“I’m so sorry, Peter.”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. She might seem unhappy to everyone else, but she’s not unhappy with me. She’ll realize that.”
“She’s married. Anything outside of that—she’s only trying to survive.”
“You don’t believe she’s happy with me? Well, she is.”
“She has a child. She has a husband. You can’t change that.”
“You don’t understand.” Peter gets up, shaking his head. “You don’t understand her at all. You don’t understand anything.” He fishes money out of his wallet, then looks back down at me with disgust. I can’t do either of the things that would help him. I can’t deliver Francesca to Peter and I can’t bring Peter back to himself.
“I’m sorry.”
“What kind of person are you, anyway?” His words hit hard, and there are many eyes on us now. “You would leave her for dead because she’s married? Just because she made some bad decisions?” He puts money down on the table, shaking his head again. “Congratulations on the job. Good luck.”
And then he’s gone, disappeared into the darkness of the piazza, and I am, again, alone. What kind of person am I? I don’t believe that we have to resign ourselves to our bad decisions. I do believe that we can grow. But I also know that Peter isn’t seeing the situation for what it is. The waitress returns to ask if everything is all right, and I can hear whispering at the other tables. Let them whisper.
By the time I leave the piazza, I’m sober. The visions of Luca in the crowd with another woman feel silly when compared to Peter’s situation—his pain protects me from my own. And when Luca calls later in the evening to confirm he’ll be back the next day, I feel more grounded in myself, more present on the phone.
I don’t think of Peter again until the following morning, when I’m passing the church of San Frediano in Cestello and the bells begin to ring, and I remember the story I’d read about Maria Maddalena. Her ecstasies—or her raptures, as her sisters called them—could last for days on end, during which she would roam the convent like a somnambulist, physically acting out what she was experiencing. On one of her late-night wanderings, she found her way to the church’s tower—in a state of hysteria, her sisters wrote—where she began to ring the bells, the same bells that stopped me here, ringing ceaselessly, evenly, stubbornly chanting, Love itself is not loved, each tone intoning a word of that repeated phrase. Love itself is not loved. She said it again and again, in rapture but with clarity, hysterical clarity. Love itself is not loved. I think of St. Angela—to love and to wish to suffer for one’s love—and then I wonder if Peter is any different from them, reaching for a person who can only hurt him, losing himself in the process.
I listen to the metallic clanging and clamoring of the bells, filled with the sound and then empty in its echo, until they begin to resemble weeping. Love itself is not loved. I close my eyes. The sound licks at my skin, pulls me up, and the words change form, become Are you searching for? Are you searching for? and for just a moment more, the bells, the words, the cloistered voices of all those pallid virgins cry within me.
Chapter Fourteen
“Boh,” Gianni says, looking up at the sky.
Late Saturday afternoon. I’m in my rowing gear and ready to take out my own small scull when I find Carlo and Gianni evaluating the weather. It is clear and the sun is bright, but Gianni points to clouds, more gray than white, far off in the hills.
“A storm, maybe.”
Sergio appears, gives me a kiss on each cheek, then looks up as well. “E poi?”
“Boh,” Gianni says again. I don’t know.
I jump at hands on my waist and turn to find Luca.
“Ciao, bella,” he says, and the imagined Lucas of the evening before disappear. “You came this time!”
“Your father?” I ask.
“Okay, okay. Not so good, but okay. Allora, you row? So do we.”
“Boh.” Carlo sounds doubtful.
“Maybe better inside,” Sergio says.
“Gianni?” Luca asks.
“Boh. It might rain.”
“Boh, boh, boh!” Luca exclaims, throwing his arms up. “These guys know nothing. Look at this sun!”
“Va bene.” Gianni shrugs before disappearing inside with Carlo, who must be rowing for Stefano today.
“Allora,” Luca says, “after, we have dinner? No other guys this time.”
“Sounds good.”
“Amore, let’s go!” Gianni calls from behind the body of the boat.
I find Correggio to help me with my scull, but when we carry it into the sunlight a few minutes later, the four-man boat hasn’t moved from the dock.
“Alessandro!” Luca calls for their young coxswain.
