As I lay against the cool stone floor I took note of each of my limbs and realised that besides a burning pain at my right elbow and knee I didn’t think I had done any real damage. I tried to sit up but my legs were tangled in the bars of the bike. Before I could reach down and pull myself free the bike disappeared in one swift motion and two large hands took my shoulders, pulling me roughly into a standing position. I caught a flash of sun-kissed skin and bright green, angry eyes before I stumbled into his unfamiliar arms. A pain shot through my head and sent me reeling. The last thing I heard as the floor flew up to meet me was a ringing in my ears and a soft but panicked voice exclaiming, “Merda!”
* * *
The room around me gradually took shape, fuzzy at first but then the details emerged. I was lying on a solid wooden table in somebody’s kitchen. The stone walls were painted a sunflower yellow and it looked like a typical Italian country kitchen. From another room, I heard male and female voices muttering in Italian. I tried to sit up but stumbled off the edge of the table, catching myself at the last minute before I hit the floor again. The room was spinning. I shut my eyes tight and put a hand to my forehead trying to steady myself. “Ah! Tu sei sveglia! Siediti, per favour!”
A chair appeared from nowhere next to me and gentle hands guided me to sit on it. “Thank you,” I managed to say, I felt better sitting and managed to glance up briefly into the eyes of my carer. He was a young man, around twenty-five perhaps. He had a mass of short and curly brown hair, his skin was tanned but not too dark, and he had the same green eyes I had seen before passing out. They were no longer angry, but I detected a hint of concern as he stared at me. “Ah, English, my apologies,” he said. His accent changed from Italian to British. The difference surprised me and I looked at him curiously.
An old lady, hunched over with age, entered the kitchen. She carried cloths, bandage, and what looked like disinfectant. She smiled kindly at me. “Where am I?” I desperately checked myself over and realised my knee and elbow had deep grazes that had clearly been heavily bleeding. My head throbbed and I felt with my fingers the lump forming on my crown. I winced and the man stepped suddenly forward. I instinctively lifted my arm to stop him and he paused, confusion replacing his worried expression. “It’s ok. You almost ploughed into me with your bike on the hill. You’ve had a pretty nasty fall. My grandmother will help clean you up. Unless you’d rather go to the hospital?”
I shook my head fast and immediately regretted it. Sitting back in the chair I covered my eyes with the crook of my arm. “I’m so sorry I almost hit you! I don’t know what I was thinking.” His mouth curled into a one-sided grin. “I think you came off much worse don’t you?” The man’s grandmother returned with a metal dish of warm water. She soaked some cloth and pressed it tentatively to my wounds, murmuring softly in Italian when I flinched. Her grandson stood to one side staring uncomfortably at my reaction, his fist pressed firmly to his pursed lips. Once all the blood was cleaned away, and I had yelped in agony from the application of the disinfectant, she wrapped each cut securely with a bandage.
I thanked her profusely in Italian until she tapped my knee maternally and left the room. “Maybe we should go to the hospital, you might have done worse damage and you’re in shock and don’t realise it.” The hospital was the last thing I needed. My limbs were still attached, I didn’t appear to have any broken bones and I was now fully coherent. I stood cautiously and went to the sink to splash water on my face. “Thank you for helping me, but I’m fine, honestly.” He handed me a dishcloth and I wiped at my face gently. I looked at him properly for the first time.
He was a whole head taller than me, about 6ft 2, he was slight but muscular. He had boyish eyes but the set of his jaw and the sternness of his brow hinted that he was past his twenties, a man who had lived. I could see now that he was older than twenty-five, around thirty-five I guessed. He was also incredibly good looking, even in my state and embarrassment I noticed, but he was trying hard not to be. Hiding his body under baggy linen and now masking those piercing eyes with a pair of chunky framed glasses he slid up his nose. I shook away my thoughts. I had to leave.
