He’s an hour earlier than expected. No one’s home. He walks around the transformed garden. The hillside behind the house is blowsy with hyacinths and the pheasant-eye narcissus his mother loves. Farther up, poppies and unknown other white and yellow wildflowers rampage along the road to Kit’s. Lemon pots line the drive, a seigniorial touch, and the pergola is dripping with white wisteria. Camille told him about Susan’s spaces created out of the junk-shed limonaia. Since the doors are all open, he peers in. What a great place for a fine-printing press. Light. He has a flash of working there, side by side with Camille. Sturdy stone floor—great for the heavy printing press. As of today, he’s sprung from his teaching. Freedom is a powerful aphrodisiac. What great books there are out there for him to publish. After his brutal marriage in his twenties, and the two ultimately unsatisfying relationships after that, he’s optimistic about his feelings for Camille. She’s his age. He’s not wanting a younger woman; too problematic, and if too young what a drag to force yourself to remain enthusiastic over things you really no longer care about. And the powerful desire they develop for children. He feels a stab of regret for the two difficult children he did not save. Could not. And another stab of anger at their mother.
Camille remains young because she’s starting over. She has all the excitement and trepidation of a twenty-year-old, an excitement he feels today as well. She gets his references. She thinks and reads—reaches out to touch the paper. She’s still damned attractive. An image rises of her breasts, full and surprisingly tipped with small pink nipples. Late, but he feels sure he’s found unfettered love for the first time.
* * *
—
There at the end of the limonaia, Camille’s easels are already set up. The middle section houses Susan’s garden tools and pots. He leans to read the tabs on the biodegradable trays where she’s started seeds: cosmos, lysianthus, basil, trailing nasturtiums, echinacea. In Julia’s charming outdoor dining room, she’s already set the table for Camille’s birthday celebration tonight with a vibrant tablecloth of chevrons, a green tureen spilling with yellow hyacinths and wands of quince. These southern women, a genius for hospitality, or maybe better named, for friendship. He won’t tell that he shooed one of the thieves’ cats (Ragazzo?) off the table.
An Alfa Giulietta, blood-red, pulls slowly down the driveway and a tall blond man unfolds himself. Charlie. Rowan knows immediately. His smile, like hers, a default and there more often than not. The same high patrician nose. “Hey, man! You must be Rowan.” He’s walking forward with his hand out.
Rowan smiles back. “Great you could get here for the show. Looks like no one’s around. And really great to meet the wonder boy.” What a fine-looking son. And an artist.
“You, too, man. I spoke to Mom from the autostrada. They’ll be back any minute. Some last-minute hitch with hanging things from the ceiling, but I think they charmed the gallery guy into letting them. She said to go in. The key is under a pot near the kitchen door.” Charlie felt a pang for his dad. Who’s this hip older guy stepping in, maybe bonging his mom? But he seems straight up and present. Charlie knows about the fine printing and wants to hear more.
There are ten pots around the step, but Rowan guesses right the first time. “At least it’s not the doormat. So much for thieves being fooled, huh?”
“I’m upstairs across from Susan.” Charlie starts up with his bag.
“I’m not staying here. I have my same apartment from last year on the edge of town.” Rowan looks around the kitchen, thinking of the lumpy velvet sofa at his place the night he and Camille came back from Bologna. How much has changed. The night with the stolen jewelry, when he held Camille while she slept, cried, cursed, and slept. What a magnificently lived-in house. Now, even lighter inside. Then he notices that all the bushes obscuring windows have been cut back. He can’t imagine the three of them not here. He calls up to Charlie, “You want a drink? I stopped in Orte and bought some wine and a couple of cheeses. Hope they pass muster with Julia.”
Charlie has a quick shower, combs his wet hair straight back, and bounds down, buttoning his shirt. At the same moment Camille flings open the door, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs with a big dancing hug. “Oh, you!” She sees Rowan in the doorway and grabs him, too, still dancing. “You’re both here!”
“Yeah!”
“And Chris will be here soon. He’s picking up some last-minute things. Charlie, can you grab those last two bags out of the car? Rowan, let’s put on some music.”
Susan and Julia walked from town. They’re trying to clock three miles a day. Julia holds up a handful of wild asparagus. “We’ll see! It looks stringy. This may taste like yarn.”
* * *
—
I’m not able to go to the pre-show dinner at Villa Assunta tonight. From my study window I can hear commotion below. Snatches of laughter, who’s playing “Heart and Soul” on the piano? Then the speaker blaring out Pink Martini and Buddha Bar, some of my favorites. Colin will go to the dinner (is he glad to get out of the house of confinement?), and they invited others. Riccardo, Nicolà, and Brian, not sure who else. Under house arrest, I am sending a birthday gift. Even though Camille says she’ll never buy jewelry again, she won’t be able to resist Margaret’s grandmother’s pearls I found in the suitcase. I fancy that Margaret would be pleased to know of Camille’s resurgence. An important birthday, and on the eve of her show. I want to celebrate both.
