The Florentine Bridge

by Vanessa Carnevale

  ‘I literally just finished the last one this afternoon,’ I say, pointing to a painting of a twentieth-century antique carousel, run by the fifth generation of the Picci family, which lights up Piazza della Repubblica. We stood there arm in arm, gelatos in hand, mesmerised by the golden lights bouncing in and around it as the painted horses gently swayed to and fro, eliciting smiles of glee from small children. As the music hummed away, their laughter tickled us, and for a few short minutes we enjoyed the taste of innocence and simple pleasures that life has to offer.

  ‘Delightful.’ When she finally tears her eyes away, she looks around the room and says, ‘Look at what you’ve done to this room. It was never like this before.’

  ‘You’ve been here?’

  ‘Yes, Signor Fiorelli has done many paintings for me over the years,’ she murmurs, her attention focused on a painting of Luca and me walking along the beach.

  ‘It’s called Once-in-a-lifetime Tuscan Love. It’s our story …’ I say, my voice trailing off. She seems so enthralled in the paintings that I doubt she’s heard a word I’ve said.

  ‘Go on,’ she murmurs without shifting her gaze.

  ‘It started out as fourteen paintings when he was in hospital, and I haven’t been doing much else except for painting and looking after the boys this month,’ I confess. ‘So that number grew to thirty.’

  Clara is silent for what feels like hours as she admires the wall from afar, then steps towards each painting, one by one, as if viewing them in a gallery. She traces her fingers across the framed labels. Once she’s finished she turns around and looks at me. ‘My goodness …’

  I raise my eyebrows, unsure of how to interpret her response.

  ‘Like them?’ I ask shyly.

  ‘I’ll give you sixty thousand euros for all of them.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I say, certain I’ve misheard her.

  ‘Make it ninety.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I blink several times in a futile attempt to play back what I have just thought I heard.

  ‘It’s the most incredible story depicted in contemporary artwork I have seen in my entire career.’

  I’m absolutely speechless.

  ‘These pieces are magnificent. The way you’ve captured the emotion, the depth. It’s extraordinary. Especially given your age and experience. Are these paintings all based on real events? Things you did together?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper.

  She reaches over to the painting of me sitting at the bar, sketching Luca, who’s working in the officina.

  ‘I have at least four buyers I know who would be interested in this work,’ she says, her eyes glued to the painting.

  ‘But nobody knows my work. How will you convince anyone that it’s worth their consideration?’

  ‘You let me worry about that,’ she says, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’ve been in this business long enough to recognise a gem when I find one. And believe it or not, I’m very familiar with your work.’

  My eyes question her.

  She breaks out into a smile. ‘I’d hoped to remain anonymous until after you’d delivered the triptych. It seems like a good time to let you know I was the one who commissioned it.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It all feels too surreal. ‘You’re C. Jones?’

  ‘Yes, Mia. Jones is my maiden name.’

  ‘Oh my goodness! I had no idea.’

  ‘That’s how it was supposed to be. I wanted you to show me your work in your own time. I happened to be visiting Signor Fiorelli when I saw your painting. My office is around the corner from the Uffizi. Signor Fiorelli was telling me how talented you were. I didn’t realise the painting was yours until I recognised your name on the card beside it. By then I’d already offered to buy it. Every afternoon I’d stop and see more of your paintings. I showed them to my partner, Joseph, and, well, here we are now.’

  ‘I’m very grateful, Clara.’

  ‘You’re a true artist. Knowing I’m helping you in your career is an honour. This is just the beginning. That is, if you’d be happy for me to help you.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  ‘So, would you consider selling these paintings?’

  I think back to how hard it was to pick up those paintbrushes when I was unwell, and how the paintings in this room are so much more than a love story. They’re painted by a girl who turned pain and fear into love and hope. A girl who was given a second chance at life but was scared to take it; however, once she did, she found herself.

  ‘Consider them sold.’

  She claps her hands together, an infectious smile creeping across her face.

