A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  Cynthia, who’d quite literally perfected the art of giving Gwen the cold shoulder, had angled her body so her sleeveless right arm was facing Gwen but the rest of her was pivoted toward Emerson. She was chattering at him like a yapping magpie about something (wanting to buy leather boots in Florence, perhaps?), and he was nodding slowly while eating and, with increasing frequency, scanning the table for a more interesting topic. Gwen didn’t blame him, but she wished he’d stop looking at her.

  The waiter had just refilled his wineglass, and Emerson was tracing the stem with his fingertip as Cynthia moved on to her shopping wants and needs in Venice.

  “... and when we get there, the first thing I intend to do after the obligatory gondola ride is purchase some more Murano glass jewelry,” Cynthia said, sounding so world-weary and sophisticated that Gwen felt like a country bumpkin sitting across from her. “I already have a millefiori bracelet and a necklace from my last visit. This time, I shall get earrings.”

  Automatically, Gwen reached up and checked the earrings she loved best—the pearl ones her mom had once worn—making sure they were still secure. Even though she was far less attached to the pair Richard had given her on her birthday and wouldn’t have worried quite so often about losing one of those in Europe, she’d left his gift at home. Her mom’s earrings were a touchstone for her. She couldn’t give them up for over a month.

  Her motion, however quick, did not escape Emerson’s notice. He lifted a curious eyebrow at Gwen as Cynthia blathered on. Then, in a move so swift and unexpected, he pushed himself to standing, interrupting Cynthia midsentence, and he raised his wineglass to the group. Even Kamesh stopped talking about castling in chess long enough to listen.

  “I say, my fellow travelers—” he began in a mesmerizing and semistagey voice. “We are living under the reign of Bacchus on this land. The god wrapped in grapes, warmed by the sweet kiss of the Italian sun and fermented into a drink suitable for deities. We will no doubt commence our own festival of pleasure with a taste of this tangy nectar.” He raised his glass higher. “And under the guidance of our fearless leader”—he nodded respectfully at Hans-Josef, who nodded back with some bemusement—“we will prepare ourselves for the diversions and the delights of an adventure.” He smiled, visibly pleased by the effect of his speech on his listeners. Then, concluding with a rhyming couplet, which sounded to be of his own creation, he said:

  “Celebrate, friends! Let wine flow through our veins,

  Until no sting of memory remains.”

  Thoreau leaned back somewhat dangerously in his chair and laughed aloud. “You’re so full of rubbish, baby brother. Sit down.”

  Emerson, clearly accustomed to friendly antagonism from his elder sibling, did nothing of the sort. Instead, he again addressed the group. “Ignore this wretched beast, good people of Surrey and Dubuque! Raise your glasses with me and toast the start of our grand tour.”

  “Here, here!” Dr. Louie roared from the other end of the table.

  Zenia clapped and raised her wineglass enthusiastically.

  Hans-Josef squinted at Emerson, plainly unsure as to what to make of this pronouncement.

  And Thoreau himself leaped up this time, his own wineglass in his hand and a counterproposal on his lips.

  “I will drink to the good people of Surrey and Dubuque,” he said, with a theatrical tone to match that of his brother’s. “I will drink to our helpful guide and to the start of our merry journey. I will not, however, heap praise upon your idol Bacchus, for he stirs up only trouble, little brother, and you well know it.”

  Emerson grinned wickedly at him and seemed intent on needling him further. “Agh. Another of your boring theories, Thoreau. You know not of what you speak. You serve only to dampen the fun of the rest of us journeyers.”

  “It is you who knows not of what you speak,” Thoreau shot back with mocking melodrama. “Have you already forgotten your history? Your geography? Do not play the fool when you are well aware that we stand in the shadow of the mighty Mount Vesuvius. It is long believed that God punished poor Pompeii by burying it because of the sins of its Bacchanalian worshippers—like you.” He chuckled and pointed an accusatory finger at his brother as the rest of the group laughed with him. “The drinking. The erotically charged lifestyle. The scandalous art. You all know what I’m talking about.”