Tomorrow I am allowed to go to the opening. Colin got the doctor’s permission to drive into the center (closed to traffic), letting me out at the door. Inside, there’s a chair for me. I am purely an invalid but thus far it’s working. No further alarms. The little charmer has calmed in his/her churnings, seems to sleep when I do. Thank you! Stay put. Grow. Hang on by your nails if necessary.
I’ve only seen five of Camille’s miniaturist works. They’re nothing like anything I’ve ever seen. I sense that she has an instinct that they’re fine but not the confidence to believe such a truth. Her paper doors look mysterious, a mystery wrapped in a mystery. They remind me of Emily Dickinson. Who could imagine that a New England spinster, hiding herself in her family home, had such piercing, abstract, and hidden motives? Where did her work come from? From girlhood. It was there all along but given no exit. No gas ever thrown on the fire! Emily was more obvious in hiding her talent (those rolled fascicles of poems in a drawer) but a right parallel to a woman from down South, decades later, pushing back her gift, canvases literally stuck in the attic. Circumstances (for sure) different but across time, a woman hiding her passion, even self-suppressing. Late one night in Capri, Camille told me about her one fling in a New York loft that messed up her head. Her strict parents always told her to color within the lines, stay close to home, take no risk. (Venture / gain nothing.) The family motto seems to have been You’ll be sorry. She grew up constantly being herded. Then that one crazy night and bingo. Oh, were they right! She was as pregnant as she would have been if she’d slept with dozens of men. Deeply shamed and terrified, she felt the heavy letter A around her neck. She wanted her life with Charles. What she never expected to do, she did. The ugly word abortion, also a big A. The guilt, the relief, the sickening feeling of betrayal—all seized her whole body. Charles never knew. She invited her mother to visit for two weeks. Her mother, who constantly said, I wouldn’t, don’t, be careful…Camille disliked the sight of her paints.
* * *
—
We’re excited to see the exhibit, to see the work reflected off her face—how she sees the doors with everyone else looking at them. No matter what the work, some will stare blankly. At least no one will say their children could have done better. But this is Italy, with a long and wide cultural life, where the worker who finished ninth grade hums Aïda while he unblocks the toilet. The liceo students catch references to Persian miniatures and renaissance sculpture, and many others simply will respond to the intricacy and beauty
hanging before them.
I wish I were at their table tonight. But I’m happily home, too, still grateful that nothing terrible happened. I relish time with my pillows, my books scattered around, and the delicious prospect of Colin bringing home news of the happy evening in their limonaia and, best, a promised tray from Julia. He wanted to go but wanted to stay at home, too. His stone room, now completed, draws him to his design table, where the exciting Florida project starts to take shape.
The firm has been hired by the City of Key West to create a sunset-watching pavilion with a café and bookstore on one side and a restaurant on the other, truly the best project ever for Colin. I told him about the song all Italians know, “Una Rotonda sul Mare,” inspired by the round dance pavilion built in the Adriatic town of Senigallia. Hearing the song and having a glimpse at the round white building in the shallow waves makes you long to have been a heartbroken Italian teenager dancing there under the moon. Colin is romantic enough to fall for such crooning now and then, and he’s inspired by the architecture. (No way Key West can build in the waves.) Now he plays the song as he works. We know this project means we spend a lot of time in Florida, as soon as ground breaks.
Colin’s late. Maybe I can’t wait up for the delectable tasting plate. I read a few Neruda odes to artichokes, socks, potatoes, his exalted ordinary things. He gets away with lines like I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. He always puts me in a soporific state. I let the book fall to the floor.
Matilde surprised Camille. She had not said she was inviting artists from all over Tuscany, gallery owners from Florence, critics, and restoration colleagues. Camille thought she was “bringing a few friends.” From my chair, I watch waves of chic, artistic people arrive, streaming in among the local crowd. The whole of San Rocco is here, spilling out into the street. Party time. Chris circulating with the wine bottles, Julia with plates of delectable bites. Everyone circles the room, leaning in to examine the paper doors, gesturing to companions, and talking with animation. Camille stands off to the side with Rowan and Charlie. She looks quite wild-eyed, gazing around the room as though something is expected of her but she doesn’t know what. That son of hers, grinning and beaming, is super-looking. My age, give or take. I wonder if any of those young fashionista artists behind him could turn his head. (My impression is that he puts up with a wife hard to please.)
Matilde walks arm in arm with a man in an American suit. He’s nodding. She’s talking. The gallery heats up. Someone opens the front windows. Susan passes more prosecco. Julia and Annetta bring out platters for the table and like a sailboat coming hard about, the weight of the room shifts toward the food. Gilda and Nicolà sit with me—thrilled for Camille, too. A small gallery in a small town, but the energy vibrates. Camille—her red shoes! She owns this show. Head up, hair clipped back, classic, like Grace Kelly. And a fitted white dress with cleavage. Seventy looking good! I’d like to stand up and cheer. Margaret’s long loop of pearls looks stunning on her.
