My Heart Lies in Pisciotta

by Cate Nielson Raye

  When I returned he had placed my “pretty” canvas on the tabletop. His nose a couple of inches from the canvas surface, hands in pockets and bent at the waist, he studied my handiwork. I cleared my throat. Sam smiled and took the coffee and croissant I held out to him. “Did you paint this last night?” He fingered the corner of the canvas frame and traced a thumb over a streak of cloud-free sky. I nodded and joined him at the table. “I’ve been meaning to paint since I got here, but it’s taken me a while to start.”

  “What’s kept you back?” I didn’t want to drag up all my daddy issues. Sam seemed nice, familiar even, but he was still a stranger to me. So I shrugged and sipped at my coffee to distract him from my discomfort. “There’s no emotion in this painting. It’s like you were simply…going through the motions.” At my hurt expression he held up a sincere hand. “It is a very technically good piece, don’t get me wrong, Ana. It just tells me nothing about you. It doesn’t tell me how you felt looking out at this scene.”

  I snatched the canvas off the table and placed it back near the door. “Did you come here to insult my painting or was there a point to this visit?” I knew he was right but I didn’t need to be told I had shut myself off. I had spent years just going through the motions and I was struggling to break free of my leash. Sam finished his pastry, rested on the corner of the table, and crossed his arms over his firm chest. “I want to show you something. Will you come with me? It’s not far from here.”

  “What is it?” I frowned warily at him, not sure I wanted to go anywhere with this strange man who seemed so interested in me. “You will see. Come.” He removed what looked like a car key from his pocket, drained the last of his coffee and walked toward the door. For a moment I did not follow. I had never been as unsure before that moment about following a man to a place I did not know. But as soon as he disappeared into Nonna’s house I resolved that I could trust him. I didn’t know why but a larger part of me, one that was louder and more rebellious than the timid insecure creature I had been all my life, made me stand and head out to the street to find him.

  I caught up to him further down the cobbled road. He was waiting next to an old, yellow scooter and held a helmet out to me. “You’re kidding?” I scoffed and went to turn on my heel and head back to the house. He grabbed my hand insistently and spun me back around. “Please. You’re safe with me I promise. And believe me, Ana, you need to see what I want to show you.” Another moment of hesitation and I allowed him to place the helmet on my head. We climbed on the scooter and I wrapped my arms around him, my hands gripping the front of his shirt firmly. “Just try not to kill me. I’ve had enough traumas for one summer already.” He kicked off down the hill and after a few bounces on the cobbles we hit the smooth asphalt of the main road and sped off down the hillside.

  We pulled up outside a small outbuilding down near the bay. Sam hopped off the scooter and helped me with my helmet. He removed a single, heavy iron key from his pocket and walked toward the shabby wooden door. I followed behind, arms crossed defensively across my chest. He opened the door and allowed me to enter first. A few steps in I stopped in my tracks. Every wall of the small room was covered in canvas paintings, rough pencil sketches, chalk drawings and pastel portraits. On a table at the far side of the room there stood various pieces of pottery and sculpture. A muted light shone in from a single window, partially blocked by an easel that had a sketch pad in its vice. Although every piece was different I could tell it was all the same artist. Every image depicted movement and an almost wild sense of elated freedom.

  My jaw dropped and I moved further into the room to examine some of the canvases. Some were mildly erotic, portraying nude men and women, their passion almost spilling from the canvas surface. There were landscapes too. Not pretty like mine had been, but stunning in the extreme. I felt the anger in the streak of a dark cloud and could almost hear the thunderous roar of the stormy ocean beneath an almost black sky. Everything seemed to flow and inspire some form of emotion in me. Sam was behind me now. I peered up into his face - he seemed as entranced with the work as I was. “Is this yours?” I gestured at the room. He stared down into my wide eyes and smiled, almost paternally before giving me a small nod. “Do you like it?”

