A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  “And your brother?” she asked. “What’s his reason? Is he escaping some very girly person in England, too?”

  “Oh, no. The bugger was just bored with London in summer. Too many tourists, he claimed, and not enough new theater.”

  “He’s an actor then,” she said, as a statement not a question. She knew it!

  Thoreau laughed and shot a glance over his shoulder at his brother, who paused in his conversation with the two British women, raised his eyebrows at Gwen and Thoreau and studied their faces with visible suspicion.

  “No. Not at all. At least not in the way you mean,” Thoreau said, still looking with amusement at his brother.

  Emerson narrowed his hazel eyes dangerously.

  “What then does he do ... uh, normally?” Gwen whispered, turning in her seat and glancing uneasily between the two Edwards brothers.

  “He would say it wasn’t only what he did but what he didn’t do. Not merely where he was but, also, where he wasn’t. That’s a boff for you. A bloody theoretical physicist. Always spouting that genius relativity rubbish and talking in circles. Pain in the bum, if you ask me.”

  She leaned a little closer to Thoreau and pivoted slightly so Emerson, whose gaze was trained on them like a teacher surveying the naughty kids in detention, couldn’t read her lips. “He’s a physicist? For real?”

  “Indeed. A true boffin. What you Americans might call a geek or nerd.” Thoreau moved a couple of inches nearer to her and added, “He’s a lecturer and a fellow at Queen Mary, part of the Uni of London, and he has three months holiday now, but my salary is higher.” He flashed a triumphant look at her. “Emerson and Cynthia are colleagues at the college, which is how we ended up being part of the sudoku and mah-jongg group in Surrey. She talked him into joining, and he talked me into joining, just to try to get even with me.” He grinned and raised his voice slightly. “I used to whoop him in chess when we were lads, and he’s never forgiven me for it.”

  Emerson scowled at his brother.

  “He was a piss-poor player back then,” Thoreau said, lowering his voice but enunciating carefully. Perhaps so his lips would be easy to read.

  Gwen had no doubt whatsoever that Emerson knew exactly what his brother was talking about, whether or not he could hear each word clearly. The younger of the two Edwards had crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat with the lethal expression of a viper biding his time before a strike.

  Thoreau’s grin broadened. He whispered in Gwen’s ear, cupping his palm so as to shield his mouth from Emerson’s view, “I think, perhaps, we’ve worried him enough. We ought to sit face forward again.”

  She nodded and turned back around in her seat.

  Thoreau did the same, laughing openly. “I never tire of provoking him,” he said. “Sibling rivalry. One of the cornerstones upon which both social hierarchies and economic systems have been built.” He looked pleased with himself. “Also, it’s even more fun than board games.”

  Gwen hadn’t experienced much of that herself. Her brothers had more than a touch of sibling rivalry between them, but they’d both protectively kept her out of their battles. She recognized it as an attempt at kindness on their part and, perhaps, that they viewed her more as a mother figure than a true sister—she’d certainly taken on that role after their mom died—but she couldn’t help but feel excluded, too. Marginal to their good-natured name-calling and semi-abusive floor wrestling. Even now, at twenty-two and twenty-four, Geoffrey and George still loved to play practical jokes on each other on the rare occasions when they were both in the same place at the same time. She suspected, however, that despite the show of antagonism they liked to display, they were actually much closer to each other than she was to either of them. In any case, she’d always envied their relationship.

  “I don’t think he’s just going to forget about your comments, though,” she said. “He didn’t look especially forgiving.”

  Thoreau smiled warmly at her. “Naturally. But Emerson’s grown too accustomed to having his way. At work. With Mum. Out on the town with the ladies. It’s not good for him. He’s in need of a good challenge every now and again to keep him stretching. Like playing a strategy game with a master player. A man needs to reach.” He thought for a second and said, “ ‘In the long run, men hit only what they aim at. Therefore, they had better aim at something high.’ ” He nudged her gently with his elbow. “Henry David Thoreau. My namesake.”

  Gwen found herself giggling like a little kid who’d just understood a grown-up joke for the first time. “You two are quite a pair.”