Colin becomes the court photographer. He arranges groups with their arms around each other, individual shots, and close-ups of the work. Camille smiles as widely as she possibly can. I wonder if anyone has told her yet that Sandro Chia is here. I know she admires his work. Matilde brings him over and introduces me. “Camille will be thrilled that you’ve come.”
“My honor,” he replies. “This is quite extraordinary what’s going on here. Signora Raine, I also admire your poetry.” (Surely Matilde prompted him.) He’s pulled away by a Florentine artist I recognize. He looks as though he should instead model for Dolce & Gabbana.
I throw my arms around Matilde. “I love you for this—you’ve worked a miracle for Camille. She’s floating on a big cloud! What a thrill for all of us.”
“Good things are going to start happening to Camille very soon. There are two critics here. And…” Julia holds out a platter to them and Matilde doesn’t finish her sentence.
“Fantastic. You’re getting a star in your crown, my friend.” Colin takes a picture of us, Matilde looking like a pre-Raphaelite goddess, me looking like a large biscuit.
Everyone stays and stays. Still Julia rolls out the platters of artichoke fritters, crostini, skewers of prosciutto and melon. Everyone eats, but the Italians peer suspiciously at the cheese straws and biscuits. Charlie loads his plate with them and urges Rowan to try a taste. As the room finally starts to thin out, I take Colin’s arm and stroll around, taking in each paper door. “Let’s buy one. Where’s the price sheet? We could hang it in your new studio.”
Colin crosses to the guest book and comes back. “No price sheet. Just a notice by the book that says to contact Matilde after the opening. What’s that all about?”
“This is all new to Camille. I wonder if she doesn’t want to let go of them yet. Which would you choose if you could choose?” We stop in front of the one I saw the Florentine man in the tight suit eyeing earlier.
We both love this—a series of four waxing moons, beginning with the slightest crescent. They’re the thin blue-white of mother’s milk on a sapphire background. The stacked papers invite the hand. I’d like to take this off the wall and hold it. The shafts of minute writing appear to run backward, and intricate geometric designs in slate and white run around the border. “The floor of some church,” Colin says. “Not sure which one. Maybe on the island of Murano?”
“No idea, but there’s something arresting about all of these. They send your mind in many directions, not just one. I’m remembering Galileo’s drawing of moons.”
Camille comes over and hugs us. “What I can’t believe even more than this show is these.” She holds up the pearls. “How could you give these to me? That and all this…Can you imagine? I cannot believe this is happening to me.”
“Oh, believe it—you deserve this.” Colin gives her two big kisses.
“We’re overwhelmed. Really, Camille, this is astounding work. Is it possible to buy this one?” I ask.
“Absolutely not, I’m giving it to you when the show ends.”
“No, you can’t start giving away your paintings. You’re a pro now. You’re supposed to be saying, Show me the money!”
“You’re coming to dinner? Stefano is saving us a table. I think Julia has ordered another birthday cake, when I’d really like to let this slide by without notice. With this many people in town, I’m glad we reserved.”
“Oh, I can’t go. I’m only out on a brief pass. Colin’s going to take me home now. You all have a fabulous evening.”
They did.
* * *
—
Nicolà’s daughter, home from school in England for spring holidays, agreed to gallery-sit for the week. She has a stack of books and plans to catch up on reading assignments between hellos to visitors. Since she can’t start until Monday, Camille and Charlie spend Sunday together in the gallery, a treat. Camille cannot remember having this much time with him. She turns on the lights while he walks across the piazza to bring back cappuccino and pastries.
“I get to have the place to myself,” he says, walking slowly from one painting to the next. “What’s damned amazing is how you stepped out. You’ve absorbed all the art here and let it soak into your brain. What’s on these pages is traceable to your days here but combined in ways that are totally you.”
“Thanks, and it feels that way but working alone you never know if what you do is good or rubbish. You think, but some nasty critical voice is always carping, always asking, Who do you think you are?”
“No, no, no. Forget that. You are soooo way beyond your parents—that’s the voice you internalized—didn’t they always put the lid on any risk? Don’t try this, you’ll regret that, you have teaching to fall back on, your husband needs you, on and on.”
“They were afraid for me…” She’s remembering how intimidated she was in New York and what that got her. The stupid night in the oh-so-cool loft.
&
nbsp; “Let them roll around in their graves! You’re rocking it, Mom. You know it.”
Charlie now teaches part time at the university. Instead of the class taking away from his painting, as he always assumed, he feels stimulated by the studio workshops, and more motivated with bright students around who talk, breathe, and sleep art. He tells Camille that he’s also much happier with Lara, maybe not as focused on her dissatisfactions, and there are fewer of those anyway now that they’re living in Camille’s house. “What a luxury space is; the three of us were too tight in our house, neighbors breathing down our necks when we lit up the barbecue. Ingrid loves Spit Creek. She and her friends splash around, catch turtles, act like the kids they still are. Sometimes she goes down to Dad’s cyclamen patch and reads on his bench. Dad, by the way”—his voice slows—“would be completely blown away by this show.”
Women in Sunlight Page 32