Florence in Ecstasy

by Jessie Chaffee

  “Hannah…” Luca moans, and the others join in, a chorus of ghostly wails. I pause and grin into the darkness until the lights hum back on. Then we hear shouting.

  “Stefano!” Correggio’s panicked voice ricochets up and down the hallway. “Stefano!”

  He appears in the doorway, words flying from his mouth. In a beat, the men are up and out of their seats, while I fumble to release my feet. I run after them down the hallway, past the boats and coffee bar, through the glass doors, and out into the rain, where I am immediately soaked to the skin. We join the crowd gathered along the brick steps, looking out toward the river. Stefano is at the end of the dock shouting, his face haggard. The sky has turned dark, and through the slanting sheet of rain I can just make out a figure in a small scull at the base of the Ponte Vecchio, stuck, his rowing useless against the wind.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “L’Americano,” Luca says.

  Peter. I remember him in Piazzale Michelangelo, the hardness in his face, the determination. Was that weeks ago? Has so much time passed?

  All around me, voices are carried up by the wind: “Why is he out there?” “Doesn’t he know better?” “Just like an American.” Peter, once a bird in that boat, is struggling to make it back to shore. The raindrops pierce the water like sharp needles, turning the river a muddy brown, and the wind counters his efforts, inspiring more comments: “He’ll never get to the dock.” “The boat will be ruined. Look at Stefano—he’ll kill him.” “But why doesn’t he take the speedboat to help?” “Too dangerous. Why ruin two boats?” “Just like an American.”

  “Don’t worry,” Luca says, putting his arm around me, “it will be okay.” I don’t see how it can be, though. There is nothing okay about this. The wind shifts and I’m blown backward, but the change helps Peter and he begins to make progress, his red shirt shining like a beacon, growing larger as he approaches the dock. Stefano tries to catch the edge of the scull, but the angle is all wrong and his fingertips just graze the lip and then slip off it at the last moment as he throws his balance back to keep from toppling into the water. The scull drifts out and I glimpse Peter’s face, pale and furious. Stefano flails his arms in a circle and shouts to him to turn around. He will have to make another lap and try again. All the men groan in disbelief and Peter rows back in the direction of the Ponte Vecchio. There is a small flash of light from the bridge—someone snapping a picture. Then another flash and another. I want to run up there and snatch the cameras out of their hands.

  I look around at the faces, all streaked with water, all angry except for Luca, who gives my hand a squeeze and turns to speak with Gianni. Then Francesca glides out through the glass doors. She makes her way down the steps as though walking through a painting of her own creation—which it may be, in fact—her eyes bright with excitement.

  “What’s going on?” she shouts to me.

  “Peter’s out on the water. I don’t know why. He knew the weather was bad. I don’t know why he’d do this.” But I do. Sometimes you need to escape and there’s nowhere to go. And the next thing you know, you’re a spectacle in a storm.

  Francesca purses her lips and watches him. “He’s a stubborn boy, isn’t he?”

  The rain turns to hail, large bits of ice chafing at my frozen arms, bouncing off the dock like thunderous applause, and likely drumming on Peter’s boat and body with an intensity that must be maddening. He has made the turn before the bridge and is again pulling toward us, the boat teetering from side to side. He is no longer using his legs, only his arms as he tries to keep the scull balanced. If he can get back on this lap, if he can get back now before there is too much water or too many hailstones weighing down the boat, he will be okay. I squeeze my hands into fists, my nails digging into my skin. Behind me Luca and Gianni are arguing, and, with a final flourishing shout, Luca comes to stand beside me and places a hand on my back. He’s concerned, and now I am more so. Francesca turns and raises her eyebrows, but a moment later, Luca hurries down to Stefano and begins speaking urgently. Then he plants his feet firmly and, with both hands, grips Stefano’s arm, allowing his friend to lean all the way out over the water as the scull comes within feet of the dock. Peter forces the right oar into the boat and pulls frantically with the left to get just a little bit closer. The voices around me go silent as Stefano’s fingers slip and slip and finally hook over the scull’s lip. He drags it in with great effort until Peter is close enough to reach his hand out and grip the dock. For a moment, none of them move; they only breathe. Behind me the men applaud, though not for Peter, I know.

