Camille nods, silent for a moment, then says, “The sad thing is, if he were still with us, there would be no show. I’ve been spinning my own web here.”
“Yeah, you’re right. This comes out of Italy. Italy brought it to you.”
“Not to say I wouldn’t prefer that things had just gone on as they were…” She trails off, suddenly, disloyally, wondering if that is true. “But maybe we would have found a way to shake up the norm.” A big question. No answer.
“What about Rowan? I like him.”
“Yes, he’s thoughtful, solid. You’ll adore his work. He’s quite well known in the esoteric fine print world. Julia, Susan, and I were just talking about this late kind of love, or affair, or whatever it is. We decided that carpe diem should reign. I think I’ll just go where I feel guided. No one’s in any rush.”
He can’t think what to reply and says the rather expected. “You—they, too—deserve every bit of happiness that’s out there.” For Charlie, the idea of sex at seventy is disorienting, but he has a hunch it’s happening. This late blossoming—explosion, more like it—a miracle for his mom, also loosens something tight in him. All his life she’s poured her passion for art into him, and at some level he felt guilty that she deprived herself. No more. Since his visit at Christmas, he’s had four solid months of progress. Always an abstract painter, he’s turned for the first time to landscapes. Working en plein air has been unexpectedly easy. He’s begun to wonder if ease means something.
The American man at the opening with Matilde comes in the door. “Open?” he asks.
“Yes, please come in. We’ll try to be quiet. We’re having a big catch-up visit.”
“I’m Steven Blassman, a friend of Matilde. I wanted another look. The event was so crowded that I probably missed something. Compliments on the work. Really, most intriguing.”
Camille and Charlie speak in low voices. Tomorrow he must leave. He’s giving himself three days in Rome but then flies back to North Carolina on Thursday. “Who is this dude?” Charlie whispers.
“Probably someone here to take Matilde’s paper class.”
* * *
—
When they close for lunch, Charlie goes back to the villa for a chance to collect himself from jet lag before he gets it again. Camille reopens the gallery and welcomes four women who’re traveling and painting in Tuscany for a month. She’s seen a couple of the women in the piazza with sketchbooks, one with an easel set up overlooking the olive groves sloping to the valley. She tells them that she’s done this work since she arrived in October. They’re beginning watercolorists, all remarking on how focusing on a painting sharpens your perception of what you see. They sit down and swap stories, admitting awe at the “stringent oddness,” as one puts it, of Camille’s vision.
Some local people who didn’t make it for the opening stop by for a look. At four, Camille closes.
* * *
—
Chris departs tomorrow, too; he’s picking up his group at the Venice airport, starting out on the new Friuli tour that’s practically back-to-back with his Tuscany trip. Tonight, Susan has reserved a table at a trattoria out in the valley. He hopes Julia will stay over with him at the hotel. He’s hardly seen her after the evening he arrived, what, only two days ago. Since he already has the van, he picks up everyone. “Are you on the bus or off the bus?” he asks as they pile in, but no one seems to remember the Merry Pranksters except Rowan. Guess the South bypassed hippiedom.
When the trattoria owner greets them, Camille says, “He looks like Bacchus in the Caravaggio painting.”
“He does!” Charlie asks if they can all have a photo together.
“Why not?” Enrico says, black ringlets tossed back. He kisses Susan, seats them, and begins describing his farming methods, the antique recipes, the lost grains resuscitated, the pure wheat, on and on. Susan and Julia are rapt. The rest think they’re in for Food Science 101, but when he begins serving they fall into hushed awe. Crunchy fried artichokes light as angels’ wings, the most delicate gnocchi on earth, the succulent, tender baby pig, his own strawberry gelato that makes you want to get up and dance.
“How did you all find this place?” Chris wonders. He thought he knew the area inside out.
Julia wishes she’d found it but admits, “Susan discovered it on one of her garden ornament expeditions. That’s why she’s getting the large serving of artichokes.”
“Let’s not tell anyone ever! Keep it to ourselves.”
