘I understand. Sometimes we all need to hold on to hope.’
‘When it’s all we have left,’ I reply, staring absently at Jesus hanging from the cross.
‘What brought you here today?’
‘I came to pray for another miracle.’
‘Then, signorina, will you let me join you?’
His glassy blue eyes plead with me and comfort me at the same time. I lower myself onto the padded beam. When I bow my head, he does, too.
I don’t know how long I’ve been kneeling here, but the pins and needles in my legs signal that it’s time for me to go. Father Damiano only moves once I’m fully upright again.
‘Remember, God hears everything. Every prayer. Every wish.’
As the click of my footsteps echo through the basilica after the doors swing closed behind me, I whisper to God, ‘Prove it.’
TWENTY-FOUR
There are at least fourteen different ways to describe the beauty of a sun rising. I know this, because I have woken early every morning since Luca’s accident to watch the sunrise from the swing. Our swing. In the new light of each day, I visit Luca and tell him what made this morning’s appearance of the sun so special, and how meeting him, loving him and letting him love me has changed my life. Changed me. Helped me to find me again.
This morning, I don’t feel like going to the hospital straight away, so I take a detour via the Ponte Vecchio. I lean against the edge of the bridge and watch the flow of the river, thinking about the point at which it meets the sea. When does one body of water disappear and become another? Or do they simply get lost in each other? My mind wanders to the old Italian couple I saw on the first day I arrived in Impruneta, walking down that steep decline, arm in arm. I knew that if he fell, she would follow. I don’t know how I’ll stop myself from falling if Luca doesn’t make it. Somehow though, I’ll have to.
I reach into my pocket for the love lock, the most meaningful gift anyone has ever given me. My trembling hand twists the key until the padlock flicks open. The intricately engraved words feel cool against my skin. Amongst the hundreds of other padlocks, I find a place for ours and snap the lock shut. Our padlock. Our bridge. Our forever. Blinded by my sadness, I approach the side of the bridge and toss the key over the Ponte Vecchio, into the Arno. I can’t tell whether the moan I feel rise from me can be heard by anyone else, but all I know is that it comes from deep inside.
On my way to the hospital, back through the city centre, I pass Signor Fiorelli’s stand. He waves and trails after me, unable to keep up with my brisk pace.
‘Cara Mia, are you okay?’ he calls out from behind me. I look at him, past him, beyond him, and respond with a small wave, the words I don’t think so echoing inside me, through me, around me.
When I reach the hospital, Rosetta is in Luca’s room.
‘Any news?’
Today, like every other day, she shakes her head. There’s a brochure on the edge of the bed, and I vaguely understand it to be about life support and choices. I rip it to shreds and throw it in the bin, my stomach churning.
‘I don’t want to see anything like this in here again. No priests, nuns, brochures, nothing. Only hope. Do you understand?’
She nods in silence, tears gliding down her face. She leaves the room and heads back to Luca and Paolo’s apartment for a rest. Busying myself with my usual task of replacing wilted flowers with fresh ones, I then take my place on the chair beside Luca’s bed. I read pages of Jane Austen and his favourite car magazines, but it does nothing to evoke a response from him. Finally, in the late morning, I set them aside and spend the next couple of hours watching and waiting and reminiscing.
‘You have to fight, Luca. Harder than you’ve ever fought before.’
At midday Paolo joins me.
‘It’s meant to be one at a time, but I figure he won’t mind,’ he says.
‘Paolo?’ I whisper.
‘Yes, Mia.’
‘Do you think he’ll make it?’
He looks at me, and then past me as his eyes stare into the distance. ‘I hope so.’
