by Eden Bradley
As I descend I can smell garlic in the air, and baking bread. And as I reach the square, the inevitable smell of garbage, urine. The scent of humanity that is present in some form or another in every large city, except that here there is also the musty scent of the Italian waterways that run everywhere through Rome. And suddenly I am desperate to get to the street, to walk. To think.
Yes, I need to think. I need to stop running every time my brain kicks into gear.
This late in the fall is the off-season, and the streets are mostly empty; just a few hard-core tourists, students in their torn jeans and backpacks from every corner of the world, the locals on their bicycles and Vespas.
I wander, simply walking the streets. Slowly I make my way down the Via dei Condotti, pass the designer shops, the cafés tucked in between them. But I don't want to shop, no matter how beautiful the items in the brightly lit windows. I need to keep moving, need to think. My mind is full of one idea and image after another: The Broker's face when she was telling me how I can never escape my life, being at the hotel in New York with Zayed, Regan, and Rosalyn, my pathetic mother sitting on the sagging sofa with a cigarette hanging from her mouth. And I'm angry. In a rage.
And then there's Joshua.
His face, his hands. If I close my eyes I think I could almost draw his scent into my lungs, hold it there as though it's something precious. It is to me. But I don't let myself do it. It's too hard, still, with him so far away.
I keep walking, taking one turn after another. I can feel the timelessness of this place, like a weight holding me to the earth, and I think it was right for me to come to Rome.
The walking is beginning to calm me, finally, the movement over the old cobblestone streets working some of the fury out of me. I'm able to take in some of what I see around me now, the old, beautiful architecture, unlike anything to be found in the United States. Some of these structures look as though they've been here forever, and something in their solid presence comforts me.
My feet are beginning to hurt and I want to stop, to rest. I find myself in front of one of the ancient basilicas: San Lorenzo in Lucina. I pause in front of the colonnaded building, gaze for a moment at the stucco fagade, which is a sort of pink and gold in the late morning light, like everything else in this city. It's imposing, formal looking, a mixture of ancient Rome and Greece, as a number of buildings in this city are.
It appears to be open to the public, and I slip through the ornate gates and go inside.
I don't know what I'm doing here; I'm not at all religious. But something about the serenity of the place draws me.
This structure is spectacular, unexpectedly colorful and grand, every corner, column, and archway painted in great detail, everything highlighted in gold, and the intricate, coffered ceiling vaulting overhead. I move a few feet in, over the patterned gray and white marble floor, and sit in the first pew I come to. The wood is hard beneath me. The place smells like incense and incalculable centuries.
At the other end of the endlessly long aisle is an enormous painting of Christ over the gold and marble altar, as bloody as these images often are. Grotesque, in a way. But so horribly sad.
But it's really just my own sadness. It's everything I've been through, everything I want. Everything I've convinced myself I can't have.
I think once more about what Joshua has said to me, about change, about being able to choose. If only it were as easy as making a choice. I don't know; maybe it is. Maybe I have to choose to get over it all, to really leave all the garbage in my life behind me. Choose to be with him.
If he'll even still have me, after what I've put him through. If I can ever give him what he deserves to have.
Fuck.
The gruesome image of Christ seems to stare down at me from the altar, and I feel the sadness in the figure like a lump of solid lead in my chest. It weighs on me, as though the sadness itself will push me down, into the pew, right through the floor to the earth below. The sensation grows heavier and heavier, until it's hard to breathe.
My gaze darts around in a panic, over the bleeding Christ, the golden altar, the painted columns, but I don't know what I'm looking for. It's too quiet here. There is no sound to distract me from the voices in my head, the ones that want to talk about everything that has happened to me in my life. About what is happening now. It's too much. But maybe I need this. Maybe I came here for a reason.
I don't know what it is about this church. If it's the history of the place, the hushed air making it feel sacred, even to those of us who are sinners. Or maybe this is simply where I happen to be at this moment. I don't understand any of it.
All I know is the wrenching sensation in my chest, and I pull in a long, deep breath. And as I let it go, I let myself begin to think about my life. How long am I going to blame everyone for what happened, including myself? How is blaming in any way constructive? I take responsibility for what I've done, the choices I've made. What more can I do? What more is necessary?
It's time to let that go.
This is what Lydia has been trying to tell me. And as I think this through, I feel some of the weight lifting from my body, a physical sensation of becoming lighter.
It hurts, this letting go, as much as hanging on to the old shit does. But what did I expect? This stuff that Lydia calls “archaic issues” has been with me my entire life, building and building as the experiences of my childhood stacked up, as I added to it by selling my body for sex. No matter how I convinced myself I was being of service to my clients. No matter how sympathetic I felt toward those like my blind Louis, like Zayed and his emasculating erection problems. It made me feel accomplished, somehow. But it was all bullshit. All a veil behind which I hid myself, like the glamour a witch puts on. Except that I've been seducing myself with that glamour as much as I have anyone else. I've needed to believe in it as much as they have.
Now I need to believe in something a lot more real. Why is that so damn difficult for me? But I have to figure it out.