  Ah, yes, they did.

  Everyone at the table mimicked gasping in shock (though they could scarcely restrain their delight) at the mere mention of the eroticism in Pompeii. Thoreau was, of course, referring to The House of the Vettii, home of the two wealthy Vettius brothers, which featured a lush garden courtyard with columns, astonishing frescoes of naked cupids and a particularly evocative painting of Priapus—the famed ancient god of sex and fertility—who was poised in the entranceway, and for all of eternity, weighing his enormous phallus on a scale. Even though the Edwards brothers hadn’t gone on the morning’s excursion to Pompeii, it was clear they’d been there before and seen every suggestive piece of art on display.

  While on the tour, Gwen had glanced away out of awkwardness at the erotic images a few times, surprised that a place so desolate in many ways could contain this startling artwork. But she nevertheless remembered the paintings vividly and blushed at the recollection.

  “Well, then,” Thoreau said to the group with a barely repressed smirk, “you all see the wisdom in listening to me over my misguided sibling.”

  Emerson took the taunting in stride and parried with a retort that, in no uncertain terms, called into question his big brother’s virility. Thus, the games were set in motion.

  It soon became obvious to Gwen that while the theater may not have been either of their full-time professions (what did these men do anyway?), the Edwards brothers had a natural knack for performing and grew animated at the prospect of debating differing points of view for the entertainment and enlightenment of their peers. She found herself spellbound by the spirited argument between these “philosophers.”

  Much as she appreciated the older members of the tour, these two men injected something intense, youthful and disquietingly sensual into their structured little trip. They made the nucleus of the tour group more unstable somehow, but infinitely more energetic and interesting. It was like introducing a couple of new electrons into an atom’s orbit and forever changing the nature of the element. She could feel Hans-Josef’s command of the group slipping away as fast as golden sands inside an antique hourglass. His precise explanations of European history would not be forgotten, of course, but they would be reduced by this new powerful duality of leadership, one in which he was no longer one of the leaders.

  When the waiters returned to clear their plates and serve coffee, the brothers made a show of shaking hands across the table and, at last, sitting down. Their audience clapped, cheered and raised their hot espressos in tribute. Emerson and Thoreau soon shifted from their theatrics into a more inclusive discussion of mah-jongg and the art of smooshing tiles. Anyone who wanted to could take part in their open debate. Gwen had nothing whatsoever to contribute to this exchange, but she enjoyed watching. Listening. Breathing in the conversation like a fresh and unexpectedly invigorating scent. Like the sweetness of a distinctive new wine.

  And Emerson, though he didn’t speak a word to her personally at the ristorante, looked over his shoulder at her when they were preparing to leave and winked at her again.

  The beat of her pulse seemed to amplify in her brain and body, but she forced herself not to look away. To smile in response. And to accept it as the gift it was.

  Sure, there would still be talk of historical dates, soap operas and strategy games, but having witnessed Emerson and his brother take the stage together, the promise of Europe’s magic became spectacularly alive for Gwen. With it, came a rush of passion that had been stirred on Capri but had been in danger of returning to stillness again. And it would have, had she encountered only crumbling buildings, staid conversation and the silent weight of dead history o
n the mainland.

  Instead, that slight awakening had been strummed to greater rousing, making everything in the air around her vibrate like a vigorously plucked string. She could almost hear the notes of her heightened senses humming.

  And she had these two men to thank for that.

  The bus ride back to the Hotel Adriatica for their last night in Rome was uneventful but, for Gwen, something essential had changed. She felt x-rayed by Emerson and Thoreau—scanned by both of them as they passed her in the hotel lobby—and prodded with questions by Aunt Bea, who, just as soon as they got to the room, wanted to know what she thought of the Edwards brothers. But Gwen refused to assume that anything she saw meant more than it probably did. At least not to anyone but her.