Enrico pulls up a chair at the corner of the table. Here comes another lecture on biodynamic wine. Like his grandfather years ago, he buries ox blood at the top of each furrow in his vineyard. Chris knows about the methods but never has met a grower. Julia sees him make a few notes because the wine is rich and full of life. Susan translates when the practices begin to sound like a witch’s incantations. A stag’s bladder stuffed with yarrow, ground quartz in a cow’s horn, crushed valerian. When did Susan’s Italian become fluid? She has to look up quartz, yarrow, valerian, but otherwise, she’s on it. Enrico agrees when Chris observes, “It’s all composting, basically.” Over coffee, Susan and Enrico discuss seed banks and how he rotates crops.
Everyone’s charmed. Charlie loves Enrico’s homemade digestivo. A recipe similar to limoncello but made of fennel. Hand-gathered last August, of course. “Okay, not a doubt. I’m on overload. This place keeps expanding.” Charlie polishes off the last bite of his gelato.
“No,” Julia counters, “just another surprising everyday feast in the Tuscan countryside.”
“I have plenty to ponder on the flight home. I can’t believe I wanted my mother to move to Cornwallis Meadows.”
The piazza zings with energy. Tourists are back. Sun’s out, moving across the graceful ellipse where the Romans used to raise hell with their races. In three places, you can see grooves from the rims of carts’ wheels rasping into stone. As at a bullring, you choose sun or shadow, only there’s no fight, only waiters with trays aloft delivering cappuccino after cappuccino to the yellow-skirted tables, and visitors with their faces turned toward bright warmth. Colin says, “This is my idea of paradiso. After you die, you’re installed at a summer table on a sun-drenched piazza in Italy, with only the day of freedom ahead. That’s if you’ve been very, very good.” When I ask myself why so many come to Italy to find a larger version of themselves, I wonder. Is it Italy, or is this where you come when you’re about to bloom?
I’m free. Now close to full term, I can park myself at my favorite spot this morning and take in the day. Colin dropped me at the gate and with a great feeling of freedom, I slowly walked (waddled) to the piazza, joining first Susan and Nicolà, who’s holding forth about the three friends buying Villa Assunta. “The price is right; you cannot imagine the opportunity you have. San Rocco now soars every three months. If the villa were over in Cortona or Pienza, the cost would be at least thirty percent more. This area, much less crowded, is gaining on those hot spots. Believe me, in five years—easy—you could double your investment.”
“We probably could swing it. Anything divided by three seems a lot more feasible.” Susan does the addition in her head. “I sold my beach house. Even after giving my girls a chunk, I’ve got profit. Plus assets from the company I sold. I’m not ready to sell my home. None of us can just spontaneously plop down a sacco di soldi, but, you know, we’re old, we’ve been financially smart, we’ve worked, and I don’t see why we can’t fork over whatever it takes, if we decide to. Exactly how much do you think the villa should sell for?”
“I’ll do some research. My initial feeling is that the price is low as it is. Grazia has consulted no one but her aunt, who hasn’t sold anything since 1970.”
I’m with Nicolà. I took my inheritance, risked it. All three of them have slaved away always; they’re not pampered and entitled, though as Margaret would say, that doesn’t exist either; trophy women pay through the
whatsit and know their devil’s bargains full well.
Go for it. I was at a much younger age. (Maybe blessedly naïve.) Much later I got the prizes and money from Margaret. Lucky, lucky. I didn’t have to wait for husbands to die.
Nicolà needs to go, but Camille and the four visiting women painters she met at her show join Susan and me for a second cup. I am enjoying the pleasure of simple visiting; these resting weeks of involved writing and solitude have turned me inward. Even my little smiley face seems quiet this morning. Camille has invited the painters out to the villa for valley views, Susan’s garden, details such as a white cat curled under an astrolabe, shadows of lemon trees on the grass, a window overlooking the smeary greens of the valley, front door half open, and light spilling into the hall. As they gather their supplies and head off with their satchels and easels, I notice an older man and a young woman sit down under an umbrella rather than in the sun. She’s delicate and striking, the noble profile of young Virginia Woolf, but walks almost with uncertainty. The man guides her by her elbow. He looks familiar; someone who visits every year? The woman sits down and crosses her arms. Defensively? He’s smiling, smiling, a stunner of a man, maybe with one of those trophy wives. No, she’s pretty enough but doesn’t have the aggressive quality of a young triumphant victor over the middle-aged wife. Riccardo then joins us, meeting Susan for conversation in Italian. “You’re uncanny,” he says to her. “You’re going to knock me out of my translating job. I thought languages were supposed to be difficult after age twelve.”
