by T A Williams
‘She and I have been together for twelve years now. That’s longer than most marriages – statistically.’
‘Nobody can say you only care about looks.’
‘Definitely. Although I do appreciate beauty when I find it.’
The drive out to the farmhouse, once Polly the Panda had been persuaded to start, took less than half an hour. It was to the south west of Florence in the hills, and the views, as they bumped along the rutted track leading to the house, were phenomenal. The house itself, sheltered by three massive ancient umbrella pines and half a dozen tall, slim cypress trees, was a delight, and Debbie found herself falling in love with it even quicker than with the peacock blue dress.
It was an ancient stone house with a colonnaded loggia along one side. The roof was made of wonderful old pink terracotta tiles, and the windows, shutters and doors were all oak. All around the house, the ground was strewn with builders’ materials and piles of debris, but the view out over the hills towards the river Arno and the Apennines beyond was breathtaking.
Inside the house it was bitterly cold and Dario went round opening all the windows and shutters so that the comparatively warmer air could rush in from outside. Debbie wrapped her old jacket tightly round herself and followed him on a tour that revealed what an amazing job he had been doing. The floors had all been renewed, but using old reclaimed terracotta tiles. The massive beams supporting the ceilings were original, but had been sandblasted, as had most of the walls.
‘Mind your step as you come in here.’ Dario led her into the kitchen and she blinked as he pushed back the shutters on the window and the hefty double doors that opened onto another loggia, and the sunlight came flooding in. From here she could see all the way to Florence itself.
‘Although you’d hardly believe it on a freezing cold day like today, this loggia’s an amazing place in the heat of the summer sun. There’s normally a bit of breeze and it’s always cool out there.’
Debbie went across to the doorway and stood in silent appreciation. It was truly wonderful. Just then her phone whistled to indicate the arrival of a text, followed immediately by his. She pulled hers out of her jeans pocket and saw that it was a message from Claudia.
Hi Deborah and Dario. Dinner here on Wednesday evening all right with you? Piero’s day off. Say, eight o’clock? X Claudia
She heard Dario moving about behind her and turned towards him, to find him looking at his own phone. He glanced up from the screen.
‘Wednesday all right for you?’
Debbie nodded. ‘Wednesday would be fine. Is it far?’
He shook his head. ‘No, we can walk there from home. They’ve got the top floor of a palazzo on the Lungarno, quite near the American Consulate. If you like, I’ll reply for both of us.’
While he replied to his sister, she studied the big kitchen, with its wooden beams, stone fireplace and wonderful old floor, before her eyes were drawn to the view once more, knowing that she loved all of it. After a while, she turned back towards him.
‘Now, this is going to sound funny, Dario, seeing as your parents’ villa is so magnificent, but I really think this is the nicest house I’ve seen since I arrived in Tuscany. And I’m not just saying that because it’s your labour of love. The thing is, it’s not too big, not too small, not in the least bit ostentatious, absolutely dripping with history, and I just love it. And you’ve worked your heart out.’
‘I’ve certainly put in the hours, but you’re right about it being a labour of love. I love the place. You can almost feel the history of it. I reckon the original structure goes right back to the Middle Ages.’ He gave her a smile. ‘But don’t worry. I haven’t come across any ghosts yet.’
He dumped the cardboard box he had been carrying and produced a couple of glasses. From a cupboard in the corner of the big kitchen he retrieved one of half a dozen traditional straw-covered Chianti flasks and removed the loose cork with his fingers. As she watched, he grabbed a handful of what looked like straw and dipped it into the neck of the bottle. Intrigued, she went over for a closer look.
‘What are you doing?’ She could see that the straw-like stuff was soaking up a thin film of transparent liquid lying on the surface of the wine.