The tears come then. Just a few, but I am horrified. I look around the church to see if anyone is watching. I don't know why I care; I don't know these people, this handful of tourists, an old Italian woman in a black head scarf praying in the front pew. They don't know me. But suddenly everything feels so damn important!
Sacred.
My blurred gaze goes back once more to the altar, to the woman in the front pew, her eyes on the bloody figure of Christ. She's passing a rosary through her hands, whispering, praying. I don't understand it. I've never had one moment of belief in God, in any sort of religion. I wish I had it, that faith. That kind of comfort.
I watch as she raises her face, kisses the cross on her rosary. Even in profile I can see the glow of hope there, the small smile on her lips. Beautiful.
A shiver runs through me.
Is it possible for me to feel that kind of hope, hope driven by nothing more than pure faith? I don't believe in God; I think that's asking too much from someone like me. But love? Can't I believe in love? How can I have a future without hope?
I think again, as I have so often lately, about those girls in the article. The woman who was helping them did more than give them shelter, clothing, teach them how to get through a job interview. She gave them hope.
Maybe I need to start by giving myself hope. And maybe I can do that by believing in love, by having at least that much faith in something.
I am filling up inside. It's scary and lovely all at once, sweet and painful. It is a physical sensation, and I am about to burst with it. It's too unfamiliar; I have to swallow it down. But it's there.
Faith. Love.
I don't know what to do now. If this small epiphany will make any difference after this moment. It feels almost too easy, as though it doesn't hurt enough.
But I've been hurting myself all these years, haven't I? And it's time to stop. Stop punishing myself. Stop punishing Joshua, who does not deserve it. The man loves me. Loves me! And I love him more than I ever thoug
ht possible. Maybe it really is that simple. Maybe the rest doesn't matter nearly as much as I thought it did.
I am dizzy with this idea. Breathless. Afraid.
I want to talk to Joshua, to tell him about all of these thoughts going through my head. To let him comfort me through this. But it's too soon.
I can't even contemplate how much I miss him.
The damn tears are clouding my eyes, until the colors of the church blend together, gold, white, and red, like a water-color painting of itself. Stubbornly, I blink them away. I have no patience for tears. I don't care how healthy it might be for me at this point. This is as much crying as I can stand.
Wiping my face on my sleeve gracelessly, I stand up and walk from the church, back onto the street. But I can't stop crying. Small, noiseless tears as I make my way down the street. I'm not even certain what I'm crying for. I don't feel so sad anymore, exactly. I feel … as though I'm flying without a net. That familiar comfort of knowing what my life is about. Even being free from some of my old baggage scares the hell out of me. The freedom itself is making me cry, maybe. Or maybe I'm just detoxing.
I walk for a long time, and the tears stop eventually. The afternoon sun breaks through the gray clouds, and I'm hot, hiding my swollen eyes behind my sunglasses, which isn't working very well, wiping my nose with a crumpled Kleenex I find in my purse.
Exhausted, I make it back to my hotel, stumble through the lobby, dig my key out of my purse, let myself into my room.
It feels stuffy after the outside air. Heavy. My body feels heavy, as though I am weighed down all over: my arms and legs, my stomach, my head.
I drop my purse on the floor, pull my clothes off, and sit on the side of the bed in my underwear with my cell phone in my hand.
God, I want to call him. Need to hear his voice.
Joshua.
But I'm not ready yet. I'm not done with what I came here for.
I shake my head, set the phone on the night table and get under the covers, curl up, and wish I'd thought to bring my gummi bears with me. But I don't really need them, do I? It's habit. I'm fine. I really am. For once.
I'm just tired, so tired. My hand smooths over the damask bedcover, my fingers stroking the satin edging. I feel… grateful. Dizzy with these new thoughts in my head, but in a good way. Soon, the emotional exhaustion of the day creeps over me, and I sleep.
IT'S LATE MORNING NOW and I am still red-eyed, my head full with too much sleep. I slept like the dead all night. Must have been twelve, thirteen hours. I am still jubilant, fearful, my pulse racing every time I think about yesterday, about faith, about love. I have just this one more thing to do.
I'm on my way to see Enzo. He called me an hour ago, told me where to meet him, at some small café on the Via de Fiore, a few blocks from the hotel.
He never suggested coming to my hotel room. He understands on some instinctive level why I can't do that.
I pass stranger after stranger, hidden behind my sunglasses, even though the sun is barely peeking through the clouds. It rained again early this morning and the streets are wet, shining in the diffused sunlight. It makes everything seem surreal. And I feel this momentary sense of total disconnection from everyone around me, as though I am not quite a part of the human race.
I realize how often I've felt like that. And just as suddenly, the feeling disappears as I understand how ridiculous it is. How self-indulgent of me. I am just as human as the rest of the people on this planet. Just as fallible.
Forgivable.
Another element to absorb. But later. After I've seen Enzo, spoken with him, heard his advice. I have been too much alone in my own head. I don't know any longer what to do with all of these new ideas, how to organize it all.
I see the green awning of the café from a distance, with the name in white lettering: La Dolce Vita. How perfect, when I am about to really begin my life.
