A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  And then, of course, there was the mention of the company picnic. She could have been spending the day in ninty-degree Iowan humidity, eating charred hotdogs, drinking sugary lemonade, picking at a scoop of heavy, mayonnaise-covered potato salad and, maybe, if she was lucky, getting a cherry snow cone for dessert ... or she could be walking onto an air-conditioned tour bus headed to the Italian Lake District via the Leaning Tower of Pisa, with wine, pasta and gelato waiting for her.

  Even with the matchmaking antics of the elderly tour members, the mystifying behavior of her British companions and her own feeble attempts at social stratagems, it didn’t seem much of a contest, did it?

  Upon arriving in Pisa, Davis, Dr. Louie, Kamesh and Ani immediately began debating the Leaning Tower’s degree of tilt from the ninety-degree perpendicular.

  “It looks to be about a five-degree angle,” Dr. Louie guesstimated.

  Davis whipped out his pocket protractor—yes, he actually had one!—and held it up so he could gauge the correct angle from a distance.

  “We learned in school that it was a little less than four degrees,” Ani said.

  “Used to be five and a half back in the seventies,” his father contributed. “But they did all those renovations in the nineties to stabilize it, and they straightened it by eighteen inches.”

  “Ja,” Hans-Josef said, overhearing them. “It now leans three point nine meters to the southwest from where it would be if it were perfectly vertical, and it stands about fifty-six meters high. Who wants to go up to the top?”

  Emerson shot her a mischievous glance and mouthed, “More stairs.”

  There were 294 steps on one side and 296 on the other, to be precise. She smiled back at him but waved him off. She didn’t feel like racing against anyone that day, not even herself. Instead, she hung around the grassy square, strolling past Pisa’s Cathedral and the Baptistery, drinking in the site of the famous landmark and the sunshine.

  And she observed.

  She watched and, yes, eavesdropped on two married couples this time—Connie Sue and Alex, Sally and Peter—as they sat on a shady bench on the edges of the square and discussed the date the tower was built, who was in political and religious power at the time, what the history surrounding the construction and reconstruction was like and so on. Aside from their professed delight in finally seeing such wonders in person, there was also a constant search for meaning within the numbers and patterns that made Gwen pause.

  “It took 177 years to build in 3 stages and work was first begun in 1173 ... all 1’s, 3’s and 7’s!” Sally exclaimed.

  “And the same pope, Alexander III, that led the Church when they were breaking ground on the Leaning Tower also laid the foundation stone for Notre Dame in Paris,” Alex added enthusiastically.

  On one level, Gwen found it funny—this incessant DaVinci Coding of Europe—but it also made her wonder what the point was of all the analysis. Like a game of sudoku, wasn’t the puzzle merely an intellectual exercise? Even if a pattern could be found based on the scant clues given, it wasn’t as though it was the cornerstone to anything important ... to any profound truth ... was it? To Gwen, it all felt like conjecture without hope of an answer key.

  She listened to them a bit longer. The honeymooners were a jovial but disorganized pair. Sally professed that she’d wanted to take this trip for so long, but was overwhelmed by it, too.

  “There’s so much to remember. Medications. Glasses. Dietary restrictions,” Sally confided to her friends. “Peter and I wouldn’t have had to deal with all of this if we’d been able to go on our honeymoon forty years ago when we were young and full of vigor.”

  “Ah, love,” Peter said, cupping his wife’s hand in his. “You know I’m as vigorous as ever when it comes to you.”

  Connie Sue squealed like an excited teen and pretended to fan herself. “Why, Sally, honey, I do believe you’ve got a romantic one on your hands.”

  “It’s gonna be a hot time in the old loggia tonight,” Alex predicted.

  The foursome laughed and broke open a package of big vanilla Rondo biscuits and a bottle of sparkling water to share.

  In overhearing their discussion, Gwen was reminded of how she’d been taking youth for granted. Not just in Europe, but over the past several years. She worked hard to stay healthy, yes, and from a medical standpoint, her persistent fear of death was groundless (though accidents did happen). She reminded herself to take time to appreciate that she didn’t need any prescription drugs or have to impose any physical or dietary limitations on anything she did. At least not yet.