Brava, Susan. “True,” I say. “You speak as well as or better than I do and I’ve been here thirteen years.”
“What do y’know! I studied harder than I ever did in college. I’ve lived and breathed it. And I love speaking a new language. I feel like a new and different person. I think I’m funny in Italian. Weird how another part of your personality becomes emphasized when you learn another language.”
“Maybe that part was waiting all along.”
“Dio mio,” Riccardo says, “I think I sound effeminate in English. Where does that come from?”
The morning streams along pleasantly. I’m on the alert for any twinge of pain. But no. Only a glorious day, the sun passing above the bell tower just as the deep gongs throw out massive reverberations that I hope young master now somersaulting in my body can feel in his bones.
Colin. Colin coming back with the shopping, coming toward us, toward me, toward little one, ready to take me home for a stroll through the rows of planted lettuces, basil, tomatoes, eggplant, sorrel, parsley, melons. All the promises of summer.
Julia shouldering her laden market basket walks toward the piazza. 11:30. Chris due in today from the Tuscan tour. They had marvelous events in San Rocco, and even worked in a country lunch at Enrico’s, a hit, and quite different from anything else they experienced. Then they were off to Montalcino and the Maremma. Julia checked and rechecked all the details. All Chris had to do was have fun and keep everyone happy. He’s coming from Florence, after dropping them at the hotel. They fly out tomorrow, and it’s all over until fall. He’s arranged their dinner tonight at a totally overlooked trattoria on via Parione where the chef will be making filet mignon in a reduced and rich sauce of shallots and balsamic vinegar. They are going to love it. After, they take an easy stroll back to the hotel Kit and Colin love. And then Julia has Chris back.
She stops to say hello to signora Bevilacqua in the bookstore, stops at Armando’s cheese shop to pick up a wedge of Sardinian pecorino. The sandals she bought in Capri rub on her right foot, and she leans to loosen the strap. As she stands up she catches sight of a man and woman at an outside table at Violetta’s bar. Her throat catches and she begins to cough. She straightens up and looks again. This sandal is irritating her instep. She runs her fingers through her hair, shakes it out, and looks again at the apparition of Wade and Lizzie drinking coffee in the piazza. She closes her eyes, looks hard, then turns down a shadowed vicolo of tiny shops. Her back pressed against the stone wall, she tries to will her mind to focus. Five minutes. Inhale. Exhale.
Julia, back in sunlight. Walking fast toward the piazza. Mirage, mistaken identity, Swedes on vacation, hallucination. No, Wade. Lizzie. Like anyone else. Taking in the morning. The girl, Lizzie, scoots back her chair and reaches into her bag for sunglasses. Now they see her, Wade rising, almost tipping the table. But Julia’s eyes are on Lizzie looking up quizzically. Lizzie as herself. Julia rushes to her and almost falls forward as Lizzie rises, smiling, and Wade leans in to hug her, too. Julia tries, can’t speak, but sits down gaping at her unrecognizable daughter. Lizzie without two layers of gray circles under her eyes, with shining, not lank and dirty hair. Lipstick. Her small teeth and winged eyebrows. Lizzie herself. “Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie,” she says. “Am I in a dream?”
“Mama, it’s good to see you. Not a dream. Not a miracle. A lot of effort. I’m doing well. Finally.”
“Wade? You went?”
“We’ll tell you the whole story. I thought it would be best just to show up, cut all the distance out of the picture.”
“I’m stunned. Look at you both.” My loves, she didn’t say. Wade swims before her more godlike than ever, his fair hair streaked with white, his elegant, strong body more fit than ever. Something agrees with him.
“You look radiant.” His smile, wider on one side than the other. “You know it, too, Hadley girl.” When they were young he’d always been amused that she was known as “the Hadley girl.”
Violetta comes over, a questioning look on her face. But Julia just says, “Meet Wade and Lizzie,” with no explanation. She orders an espresso for herself and they want more cappuccino.