  She only knew that, in the parallel universe of the tour world, and heading as they were into their next day’s adventure to Florence, there was a quivering excitement within her that she couldn’t control. She didn’t know how to tune it to the right pitch so it would ring clear and harmonious and not be jarring to her. But she did know these two brothers were playing a song she’d never heard before that night, and she wanted to hear it again, all the way through.

  4

  The Birthplace of the Renaissance

  Sunday, July 1

  Late the next morning, after brunch and, for those who wished to attend, Sunday morning mass (it was Rome, after all), they checked out of their hotel and embarked on a three-hour bus ride up to Florence.

  Gwen had been sitting with her aunt for the first half of the drive, but Aunt Bea and Matilda launched into a discussion about Sicilian-style cooking when they all got off for a fifteen-minute rest stop. As they returned to the bus, the two older women chose to sit side by side a few seats ahead to continue their conversation for the last leg of the journey and, consequently, Gwen found herself alone, the window to her right her only companion.

  A splinter of restlessness jabbed her, making her tap her feet against the unyielding floor. She stared out at the Italian countryside whizzing by and knew they were getting closer to entering the famous Tuscany region. She wasn’t sure what, precisely, would distinguish Florence and its surrounding hills and vineyards from any other area in Italy, but she knew this was the home of the Renaissance. In a strange way, it felt like a literal “rebirth” to her, too. True to her promise from the night before in Sorrento, she was finally ready to jump into this trip with both feet. To open herself up to every emotion. To try to embrace the spirit of the adventure.

  She exhaled. The moving wheels of the bus beat out a rhythm on the paved roadway. Staccato-swish-swoosh. Staccato-swish-swoosh. She felt it in her feet like the pulse of high-decibel bass on a dance floor.

  As she unzipped her bag to pull out her iPod, a tall body slipped into the seat beside her. She glanced sharply to her left to identify the intruder. Thoreau.

  “Hello,” the elder of the two Edwards brothers said. “If I’m disturbing you, I’m happy to move back there.” He pointed indistinctly in the direction of some seats a few rows behind them. “But I was bored with my brother’s conversation and hoped you might not mind if I joined you for a time.”

  Gwen swiveled in place until she could look behind her. She spotted Emerson, who was not alone but sitting, instead, with Louisa. Cynthia was in an empty seat just ahead of the other two, which was where Thoreau must have been the moment before. The woman didn’t look pleased by his defection. “No, of course not,” Gwen said quickly.

  “Good!” He smiled at her. “So, what brings you to Europe? A love of sudoku and mah-jongg?”

  Gwen swallowed and tried to compose her thoughts. The man didn’t waste time admiring the scenery. He seemed to want to dive right into conversation with her. “Not exactly. The trip was a, um, present. From my aunt.” She nodded toward where Bea and Matilda were sitting. “It was very kind of her, don’t you think?”

  Thoreau squinted at her as if looking deep into her soul. “Absolutely.” Then, lowering his voice, he added, “But it would have been even kinder had it not been a big surprise, correct? If you would have had more time to get used to the idea.”

  She shot him a wary glance. How did he know that? “How—” she began.

  “Did I know that?” he finished for her.

  “Yes.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps I’m a psychic.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not.” Gwen didn’t happen to know anyone who was a psychic, so it wasn’t as though she could deny Thoreau’s claim with any certainty, but she considered that good manners and basic propriety would keep someone who might be a real psychic from announcing such a thing in public.

  “Fine, you’re right,” he conceded. “I’m a clinical psychologist.”

  “Now that I believe,” Gwen said, finding herself relaxing in his presence in spite of herself. The senior Edwards brother had a very low, soothing voice, which could be dramatic, but, unlike the overly animated tones of his younger sibling, didn’t seem to make the tiny hairs on her arms stand up or set her spinal cord tingling. She appreciated this.

  “So, are you glad you came regardless? Even though this was not a trip you were expecting to take?”

  “I am,” she admitted. And then, surprising herself with her own honesty, she told him that, for a few days, she’d found it more overwhelming than fun. “But I’m starting to get into it now.”

