by Adele Parks
Roberto?
No. No way. I can't think pleasant thoughts about him right now. After our exchange in the bar we ignored each other for the rest of the evening. I came to bed first and pretended to be asleep when he finally joined me over an hour later. He sulkily huffed and puffed but I resolutely kept my eyes tight shut. I have nothing to say to him at the moment.
Chuck?
His beaming face pops into my head and the very image seems to massage the tension in my lower back. No. I push the image away even though this requires a superhuman effort. A second later I'm thinking about some of the funny things Chuck said today and I'm giggling to myself. No! It won't do. Chuck cannot be the nice thing that I think of to lull me to sleep. It's inappropriate. I'm married. He's a soon-to-be colleague. He's an entirely prohibited delight. But then I think about his eyelashes; while they are pale, they are tremendously long. When he blinks he causes a breeze. Really – I can feel a tremor as air wafts between us, somehow connecting us. His broad chest and strong forearms fill my head. I wonder what he looks like without a shirt? I'm expecting him to be clearly defined. I wonder what he smells like. I know his cologne and would already be able to pick out that spicy, fresh smell but what does he smell like? A vision of my nuzzling under his bear-like arm fights its way into my consciousness and before I know it I'm imagining pushing my face into his groin.
No! This is an entirely unacceptable thought. I am shocked and disappointed with myself. I gasp but the air in my marital bedroom is stale. Tears squeeze out of my eyes. I'm tired. I'm crying because I'm exhausted. I press shut my eyes but it seems as though Chuck is engraved on to my inner lids. He's there, in all his glory; tall, strong and pleasant. His eyes are closed and so his lengthy lashes are resting lightly on his beautiful cheekbones. I am too tired to fight it. I close my eyes too. And actually, I sleep very well.
39
20 March
'I'm sorry.'
Still half asleep, I'm not sure if I dreamed these words or whether I've said them myself. I blink against the bright morning light. Roberto is already up and he's opened the shutters. He's standing in front of me, holding a breakfast tray laden with goodies. He repeats himself, 'I'm really sorry, Elizabeth. I've been acting like fool.'
I slither into a sitting-up position but don't reply. I could be imagining this – after all, my night was filled with exceptionally vivid dreams. None of which were about Roberto though. Roberto interprets my silence as a request for more grovelling.
'I've been thinking about the bar and just the bar. The bar has had too much of my attention and you are feeling alone. I know that. Today I am not going to work. You are right, we should have some time together. We should go for a day out.'
'On a Thursday?' It's delivery day.
'Yes.'
'To Verona?' I ask tentatively.
'Good idea. The city of lovers. An appropriate place for us to be today.'
He puts the tray down in front of me and then he pulls back the sheets and jumps back into bed. Roberto starts to butter a slice of toast. I notice that it is white sliced bread, my preference for toast. There are no cooked meats on the tray, thank goodness. He hands me the toast and starts preparing a second slice. I notice that he's also brought me a plate of fresh fruit and tea, rather than coffee. I do love the strong Italian coffee but I have missed my morning brew.
I quietly munch my toast. Roberto takes my silence to be a symptom of my hurt feelings and is increasingly solicitous. Sometimes I think Italian men like petulant women more than affable ones, in the same way some women always fall for bastards. Roberto carefully pours me a cup of tea and pops grapes into my mouth as though I am some sort of indolent emperor. I eat and drink with compliance but can't bring myself to chat.
I'm not sulking or playing for more attention; in fact I am crippled with guilt. In light of Roberto's apology and gentleness, my night of bright and brilliant dreams about Chuck seems like a betrayal. Roberto is staring at me with his chocolate pool eyes and I worry that he can see right through me. It would be awful to think that he can expose every conscious and subconscious thought I've ever had. He pauses in feeding me breakfast to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, and when I mutter that my fingers are sticky with butter he sucks them clean as though they are a life source. His intensity disarms me. He waits until I've eaten three slices of toast, most of the fruit and drunk two cups of tea before he slides the tray off me. He elegantly lifts it with one hand and carefully lowers the breakfast debris on to the floor next to the bed. In another swift and comfortable move he slips on top of me and starts to kiss my neck and ears. I love the feeling of his body on top of mine and I smudge into him. I've missed his warmth. Quietly, carefully, we make love, without regard as to whether it is or is not a particularly fertile time in my cycle. The lovemaking is affectionate and familiar. We know each other's bodies and we can gently pleasure each other without stress or struggle. I immerse myself in the calm, relieved to escape the turmoil and complications that normally haunt our days. The effortless nature of the act only leaves me wondering why we don't do it more often.