“I should go,” I murmured and passed the dish cloth back to him. “Thank you…um…sorry, what was your name?” He smiled and held out his hand. “Samuel Beneventi. Call me Sam. And you are?” I took his hand and shook it gently, cautious of my injured arm. “Anabella Ossani. Ana.” He smirked at me and let go of my hand. “So where were you heading before I sprang into your path?” I stepped toward the doorway, intending to leave as soon as possible but he followed behind me. “I have to go to town to get art supplies.” That piqued his interest, he gazed at me intrigued. “An artist? So am I!” I offered a hint of a smile but turned toward the doorway, eager to flee. “Look, I can’t let you wander off on your own after such a bad accident. I’d never forgive myself if you collapsed somewhere. Let me come with you. It’s Wednesday, the markets are on today.” I opened the door and stepped out into the alleyway, “No, honestly I’m fine. I’ll just take my bike and go.”
He followed me out into the alleyway and gestured toward Nonna’s bike. It leant against the wall outside the door, the basket now in pieces, and the front wheel buckled. My shoulders hunched, Nonna would be so mad at me. “Your bike is wrecked. How about you leave it here, I escort you to the markets, we get your art supplies then I help you get this thing back home? I think I need to get you some lunch too, you’ve gone very pale.” I hesitated and looked up and down the street, unsure of what to do. “I’ll follow you anyway, to make sure you’re safe. Please don’t make me resort to stalking.” He cocked his head to one side and stared at me seriously, a smile reluctantly tugged at the sides of my frown. “Fine then. You can come,” I huffed, exasperated and stormed off down the hill. He followed in my wake, grinning to himself.
* * *
Every Wednesday, in the piazza of Pisciotta, people come in from neighbouring villages and the streets come alive with various market stalls selling everything from colourful, fresh produce, to clothing and cleaning products. Umbrellas and canopies line the narrow streets and the women from the country chatter happily at their stations. Many people sit outside the local bars and restaurants sipping coffee and watching the bustle of the market go by. Winding between the rows of stalls my eyes greedily took in all the treats on offer and I could not contain my wide grin. This was the Italy I loved. It was so much more real to me than the usual tourist traps.
I was acutely aware of Sam trailing behind me but I avoided his piercing green eyes. I hadn’t yet decided if I liked them or if they made me feel uncomfortable. A laugh from behind me broke my reverie and I turned to look at him. “Have you never seen the market before? You look so animated.” I blushed furiously and turned to the owner of a fruit stall to ask her for three of her oranges. As she bagged them up for me and collected my change I smiled shyly up at him. “I haven’t been here for a long time. It’s been years, I’ve missed it. I love the chatter and buzz of this place.” He glanced around the piazza and nodded his head appreciatively. “I guess you’re right.”
I took my fruit and thanked the seller. I began to stroll further through the market stalls, this time waiting for Sam to fall in step beside me. “So where in England are you from?” He asked, shoving his hands into his pockets nonchalantly. I swung the oranges gently at my side, debating whether to lie to him. I opted for the truth, “Surrey.” His eyes lit up and he grinned at me again. He really did have a lovely smile. It made him look boyish and carefree. “I’m originally from Surrey too! I moved to Brighton for a few years but I’ve been staying here with my grandmother for the past few months.”
Brighton was a bit too wild and whacky for my liking, and I couldn’t imagine him living there either. “Why the move over here?” I asked, intrigued to know more about him. He paused at a leather stall and examined a black belt, passing it through his hands before placing it back on the rack. “I had to get out of England. I hadn’t seen my
grandmother in a while so thought I’d pay her a visit. I needed a change of scenery. Know what I mean?” I nodded eagerly. “Yes, actually I know exactly what you mean. I needed to get away too. I haven’t seen my grandmother for seven years so I knew exactly where I wanted to go.”
We wandered from stall to stall for a while, chatting amicably about Surrey and our Italian families. He was a first-generation Briton, the same as me, and both of our fathers had moved to England when they were very young. His father had died when he was a young boy, but he spoke fondly of his mother. I told him about my mother’s light-hearted nature and my father the businessman. I didn’t mention the fallout that had made me flee England for some much-needed reflection. We eventually reached the stall of an elderly gentleman. He sold paints, pastels, chalks and canvases. I chose a selection of acrylic paints, brushes, pencils and an artist pad. Sam bought oil paints and a length of canvas he had the stall owner cut into various sizes. They shook hands and he turned toward me and clapped his palms together. “Right then, let’s get lunch!” I let out an exasperated sigh but followed on his tail as he marched quickly down an alleyway off the piazza.