  She sent a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens and was about to walk on when that British man, Colin, all but leaped in her path. Well, inasmuch as an eighty-one-year-old man could leap.

  “If y-you p-please, stay th-there,” he stuttered, holding up his camera. “It’s l-l-lovely like that.” He motioned behind her and, when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the Leaning Tower positioned just off to her left with only the grassy park and a cluster of colorful tourists separating them.

  “You want me to be in your picture?” Gwen asked.

  He nodded and clicked a few shots with unsteady hands.

  Gwen was confused. “But why don’t I take one of you, instead?” She stepped toward him, but the man winced and pulled the camera close to his chest.

  “No, no ...” he mumbled.

  “I’ll be very careful with your camera,” she said, thinking this must be his concern. “I just thought you’d want to have a picture of you with the Leaning Tower.”

  Colin looked up at her, the clouds in his eyes clearing a little. “Maybe that would be a good thing, but—but—I don’t know right now.”

  Something was definitely off with this guy. He didn’t seem dangerous, but he sure was behaving strangely.

  Gwen took a step back. “Well, okay. If you change your mind then I’ll—”

  “There you are!” Aunt Bea said, coming up unexpectedly from a side walkway.

  “You were looking for me?” Gwen asked her, surprised since she’d told her aunt not more than a half hour ago that she’d intended to wander around independently.

  “No, dear. For Colin.” Bea strode over to him, stood close and smiled warmly. “Are you feeling well?” she whispered.

  He looked unsure.

  Aunt Bea murmured a few things to him Gwen couldn’t hear, then turned to her and said, “Gwennie, I’d like to introduce you to my friend Colin Pickering.” Then, to the older man, “Colin, this is my niece, Gwendolyn Reese.”

  He laughed and carefully held out his hand to shake Gwen’s. “That rhymes.”

  Aunt Bea patted him on the shoulder like she might a young child. “It does.”

  Gwen shook Colin’s hand but glanced at her aunt in curiosity. What was going on here? They’d already been introduced twice before. She could understand, perhaps, why he might forget the first time. But the second as well? What was wrong with her that she was so unmemorable?

  Her aunt managed to convince the man to let Gwen take their picture together in front of the Leaning Tower. “You ought to be in a few shots yourself, Colin,” Bea said lightly, her wiry arms pulling him tight beside her.

  He gave a rueful chuckle. “I’m not at all sure I want to remember myself.”

  Nevertheless, he let Gwen snap a couple of quick photos. Then, he and her aunt wandered off together as Gwen watched and, perhaps, began to understand.

  She was reminded of a conversation she’d had with Aunt Bea about her late uncle Freddy during those dark months after Gwen’s father died. Bea had said she was sad to have lost her husband, but that their memories lasted forever. “I’ll always have those youthful adventures to remember when I’m old and gray.”

  Gwen had looked at her aunt and smiled. To her young mind, Aunt Bea had been old and gray for over a decade, but she’d always seemed so capable. For Bea, there seemed to be nothing uncertain about the power of love and the lifelong allure of fond memories. She had a s
torehouse of both. But what if the ability to remember began to deteriorate? What if a person could no longer draw upon that power?

  Gwen gazed across the grassy expanse of lawn, suddenly aware of how fervently everyone around her was trying to live:

  Sally and Peter with their long-awaited honeymoon.

  Colin with his incessant picture taking, whatever its meaning for him.

  A bunch of tour members with their attempt to experience Europe through better math equations.

  Her aunt with her reliving the kind of adventure she’d once had with her husband.

  Gwen caught sight of the British-Indian father/son duo—Kamesh trying to ease his son through this coming-of-age experience on his way toward manhood. But it was also interesting, Gwen noticed, watching the alacrity with which Ani helped his father adjust their digital flip camera. The way the youngest among them was far from useless, even if he was inexperienced.