40
Verona is as beautiful as I could have hoped. It's full of Roman remains, rose-red medieval buildings and romantic dreams of young love. I arrive bouncing with hope and excitement, as Roberto and I have chatted non-stop for the entire journey. I've amused him with stories about our customers and I've had the opportunity to fill him in on the details of my new job. He seems interested and is very encouraging. He's told me a little bit more about his plans for the bar. He wants to landscape the outside area (currently used as a dump for our old furniture, worn tyres and similar junk). He wants an impressive outdoor eating space that will attract families during the daytime and rowdy parties at night. We discuss the menu changes that we might introduce for the summer and Roberto agrees with me that the old-fashioned loos have to be replaced with modern, clean and stylish ones. I have not asked him exactly how he spends his siestas or how he and Ana-Maria split up and made up. I don't want to spoil the atmosphere.
Roberto knows Verona well and quickly finds street parking that is within easy walking distance of the main piazza. Piazza Bra is a large, open space dominated by the Roman amphitheatre. The piazza is rammed with tourists, who are chatting, taking photos, and tripping over pigeons.
'It's so busy,' I say as I jump to dodge a determined group of French schoolchildren who seem intent on knocking me clean over. After being in sleepy Veganze for a couple of months I've forgotten what city life is like.
'This is nothing. Wait until you see the place in July,' comments Roberto. Suddenly, I feel ebullient with the thought of being in Italy in July; this is an enormous relief. Recently I've started to dread the thought of seeing through the month, let alone a lifetime, here. All at once, standing in the middle of this thriving hub, surrounded by noise, chaos and fun, holding the hand of my husband, I feel safe and secure. This is how I imagined our time in Italy would be. I've been so silly thinking about Chuck all the time. I've got that completely out of proportion. We're just going to be pals.
'Shall we take a look around the amphitheatre?' I suggest.
Roberto agrees, although he must have visited it on at least a dozen other occasions. He acts as guide, telling me that the amphitheatre was built in the first century AD and that in the thirteenth century an earthquake destroyed the majority of the exterior arcade but remarkably most of the interior is still intact. We climb up the steeply pitched tiers of pinkish marble seats to enjoy the dizzying views from the top. He holds my hand the entire way, even when it starts to get a bit damp with the effort of the climb.
'It's so wonderful here,' I gush as I flop down on to my bottom and take a moment to catch my breath.
'We should come here for the opera,' says Roberto. I nod enthusiastically, although I'd much prefer a pop concert or even a jazz festival. I don't want to admit as much in case I break the moment; he's trying to be thoughtful and attentive.
W
e pause for a few minutes. We're sitting facing in the direction the Romans would have faced when they were killing Christians. The thought unnerves me and so I get up and wander to catch a view of the city. Roberto is right by my side.
'Verona it is the largest city in mainland Veneto. Most of the historic heart of Verona ls enclosed in a loop of the river Adige,' he says, pointing out the loop in case I'm a total idiot and can't make it out for myself. I can see wonderful churches and other historical buildings scattered liberally throughout the higgledy-piggledy streets. I know we should go and visit one or two of those, Roberto would like it, but my eye is irresistibly drawn to the streets packed with pedestrians, which are bound to be the ones with the best shopping.
'Is that a market?' I try to keep my tone neutral but I do love a bargain. Roberto knows this. He grins and says, 'We can shop if you want to.'