‘Ever heard of olio enologico?’ Seeing her shake her head, he explained. ‘The country folk round here have been using it for centuries. It’s special odourless oil that they use to preserve the wine. Dribble a little on top of the wine once you’ve bottled it, and it stops the air getting in. I stick a cork in afterwards to keep insects and dust out, but there’s no need. Like this, wine keeps for months and months. It works out cheaper than using corks and Tuscan farmers are among the canniest in the world when it comes to saving money. You use this stuff to soak up and remove the oil before pouring. There, that’s done!’
Debbie saw that the oil had all been soaked up by what wasn’t after all straw, but some sort of sisal-like natural fibre, vaguely like rough, brown cotton wool. He tipped an inch of light red wine into each of the two tumblers and passed one across to her.
‘Cheers, Debbie. Thank you for coming.’
She clinked her glass against his.
‘Cheers, Dario. I feel privileged.’
He swallowed the wine in one mouthful and smiled back at her. ‘You should be. I don’t really bring anybody here. If you like, it’s turned into sort of my special place – just like your rose garden.’
‘Well then I feel even more honoured.’ As she spoke, Debbie found herself wondering just what his criteria were for inviting the chosen few who had been here so far.
‘Now, before I show you the bedroom I’m hoping to paint, just let me light the fire so we can grill the sausages.’
He made short work of piling and lighting a heap of kindling on top of the ashes of previous fires in the big open kitchen fireplace. Unlike most English fireplaces, the fire itself wasn’t at floor level, but around waist height, and there was a terracotta shelf on either side of it, clearly for the cook to use when grilling over the embers. As the flames took hold, he added larger bits of wood and huge pinecones and then led her through to the bedrooms.
There were three bedrooms and three bathrooms and the largest of the three, clearly the master bedroom, was at the back of the house and it had a stunning view up the hillside behind the house, towards a hilltop with twin humps. All along the spine of the crest were pine trees and cypresses standing out in silhouette against the clear blue of the winter sky. It could have come from a “Visit Tuscany” poster. Debbie found herself imagining waking up to a view like that. It would be amazing. Maybe almost as amazing as the man she would have lying beside her.
‘So, when do you think it’ll be finished?’
He gave her a slightly funny look. ‘I bought it years ago and I’ve been working on it bit by bit ever since. In a way, I never want it to be finished. That way I’ll always have a reason to come up here.’
‘If it was mine, I’d never need to invent a reason to come up here.’ She walked back across to the window and looked out again. ‘In fact, if it was closer, and if you didn’t mind, I’d adopt it as my new special place.’
‘I’d be honoured if you did.’ Dario smiled, then turned for the door. ‘I’d better get back to the fire in the kitchen. It would be embarrassing if I burnt the house down.’
They sat on a scaffolding plank set on top of two piles of bricks, and ate their sausages and salad along with sips of red wine. The stone wall behind them had been slightly warmed by the sun, even now in January. In front of them were rolling hills, mostly covered in either vineyards or olive groves, and beyond them, in the far distance, the unmistakable shape of the cupola of the Duomo.
Debbie couldn’t remember being happier than this at any time since arriving in Italy. It was a perfect, if cold, day and she loved being here with him. An image popped up in her mind of the house, completely finished, and of her living here, cooking over the open fire and drinking wine from old Chianti flasks. In her daydream,
she imagined him outside in the sunshine, stripped to the waist, the sweat running down his muscular body as he chopped logs for the fire. The image was so graphic, she felt a shiver of good old-fashioned lust sweep across her and hastily swallowed a big mouthful of wine.
Of course, although it was an idyllic image, she felt sure, it was just a pipedream. He was caring, attentive and generous with her, but had given no sign that he wanted things to develop into more than friendship. Of course, she told herself, it was probably her fault for telling him in no uncertain terms that all she wanted was a friend.
As she set her empty plate down on the dusty tiles at her feet and sipped the last of the wine in her glass, she had no doubt at all that if he were to turn towards her now and kiss her, she would kiss him back with all her heart, and probably never let him go.
But he didn’t.