And there he is, Enzo Alighieri. He is so elegant, with his thick silver hair and his neatly trimmed mustache, the way he dresses, the way he holds himself. Utterly Italian as he sits at the picturesque sidewalk café, leaning back in his chair in a perfectly relaxed pose, as though he knows he belongs there. He is confident, solid.
My heart lurches in my chest. I don't want to have this conversation with him. But I must. I owe him every good thing there's been in my life for the last ten years. And I need him. Need some sort of answer from him.
He smiles when he sees me, waves me over, stands to kiss me chastely on the cheek, holds a chair out for me and orders a coffee in rapid Italian.
We sit at the small, round, marble-topped table and simply stare at each other for a minute or two. Then he asks, “How are you, Valentine?”
“I'm good. Better than I've been for a very long time. Better than I've ever been, maybe. So much is happening to me.”
He nods, as though he understands what I mean without my having to explain.
The coffee comes, a small cappuccino, and I hold the cup in my hands, warming them. Enzo is quiet, waiting for me to speak.
“You're probably wondering what I'm doing here …”
“I have some idea, as I said yesterday. I know you've stopped working. And knowing you as I do, I understand something important must have happened to you.”
“I'm sorry to take you away from your vacation, Enzo.”
“No, no, it's fine. I was bored with all the socializing. The four-hour dinners and the wine we are expected to drink. I am getting too old for this sort of thing.”
“Never, Enzo.” I smile at him. “You know, you're one of the few people I've ever really trusted,” I tell him.
He nods his head. “This has been the nature of your life.”
I nod my head.
“But that is changing, is it not?”
I nod again, still smiling despite the fear of what might lie ahead.
He reaches out, covers my hand with his. That old buzz is still there. I am still attracted to this seventy-year-old man. He has been my mentor. My lover. My friend.
“Valentine, life is changeable. It is supposed to be this way.”
“My life was the same for ten years. And I liked that. I thought I did, anyway. But now … now everything is shifting and I'm not certain how to handle it. But at the same time, it's absolutely necessary.” I pause, look into his dark eyes. “I've met someone.”
Enzo is smiling at me, as though he is truly pleased for me. He nods for me to continue, and I do.
“This man … Joshua has come into my life at the right time. No matter what happens, this experience has changed me. And I needed to change. But now … I don't know what happens now.”
“What would you like to happen?”
“Do you mean in my little fantasy world in my head? Or in terms of what is actually possible?”
“Perhaps a little of both.”
I stop to bring the cappuccino to my lips, sip it, buying time to think, focusing for a few moments on the people passing by on the street. There is a young boy on a blue bicycle, a woman holding the hands of two small children. A couple with their arms twined around each other. They are absorbed in each other, rapt.
“I want… some small sense of normalcy. I want to believe it can happen. I want to do something real with my life. Something to do with art. Or maybe … maybe to be of some help to other girls going through this stuff. I have some ideas about that. Maybe I can find a way to blend the two. But that's still a way off. What I really want is … love. Just that.”
“Ah, yes. This is the crux of it, isn't it? Of life.”
“Yes. I realized that just yesterday. I mean, I really came to understand it. To believe it. But I still have some doubts. Questions. It's hard because I never had any sort of good example. What I saw of it as a kid was almost a farce. My mother's desperation. That wasn't love, even if she thought it was. I knew that even then. And so many of my clients all these years have been married … including you, Enzo. What does that say about love?” I look up to find his
dark, intense gaze on me. I can't tell what he's thinking. “I'm sorry. I don't mean that as any kind of judgment. I'm the last person who would judge you. Who would judge anyone.”
“Valentine, there is something you must understand about me. Something I assumed you already knew. I believe very much in love. I am Italian, after all; I am a man of great passion. Great love. My wife, my mistress. You.”
“Enzo …” But I can't finish. My eyes fill with tears that won't quite come out.
He waves a hand. “My darling Valentine, do you think I would have spent all these years with you, taken you under my wing, if I didn't love you? In my own way, perhaps, yes. But love is love, regardless of the form it takes. And yes, I know, I am not excusing my own behavior. I am simply telling you how I feel. Love is as imperfect as we are. I have abused it, perhaps. Yet love itself remains as beautiful, as essential, as ever.”
“Enzo … How could you have … loved me? Me? How could you love someone who does what I do? Who you hire for sex?”
“Would I have had you any other way? Would you have paid attention to an old man if it weren't for the money?”
“God, you make it sound so shallow. Fuck. It was shallow.”
I really do want to cry now. But there have been enough tears. I need to stop the self-pity and pay attention.
“No, cara, it was never shallow. You always meant something to me. But we both know what the money was about for you. It wasn't the money itself that was important to you. It was what it symbolized. It was the sense of control it gave you. And you cannot blame yourself for that, or judge yourself. You are a good person, Valentine. And that is how I loved you, why I will always love you. That is why this man loves you. Why he should. Don't be so afraid of love that you turn away from it, Valentine. Don't be afraid that it cannot exist because of anything you might have done.”
I nod. It's becoming clearer to me. I don't know why I need Enzo to validate these things for me; I just do. Maybe because he has been the only person I've truly trusted for the last ten years. The only one in my whole life. Until now. Until Joshua.