The Start of Something Wonderful

by Jane Lambert

‘Guten Abend!’ replies Cristina, emerging from the gloom of the long, dark hallway, an antique rosary swaying from her waist. Her mouth breaks into an appreciative smile when I present her with the floral arrangement of trailing jasmine, paper-white narcissus, and burnt-orange roses I had created especially for her at the market.

  She takes my arm and leads me into the front room.

  While the sisters exchange some words in dialect, I look around. The apartment is very similar to Anna’s: old-school Austrian, with high, ornate ceilings, weighty oak wood furniture, traditional double doors, lace mats and antimacassars, framed photographs, and watercolour paintings depicting alpine scenes.

  Francesco appears from the kitchen, the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt neatly rolled above the elbows.

  ‘Buonasera!’ he says, kissing each of us in turn. He cracks open a bottle of Sekt and Cristina takes four crystal glasses from the carved, antique cabinet.

  ‘Prost!’

  ‘Salute!’

  ‘Cheers!’

  We sit down to an antipasto misto of mixed Austrian meats followed by Melanzane Aubergine Parmigiano.

  ‘The last time I went to the opera was in nineteen eighty-eight,’ says Anna, putting down her knife and fork, and producing a sepia snapshot from her purse. ‘This night it was also La Bohème.’ She passes me the picture of a young man in military uniform. Her eyes mist over as she continues, ‘Since many years, my Walter has wished with his whole heart to see this opera. I save my money to buy the tickets – to make his dream true. Three days after we see it, Gott has taken him from me.’

  I return the picture to her and cover her hand with mine.

  ‘Now,’ she says, voice brightening, ‘Francesco, it is my turn – today I make schnell, quickly, just for you, Austrian speciality.’ She produces a foil-covered dinner plate from her basket. ‘Apfelstrudel Anna.’ We applaud the strudel, and Cristina shuffles off to the kitchen to heat up the vanilla sauce.

  * * *

  We make it to the opera house with fifteen minutes to spare, but arrive at our seats (luxury) just as the lights go down.

  The orchestra is tuning up. I steal a sideways glance at Francesco. He takes my hand in his. I look away quickly and try to focus on the story. That Mimi will die in the end is a given, but the circumstances leading up to this are doubtless complicated, and will require the utmost concentration, particularly as the dialogue is sung in Italian.

  * * *

  The interval arrives. Francesco goes to the bar while I nab a table. I put on my glasses and look at the programme. I need to know what the big deal was with Musetta’s shoe at the end of Act Two. What the hell has a goddamn shoe got to do with anything? Why did she suddenly take it off and give it to the bearded man? It was like she wanted him to try it on, or something. It doesn’t make sense. And I’d been doing so well up to that point.

  ‘Salute, cara!’ says Francesco, handing me a glass of Sekt and clinking glasses.

  ‘Salute!’

  * * *

  As Mimi lies dying, she and Rodolfo recall their past happiness, in the soul-stirring duet ‘Sono Andati?’ (‘Have They Left Us?’)

  A huge tear rolls down my cheek. I’m not just crying for Mimi and Rodolfo, but for Anna and Walter, who sat in this very place, listening to the same opera almost thirty years ago, and who were to be parted for ever just days later.

  The music rises to a crescendo. I feel his hand squeezing mine, then our fingers entwine. The space between us is electric. I close my eyes and let the music swallow me up. I don’t want him to ever let go of my hand or for the music to stop. I wish I could hold on to this moment for ever.

  * * *

  Placing his arm firmly around my shoulders, Francesco propels me across the cold, windy square.

  ‘Vai! Vai!’

  My hat blows off, and as he runs back to pick it up, I notice an attractive, middle-aged woman standing at the tram stop. She cuts a lone, forlorn figure, shoulders hunched against the rain, a Billa supermarket bag at her feet. She smiles wistfully then looks away. I am reminded of that night, waiting for Mags, eating a hotdog and enviously watching the loved-up couple dashing across the square.

  I wonder if the woman at the tram stop is going home to her partner, or to her one-bed flat and ready meal. Did someone break her heart? Is she trapped in a dead-end job or relationship, too afraid to make a change? If so, I’d like to say to her, It’s never too late. Life doesn’t always go the way we plan, but some things happen for a reason. I had my heart badly broken and my world fell apart. But the life I have now is better than the one before. I’ve learned to be stronger, to not put up with shitty behaviour, and to just enjoy being in the here and now. So hang on in there.