  “We like to think so,” Thoreau said.

  When they arrived in Florence that early afternoon, they checked into their new hotel, the four-star Loggia Lucida, just off one of the city’s main streets, Lungarno degli Acciaiuoli. Hans-Josef instructed them to have lunch at one of the nearby trattorias but to be back in the lobby no later than a quarter to five. They all had reserved tickets to get in to see the famous Michelangelo sculpture David, which closed to visitors at 6:50. The bus would collect them at the hotel and take them to and from the Accademia Gallery so they wouldn’t miss this Florentine treasure.

  Gwen, having spent enough time sitting on the drive up, planned to have just a quick bite to eat or maybe grab a sandwich to go. She longed to explore some of the city, and their hotel was just footsteps away from the beautiful old bridge, the Ponte Vecchio, which crossed the Arno River.

  Her flight out of the hotel lobby, however, was intercepted by Emerson.

  “So, Gwen,” he said, striding up to her and crossing his arms. “What were you and my devil-spawn of a brother talking about so conspiratorially on the bus, hmm?”

  She smiled, remembering how pleased Thoreau had been in having something to provoke his younger sibling about and, out of a sense of loyalty to that budding friendship, she refused to divulge what they’d discussed. Emerson was decidedly displeased by this.

  “Truly? You intend to be that way about it?” He regarded her with mock censure. “Fine. I can clearly see you’re someone I’ll have to keep a fixed eye on then. I’m afraid I’ll be monitoring you more closely. Can’t let Thoreau—or you, it seems—get away with this.” He sighed heavily and took a step forward.

  Gwen raised her eyebrows at him, but she didn’t budge. Perhaps because she’d been relaxed, refreshed and oddly recharged, both by being in a new city and by her conversation with his brother, she couldn’t help herself from picking up on Emerson’s playfulness and responding in kind. Wanting to poke at him, just a tiny bit, the way Thoreau had earlier. “Why, what a surprisingly adolescent reaction, Dr. Edwards.”

  He rolled his eyes with such blatant childishness she almost laughed aloud. “Oh, he told you about that, did he?” Emerson said, half groaning through the sentence. “He’s a doctor, too, you know, and if I may say so, a little too attached to the title. That show-off needs therapy for his prideful behavior, his oversharing and his obnoxious tendency toward exhibitionism.”

  At this, she did burst out laughing. Her typical self-consciousness was overthrown by the remarkable absurdity of this statement. “His exhibitionism? These are the words of the man who stood up in the middle of a crowded restaurant and proclaimed, ‘We are living under the reign of Bacchus,’ and then you nattered or prattled—or whatever you Brits say—about how we should all drink to excess and look at more erotic art. Wait, now. Exactly who is the exhibitionist here?”

  He blinked at her. “That’s not at all what I said last night.” He paused, considered. “Well, yes, I did say that—and how charming of you to have remembered.” He winked at her. “But I never natter. Or prattle.”

  It was her turn to roll her eyes. “You were speaking merely to hear the sound of your own voice. I doubt you meant half of what you said.”

  A laugh erupted from his lips. “ ‘My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go,’ ” he quoted. “Hamlet.”

  “I’m familiar with the play.
And I suspect—” she said, further emboldened by his obvious delight in the conversation and the fact that, thanks to her mother’s love of English literature and her overflowing home library growing up, at least on the subject of Shakespeare she wasn’t a complete neophyte. “I suspect your words at dinner were just as disingenuous as the King’s in Act III. But you were funny,” she conceded. “And Thoreau’s retorts were equally amusing.”

  “Oh, they were not! Mine were far superior.” He studied her. “Yes, I was certainly right to question you. You’re too easily influenced by my clinically insane brother.” He shook his head with faux sorrowfulness. “I see there’s only one thing to be done.”

  “And that is?”

  “Keep you away from him. You can no longer be his seatmate on the bus.” He wagged his index finger for further emphasis. “And you must be my partner for the museums here in Florence. I’m not giving you a choice. Say yes. Now.”

  He looked adolescent. So very age thirteen. Not much older than her eighth-grade students in demeanor and, yet, there was no question he was a man, not a boy. It was so humorous to her to see this dichotomy that she couldn’t help but keep chuckling.