I never want to forget the taste of his lips, the smell of his skin, or the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. I want to remember what it felt like for his smile to take my breath away. If Luca doesn’t pull through, all I will be left with are memories. Like all memories, they start out vivid and full of emotion, slowly becoming vague and hazy recollections of what once was. There is only one way I truly can capture the memories while they are still fresh and not subject them to a fate of fading away into a distant past. I break my routine of visiting the hospital after my morning meditation and instead honour the urge to go upstairs to the studio. With considerable force, I manage to open a stuck window for some fresh air. I flick the switch on the vintage radio and roll the dial over the static waves until the pitch is perfect. I gather a bucket, a broom and a bunch of old rags from the laundry. It takes me two full hours to clean the studio.
Under one of the drop sheets I find a rusted biscuit tin. Inside is a stack of black-and-white photographs bundled together with a ribbon. Underneath them is a pile of old letters, worn and faded yellow. I check the postmarks. They coincide with the war. I hold the letters close to my chest, feeling an intense sadness for Signor Fiorelli. Then I sift through the photographs that have captured so beautifully the love he had for Amelia, and I’m reminded of how love has the power to enrich our lives as well as the power to hurt us so profoundly that our lives can, if we let them, be rendered forever damaged. I set the tin aside and after finding a can of paint in the cellar, I get to work, repainting the main wall of the studio.
And then I sit, watching it dry, as my soul leans into what it feels like to be me. I was lost and broken. Scared and lonely. And then I wasn’t. Now I’m on the brink of heading down the same path, if I let myself. Only this time, for Luca’s sake, I am determined to not let the pieces of my shattered self remain fragmented. Because Luca wouldn’t want me to live a life that’s broken. As much as it stings, I do have a choice. Wallow, wilt and die living, or live by the words he once taught me: Take life as it comes.
As I sit with the comforting smell of fresh paint while plump raindrops splatter against the open studio window, drowning out the sound of the radio, my mind retraces our steps, our life, and the things that made us us.
The memories dance around in my mind, until I begin to smile from the inside, and that’s when I start painting the first picture.
Us. Piazzale Michelangelo.
I take a card and with a felt-tip pen I write a note to display under the painting.
Our first kiss. When I was numb, you showed me what it was like to feel again.
A week later, I have a collection of seven paintings that have captured the memories of my time with Luca.
Us. Our bridge. You wiped away my tears. You showed me it was okay to be me.
Us. Sunflowers. You showed me what it was like to laugh again.
Us. Our secret lake. Ti amo … You told me you loved me.
Us. Bikes. Rolling hills and luscious vineyards. Taking life as it comes.
Us. Livorno. A pebble beach and waves crashing. I never wanted that day to end.
Us. Shooting stars. Wishes can come true.
Two weeks later, I have encapsulated fourteen of our most special memories in my paintings. I head into town, to the local corniceria. I hand the shopkeeper one of my paintings and he brings out several different frames for me to choose from. He takes some measurements, and I tell him I need fourteen smooth classic wooden frames with an antique look.
‘Fourteen?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ll deliver them to you when they’re ready, signorina Mia.’
A few days later, I’m in the studio painting again when Stella knocks on the door.
‘Mia, may I come in?’ she as
ks, as she gently pries the door open. ‘Rocco from the framing store is here. He says he has a delivery for you.’
‘Sure, let him in,’ I murmur, my eyes fixed on my latest painting.
Rocco places the frames in the corner of the studio and lets himself out.
‘You’re usually at the hospital by this time,’ says Stella, glancing at my paintings sprawled across the floor. ‘Oh. Wow. Mia, these are … are these paintings of you and Luca?’
I nod.
‘They’re beautiful. These are places you visited together?’ she asks, walking closer to admire them.
I nod.
‘Where was this?’ she asks, pointing to a depiction of us at the laghetto.
‘It’s a secret.’
‘What about this field of sunflowers?’
‘Volterra. Near Pisa,’ I reply. ‘We spoke a lot about making memories. If what they’re saying is right—I want to make sure I have something to hold on to.’
She drops her gaze. ‘Is this your way of saying you’ve lost hope, Mia?’
‘No, Stella. It’s the only way I know how to keep it.’