  On the other hand, she’s probably perfectly happy and wondering why there’s a strange woman gawping at her.

  The Graben’s opulent shop windows, a-shimmer with extravagant displays, cast their reflection onto the wet cobbles.

  A violinist, wearing an old army coat, plays a waltz before the Pestsäule statue, undeterred by the downpour and lack of audience. Francesco tosses a handful of euros into the young man’s instrument case, gives a little bow, and holds his hand out to me.

  ‘What? Oh, no, Francesco, I can’t dance. And anyway, it wouldn’t feel right, dancing here, in front of a memorial dedicated to plague victims.’

  ‘Esatto! We must celebrate the life, cara – la dolce vita,’ he says. He takes my right hand, places it in his, snakes his arm tightly around my waist, and pulls me close to him. I freeze.

  ‘Uno, due, tre, uno, due, tre …’ he whispers hypnotically, mouth grazing my ear as he gently rotates in time to the music.

  ‘Francesco, please, I am not joking. I’ll only tread on your toes …’

  ‘Uno, due, tre, uno, due, tre …’

  He pulls me closer, drawing me in with those magnetic eyes, his signature scent of Dolce & Gabbana tapping into my female senses.

  Slowly, tentatively, my brain gives my arms and legs the green light to loosen up, and I yield to the ebb and flow of the music, the rise and fall of Francesco’s body.

  As we gather speed, I tilt my head back. Coloured lights flash across my eyes, buildings move, sounds are distorted, wind rushes in my ears. I am a child again: vulnerable, trusting, spinning, carefree, weightless, dizzy; like I’m back on the merry-go-round of my youth. Is this how it feels to be high on hallucinogenic drugs, I wonder?

  How my view of Italian men has changed since that school trip to Rome when I was sixteen; I remember how my classmates and I watched gleefully gobsmacked from a street café during rush hour, as overcrowded mopeds and cars mounted the pavement, while a group of cool Carabinieri posed in the doorway, smoking Camel cigarettes and flirting with pretty women, oblivious to the chaos all around them.

  I had grown up presuming all Italian signori to be loud, reckless, unpredictable, smooth-talking, fashion-addicted gigolos. Now I know first-hand that beyond the wild gestures, these passionate people derive pleasure in the simplest of things: organic food, family, wine, conversation, espresso, music, dancing – and it’s contagious. Right now, I would rather be here, in this damp square, feet squelching, mascara running, nose dripping, than dressed up to the nines, sipping cocktails in some trendy nightclub in downtown Manhattan.

  ‘My flight tomorrow is not until the evening, so we have some time together, sì?’ says Francesco, stopping and turning me to face him as we enter Kärtnerstrasse.

  ‘Sure,’ I say in what I hope is a seductive tone, my head starting to swim with the giddy mix of Sekt, Strauss, and La Bohème. He reaches out and removes my hat and a wet strand of hair from my eyes, then raises my freezing hand to his mouth. I feel the warmth of his breath on my skin as he says in a low voice, ‘Aah, cara, today is una bella giornata – a beautiful day for me.’

  I open my mouth to speak, but unusually for me, no words come, so I just grin. Long-lost emotions are starting to stir inside me. The passionate woman of three months ago i
s coming back to life. I’ve missed feeling like this. I want to let myself melt into his arms …

  We turn up a little cobbled alley and arrive at Pension Margaretha after midnight.

  Herr Wildthan, the proprietor, opens the heavy wooden door in his dressing gown and slippers.

  ‘Entschuldigung. Sorry,’ I whisper.

  ‘Kein Problem,’ he replies good-naturedly.

  After signing in, we follow him quietly up the dimly lit staircase. To enter the room we have to stoop low and pick our way down a flight of narrow steps.

  ‘Breakfast is from eight until ten. Gute Nacht,’ says Herr Wildthan, closing the shutters then pulling the door to.

  ‘Gute Nacht.’

  The room has a low, oak-beamed ceiling, exposed stonework, and the linen is embroidered Egyptian cotton. Francesco produces a bottle of Sekt from his bag, fetches two tumblers from the bathroom, sets them down on the oval table in the arched window, turns off the lamp, and reopens the shutters.

  ‘Salute, cara,’ he says, clinking glasses.