  ‘Here, let me show you your paintings,’ I say, gesturing towards the corner of the studio where a drop sheet sits over the commissioned pieces. I lift the cover to reveal the three works. I’ve painted one picture of the Ponte Vecchio at sunset, one of a couple tossing their key from the bridge, and another of an elderly couple sitting on a park bench admiring a panoramic view of Florence. ‘I hope they’re what you were looking for.’

  ‘No, they’re not.’

  I’m unsure of how to respond.

  When she turns to look at me, she’s beaming, letting me know in a voice as smooth as honey, ‘They’re much more than what I’d hoped for. They’re brilliant.’

  Once we’re downstairs, Clara opens the bottle of wine she brought over and tells me about her plans for the paintings. She’d like The Florentine Bridge triptych to be displayed in London for three months for an upcoming art exhibition featuring contemporary artwork by Florentine painters depicting the city. She needs to make several phone calls regarding the paintings she has seen today but tells me it’s likely they will be sold as a collection at auction. I’m still reeling at the events that are unfolding when Clara interrupts my train of thought.

  ‘Are we ready to start dinner?’

  ‘No, I think we should eat out tonight, Clara. On me.’

  The following morning, I wander into Impruneta, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions within me. The overwhelming joy at yesterday’s news, dampened by the incessant longing to be able to share it with Luca. My eyes rest on the officina. I can almost hear the roller door being shut, causing the ache within me to grow heavier. I watch a young couple cross my path, stopping beside a parked scooter. He smooths her hair and gently wipes under her eye. He holds his finger out in front of her and she blows a puff of air over her loose eyelash.

  ‘What would you wish for, Mia?’

  ‘To never be apart from you.’

  My phone rings, nudging me back to the present. It’s Clara.

  ‘I’m outside the villa. I thought I’d come to say goodbye before we head to Venice. Will you be long?’

  ‘I’ll be there soon,’ I reply, tearing my gaze away from the officina.

  Clara emerges from her car, and together we make our way to the front door. As I turn the key in the lock, I hear the sound of car doors opening and closing. I turn around and narrow my gaze. Emerging from Clara’s car are my parents.

  ‘Hello, pumpkin,’ says Dad, smiling. ‘We thought we’d surprise you.’ Mum rushes towards me. She runs her hands through my hair and rests her hands on my cheeks. ‘You’re beautiful,’ she whispers, her eyes damp.

  I throw my arms around her, inhaling the familiar floral scent of her perfume. I turn to Dad, who locks me in a tight embrace, an embrace I didn’t realise I’d missed this much.

  ‘When did you arrive? And how did you …?’

  Clara smiles. ‘Told you to leave this with me. You’ve been so strong, but I thought a reunion might make things a little easier for you.’

  I smile in appreciation.

  ‘I suggested your parents could stay in my cottage, but I assume you’d like them to stay here with you, at least until Stella returns from New York.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, ‘I was thinking actually, that the cottage could be perfect for you and Luca. We could arrange whatever modifications might be required. I’ll leave you
to think about it. Now, I need to dash, but we’ll spend some time together once I return from Venice. I promised your parents a personalised tour of Florence.’

  Mum and Dad unpack and settle in, while I set up the spare upstairs bedroom for them.

  ‘I’m so proud of you,’ says Mum, watching me smooth out the sheets. ‘Your life here … it’s so different to what it was like for you at home. It’s like you’ve grown up overnight.’

  ‘I love it here. Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’ve been thinking of staying in Italy. To study, that is. I’d like to study at the academy …’

  Mum nods, showing me she understands. ‘Clara filled me in on all the details about your paintings. I think if that’s what you want to do, you should do it.’

  ‘Even if I don’t get accepted … I still want to stay here though. With Luca …’

  Mum lowers herself on to the edge of the bed and pats the mattress for me to sit down beside her. She turns her body to face me and takes my hand in hers. ‘Why aren’t you with him, honey?’