  Everyone had value. Perhaps she, too, was capable of doing more than she’d done. Perhaps she, too, could share her skills, test her limits and take a leap into the unknown. Challenge herself more than she had thus far. Her resolve was only underscored by the next conversation she eavesdropped into—this time between Zenia and Hester.

  “Look at the way it’s stacked,” Zenia said, pointing at the Leaning Tower. “Like an eight-layer wedding cake.”

  “The plastic bride and groom would fall right off and crack their heads with a cake like that,” Hester observed. “I wonder how many of them skinny columns there are goin’ ’round the tower.”

  “Don’t know.” Zenia studied the structure silently for a moment. “But that pattern they form with the arches would be real pretty in a knit vest or scarf.” She pulled a pen and a piece of creased paper out of her fanny pack and began sketching a few design elements.

  Hester admired Zenia’s artistry, but then returned to staring at the tower. “I bet’cha there could be some exciting chase scene up there,” she told her younger friend. “It’d be perfect for a thriller. Like a J. D. Robb novel.” She elbowed Zenia and then stabbed the air in the direction of the famous building. “Just think about it. All those floors with bad guys running up the stairs, out on the balconies, around in a circle. They’d get to the top and have a battle to the death.” She snapped her fingers. “It could be a wedding party. On the Leaning Tower wedding cake! And someone would fall off and crack their foolish little head open... .”

  She began ticking off characters with her fingers. “There’d be the killer bride, the clueless groom, the cheatin’ best man, the sweet maid of honor, the interfering mother of the groom, the thievin’ father of the bride, a ring bearer and a couple of sneaky flower girls. It could be called Problem Proposal in Pisa. Or, maybe, Nasty Nuptials.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not right. I’ll think of a better title later.”

  Zenia snorted. “Plot sounds too farfetched to me. But you write J. D. Robb an’ you tell her you got her one damn good story idea. Maybe she’ll write it for you.”

  But Hester had a different idea. “No,” she said with a happy cackle. “My muse is tellin’ me to write it myself. I’m only ninety. I figure I got me at least another few years. Can’t take longer than one or two to write a book, can it?”

  Zenia glanced between the Leaning Tower and the old woman. “Not for a smart cookie like you.” She dug into her fanny pack again, pulling out another crumpled piece of paper and a second pen. “Why don’t you jot down a few of your ideas? Don’t want you to forget ’em.”

  Hester snatched the paper and pen, gave Zenia a quick arm squeeze in thanks and began scribbling. Gwen could only admire them both and their drive to be creative no matter what their age. She ought to try to be just a little more like them.

  “Perhaps it’s true that the only thing worth writing about is, after all, the human heart, when it’s in conflict with itself,” a voice behind her murmured.

  Gwen felt the oddest tremor in her chest at the sound. She swiveled around to find Emerson standing there, arms crossed. She didn’t immediately recognize the literary reference and she said so.

  “Faulkner,” he replied, eyeing her coolly. “He said something like that once.”

  She nodded. “Oh, okay. So, what? No more Ralph Waldo? No more Shakespeare?”

  “I’m versatile,” he said, his lips remaining in a straight line, but his hazel irises glinting more than a bit in golden amusement. “Why? Do you not like the sentiment?”

  She swallowed. What was she going to do with him? Why was he always laughing at her? Asking her questions?

  “Why—Why do you keep poking at me like that?” she blurted. “Why do you even care what I think? We’re nothing alike. My opinion shouldn’t matter to you.”

  “I’m a scientist.” He shrugged, as if this were all the explanation needed.

  She blinked at him. “And?”

  His lips twitched. “And I believe that to really know something, you need to both observe it and disturb it. At different times, of course.”

  “So, wait. You’re saying I’m an object you’ve been ... studying ... and disturbing? Like some kind of experiment?” She was surprised how incensed she was by this. It was different, of course, when she observed people. She just watched. He, apparently, had been watching and also plotting out schemes to annoy her as a way of gathering empirical data. She knew he’d been trying to mess with her. Men.