As we approached the Palazzo Marchesale a hanging sign depicting three owls reading, “I Tre Gufi” came into view. We entered the restaurant and were seated out on a beautiful terrazza overlooking the ocean. I sat in the small metal chair Sam offered to me and stared out at the breathtaking view. The luscious green hills swept down to meet the deep blue of the sea and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I stared down at the marina below and smiled widely as a refreshing sea breeze blew through my hair. “Beautiful,” I heard the whisper beside me.
I stared at Sam curiously and he smirked back at me. “The view. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? There’s no better view in town”. I glanced back at the sea and sipped at the ice water the waiter had placed in front of me. “It’s stunning,” I smiled at him again, “but the view from my window is a definite contender”. We chatted animatedly about my grandmother’s apartment and the various places around Pisciotta we had visited. He was obviously a lot more familiar with the area than I was and I was fascinated to hear that he’d spent many summers there over the years.
The waiter approached and I realised I hadn’t even looked at the menu. “Do you like pizza? This is the best Pizzeria in Pisciotta.” The waiter smiled kindly at me and suggested his favourites. We both ordered the Margherita con Prosciutto and Sam asked for two glasses of wine to accompany our order. “So, you’re an artist?” He asked as he helped me cut my pizza, my injured arm was beginning to feel sore so I sat back in my chair and watched him work. “Well, I’m trying to be. Things may not work out.” He gave me a questioning look so I continued. “It hasn’t been my main focus until very recently. I’m seeing where it takes me.” He smiled knowingly and placed my sliced pizza down in front of me.
“Well, if it helps, making it big in the industry doesn’t make you an artist. You may never sell a painting your entire life. But if it’s all you think about, if in troubling or happy times all you want to do is mark the occasion by picking up that brush, then you’re an artist. Art is freeing from all rules, it’s truly liberating. And if that’s the way you feel when you paint then you’re already an artist.” I stared off into the horizon and sipped my wine. “So? Are you?” He had cocked his head to the side again and was staring at me amused. I felt suddenly shy and a flush spread across my cheeks and down my neck. “I guess I am,” I nodded and he laughed as we both tucked into our pizzas.
Hours later I found myself walking up the hill toward my grandmother’s street. Sam puffed out a gust of air next to me as he struggled to push the mangled bike in a straight line. We had talked for a long time at the restaurant until the owner kindly informed us that he needed to clear the table ready for their evening guests. I had learnt that Sam was also an artist and a pretty good one at that. He had won several prestigious competitions across Europe and was even exhibited at the National Gallery in London, but he had never wanted to sell his work for a living, he wanted to teach. I didn’t tell him everything about me. I don’t know why. I felt protective over my family troubles and wasn’t ready to share them. As far as Sam knew I was someone who had always loved art but had only just begun to take it seriously.
We reached the apartment gate and Sam leant the crumpled bike against the wall. An awkward silence passed between us and he took my arm and turned my wrist in his hand to see the bloodied bandage at the base of my elbow. “Clean the wound again tonight, and change the dressing.”I pulled my hand out of his, uncomfortable with the contact. “Yes, Doctor,” I quipped and turned to head into the garden. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement and I turned to gaze at him confused. “Tomorrow?” He smirked and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Yes, tomorrow. You’re an artist trying to find your place in this world. I’m a seasoned artist who wants to move into teaching. It’s perfect. See you at 10 AM.”
He began to walk away and I stammered in disbelief. “What if I’m busy tomorrow?” He chuckled to himself and wandered back toward me. Out of his bag, he handed me a length of the canvas. “Paint something tonight. Anything you feel like. I’ll do something too. I’ll stop by tomorrow, and if you’re still not interested then I’ll hang out here for a while until you feel sorry for me.” I tucked the canvas in the crook of my good arm and entered the garden, latching the tall wooden gate closed behind me. “Sam?” A shuffle of feet told me he’d paused before walking away. “Thanks for lunch.” There was no movement from the other side of the gate but soon his amused voice sounded through the fence. “Prego, Anabella, until tomorrow.”