  “That’s a yes, is it not? Say it, Gwen.” Then he softened, “At least for today, all right?” Another pause. “Please?”

  How could she refuse an invitation given so earnestly? She nodded.

  He grinned and marched over to Hans-Josef, who was still in the hotel lobby. Emerson politely requested their Accademia tickets. “We shan’t be taking the bus,” he told the tour guide and Gwen at the same time. “But we shall meet you all there at five.”

  Hans-Josef shot her a puzzled look, as if waiting for her to protest. But when she didn’t, the tour guide just shrugged and said, “As you wish.” He handed a couple of paper squares to Emerson and added, “Be mindful of pickpockets.”

  “We will,” Emerson assured him.

  They left the hotel with Hans-Josef squinting after them, Zenia, who’d overhead the exchange, nodding at Gwen in approval and even Davis giving her a surreptitious thumbs-up. She had no doubt her aunt would be told of her afternoon plans at once, and with no small amount of merriment.

  The Florentine sun accosted them as they strolled down Lungarno degli Acciaiuoli toward the Ponte Vecchio. The Arno River glistened with dappled light as they approached the old bridge. Gwen had been reading up on it. It was built in 1345 by someone named Taddeo Gaddi to replace an earlier version of the bridge, and it used to house butchers until a sixteenth-century Medici, Cosimo I, aka the “Grand Duke of Tuscany,” evicted them because he didn’t like the smell of raw meat. Instead, he brought in the silversmiths and goldsmiths, and they’ve occupied the bridge with their trades ever since.

  “It’s lovely,” she murmured, pausing for a moment to admire the structure, an imposing yet undeniably lovely collection of arched wooden segments spanning the river. The shops from end to end were dotted with colors but, like an Impressionist painting, these were blurred from a distance.

  “It’s also rather chaotic when you walk onto it,” Emerson said. “We shall weave our way across it once and back, so you might get a decent sense of the bazaarlike atmosphere. Then, perhaps, we’ll take away something quick at a mercato, a food market, and work our way up to the Accademia, yes?”

  “Sounds good,” she said, allowing him to lead her toward the entrance of the bridge. “Thank you.”

  As he nodded his “you’re welcome,” she couldn’t help but feel grateful to him for the oddity of this experience. Typically, after having spent so many hours with S&M club members, she would have expected less adventurousness out of herself. More of an intense desire to be alone and to relish the revitalizing power of silence. Yet, Emerson had presented her with a couple of immediate and intriguing bonuses for not lapsing into her old habit of solitude.

  First, she’d foolishly neglected to give any thought to safety when she’d bolted toward the hotel exit but, of course, Florence wasn’t a city she knew well. Until Hans-Josef had mentioned the pickpockets, she hadn’t considered the possibility that she might inadvertently walk away from a safe touristy zone and into a more dangerous neighborhood. She’d read in a book once that there were actually gypsies in Florence.

  Second, after having conversed with his brother for over an hour on the bus, Ralph Waldo “Emerson” Edwards was even more fascinating to her than he’d been the night before at the Sorrento ristorante. And that was saying something. She would have a chance to study him up close for a few hours and, perhaps, discover what it was about him that brought out her curiosity. Much like a square of unknown integers in a game of sudoku, there was an enigmatic quality Emerson possessed that, were it to be identified, it would be similar to figuring out the central mystery number out of a set of nine. It wouldn’t take more than an additional hint or two before the entire puzzle could be unlocked. So being with him, Gwen told herself, was almost more mathematical than personal. Something even Richard might understand, were she pressed to explain her interest in the Brit.

  But then again, Richard wouldn’t be asking any questions because Richard wasn’t here. He hadn’t even sent her a single e-mail yet!

  She exhaled and forced away the irritation, focusing instead on the scenic jumble of man-made items and natural beauty that flashed before her as they walked onto the Ponte Vecchio. There were jewelry shops everywhere, golden charms and necklaces shimmering in the slanting afternoon light. A kaleidoscope of bright colors—scarves, clothing, throw pillows, even a few carnival masks—plus a flash of postcards whirling around on a revolving display.