After lunch, he cleared the plates and glasses back into the cardboard box and they went through to one of the smaller bedrooms and set about painting the walls and ceiling. He gallantly opted to do the ceiling, which Debbie knew from experience to be a tougher, more uncomfortable job. As he did that, she ducked around below him, running the roller across the walls, trying to dodge the inevitable splashes from above. To avoid her getting too much paint in her hair, he made her a rather fancy hat out of a sheet of newspaper. Deciding that this made her look like Napoleon, she gave him her phone and got him to take a photo of her wearing it. The hat came in very useful, as it took them an hour and a half to finish the job, and by the time they had finished, she was decidedly speckled.
Time and again, as they moved round the room together, she felt herself bumping into his legs and had to admit that she rather enjoyed the sensation. Whether her clumsiness was in any way intentional was something she wasn’t prepared to admit, either to him or to herself. At one point a big drop of white paint splashed from his roller down onto her cheek and he bent towards her and wiped it off with the side of his hand, then licked his fingertips and smoothed them over her skin once more, as he ensured it had all been removed. Given the sensations aroused by his touch, Debbie felt like telling him he could pour paint all over her all day long if he were prepared to wipe her skin clean each time in such a gentle yet sensual way. But, of course, she didn’t.
Back in the kitchen, the fire had died down, but there was still some slight residual heat in there along with a lingering aroma of pinecones. Dario retrieved an old orange box from under a pile of rubble, stamped on it and then broke it into pieces with his hands, before throwing the dry wood onto the fire. Within seconds, it was ablaze. He produced a battered kettle, blackened around the sides from the flames, and poured water into it from a plastic bottle before setting it on top of the fire.
‘Have you got mains water up here?’
He shook his head. ‘No, but there’s a well and a pump. It works surprisingly well. I had the water tested and it’s remarkably pure, but I still use bottled water for drinking, just in case.’
‘So you’ve got a source of free water if you ever felt like planting a rose garden up here. Or anything else.’
Dario went over to the doors and beckoned.
‘Here, come and take a look at this.’
She followed him out into the garden, picking her way through the rubble and detritus until they were maybe twenty or thirty metres from the house. The ground here rose up a fraction and was clear of builder’s rubbish. A few wild vines covered the ground, along with clumps of grass and rosemary. A single umbrella pine stood guard over a few tumbled down dry stone walls. In the midst of them was a rose bush. Debbie stopped as she got there and looked on in awe.
It wasn’t so much a bush as a tree. The stem was the thickness of her leg and branches ran out from it in all directions, entwining themselves among the rocks, creating the impression of a huge, spindly octopus, clinging jealously to its territory. Now, in winter, there were no flowers, but Debbie could well imagine the display it would create in the summer.
‘It’s a dog rose. It produces an absolute mass of pink flowers that cover this whole area. I can’t even begin to describe the scent. Even if the individual flowers have got just the faintest smell, together they become overwhelming. But I wanted to show you something else. Come over here and look.’
Debbie walked across to where he was standing. There, on this little outcrop of the hillside, in the shade of the pine tree, somebody, a long, long time ago, had built a bench, set on a rough stone base. Two massive strips of weather-beaten oak provided the seat and the backrest, their surfaces now pitted by the ravages of insects and the elements alike, silver with age.
‘Why don’t you sit down and admire the view?’
Debbie did as she was instructed. The view was indeed magical, down across row after row of olive trees and vines towards Florence in the distance. But it wasn’t the view that struck her. As she sat down on the bench, she got the funniest feeling. It was a sensation of belonging, a feeling of familiarity along with a comforting presence, as though somebody, just like her bronze statue, was cradling her back with a warm, outstretched arm. For a second she was almost scared by the intensity of the sensations aroused by this incredible place, but then she found herself settling back happily, just as she had done in the rose garden.
‘Are you all right, Debbie?’