I don't need to be invited twice. I scramble down the steps at quite some speed and in a matter of minutes I'm in the throng of the pedestrian-only street, which is flanked by tempting and elegant shops. Roberto buys a shirt and I buy a new bag. I don't need it and I already have one in the same colour but it's a different shape and the leather smells delicious. The bag is an indulgence, rather than a necessity, and all the more welcome for that.
We head north towards Piazza delle Erbe and we stumble into the market that I spotted from the amphitheatre. There are stalls selling fruit and veg, clothes, belts, shoes and a vast amount of tourist tat. It's the tourist tat that catches my eye because I'm entirely powerless in situations such as these. It's bizarre but true that whenever I'm on holiday I find snow globes and commemorative tea towels become my 'must have' items. I can't explain or excuse myself; under other circumstances I'm quite rational and stylish. I've learnt that as I can't control my foible, it's best to indulge it. I buy a handful of postcards and, as this is the city of love, I'm drawn to the stalls selling hundreds of red hearts. There are papier-mâché hearts, straw hearts, wooden ones and right at the centre of the stall, hanging far away from grasping hands, there are red glass hearts. They dangle on pretty red ribbons, swaying in the breeze, waiting to be selected like wallflower virgins at the school disco.
'Let's buy one. Or maybe two,' I suggest.
'What will you do with them?' asks Roberto, who does not share my passion for souvenirs.
'They can go on the Christmas tree.'
'It's not yet April, how can you be thinking of buying Christmas decorations? Besides we don't really decorate trees here in Italy at Christmas.'
I'm stunned and disappointed. I love my Christmas tree at home. Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without the oversized tree dominating the sitting room. I've collected ornaments for years and dress the tree with extreme care and attention. I've brought my favourite ones with me. I file the thought and vow that nearer the time I'll be able to persuade Roberto to have a tree.
'Well, we can hang them in the bar then, or over our bed.'
'Mamma doesn't like nails being hammered into the walls.'
I won't let Roberto's lack of enthusiasm dampen mine. We're having a lovely day and I want us to continue having a lovely day, so I bite my tongue. I turn my attention to the stall-owner who has by this time spotted us debating the attraction of his wares and has come in for the kill.
'Very beautiful, hey? For the young lady?' He looks at Roberto and smiles. Roberto moves his head a fraction to the left and right but the vendor is unperturbed, he's an old pro and can see I'm keen to purchase. You like?' He asks, turning his grin and attention to me.
'They are lovely,' I comment as I take hold of the glass heart he's picked out for me.
'Handmade,' he assures me.
I nod appreciatively and ignore Roberto's tuts. 'How much?' I ask.
The vendor names a price which is far above the price chalked on the blackboard pinned above the stall. Roberto points this out, but the old man insists that the cheaper price is for the paper or straw hearts. He passes me one of those but as he does so he shrugs disdainfully, suggesting that I'm going down in his estimation by considering the cheaper goods. How he has managed to make me feel inferior for considering purchasing his wares is a mystery to me, but he has.
'I like the glass one best,' I say as I gingerly hand back the straw heart. The old man grunts his approval and starts to wrap up the glass heart. Roberto sighs but it's not an especially resentful sigh, more an exasperated one. He hands over the exorbitant amount.
'We'll see the same thing for a third of the price on the next street corner,' he states.
'Maybe,' I concede. I don't care. I want this particular glass heart, although I know I'm being irrational and I can't explain why I want this one and no other – it just felt right in my hand. It was warm, not cold as you'd expect a glass ornament to be. Logically, I know this is because it's hung in the sun all morning but I'm not famed for being logical.
As the old man hands over the beautifully wrapped package, he flashes his toothless smile and in broken English says, 'The glass hearts fulfil wish and this one particular fulfil wish for many babies. With this heart comes a big family.'
I take the package from him with trembling hands. How did he know? How? Roberto shuffles uncomfortably and keeps his eyes fixed on his shoes. Suddenly, the costly heart seems to be a bargain.