“Aspetta,” Correggio says, and sighs, gesturing for me to lay the scull down. There is no getting into the water until the men leave.
“Alessandro!”
“Alessandro non c’è,” Correggio says, walking down to the dock, his hands on his hips.
“Non c’è! Ma perché?”
“Perché it is going to rain,” Gianni shouts from the back of the boat.
“Madonna,” Luca says to me, “what a bunch of babies, no? Allora, ragazzi, what do we do? A beautiful afternoon, four strong men, a good boat, and no Alessandro.”
It takes only a few traded phrases before someone says, “Hannah!”
“Hannah?” Carlo asks, skeptical.
“Sì,” Luca says, already laying down his oar and stepping out of the boat. “Perfetto! You can be Alessandro for today!”
I know nothing about coxswaining, but as Luca takes both of my hands, his face is filled with such confidence that I say, “Okay,” and follow him down to the dock. Sergio smiles at me enthusiastically from the second seat.
“Allora,” Luca says, helping me step into the boat one foot at time. I feel the wooden body shake, but the men have a tight grip on the dock and the frame remains upright as I lower myself onto the small seat in the back of the boat facing them.
“Grazie, Hannah,” Carlo says, “our savior,” and if he’s being sarcastic, I can’t tell.
“Brava,” Luca says, maneuvering his long body around the oar and settling into his seat in the first position, his legs tenting up like grasshoppers. Two ropes run along either edge of the boat and encircle me, meeting at the rudder in the water behind me. They course through two wooden handles beside me.
“You hold them like this,” Luca says, gripping the handles tight. “The boat is straight. You move…” He pulls the right handle, which pulls the rope, and so the rudder. “A little bit only, the boat goes this way. The same with this.” He moves the left handle.
I take the handles from him and dig them into my waist. Each man has a single oar and they alternate—Luca’s to the left, Sergio’s to the right, followed by Carlo’s and then, in the last position, Gianni’s. Now the oars rest on the boat’s lip as they wait.
“And the calls?” I ask. Luca looks confused. “Uno, due, uno, due,” I say.
“Ah, don’t worry.” He smiles. “I will do it.” He pats me on the knee and then, in unison, they push off and take a few small strokes away from the dock before aligning the boat with the Ponte alle Grazie so that I’m facing the bridge and they have their backs to it.
“Ciao, ragazzi!” Correggio calls from the shore. “Buon viaggio!”
I adjust the handles until the rope is again taut, the rudder straight, and the nose of the boat comes to a rest.
“Aspetta,” Luca calls to the men. He looks over his shoulder to the bridge. “We want to go…” He whistles and gestures. “Dovete scegliere un punto,” he explains. Choose a point. “Then imagine a line between yourself and the point. Keep your eye on the target and steer to hold the line.”
Choose a point. I choose one of the streetlamps on top of the bridge, imagine a line connecting me to it, grip the handles tight. It is not much different from the visualization I do when steering my own boat, only this tim
e I’m facing in the right direction.
“Tutto a posto?” Luca asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m ready.”
“Pronti!” he calls sharply. “Via!”
We begin to move slowly as the men row with just their arms. After a few strokes and with no instruction to do so, they add their legs so that we move a little faster, like an engine slowly revving up. I keep my eyes on the lamp, and when the boat begins to strain away, I pull just slightly on the rope, returning us to center. When we near the Ponte alle Grazie, I adjust the rope so that we cut a diagonal. Then the men pause. Luca and Carlo dip their oars, pulling against molasses, and Sergio and Gianni make small strokes until we’re facing the opposite direction, the Ponte Vecchio ahead of us. Again we come to a full stop.
“Hold on,” Luca says to me, then, “Pronti… Via!”
There is no warm-up this time, and in one breath, we are a fast-moving body, carving a path in the water. My back beats against the wood in time and I keep a tight grip on the handles, trying to hold a straight line. This is entirely different from the quiet solitude of my small scull. The power and speed create a new animal, wide hulled, that pushes the water out of its way rather than tracing a narrow path through it. I tuck my legs farther under the seat as Luca’s hands almost brush them. Except for his calls, the men are silent, moving with great force but such precision that the boat does not waver. I steer us under the middle arch of the Ponte Vecchio, then pick a new target on the Ponte Santa Trinita.