  He just nodded. “People always expect vacations to be easy. That the enjoyment will just happen, with no work involved. I suppose there are places in the world that are fully relaxing. Places that meet the expectation for simple, mindless entertainment. Sitting on a beach somewhere, perhaps, where cocktails are delivered to your lounge chair on the sand, as you soak up the sunlight. That can be pleasant. But a cultural experience, like visiting the great cities of Europe for the first time, is not like that.” He picked at the cuticles around his thumbnail for a moment then bit at them. “It’s not meant to be, so don’t be too hard on yourself. The first time Emerson and I were in Italy, we took naps every afternoon like tots. We were exhausted.”

  “How old were you then? On that first trip?” she asked, thinking they may have been teens, perhaps, or in their early twenties.

  Thoreau laughed. “I admit, we were ten and five—”

  “Argh!” Gwen exclaimed.

  He held his hand up as if in self-defense. “But my point is that this wasn’t like a trip to Grammy’s cottage in Chester. We weren’t sitting out in the backyard, playing with her baby chicks, taking breaks for teacakes and lemonade. We were hiking through Roman ruins and wandering around on the rim of Mount Vesuvius. Behind the safety line, I assure you,” he explained after glancing at her face and what must have appeared to him to be her horrified expression. “Our parents were very good about giving us a full European adventure, but we always knew we weren’t to expect a relaxing vacation. Learning experiences are supposed to challenge you.”

  Well, she certainly felt challenged by Europe, so she must be learning something. “So, why did you come again? That trip you took as children wasn’t the last time you were in Italy, was it?”

  “No,” he said. “Emerson and I have visited the continent several times together, twice with our parents, twice just the two of us and a number of times individually. But every visit is new. I always get something inspiring and revitalizing out of it. And I needed a fresh perspective this summer.”

  Gwen felt very bold in doing so, but she had to ask, “Why?”

  He eyed her curiously and then bobbed his head, as if suddenly deciding to trust her with a big secret. “There’s someone ... back home. And she and I are ... well, at a crossroads, you might say. I had a month’s holiday coming to me, so I took it. I’m using it to step away. To test her. And me.” He shrugged. “It’s not as though we didn’t talk about our issues. We’re both psychologists. Practically all we did was talk.” He paused and half smiled. “Well, we did a few other things, too. But it wasn’t more talking we needed. It was time to think and
consider. At least I thought so.”

  “But she disagreed with you,” Gwen realized with a start. “She wanted you to stay, right?”

  Thoreau sighed. “Yes, yes, she disagreed. Very vocally, I might add. But I still do not believe I’m wrong.” He brushed invisible dust off of his black slacks. “I’ve worked on my issues. She’s worked on her issues. But there’s still more work to do, you understand? And psychologists—we’re especially dreadful. I suspect some eighty-five percent of us go into this field just so we can avoid paying for decades of personal therapy.” He pointed his index finger at Gwen. “Just so you know, I may have had a number of horribly self-destructive past relationships and some latent paternal power-struggle problems, but that doesn’t mean I’m remotely like a commitmentphobe.”

  She blinked at him. “Okay.”

  “Furthermore, I was married once, which was more than Amanda ever was, so ... there’s that.”

  “Your girlfriend’s name is Amanda?” Gwen guessed.

  He exhaled. “Yes. And on top of it all she has to have some prissy, girly name. Really, the woman drives me crazy in every single way. Even the way she puts away her clothes is irritating. She likes those little scented sachets with the satin and the lace. And, you know, I find them when I pull my shirts and pants out of the drawer. My boxers smelling like bloody Pomegranate Passion.” He paused and appeared to be thinking back on what he’d just said. Replaying it. “Would you consider that an inappropriate disclosure?”

  Gwen tried to shake her head but didn’t quite manage it. “Well, um ...”

  “Yes, yes, I’m working on that. So sorry. Anyway, that’s precisely the reason I’m here on this trip. For perspective.”