Chapter 3
I sat staring at the stretch of canvas, placed precariously on my makeshift easel out on the terrazza. It was early evening now and Nonna was still not home. She was probably having dinner with her friends. My painter’s tools were in front of me but I was too afraid to touch them. I had not created anything since my father had disowned me. I remembered back to the night before I left. I could hear the muffled, angry voice of my father travelling down the stairs from his office, followed by the occasional timid but insistent tones of my mother. Intermittently, I could make out phrases such as, “Throwing her life away” and, “Supported her through her whole life”. I ran into my bedroom and closed the door firmly, hiding in my bed after his final words - “I will never forgive her for this.” An ache in my chest made me cower in on myself. I wanted to paint away my hurt, transfer it to the canvas so I didn’t have to carry it around anymore. But if there is one thing my father taught me it was control.
I picked up the brush and selected the brightest Santorini blue instead of the angry crimsons I was drawn to. I painted a landscape, similar to the one that hung above Nonna’s bed. It was a picturesque scene where the blue of the ocean and sky blurred and met the sloping green hills off in the distance. Small breaking waves hit the shore and a small fishing boat bobbed calmly in the marina. It was a competent painting, technically much more accurate than the one Nonna had cherished all of these years. When she returned later that evening she had told me it was pretty, unintentionally irking the part of me that wanted it to be more. After another glass of wine, I disappeared into my room, cleaned my various wounds, and applied new dressings, then I drew a line under the whole day by going to bed early.
The next morning I looked awful. Plagued by dreams where my father slammed doors in my face I didn’t get much sleep. Purplish circles sat beneath my eyes. I sat up in bed reluctantly, stretched out my arms, and noticed Nonna standing in my doorway holding a steaming cup of coffee. “Buongiorno, Nonna.” The bed dipped as she sat near my feet and handed me the cup, I took a grateful sip. “What happened to you?” She gently touched the bandage at my elbow, a maternal concern in her voice made my heart swell. Why couldn’t my mother care this much? I explained about the previous day’s events but left out the parts involving Sam.
She frowned and tutted in disapproval,
“I came back here at four to see if you’d like to join me and my friends for dinner but you were not here. Where did you go to?” I shifted uncomfortably and avoided her piercing gaze. She could always weasel the truth out of me with one look. “Oh. I went to buy art supplies and I got carried away exploring the town that’s all.” She crossed her arms and the corners of her mouth fought a smile. “Is that all?” I looked at her warily, what did she know? She continued nonchalantly, “It’s just that there has been a young man sitting outside our garden for nearly an hour now. He seems to be waiting for something.”
My jaw dropped in shock and I dove out of bed and scrambled over to the window. Sure enough, through the slats of the blinds, there was Sam, lounging against the neighbour’s wall, tossing something back and forth between his hands. “What time is it?” I grabbed Nonna’s wrist, her watch read 10.50 AM. “Merda!” I yelped and snatched various items of clothing from the dresser. Nonna scolded me but leaned back on her elbow watching, one eyebrow lifted in amusement. “He is a handsome man, Ana.” I huffed in exasperation, “It’s not like that,” but Nonna was having none of it. She stood and sauntered toward the doorway. Before leaving she pointed toward the window. “Tonight you will tell me what it is like then. Be home for dinner.”
* * *
Sam stood to attention as I peeked around the garden gate. “Couldn’t resist any longer then?” He laughed. I swung the gate open wider and ushered him inside. “I was asleep actually.” He took my arm and turned it over to examine my sensitive elbow. I had removed the bandage and the angry red cuts were beginning to dry out and heal. “Ouch, looks sore. And you look tired.” I awkwardly avoided those piercing green eyes and invited him to come up for a coffee and breakfast. Nonna had disappeared into her room. I showed Sam to the terrazza and left him staring out at the view as I descended the stairs to fetch us drinks and pastries.
My Heart Lies in Pisciotta Page 2