I float through the cobbled streets, without a map or a plan, but simply allowing their loveliness and mysteries to unfold in front of me. The streets are winding and the sun is bright; intermittently we are plunged into shadows and then with a quick turn we are back into the glare. I feel amazing. I ruminate on the wish-granting heart and from time to time surreptitiously stretch my hand into my bag and let my fingers rest lightly on the package.
We stop for lunch in a charming cobbled square. The restaurant we choose is a brightly frescoed building with vivid greenery tumbling down from window-boxes. The idyll is slightly marred, as it takes an age to order our food. Still, I can't be cross when I think of the glass heart nestling in my handbag. Roberto and I fall silent and stare at the fountain in the middle of the square; water is gushing from three spouts and dribbling from a fourth, causing a green slimy line of algae to form down the chin, chubby belly and leg of the cherub. We watch as endless pairs of lovers amble up and throw coins into the pool, undoubtedly making wishes for eternal love.
'How do you think he knew?' I ask Roberto.
'Lucky guess,' says Roberto with a shrug. This isn't the answer I wanted, but at least he hasn't pretended to misunderstand me. Since the old man handed over the fertility heart neither of us has thought of anything else.
'No, he knew? I insist.
'Elizabeth, we are a married couple of a certain age, it doesn't take a genius or a clairvoyant to guess that babies would be a natural next step. The vendor's words mean nothing. The heart is just a toy.'
'But we should hang it above our bed, just in case,' I insist.
Roberto tuts, and for the first time today I see irritation slip into his eyes. Thinking about it, Roberto often seems quite irritated by me. Today has been a notable exception because his eyes have been shining with something I wanted to believe was contentment. But the cosy intimacy that has mooched between us all day begins to evaporate. I feel panicked. I want to grasp that shadowy intimacy and hold it tight. We are husband and wife, we should be intimate, we should be happy. We shouldn't be so often cross and distant. I can hear my breathing quick and shallow.
I struggle to appear calm as I ask, 'Why don't you want to believe it might be true?'
'Because you believe it too much.'
At that moment Roberto's food arrives and he starts to tuck in. He's eaten his entire plate of spaghetti before my fish is even put down in front of me. I can't blame him, who wants cold food? But I end up feeling desolate and hurried as I munch alone, as I often do here. It's not quite like the experience I imagined. I thought eating was a communal celebration on the Continent. I thought only the Brits abused food by eating pot noodles while watching
TV.
As I pick through the bones of the fish, Roberto talks to me about Verona's prosperous economy. The stuff he's telling me might be quite interesting but it smacks of a deliberate change of subject and seems insincere for that.
'We need to visit some bars here and see what the decor trends are, which DJs play at the weekend, what beers are sold, etc.,' he says.
'You want to do a competitive analysis here in Verona?'
'Yes.'
'Today?'
'Yes.'
'But I thought we were having a day off.'
'It's not real work, drinking in bars, is it? Besides, it's impossible for me to switch off entirely now, Elizabeth. The bar is my business.'
Maybe, since it's certainly not our business. I sip my orange juice and try to resist passing comment. Roberto turns to me and reaches for my hand.
'The teaching will be a good thing for you, Elizabeth,' he says. 'It will give you a passion, other than baby-wanting.'
'You want a baby too.' I try to make my comment sound like a statement rather than a question but I'm not sure I succeed. I've tried not to notice Roberto's reluctance to talk about our lack of family but it's becoming harder to ignore.
'I wanted that, yes.'
'Wanted?' I realize I've shouted when a number of eyes turn towards us. Clearly, in the city of lovers, rows are about as welcome as a nun at a stag party.
'I still want it,' whispers Roberto. He obviously thinks that talking quietly might encourage me to calm down; oddly it has the opposite effect. I'm incensed by his consideration to the strangers around us, as it glaringly exposes his insensitivity towards me. I glare at him. Perhaps if I keep my eyes wide and angry the tears that are threatening won't spill out.
'I just no longer expect it,' he mutters. 'I no longer believe it will be our destiny.'
We sit in silence as I consider the implications of what Roberto has just confessed.