  “Sam this is…wow.” I was lost for words. I didn’t know I had been in the presence of such an amazing artist. I eagerly explored the makeshift studio some more. I gently touched the portrait of a small child running down a pebble-dashed beach. A flash of curiosity made me wonder if the little boy was Sam’s too. He answered my silent question. “When I first got here I spent a day sitting on a wall down at the beach. This couple seemed so in love. They let their little boy run up and down collecting stones for an hour. They kept every single one he brought them.”

  I grinned and turned back to the painting. “Over here. This is what I really wanted to show you.” He took my hand and guided me over to the easel by the window. A sketch pad lay open across the frame, a water-coloured image painted across the entire page. It was a young woman with dark, chestnut hair being whipped around her face in an invisible wind. She was sitting on a bike, feet off the pedals and lifted straight out in front of her, the wild scream of excitement on her face. The recognition sunk in.

  It was me yesterday. “What is this?” I was in shock, I felt like I was under scrutiny. The moment felt extremely personal like I had a Peeping Tom observing a previously unknown and raw emotion. The painting was beautiful, delicate but wild, and I hardly recognised myself. It wasn’t because there wasn’t a likeness. It was purely because I didn’t recognise myself looking so carefree and happy. A swell of emotion rose in my chest and a sob escaped my throat. I clamped a hand over my mouth and ran out through the wooden door before the tears started to fall.

  * * *

  I stood at the fence on the roadside, looking out at the water below, frantically trying to wipe at my tear-stained cheeks. I was embarrassed and mortified that all the feelings I had tried to suppress decided to come out at that moment, in front of a man I barely knew. I didn’t hear him until he was standing next to me, hands in pockets, also staring out at the ocean. I took a deep steadying breath and covered my face with both hands. “I’m sorry. I have a lot going on at the minute. The painting is beautiful.” I couldn’t look him in the eye but attempted a small smile that felt more like a grimace. He shrugged slightly. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready.” I knew my father loved me but sometimes he could be cruel. I didn’t want the world to know that side of him. I remembered forming a makeshift studio in the garage at my parents house. It was a lot like Sam’s little hut - a place to display all of my sketches and paintings almost proudly, and a place where there was not a single medical book in sight. My father never went into the garage, that’s why I chose that space. Which is why it shocked me when, after returning from university one evening and wanting to lock myself in there to draw, I opened the door and was faced with nothing but blank walls. The room had been gutted, all my work was missing and my tables and easel were gone.

  The walls had been painted a clinical white and there was no sign of the splash of colour I had added here and there over the previous months. I had fought with my father that night. He had insisted he needed the space for storage and that I had been focusing too much on spending time in “that mess” rather than studying. He had embarrassed me by mocking my what he called my juvenile arts and crafts, and saying I would do much better if I aimed all of my efforts on one passion rather than splitting myself in two. I convinced myself that he was right, that my artwork was average at best and I should be concentrating on my future career, not my hobbies. My father had won on that occasion and I locked another part of myself away in a box.

  Sam’s strained voice brought me out of my reverie. “You’re holding yourself back.” I frowned and prepared to argue, but the sad look on his face made me stop. “I see it not only in your work but also on your face. When you were on that hill it w
as like seeing someone experiencing life for the first time. You were free, I had to capture that moment. But as soon as you spoke to me the shutters came down. You need to let yourself out, Ana. It’s the only way to paint how I know you could paint. So what’s holding you back?”

  I took a deep breath and sighed in defeat. I hadn’t prepared to bare all on this trip. Especially to someone I had only just met. I sat at the edge of the road, my feet dangling over the edge of the drop to the sea and I rested my arms on the fence panel that ran in front of my chest. Sam joined me and waited expectantly. For the next hour I told him about my life. Everything that had ever happened poured out of me like I had opened the flood gates. I told him about my medical training and about my father’s control of me from a young age.

  I told him about Martin Sear and the various other men who had taken advantage of me in times of vulnerability or when I had desperately tried to be rebellious. Sam learned about my mother who was so wrapped up in her own social life that she had barely noticed me or the control my father had over all of us. I told him about visiting my Nonna at sixteen and painting that first canvas that still hung above her bed. I told him about all the times my art had been belittled and how to please my father I felt like I had to be emotionless.