He sounded concerned. She felt him sit down beside her and take her hand. She squeezed it warmly and turned her face towards him.
‘I’m fine, really fine. This is an amazing place.’ She was looking straight into his deep green eyes. ‘I could stay here forever.’ Without even thinking, she leant towards him and kissed him softly on the lips. ‘Thank you for bringing me here, Dario. I love it.’
As she drew back, she saw that his eyes had closed. Unsure what this meant, she remained motionless, waiting for him to react. It was a good while before she heard his voice.
‘Debbie, could we do that again?’
Without waiting for her response, he raised his free hand and let his fingers rest against the nape of her neck for a moment before pulling her gently towards him and returning her kiss. As he did so, Debbie felt her head and her heart begin to spin as she kissed him back until they both had to pause for breath and she realised that her own eyes were now closed. She opened them to find him smiling at her.
‘So, is this what friends do these days?’
His tone was light, but she sensed an undercurrent of anxiety.
‘That’s what really, really special friends do.’
‘It’s just that you told me pretty clearly that you and I were just friends.’
‘Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I?’
He smiled and kissed her again before, reluctantly, standing up again.
‘Kettle. Tea. Remember?’
Tea was pretty low on her list of priorities for now, but she stood up all the same and followed him back into the house.
It was with real regret that she helped Dario close up again after they had drunk their tea. As they left the house and he locked the door, she felt a sense of separation, almost as if she was leaving a person she loved behind.
They drove home to Florence in almost complete silence, but it wasn’t in the least bit awkward or strained. She had had a wonderful day. Back home, however, for the first time that day she did begin to feel awkward, standing there on the landing, wondering how to conclude this magical afternoon. She saw him smile as he stretched out his hands towards her.
‘Ciao, amica mia.’
‘Ciao, amico mio.’
She caught hold of his hands and pulled him gently towards her, then leant up to kiss him softly on the lips. As she did so, she heard what could have been a sigh from him. She pulled back a few inches and spoke to him.
‘I love your house, Dario, and I’m very, very grateful you took me there. Like I said, I feel privileged.’ For a few moments she hesitated, still holding his hands, still close enough to his face to feel his breath on her cheek. ‘Can I ask you something?’
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‘Anything.’ His voice was little more than a whisper.
‘You said you rarely showed your house to anybody. I was just wondering, why me?’
‘Because you said you were good at painting and decorating, of course...’
She kissed him again to silence him.
‘No, seriously, surely you must have taken other girls there. I mean, look at you.’
There was a puzzled expression on his face, so she explained.
‘You’re tall, you’re handsome, you’ve got the most amazing eyes, you’re kind, you’re generous and, of course, you’re an aristocrat. Surely you must’ve had girls climbing all over you since childhood.’
He extracted his hands from hers and enveloped her in a warm hug, holding her tightly to him. His head rested on her shoulder, his cheek against her ear, muffling the sound of his voice as he formulated his reply.
‘That’s pretty much been the problem. Not the handsome thing – there are loads of better-looking men than me, but my family background.’ He paused for a moment. ‘There have been girls – a number of girls, to be honest – but there was only one particular one… up to now.’
‘What happened?’ Debbie did her best to sound only mildly interested, although his “up to now” comment had sounded really good.
‘It didn’t work out. We were such different people. It was as if we were from different worlds, to be honest.’
Debbie’s warm, fuzzy glow suddenly began to dissipate as her fears were reignited. What was it Alice had called it – the Upstairs, Downstairs thing again? She risked asking him another question, although she was dreading the answer.
‘Why? Was she from a working class background?’ She almost added, like me.
To her surprise, she heard him laugh. ‘Very much the opposite, Debbie. She’s from a very important Venetian family – far more important than ours. We’d known each other since childhood, on and off, and after university, she moved to Florence and we started dating, much to the satisfaction of both families.’
He straightened up and caught her chin gently in his fingers, his eyes now right in front of her face. He looked unusually serious.