“Wow, you’re speaking Italian!” Lizzie is looking at her; they’re all gazing as though they’ve encountered each other underwater in diving gear.
“Well.” Still blank. “How did this, when did you…” She trails off.
“We got into Rome yesterday and drove up this morning. We’re staying right down the street.” He points toward the Albergo Lorenzo. “We can’t check in until two. We were going to ask around for Villa Assunta. I got the name from some of your lawyer’s correspondence. That’s all I had, no address, only San Rocco.”
“Um.” Julia was not going to justify her attempt to cut him off from her life. What does he expect? “Oh, Lizzie. You’re here. You’re here. I can’t take this in.”
“Hope it’s not a bad shock. It’s a shock to me, too. I’m trying to trust it. Where to begin?” Lizzie says. “I’ve been in a residential treatment house for a year. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know. I just could not. I had to isolate myself from everything. I know you thought when I hit bottom, where I’m supposed to pull out of my habit or else, that I didn’t. I fell right back. Even worse. Letting everyone down once again. In the hospital, the doctor thought I was sleeping but I heard him say to you that if I didn’t kick it then, statistically I’d die before I was forty. That wasn’t bad news to me at the time, since that’s what I wanted anyway. But later, after I bailed on you in Savannah, when I got back to San Francisco and fell in with my group, I felt sick a lot. I was on some new opiate that was out on the street. I saw in the mirror that I’d developed this weird tic of fluttering my eyes. I looked crazy. I was in that nice yellow robe you gave me, all stained. My reflection was someone I hardly recognized and wouldn’t want to know. In some way, that robe did it. When you brought it to the hospital, it was soft chenille, that hopeful yellow, and I knew you’d wanted something to comfort me when I took comfort from no one. I looked down at it. All nasty.
“Skipping a bit. Enter a social worker. She came to the house and told us about a new city program we could apply for. Out of pure boredom, maybe out of not recognizing myself anymore, I applied. At the time, I wasn’t planning on quitting. Maybe finding a nicer place to stay, taking better care of myself. My fingernails were always bleeding. Everything wrecked. I still wanted to ge
t high, only it didn’t feel high at all anymore. And hadn’t in a long time.”
Violetta sets down the coffees, eyebrows raised quizzically. Obviously, something intense is happening. She brings, too, a plate of biscotti.
“First thing, hard and horrible thing was detox. I was rolled out of an ambulance and checked into a locked facility where I went through that once again. You well know what the process is. This time I just endured it and walked through the sessions. Maybe something was at work but I was strung out for so long that I think my synapses were all numb. Long story short, I walked out of that shithole, as I have before, exhausted mentally, with no clear thought that the detox would take. I was put in a taxi and sent straight to this new place for rehab.
“So then I find myself in a program with twenty other druggies—all women—at a huge Victorian in the Haight. Four to a room. Selma Hodges, in charge. She has her own theories. We made fun, laughed at her. Everyone had to work in the house. It was immaculate. White curtains in every room, starched. Quilts made by ‘the girls.’ We had kitchen shifts and had to learn to cook. We had eggs at breakfast. Cereal. No caffeine. She had us making soups and stews, muffins. Twenty mentally stunted women buttering muffins.” She laughs and shakes her head. Julia feels breathless. Lizzie uttering something amusing!
“She required us to choose an activity and to spend three hours a day working on it. The basement was set up as a weaving and sewing room, a potting studio in the rear, a computer room upstairs. I chose potting. And I loved it. We had to commit to one online course. I signed up for, don’t laugh, international relations. I guess something way outside my little realm was appealing. We had to volunteer at Golden Gate Park one morning a week, weeding and picking up trash like prisoners. Later we worked in nursing home kitchens, school lunchrooms, in libraries shelving books, and then graduated to part-time jobs. Mine was making hot fudge sundaes at the chocolate factory on the wharf. I never want another bite of chocolate in my life. But, Mom, I’m good at pottery. Bowls anyway. My plates are wonky and the cups’ handles always break. But I’m selling a few small bowls at Selma’s friends’ shop.”
Women in Sunlight Page 33