  Correggio runs down and takes the oars, and Luca helps Peter out of the boat, slapping him on the back with an encouraging smile. Peter is shaking, and his face is covered in red splotches and dripping—with tears or rain, I cannot tell. Stefano says nothing. He and Gianni lift the boat slowly, hail and water pouring down their backs and onto the dock as they mount it on their shoulders and carry it into the club.

  “Whewwww,” Francesca whistles next to me. “Crazy, huh?”

  The club members begin to head inside, the youngest ones still talking heatedly, the older men shaking their heads. Luca stays, speaking quietly to Peter, who has his hands on his knees, his head down, breathing hard. He looks up then, as though registering the crowd for the first time, and his gaze locks on Francesca. I wait for her to acknowledge him, but she says, “Well, show’s over. Coming in?” and turns to follow the crowd. It seems cruel. But, of course, she still has something to lose.

  Peter’s head drops, and Luca puts an arm around him, urging him up the steps, still talking. Peter does not raise his eyes as they approach me, even when I begin to speak, and so I let them pass and wait in the rain for a minute longer. By the time I get inside, the club has returned to normal; the tables in the bar are already filled and I can hear weights clanging in the training rooms. I don’t see Peter, and Luca tells me later that he didn’t even change, just grabbed his things and left.

  That night, I call Peter a few times but there is no answer. I’m worried, but I also feel relief. There is relief in not always being the person slipping off the edge, sliding into that fog. Relief in being here now, curled into Luca, listening to the hammering of the rain. And though my future is no more visible than Peter’s, the present seems no more dangerous than Luca’s quiet breaths against the back of my neck as I drift to sleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The first of November. I wait by the club in the early morning. It is a day off in Italy, a deep intake of breath. Many businesses are closed, but the markets are still open, enticing people to begin purchasing, already, for the holidays. Luca is picking me up for “a little vacation.” I haven’t seen him in a few days. His father is sicker than he’s let on, and he’s been with him in Arezzo. He hasn’t spoken about it, not directly. I know how it feels to be pushed too early, too hard, and so I haven’t pushed him at all.

  October has come and gone. You lose time here, Francesca had said. She’s right. It’s impossible that I’ve been here three months, and indirect but pointed references to the future have been creeping into my sister’s e-mails. I’ve been careful to withhold the details of my life from Kate, but one evening, after a few glasses of wine and provoked by her comment that I must be lonely in Florence, I said, “I’m not. I’m not lonely at all. I have a job. I have friends. And I’m seeing someone.”

  “Who?” Kate jumped on it, and I regretted my admission immediately.

  “Someone from the club.”

  “Is he Italian?” she asked, as though the possibility had only just occurred to her.

  “Of course.”

  She sighed, a sigh that suggested that I was doing this to get back at her.

  “What?” I could feel anger edging in.

  “Nothing. Just be careful. Don’t get too involved, okay?”

  Then, “I don’t want you to get hurt, Hannah.”

  Then, “And, anyway, where can it really go?”

  “I ca
n handle it, Kate.”

  “So what’s his name?” she asked after a minute.

  The lie came easy. “Antonio.”

  Luca said that I would not need overnight clothing but would need a swimsuit and, if I had them, goggles. It is cold and I’m not sure how I’ll have the opportunity to use either, but still I stand by the club, both items in my bag, and I feel the customary jump in my stomach when I see his car round the corner. He pulls up beside me, smiling and already leaning across to open the door.

  “’Giorno,” he says, pausing to kiss me. “I missed you.” Then “Pronti?” as when he’s directing the boat, “Via!” and we are off across the bridge.