  Finally, I told him about the fight that had ended it all, how I had told my father I was turning my back on my medical career and focusing on my art. Sam sat in silence throughout the whole thing. He nodded occasionally and patted my back like a favourite uncle trying to comfort me. And when I had finally finished my story, and the tears were running fast down my cheeks again, he wrapped his strong arms around my shoulders and let me sob into his solid chest.

  When I was too exhausted to cry anymore I leaned back. He gave me a friendly smile and pulled me slowly to my feet. I was lead like an invalid back into the studio. Sam placed a clean stretch of canvas on the easel by the window and made me stand in front of it. Realising what he wanted me to do I picked up a paintbrush. He turned and sat in an armchair in the corner of the room, picked up a book and began reading. After one more glance in his direction, I turned to the canvas and without thinking I grabbed the paints and began - no thoughts in my head as to what I was going to paint.

  The hours passed fast - they felt like minutes to me. The light in the studio changed gradually as the high sun at midday began to fall lower toward the horizon. When it became too dark I heard a click of a light switch behind me, but I continued painting, not giving myself the chance to stop and overthink it. Later into the evening, exhausted and emotionally spent, I finally put down the paintbrush and pallet. I stood back from the easel and met the solid form of Sam, who had been standing silently behind me for I don’t know how long. He moved me to one side and stood close to the canvas surface. His mouth formed a perfect little “O” and his eyes were wide and expressive.

  I had painted a young woman from the back. Long brunette tendrils fell past her shoulder blades and she was wearing a flowing white dress. The outer canvas was deep purple, almost black in places. Moving toward the centre the colours changed to vibrant, fiery reds and oranges and eventually into a blindingly warm yellow light. The girl was running into this light, one arm outstretched in front of her and the lower panes of her dress fanning out behind with the speed of her run. Sam turned to face me, an impressed grin spread across his face. “Well, what do you think?”

  I was surprised at his question and my eyes flicked between him and the canvas. “I think it’s good. But if I kept working on it I think it could be better.” He suddenly laughed, heartily and warm. I couldn’t help the corners of my mouth turning up too. “You’re always going to think you could do more. Just one more hour and it’ll be great. I used to tell myself that all the time. But the truth is it’s perfect, Ana. Your conscious told you to stop when you did because deep down you know it’s ready. That’s something you’ll learn with time.”

  I stood in silence for a few minutes, staring at my work. A warm feeling spread throughout me and for the first time in a long time, I felt immensely proud of myself. Sam was watching me, my pride reflected in his eyes. I met his gaze for a moment until he awkwardly looked away and I snapped back to reality. I noticed the darkness outside the window and suddenly scrambled for my phone. It was almost 9 PM and I had four missed calls and one answerphone message.

  I listened to the message. It was Nonna asking me to call her, she sounded worried. “I was supposed to have dinner with my grandmother. She’s worried about me. I’d better go.” Sam grabbed his keys and passed me the helmet. I put it on as he locked the door behind us. Driving up the hillside, the wind gusting in my face, I felt the weight of a thousand problems lift from my shoulders. I laughed and threw my head back. Sam grinned over his shoulder and I had to grip him tighter as he suddenly sped up the winding road.

  We pulled up at the bottom of Nonna’s street and I yanked the helmet off my head and hopped off the scooter. I could make out the silhouette of my grandmother, standing against the rooftop railings, waiting for me. I turned to Sam. He leaned against the handlebars of the scooter and glanced up at my grandmother. “If you want to work on this I’ll help you. You’re free to come to the studio whenever you want. I’m usually working whenever I can be.” I stood awkwardly, twisting at a thread on my shirt and trying to find the words to thank him. Before I could find them he kicked up the stand of the scooter. “You had better get inside, Ana. Your grandmother will be worried.” I nodded and watched as he turned the scooter and sped off back down the hillside.