I turn my head and begin to carefully add the finishing touches to a painting of Luca and I in Positano, by the lagoon. He’s standing, reading Jane Austen to me in his sexy Italian accent as I cover my eyes from the glare of the sun, laughing at his narration, my laughter reverberating through our special place.
‘A minute later he’ll drop the book and scoop me into his arms, twirl me around and throw me into the cool turquoise water with a splash,’ I say, staring at the painting.
‘God, Mia, I know how much this hurts. How hard it must be for you, not knowing.’
‘I’m trying to make sense of it all, in the only way I know how. I just hope this is—enough to help me keep on living if he doesn’t make it.’
She sits down next to me and crosses her legs. She’s quiet for a long time, before finally telling me, ‘Honey, I have no idea.’
And I love her for it. Because she gets it. I bring my knees to my chest and drop my weary head into my hands, my soul aching for those happy times. And when she wraps her arms around me and cries with me, I don’t feel so alone.
TWENTY-FIVE
The next day I tell Stella I’ll take our rent money to Signor Fiorelli. I want to thank him for coming to visit the hospital.
‘Bella Mia, where have you been? I’ve been thinking of you every day, my dear.’
‘Thank you, Signor Fiorelli. I’ve been busy. Painting, mostly.’
‘How is Luca?’
‘The same.’ He holds my gaze, but I need to look away. The words ‘the same’ mean nothing. No better, no worse, no closer, no farther.
‘What are the doctors saying?’ he asks quietly.
I shuffle my feet and say the words I’ve been doing my best to avoid. ‘They’re saying that it doesn’t look promising.’
‘You said you’ve been painting?’
‘Yes. It’s pretty much one of the only things that’s keeping me going right now. I’d like you to come to the villa sometime.’
‘Mia, I haven’t been home … to the villa … in a very long time,’ he says, sighing.
‘To see my work, Signor Fiorelli. I’m ready to share it.’
‘We’ll see, Mia. Did you bring your supplies today?’
‘No, I just came to give you the rent money.’
‘Keep it. You haven’t been working much this month.’
‘It’s fine. Honestly.’
I hand Signor Fiorelli the crumpled envelope. ‘Oh, I have something else for you,’ I say, handing him the tin of photographs and letters.
He takes a minute before he recognises the box. Gently prying open the lid, he pulls out the photographs and slowly unties the ribbon that holds them together with his wrinkled hands.
He holds the photographs to his chest.
‘I thought you might have missed them,’ I say. ‘I know they must be very special to you.’
‘Thank you, dear. I very much appreciate this.’
He hands me some brushes and sets up an easel for me. ‘Join me.’
‘I’d love to.’
I spend the afternoon with Signor Fiorelli, and when I finish my painting he stands back and admires it. It’s a painting of a girl, sitting on the edge of the Ponte Vecchio, holding a padlock.
‘What’s it called?’ he asks.
‘The Love Lock.’
He asks me whether I’d be willing to sell it.
‘Oh, I don’t know if it’s good enough to sell, Signor Fiorelli.’
‘Let them be the judge of that, Mia,’ he says, gesturing towards the crowd of tourists in the square.
I let him take my painting. Leaving me at the stand, he returns in half an hour with my painting mounted in a wooden frame. He sets it up in prominent view and then takes a fountain pen and a white card from the pocket of his jacket.
‘One of a kind. The Love Lock by Mia …’ He looks up at me.
‘Moretti.’
‘Two hundred and fifty euros.’
‘It will never sell at that price, Signor Fiorelli.’
‘Come back tomorrow to collect your money, Mia.’
Three days later, I return to visit Signor Fiorelli.
‘You finally came back. I have something for you,’ says Signor Fiorelli with a cheerful smile as he reaches into his pocket.
He pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to me.
‘Your painting sold within the hour.’
‘That’s amazing!’
‘Mia, look at me, dear,’ he says, his crystal-blue eyes fixed on mine. ‘You must believe in your abilities as an artist. Your work is selling because your work isn’t simply steeped in colour. It’s rich with emotion. The kind of emotion that can only be expressed when you’ve lived what you’ve lived. Do you understand? You paint from your heart, and with your heart.’