  Gwen found herself taking steps to purposefully engage her senses. Smelling the hot, sun-scorched pavement, which strangely evoked a memory of popcorn, until she realized the scent was coming from one of the nearby vendors. A warm meal of some kind—buttery!—and a not-so-subtle reminder of the lunch she’d skipped. She felt the wondrous and strange pang of wanting ... that rumble of hunger that craved both food and something else as well.

  “Mmm,” she heard herself murmur.

  Despite the noise of the passersby, Emerson heard her and responded. He swiveled in place, glancing over his shoulder at her with a half smile. “Smells heavenly, yes?”

  She nodded and tried to pull her mind away from the puzzle of him, again using her senses as bait. The jingle of silver bangles and the tinkling of wind chimes harmonized with the laughing lilt of the Italian language swirling around her. She heard the splash of a stone being thrown into the languorous waves of the Arno and a child’s high-pitched giggle. The rustle and patter of fellow tourists, punctuating their walk with an unpredictable syncopation, added an undercurrent of rhythm to the soft hiss of rushing water and the whisper of silk scarves dancing on their secured metal hooks.

  “Something catch your fancy?” Emerson asked. “If you want to go into any of the shops, we can. There are some beautiful gold chains for sale. Charm bracelets. Earrings, too.” He paused. “Although you seem to like best those pearl ones you have on. You’re always wearing them,” he observed. “They’re lovely.”

  She reached up to touch them. “Thanks. They’re ... special.”

  He bobbed his head. “Yes. So, perhaps, a golden, er, roach broach instead?” he suggested, pointing toward a shop that had an unappealing solid-gold cockroach pin in the display window.

  She winced.

  “Perhaps not, then,” he concluded, laughing.

  She smiled and studied a few other pieces of jewelry in the window’s case. “Oh, there’s that Mouth thingy from Rome,” she said, before she could stop herself.

  But Emerson didn’t seem to notice that she’d said something sort of foolish. He leaned forward and surveyed the case. “Certainly. You mean the Mouth of Truth. Yes. La Bocca della Verità in pendant form. It’s well crafted. Would you like to take a closer look?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t spend money on silly things. And that was ... such an odd site. My aunt made me put my ha
nd in its mouth,” she confided. “Did you and your brother go there, too?”

  “We did.” He shot a speculative glance at her and hooked his thumb in the direction of the vendor’s door. “Come. At least look at the necklace. It’s not as though you’re required to buy it if you don’t like it.”

  She assented and, just a few minutes later, found herself holding the delicate gold chain and the penny-sized Mouth of Truth pendant in her palm.

  “You wear it, yes?” the vendor said hopefully. “I put around your neck.” He motioned clasping the golden chain. “And you try. If you like, you buy. If no”—he shrugged—“then pfft. You forget it. Okay?”

  “Um,” Gwen said.

  “Just agree with him,” Emerson whispered.

  “Yes, sure. Okay,” she said, allowing the vendor, an older Italian gentleman who reminded her somewhat of their bus driver, Guido, to slip on the pendant.

  It didn’t weigh much, really. Every part of the necklace was pure gold, but the chain was very fine and the Mouth thingy, though exquisitely detailed to look like that marble oracle in Rome, was incredibly thin. She found herself rubbing it like a talisman for several moments before she realized that both the vendor and Emerson were grinning at her.

  “You do like!” enthused the vendor.

  “Well, yes, it’s very pretty,” she said, reaching to unclasp it. “But I probably should wait to make any purch—”

  “Gwen, just a moment,” Emerson said. “Before you take it off. You do realize wearing the Bocca makes you rather like a human truth teller, right? Not only must you be honest or face the consequences, but everyone else must be honest with you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You know that’s not true.” She reached for the clasp again.

  Emerson covered her left hand—the one nearest to him—with his warm fingers, stilling them. Setting even her pulse on pause and stealing her breath.

  “It may well be.” He moved a couple of steps forward. “And wouldn’t that be bloody brilliant? I know I’d love it. That kind of truthfulness.”