  I shrug. ‘He wants space.’

  ‘Does he?’ She questions me with her eyes.

  ‘That’s what he thinks he wants. He thinks that because he can’t walk he isn’t enough for me. The thing is, he’s more than enough. He’s everything to me.’

  ‘Oh, Mia. You’re so young to be dealing with something like this. I know you love him, but are you absolutely sure this is what you want?’

  ‘Let me show you something.’ I lead Mum into the art studio.

  I show her the paintings of Luca and me, telling her about each one. She listens, moving from one piece to the next, taking everything in.

  Finally, she speaks. ‘Has Luca seen these? Have you shown them to him?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Darling, I really think you should.’

  Instantly, my heart knows exactly what I need to do to bring Luca home. Maybe Signor Fiorelli was right. Sometimes the answers are right in front of us.

  Mum and Dad fit into life in Italy seamlessly. We’ve been spending bursts of time together sightseeing, and since she returned from Venice, Clara has been spoiling Mum with visits to centuries-old villas, appreciating all they offer in terms of architecture and design. Dad’s made himself at home at Silvio’s bar every evening, where he plays cards with the locals. He’s there tonight, while Mum and I spend a quiet night in at Clara’s. I’m lost in my own thoughts, thinking about the best time to visit Luca, who still isn’t answering my calls.

  ‘You seem a little distant tonight,’ says Clara. The boys are in bed and we’re standing in the kitchen drying dishes together.

  ‘I was thinking about the paintings, and showing them to Luca,’ I say, rubbing my tea towel over an already dry plate.

  ‘You should go see him,’ says Mum.

  ‘You and Dad have only been here a little over a week. I can’t just leave you.’

  She winks at me. ‘It’s not like we’ll be bored without you. It’s Italy! Besides, we’ll be here when you get back. We’ll be here as long as you need us to be.’

  ‘I’ll make sure your parents have plenty of ways to occupy their time while you’re away,’ says Clara.

  ‘What if he refuses to come home?’ I twist the tea towel into a knot.

  Mum takes it off me and folds it. ‘Well, sweetheart … at least you’ll know you tried.’

  Clara chimes in. ‘She’s right, you know.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Clara, you know the offer you made about the cottage … I was wondering if that still stands?’

  Later that evening, Mum and Dad slip into bed and I return to the studio. Memories of Luca and me dance around in my head amongst the silence in the studio, one of the places I know I can count on for solace. I cast my mind back to the day we visited the Boboli Gardens, where everything was green and luscious and in bloom, the time we ate so much gelato on the beach that we both felt sick for hours afterwards, the time we wished upon our shooting stars.

  I set up my paper on an easel and start to paint. Luca. Standing near the outdoor table, shades in one hand, squinting to get a better look at that girl on the swing. Once I’m finished, I take a card and let the ink flow: Where it started.

  Then I reach for a sheet of notepaper and start writing.

  Dear Luca,

  I’ll never forget our first kiss. In that moment I knew my life would be forever changed. You showed me that love knows no time, and that one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves is the permission to let go and listen to our hearts. When I was scared and broken you showed me that it was safe to trust in life. You showed me that what we feel is just as important as what we think. I know now that allowing you to love me and to be with you no matter what the future might bring, is okay, safe and right. If there is love, there is acceptance, and true love allows for unity in the face of uncertainty. I know now that if we can take life as it comes, together, everything will be okay.

  I’m not a girl of many words; my brushstrokes are my words and these paintings are for you. This is us. This is our love. A once-in-a-lifetime, what-are-the-chances-of-us-ever-meeting kind of love. This is what we had and what we stand to lose if we remain apart. There are 195 countries in the world, with over seven billion of us in it. But there’s only one person I want to be with, and I belong to him, as much as he belongs to me.

  Please come home to me.

  Your painter girl,

  Mia.