  We’re leaving early to avoid the masses that will arrive later, and as we dart through the empty streets, Luca explains that we’re going to thermal baths south of Florence. It is the best time to go, he says. Even in this November chill, the baths will be warm. I draw my coat tighter and watch the city waking up. The ghostly stucco buildings are blue in this light, the streets bare, except in the piazzas, where vendors are preparing for the sales this holiday promises. The streetlamps break the fog, and the faint glow in the gray is comforting. The promise of warmth, the promise of home. This could be Boston at this time of day. But it is Florence, and I wonder for the first time in weeks if it is right to feel so untethered and to be so at home with it.

  Luca squeezes my hand. “La nostra piccola vacanza.” Our little vacation.

  “The baths—are they near Bagno Vignoni?” I ask.

  “Sì,” he says, surprised. “You know them!”

  “St. Catherine—her father brought her there. To heal her.”

  “Sì,” Luca says. “And?”

  “It didn’t work.”

  “But we are not saints,” Luca says, and smiles. “Wait—you are not, are you?”

  I shake my head, laughing.

  “Good. Then we can be healed in the waters.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  He turns on the radio, and I return my gaze to the window as we rattle out one of the city’s gates. A few minutes later, we pass a station in a small suburb, where stooped figures wait on the platform, and I remember my solitary visit to Siena and then my trip with Pam and Peter—Peter on the dark platform at the night’s end. I feel guilty. But why should I be the one to look after him? Because we are from the same place, because we’re not from this place? I suspect that if the situation were reversed, though, he would do more for me, if only because he might still believe that with enough will, we can persuade others of our own happiness, our certainty that everything will, after all, be fine. But I know that isn’t true, not when a person has slipped so far down that she can’t see anything beyond her own hands clawing to make it past the next immediate hurdle—getting up in the morning, having a conversation, breathing—each exhaustive victory too minute to be called progress. The happiness of others is a feeling forgotten; it cannot be imbued. Why won’t you talk to me? Julian had asked. But what could he have done? I don’t believe that I can do anything for Peter, but the guilt remains.

  I look over at Luca. He’s humming along with the radio, tapping the steering wheel to the beat, but without his usual small smile. When I ask how his father is, he says, “Okay, okay, grazie,” with a conviction that prevents me from saying more.

  The car is quiet then except for Luca’s low humming and the radio, and I slip in and out of sleep, lulled by the drone of the engine and the classic rock songs wailing high and then low. When I open my eyes, we’re passing another train station, and I wonder at the frieze of families—they must be families, the tight clusters of old and young—some gripping packages, others holding flowers, their stone faces outside of time. The only solitary figure is a young girl. She has broken free of the crowd and stands near the end of the platform clutching a bouquet, the bright blossoms exploding from her hands. All this in an instant, and I think that I’ll ask Luca about it, but I fall back asleep and by the time I open my eyes again, the chalky landscape has drifted into soft pink and we’re in the province of Siena. As the yellows and oranges of day triumph, I cannot remember if I’d dreamed the vision, the scene displaced in this new light.

  “You sleep well?” Luca asks, giving my hand a squeeze before pulling off the main road into a small town. “Allora, un caffé?”

  The little coffee bar is packed. In the front, people are sipping espresso and speaking loudly, and a long line has formed at the pastry counter in the back. Luca maintains his easy smile, his hand clasping mine, as he creates space for us at the bar.

  “Due caffé!” he says, catching the young barista as she passes. I look around at the animated faces. It feels like a holiday. Luca puts an arm around my waist and slides me my espresso.

  “What is happing today?” I ask.

  “La festa di Ognissanti.”

  “All Saints’ Day.”

  “Sì. And tomorrow, il giorno dei Morti.”

  The Day of the Dead. Of course. At home, people would be recovering from Halloween, and Thanksgiving displays would already be appearing in store windows. I’d seen none of that here. No costumes, no pretend, no pushing of sweets except, perhaps, for pastries in bars like this one.

  “What do people do for it?”

  “Some go to church, maybe, but it is not only religious. Some bring flowers for the dead.”

  The mirage on the train platform becomes clear—grave visitors. “A day of remembrance. It’s the same everywhere, no?”