  “Not an object. A woman,” he corrected. “Only, the Heisenberg uncertainty principle is in effect, so I’ve been screwing it up.”

  She squinted at him. What was he talking about? The Heisenberg uncertainty principle? “What?”

  “In quantum mechanics,” Emerson explained in an infuriatingly patient tone, “certain pairs of physical properties—like momentum and position—can’t both be known with complete accuracy. The more precisely we know one property, the less precisely we can know the other.” He held out his palms as if they were a scale, lifting one side and then the opposing side. “The measurement of a particle’s momentum, for example, necessarily disturbs its position. And vice versa. So, according to Heisenberg, it’s impossible to simultaneously determine these qualities in an electron, at least not with any degree of certainty.”

  “And this relates to me ... how?”

  “To really know the nature of something you need to do more than just observe it. You need to interact with it, too. Test it. See how it responds to different elements, stimuli, challenges. However, interacting with the subject irrevocably disturbs it. It’s no longer in its native state, so, you can’t be certain that you’ve measured correctly.” He crossed his arms and regarded her with surprising seriousness. “This is true for getting to know new people, as well. As it is in physics, so it is in life.”

  Gwen sighed, battling exasperation and the unsettling understanding that Emerson likened their burgeoning friendship (was that what it was?) to the relationship between a scientist and a confusing electron. There was very little that struck her as romantic or admiring about this comparison.

  “So ... so your question to me at Festival del Gelato—that was a test of yours? Because, before, you said it was a joke.”

  “Most jokes are tests,” he shot back. Then he grinned. “But only a coward would use that as an excuse in this case. And I’m not a coward, Gwen.” He met her gaze and held it. “I meant what I said to you.”

  She didn’t know how to respond to him. He possessed the ability to challenge her without asking her a single thing, let alone when he openly propositioned her. She felt perspiration dampening her palms but was saved from having to mumble something inane by the interruption of Hester and Zenia.

  “How about With This Ring I Thee Kill?” Hester suggested to the other lady as the two strolled past them.

  Zenia said, “I kinda like that one.”

  “Or Something Borrowed, Something Bludgeoning ...”

  Emerson snickered as soon as they were out of earshot. “See, Gwen? There could be worse fates than
getting stuck on a five-week trip through Europe with a collection of mathematical misfits. You could be a character in Hester’s upcoming debut novel, Here Comes the Assassin Bride.”

  In spite of herself, she laughed. Well, yes. If marriage meant murder, it was best avoided. But, somehow, she was sure Richard didn’t intend to say his wedding vows and then push her off the top of a tall building. He might, however, continue to give her the cold shoulder for another month. Or two.

  It occurred to her—standing in the Italian sunshine, the figure of the Leaning Tower casting a peculiar shadow on the lush lawn—that Richard, thousands of miles away at his little company picnic, had no right to hold a grudge and try to spoil her fun, albeit via e-mail. And that the man hovering beside her—for all his faults and excessive verbosity—might annoy her mightily, but he wasn’t one to be petty or rancorous. He was not, as he so boldly stated, a coward.

  Not in the least.

  They spent the next two days basking in the splendor that was the Italian Lake District. Aunt Bea and Matilda roped Gwen into joining them for pedalo boat rides on Lake Como. Gwen and her fellow tour members had leisurely meals overlooking the sparkling water. They enjoyed strolling in the warm sun, watching it set behind the colorfully dappled northern Italian hills. And they marveled at how being in the midst of this scenery was like walking into a Howard Behrens painting.

  On Friday morning, Gwen found herself on the hotel terrace, enjoying the peacefulness and beauty of the region, when she spotted Hester tiptoeing past her.

  She waved to the older woman and was about to say, “Good morning,” but Hester put her index finger to her lips with one hand and motioned for Gwen to join her with the other.

  “Where are we going?” Gwen whispered.

  Hester’s eyes glittered. “To get a treat.” And she led Gwen around to a side entrance, near the hotel kitchen, where a plump forty-something lady cook and their bus driver, Guido, were awaiting them.