  Chapter 4

  When I got back up to the apartment Nonna was no longer on the rooftop. I entered the hallway and heard the wooden legs of a dining room chair scrape against the tiled kitchen floor. I walked slowly into the kitchen, my head bent low and my teeth worrying my bottom lip. She was sitting at the table, a second chair pulled out and inviting me to sit opposite her. I slipped into the seat and placed my arms on the tabletop. “I’m sorry I missed dinner, Nonna.” She stared at me and behind the angry mask I saw the worry in her eyes. “What is that boy to you?” she asked, her tone was serious with a hint of exasperation. “He is just a friend, Nonna. He’s helping me with a few things.”

  “Are you sleeping with him?” My eyebrows shot up before my eyes narrowed. Was that what she thought of me? I sat forward slightly, “It’s not like that. I’ve just met him.”

  “You’re a grown woman now, Anabella, you can do what you want. But I do not appreciate having to worry where you are. You look different, something has happened to you tonight.” I sighed, exhausted by the emotional outbursts of the day. I was also starving, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and my stomach growled in protest. Nonna stood and removed a plate of lasagne from the oven. I went to take it greedily out of her hands but she pulled it back and met my eyes. “You need to talk, Ana.” I nodded and she pushed the plate toward me, after a few glorious mouthfuls she urged me to speak. I briefly explained how I had met Sam. How he was an artist and was helping me with my work. She gave me a skeptical look. “You were working from the time you left this morning all the way into the night?” I looked down at the table cloth.

  “No, we’ve talked a lot too. I don’t want to get into it, Nonna, but living with Papa over the years has really broken something inside me. Sam is helping me put myself back together. He’s just a friend, I promise. I got lost in a painting today and didn’t realise the time. I’m sorry.” She reached across the table and stroked my hand reassuringly. Then she stood and poured us each a glass of wine. I sipped it gratefully and continued with my meal. She watched me carefully over her glass, “If that friend thing changes, I want to know about it.” I stopped chewing; my wineglass partially raised to my lips. They curled into a half-smile and I took another sip. “Okay,” I said and we sat in comfortable silence for a little while longer before she took my empty plate and ushered me off to bed.

  I sat at my dresser staring into my tired face. The furrow above my brow had disappeared and my
face was relaxed and calm. There was a brightness behind my eyes - an almost childlike spark that I hadn’t noticed before. I thought back on the day’s events. Part of me cringed inwardly, silently mortified that I had made myself so vulnerable in front of that man. But Sam wasn’t like most men. He seemed to be able to read my mind. He brought me out of myself and listened rather than talked. I pictured his wide green eyes, watching me as I became the artist I was meant to be.

  I was attracted to that man, there was no denying it. But it was different, something I had never experienced before. I wasn’t interested in flirting with him or trying to get him to like me back. I needed him, as a friend, more than anything else I had ever needed. I knew I would be heading down to the studio again the following day. I slipped under the cool bedsheets and almost immediately nodded off. I slept like a log that night. There were no dark dreams of abandonment or fear, only light and hope.

  * * *

  The next morning I awoke early, quickly showered, and joined Nonna on the terrazza for coffee and pastries. I hurriedly chewed my croissant and sipped the last dregs of my coffee. Nonna smiled at me knowingly as I kissed her goodbye, promised to be home for dinner, and rushed down the stairs to the back gate. The walk down the hillside was beautiful. I took in the amazing views and smiled and waved at people as I passed. A gentle breeze counteracted the now blazing sunshine as I strolled down the side of the road toward Sam’s hut.

  As I approached I noticed his yellow scooter parked against the fence at the seafront. I knocked hesitantly on the rough wooden door and listened. There was a scramble inside and a muffled voice called, “Come in!” I pushed the door, opening it slowly to reveal Sam sitting in his armchair. He was partially dressed, barefoot, wearing linen shorts, and hastily pulling a t-shirt over his ruffled hair. I caught a flash of his taut, golden stomach before it disappeared beneath his white polo shirt. I looked away, embarrassed, and apologised for the disturbance.