  “Forse. But it is not sad. To remember, yes, but not to think only of death, not to stay…” He draws his lips down with his fingers, an expression I almost never see on him. “It is to celebrate life.”

  And, indeed, the mood in the bar is celebratory. If Luca is fearful or sad, it is no longer apparent—he is glowing warm, too. He puts his hand on my arm with a quick “aspetta” and calls out to the barista. A minute later, a small plate appears in front of us with two round cookies, dusted white.

  “Special for the holiday,” Luca says. “Ossi dei Morti.”

  “Ossi?”

  Luca traces his finger on my forearm. It has more flesh, but I remind myself that the flesh is good, it is good; I am here.

  “Bones,” I say. “Bones of the Dead.”

  “Brava,” he confirms, handing me one of the cookies with a smile. It is hard and the crunch reverberates in my ears. All at once, I remember the feeling of my own bones, the points of them touching any surface I propped my body against, the realization of how I must have looked then emerging now. The memory isn’t frightening, though. It makes this moment full. Taking a bite of his own cookie, Luca smiles, seemingly content to be munching on death.

  Once we’re back in the car, I watch with interest the changing landscape and the isolated towns—Isola d’Arbia, Quinciano, Torrenieri—until Luca turns off at the exit for San Quirico d’Orcia and pulls to a stop.

  “Eccoci!” Luca smiles.

  I expect the baths to be large stone pools where Romans might have lounged between conquests, but the sole remnant of the original structure is a colonnade that surrounds an algae-covered basin. We stroll the perimeter of the old bath before entering a building that wraps around a modern pool, complete with artificial waterfalls, where water is piped in from the hot springs. We’re each handed a soft white robe at the desk, and when I step out of the locker room to meet Luca, I can’t help laughing at the picture of us, shivering in our matching robes.

  “Allora,” Luca says, “it is too cold to be still—andiamo!”

  The baths are divided into two sections, one cold and one hot. We shed our robes and, still shivering, I follow Luca down the stairs into the warm section, our splashes echoing. Luca pulls me to the end and we rest with our arms on the edge, looking out. The pool is perched on an incline, and all around and below is the countryside, layers and layers of hills as far as we can see, unbroken by human creations. Orange and red rake across the landscape. The pools are modern, but this must be the same view that Cathe
rine saw when she was forced into the thermal waters. They may not have cured her, but they still brought her what she wanted. Freedom.

  I relax into the heat. I’m glad to be here now, beyond the realities of both home and Florence. Luca, too, is more relaxed. The pools are empty except for a couple who have been entwined since we arrived and an elderly man seated by the water’s edge reading. He’s dressed in an old-fashioned red bathing suit that runs from his neck down to his knees and, with his white beard, he looks like Santa Claus. I tell Luca, and he laughs and then grabs my hand and pulls me toward the artificial waterfall. We stand under it side by side, and the water beats hard on my shoulders, pummeling them with heat until the muscles are almost numb. Luca lets out a loud sigh and says something I cannot hear over the sound of the water. I wade closer, facing him, finding his body with the same hands that have found it for weeks, my fingers tracing the outline.

  “It’s okay? You like it?” he asks.

  I take his hand under the water and squeeze it. “Sì. It’s perfect. Healing.” I grin.

  We stare at each other for a moment, hands gripped, as though right at the edge of something and about to leap. Then Luca steps back until he is veiled by the water. His face blurs as he reappears, rivulets tracing his cheeks. He smiles and moves closer, his eyes large and shining.

  “Okay,” he says, the word lifting and stretching. It’s a sound I’ve come to love—oh-kai. Then he puts his hands on my waist and his lips on mine only for a second before I feel myself being lifted and he carries me over the ledge. I cry out as we spill into the cold water, then put my arms around his neck, my legs supported by his hands, and we float as a single organism. He nuzzles my nose and then kisses me, small quick kisses, his features going in and out of focus.

  “Like little fish,” he says between pecks. “Piccoli pesci boiling in the water.”