“Uno! Due!” Luca shouts faster, as we pick up speed between the two bridges. The calls are barely necessary. The men are seamless. Years of training have ingrained the movement in their joints and muscles and they act as one body, sliding forward in time, pushing back hard, snapping the oars into their chests at the end of each stroke. They could probably do this in their sleep, slowing down and speeding up, not a single oar out of tempo. Only I am not in synch, off-balance in the boat, gripping the handles tightly to keep us straight as we churn a hard line toward the second bridge.
“Brava,” Luca says, as we dip into its cool shadow and then emerge on the other side, and I focus on the second arch from the left on the longer Ponte alla Carraia ahead of us. Except for the distant clouds, the sky is unblemished and the sun bakes my shoulders. People line the bridges and cameras flash in our direction—we will be the strangers in someone’s album. Four oars dig into the water with a deep whoosh, and four red-and-white-striped palms appear and skip lightly over the river’s surface as the men slide forward, the oars catching in the metal U-rings each time with a satisfying click before they slide back with another whoosh. Most of the time, Luca’s head is down, his hair brushing his shoulders, his face concentrated, but he smiles up at me occasionally. I understand his elation—it is thrilling to be racing up the Arno.
“To the right,” Luca says between strokes, as we approach the ledge that interrupts the river just before the Ponte Amerigo Vespucci. Water spills over it unevenly, and sunbathers stretch across its dry patches. I slacken one hand and pull with the other. The men do not stop, don’t look over their shoulders to see where I’m carrying them as I pull harder, letting the rudder turn the boat. As we approach the river’s wall, they finally halt their strokes and then dip the oars into the water, bringing us almost to a stop.
“Bionda!” Carlo calls between heavy breaths to a petite blonde in a black bikini sunbathing on the ledge. She looks coolly his way before returning her attention to her tan with a blank expression, unembarrassed, and the men laugh. Gianni and Sergio take quick strokes together to bring us back around. Once I’m facing the direction we have come from, the men again dip their oars, ready to make the trip back, but all of a sudden Luca is yelling at a dead fish, bloated and floating on the river’s surface, shouting at it in Italian to wake up and get moving. Then, in a flash, he’s serious again.
“Pronti!” he shouts. “Via!”
Gianni and Sergio continue to chuckle, and the boat again comes to a halt.
“Ragazzi! Ragazzi!” Luca groans. He rolls his eyes at me. “A bunch of babies!”
The boat reverberates with a boom of laughter, shaking until Luca gives a second “Pronti! Via!” and we are off. “Tutti insieme!” he calls. All together. We cut back under three bridges until we pass the club and arrive at the beginning of the course. Trying to stay centered, I make minor adjustments as we again trace a path under the three bridges and back. With each bridge and each lap, I am more a part of the whole, my individual self disappearing into the larger body that carries us. I stripped myself of everything. But it doesn’t feel like whittling down or losing myself. It feels like becoming a part of.
In the middle of the third lap, all the men close their eyes. Oars smack the water in time as the boat moves forward at full speed, and I am the sole pair of eyes left to navigate the reality of bridges, other boats, and fallen branches. The night watch. I feel a lightness that I haven’t felt in a long time, and the voices of the previous weeks—Peter, my sister, even the saints—fade. I listen to the whoosh and slap of the oars, feel the chill under the bridges, the occasional breeze, the wooden seatback gripping me. I focus on my targets and hold our course.
“Brava,” Luca says quietly, his eyes still closed as we pass under one bridge and then another, before they all open their eyes to turn the boat around for another lap.
It is Sergio who feels the first drop when we emerge from under the Ponte alla Carraia. His oar knocks the boat as his head snaps up.
“Rain!” Gianni calls. “I knew it!”
Drops begin to fall consistently, and there is no speaking while the men concentrate on getting back to the club—still three bridges away—ahead of the weather, but by the time we reach the Ponte Santa Trinita, the rain is falling steadily. Above us umbrellas bloom along the river’s wall and the lights on the Ponte Vecchio blink on as the sun disappears behind a growing fortress of clouds.