  TWENTY-NINE

  As I stand on the platform waiting for the Eurostar bound for Rome, I think about the way drops of watercolour pigment can run and bleed into each other across the surface of wet paper. They do this amazing thing: they bloom. When I was learning to paint, I was taught that good blooms, the kind you can control, were something to be embraced, because they added vibrancy and excitement to a piece. Bad blooms, on the other hand, were considered messy, appearing in all the places you didn’t want them to, and were to be avoided at all cost. These days, when I take brush to paint and intentionally work with this technique for fun, I know that I’m consciously creating a work of art because I get to choose the colours I want. Ultimately though, the drops do what they want. I observe my painting once I’m done and think of how beautiful it is, in all of its loose and messy imperfection. Even in those places where the colours are muddy, it’s still more perfect than I could have ever imagined it to be.

  I step through the sliding doors of the train, and find a spare seat. After six failed attempts at reading the same page of my book over and over, I spend the rest of the trip gazing out the window, watching out for the right station, my body tense at the thought of seeing Luca again, not knowing how he might react to seeing me. In Rome I change to a local intercity train.

  Only a handful of people disembark at Orvieto train station, mainly tourists. I wander around for about fifteen minutes before I need to ask for directions on how to reach Rosetta’s apartment.

  ‘Excuse me, could you tell me where I can find Via della Fonte?’

  ‘Not too far from here, signorina. Take the first left and then your second right,’ says the passer-by.

  I follow his directions and stop outside the apartment, realising that I’m more nervous than I thought I was. My heart starts racing as I reach for the doorbell, knowing that in a few minutes I’ll be seeing Luca again.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Uh, Rosetta, it’s me, Mia.’

  The intercom goes quiet for what feels like forever. Somehow, I convince myself that Luca has found out it’s me waiting for him here and has told her not to open up. I turn around and begin to walk away. It’s then I hear the click of the metal door and Rosetta’s voice calling after me.

  ‘Mia, wait!’

  I turn around to see Rosetta standing there, smiling at me. She walks towards me and locks me in an embrace.

  ‘I’m so glad to see you,’ she says.

  She makes small talk, telling me her boys are out with her husband, Francesco, a
nd that the weather is unusually cold for this time of year. She asks how I got here and if I came alone. Finally, we speak about Luca.

  ‘Mia, I want you to know that I tried so hard. I begged him so many times to call you, to let you in, to reconsider, but he refused. I know this isn’t what he wants, though, and I wanted so badly to call you, to let you know how he was doing, but he made me promise not to. Please forgive me,’ she says.

  ‘It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay, but I understand. How is he?’

  She’s searching for the words. ‘The same, really. The rehab facilities here are pretty average, and it’s hard to notice any improvement.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Upstairs. Come, I’ll take you to him.’

  As we ride the lift up to the apartment, I ask Rosetta about how Luca manages to get in and out of the flat.

  ‘He doesn’t go out much. Just for rehab. He was only discharged from the hospital two weeks ago, and that was only because he insisted on coming home,’ she says. ‘But what worries me the most is that Fiorentina played Juventus last week and he wouldn’t even let me turn on the TV.’

  ‘But he loves soccer! Fiorentina is his favourite team. He never misses a game.’

  ‘I know,’ she replies, sighing.

  She leads me to the living room and smiles with reassurance before leaving me to stand there alone. He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s facing a window that overlooks a narrow street. Aside from a few passers-by going about their day, and some sheets hanging on a washing line, there isn’t much to look at. It feels so wrong, so unfair, to see him sitting there in a wheelchair, lost in his own thoughts like this. I think about how bittersweet it is to feel such immense gratitude for life on these kinds of terms and how not being able to make something better for someone in the way that we want to can cause so much angst if we let it.

  ‘Luca?’

  His hands reach for the wheels of his chair, and he slowly turns around to face me. It’s the same Luca in so many ways: the same olive skin, the same defined cheekbones, the same impeccable style in clothing. Except he’s in a wheelchair. He has a wounded demeanour that almost rips my heart open.