I nod. ‘Thank you, Signor Fiorelli.’
‘Now, let’s paint,’ he says, handing me a brush. The loneliness I have been feeling becomes less overwhelming with every brushstroke. It’s now October. Summer has passed and so has the vendemmia. Grapes at their ripest have been stripped from the vines, ready to be fermented into wine. Before they get ready to fall, leaves start to paint themselves with hues of rich colour as the temperature begins to drop. Even if my heart is immensely grateful for Luca’s life, I can’t help wondering what next summer will look like for the two of us. That’s if there will be a two of us.
I enjoy painting in the company of Signor Fiorelli, hanging on to his every word as he recounts old memories of his Amelia with such passion and vividness. Before I know it, he and I have a routine going. Each day I leave a painting with him and each afternoon, that painting is sold. In the two weeks since I started painting with Signor Fiorelli, I have sold almost 4000 euros worth of paintings.
On this particular day, I’m about to start a painting when I’m interrupted by my phone ringing.
It’s Stella.
‘Mia, you need to come quickly.’
My heart skips a series of beats before the rush of adrenaline starts pumping through my body. ‘I’m coming.’
I drop my phone into my pocket and Signor Fiorelli looks up at me with surprise. My paintbrush falls to the floor.
‘It’s Luca! I have to go.’
‘Go, signorina, go.’
I rush to my bike and pedal furiously, weaving in and out of the pedestrian traffic of the city centre.
Oh, God, please don’t let him be gone.
Oh, God, please let me make it in time.
Oh, God, I should have been there with him.
I hastily park my bike outside the hospital and bound up the stairs to the entrance, jarring my knee on the way up. When I reach Luca’s door, puffed out, legs shaking, my body freezes. I stop to catch my breath. My hand rests on the door handle. What if he’s gone? I’m too afraid to turn it. I don’t know what I’ll do if I see a bed without his body in it.
; Then I hear the sounds of animated Italian chatter, and at first I think I must have the wrong room, because it’s not the sombre tone I’d expect to be hearing after losing him. Someone has seen me through the frosted window and opens the door for me as I almost fall through it. All eyes are on me as my gaze moves to the bed.
He’s awake.
Alive.
Living.
Breathing.
I let out a loud gasp as my shoulders drop and my hands cover my mouth. If there was ever any doubt in my mind about miracles and wishes not coming true, my living proof is staring me in the face. I stand at the end of his bed, and our eyes meet. Stepping closer, I reach for his hand and press my lips against his cheek ever so gently, afraid I might break him. He looks so fragile lying there, still connected to countless numbers of tubes. He looks at me and smiles, although I’m confused by the intangible but very real distance between us.
‘I love you so much,’ I whisper, tears of relief pooling in my eyes. My head falls on his chest and he slowly reaches his arm over to cradle me. Eventually, I resurface and search his eyes for reassurance that everything’s okay.
He is silent. He closes his eyes, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s still so weak or if it’s what I said.
The energy in the room has shifted and the animated chatter has completely stopped as Paolo, Rosetta and Stella wait for someone to speak.
‘Are … are you okay?’ I ask.
Luca opens his eyes and nods before turning his gaze away from me. He’s lying. This isn’t how I imagined this would be. Something isn’t right. I’m frustrated that I don’t understand.
‘What’s wrong? Are you in pain?’ I ask, my voice uneven.
Why isn’t he looking at me?
‘It’s going to take time,’ says Stella, shifting uncomfortably.
‘Luca?’
Somebody mutters something about giving us space, and they all file out of the room.
‘Luca, amore, look at me. Are you okay?’ I ask, placing my hand gently on his face. It’s overridden with a sadness I’ve never seen in him before. He might be alive, but he is lifeless. My heart sinks at the realisation that something is wrong, terribly wrong.
The Florentine Bridge Page 20