“Via! Via!” Luca shouts, his calls faster as the drops fall heavy and closer together. “Uno! Due! Uno! Due!”
I hold tight, try to keep us straight, but my hands, wet, begin slipping. The wind picks up, drawing waves across the water and blowing me side to side. I remember the photos of the great flood, remember this river’s volatility. It is one thing and then it is something else.
“Have courage, ragazzi!” Gianni shouts. “Have courage, Hannah!”
I dig the handles hard into my waist to keep them from moving. We’re flying now, barely a breath between Luca’s calls, and the men become a blur as the rain intensifies. I keep my eyes on a single light on the Ponte Vecchio, the only visible point through the slanting drops. I tug slightly on the right rope to keep us aligned and then hold steady as we pass under the bridge. I can see two figures at the end of the dock.
“There are people there,” I say.
“Who?” Luca asks between breaths.
I squint. “Correggio and Stefano.”
“Madonna,” Luca says.
“Stefano! Stiamo arrivando!” Carlo shouts over the wind.
“Forza, ragazzi!” Gianni yells, the laughter still in his voice. “If I am to die now in the waters of the Arno—” He stops, the effort too great to continue.
They are all straining now, we are soaked through, and a thin layer of water has collected in the bottom of the boat, which is working against us, protesting our efforts to steer it home. I hold the left handle tight and keep my eye on Stefano as the men pull—one, two, one, two—and the boat turns slowly inland, the choppy water slapping at its sides and spilling over, the base becoming a tub. Sergio and Gianni lift their oars as we approach. The nose of the boat hits first, clanging loudly against the dock, announcing our awkward landing. Correggio guides us in, then offers a hand first to me and I almost fall as I stand, my legs asleep. Stefano is angry and shouting, but as soon as the men are out of the boat, he falls silent to help grab its body, turning it over to let the water pour out. He and Gianni bear it on their shoulders into the club,
and the rest of us run up the ramp behind them as the rain begins to fall harder, Luca and Sergio with their arms in the air as though they have won a marathon, my socks slap-slapping at the bricks.
Inside, we shake off and look out at the water through the blurred glass doors. In spite of Stefano’s anger, everyone is smiling, children caught playing too late and too long. Gianni throws his arms around Luca and Carlo, patting each of them on the cheek before raising his hands in the air again.
“Grande!” he exclaims.
I’m shivering and Luca wraps himself around me. “Bravi, ragazzi,” he says.
Even when Stefano returns from storing the waterlogged boat, frowning at the sight of us, their spirits remain buoyant and Gianni slaps a wet arm around him, too.
“Capo,” he says, “we have returned from a grand odissea,” shaking him until the manager smiles as well, though he says, quite seriously, “Don’t let it happen again.”
In the locker room, I peel off my clothing, my body racing with the adrenaline of our adventure. And as I let the hot water beat at my chilled skin, I remember something I almost lost in the excitement—the moment when the men closed their eyes and the boat was entirely silent except for the sound of the oars. The moment when they trusted me to see.
After espresso, the men disappear to their Saturday evenings, and we decide to go to Luca’s house in Fiesole, though he has warned me that because of his trip he is not prepared for the feast we had planned. It is dusk as his car climbs the winding roads into the small town above Florence. We take a sharp corner, and the city appears below us, a jumble of forms, as though the buildings had slid down the hills and collided in the bowl to create the chaotic mess of streets. From here, the cathedral is a caricature of itself, the bulbous red dome jutting up out of scale. We pull in through a narrow gate and onto a pebbled drive flanked by a high stone wall and several connected homes. Luca comes to a slow stop where the land drops off.
“Life,” Luca says, gesturing to the city. “And death.” He points in the other direction to a cemetery in the neighboring valley, where a collection of tombs are stacked like shoeboxes, each with a candle glowing faintly in the fading daylight. Ashes upon ashes in that white marble cloister, and I think of the mystics and then of all the corpses that fill this country, and I wonder at Luca’s ability to face death every day and smile.
Florence in Ecstasy Page 16