  We sit in the darkness, looking down onto the deserted, tree-lined street below, not saying a word.

  There’s something in the air tonight; something has changed or is about to change, I can feel it.

  Francesco puts down his glass, pulls me onto his lap, his warm, dark, liquid eyes holding mine for a long moment.

  ‘Amore mio,’ he says, his voice low and serious. My heart accelerates. ‘In two weeks Sergio will return to Il Mulino full-time. Then I must go home to Napoli. My father is nearly eighty years old and is hard for him to manage our family restaurant alone. Isabella will begin to teach at the elementary school. They need me back in Italy.’

  ‘I know,’ I say softly, toying with my locket, eyes brimming with tears. ‘Please can we just enjoy tonight and not think about the future?’

  Without warning a flash of silver rips across the sky, followed seconds later by a mighty crack of thunder. Heavy, sullen rain pelts against the window and onto the leaves of the cherry trees below.

  He pulls me closer to him with an intense yearning I’ve never felt before.

  We lie side by side, holding each other tight, breathless in a tangle of limbs, staring at one another in the blackness, our faces eerily illuminated by beams of evanescent, blue lightning. No need for words. I fight the urge to sleep. Plenty of time for sleeping when he is gone from me.

  * * *

  The next morning we collect our bikes and head for my favourite Kaffeehaus.

  I am in dire need of caffeine after a fitful few hours’ sleep. I dreamed that Francesco and I were cycling through the sun-baked, back streets of Jeddah. He started to pedal really fast, and hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep up. I called out for him to slow down, but he would only turn his head and laugh mockingly. I kept catching glimpses of him, but then he’d disappear again. I woke up, pillow on the floor, heart pounding, sheet wound tightly around my legs.)

  ‘Kaffee und Kipferln?’ says the waiter, taking a crisp, white tea towel from his long apron and flicking it across the table.

  ‘Natürlich. Zweimal, bitte. Oh my God, Francesco, before you leave, you have got to taste Kipferln pastries – they are the best things EVER. Once you’ve tasted one of these …’

  ‘You are like we Italians,’ says Francesco propping his chin in his hand and grinning roguishly. ‘A good fork, no?’

  ‘Sorry? A good what?’

  ‘Buona forchetta – crazy for food – passionate about food.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Francesco, I’m a very good fork,’ I reply, feeling a hot flush coming on.

  Fuelled by coffee and pastries, we head south, towards another favourite place of mine, Belvedere Palace, which houses the world’s largest Gustav Klimt collection. Now, I’m no art expert, but you can’t be in Vienna and not notice the unmistakable metallic gold ink postcards, posters, key-rings, and tea towels for sale in every Tabak, every gift shop, on every street corner. This makes Klimt sound like tasteless kitsch, but to stand here, before the real thing is … well, I defy anyone not to be bowled over by the glittering, sensual beauty of his paintings.

  ‘Mamma mia!’ exclaims Francesco (told you) as we enter the gallery.

  This is the sort of modern art I like: not poncy, hurl-paint-at-a-canvas or nail-in-a-brick art, but simple, beautiful paintings I can understand and admire without having to think up some pretentious, symbolic, la-di-da nonsense as to what the artist is expressing through his work.

  ‘For me, this is true, uncomplicated love,’ says Francesco, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he studies the painting entitled The Kiss. ‘See the way the man protect the woman with his arm? And the woman, she feel safe with him. The love between them is equal. In many love affairs, there is imbalance, you understand?’

  ‘Absolutely, Francesco, I know exactly what you mean.’

  ‘Look here, how she has one hand around his neck, the other on his hand,’ he continues. ‘This is no a casual relationship; this is about lasting love – there is passion, of course, but this love is about friendship, respect, trust – the kind of love maybe you find once in your life – two times, if you are very lucky.’

  My gaze travels the length and breadth of him: his intense, gleaming eyes devouring every detail of the painting, his thin laughter lines creasing up, his strong hands emphasising every word – sorry guys, but when it comes to speaking the language of love (without sounding corny), nobody does it better than the Italians.

  ‘Like Mimi and Rodolfo,’ he continues.

  ‘Like Posh and Becks,’ I quip.

  Francesco looks me at blankly. ‘Chi?’

  Why must I always do that? Spoil magical moments by saying something flippant?

  Ravenous once more (how nice to be with a man who doesn’t calorie-count on my behalf), and with one eye on the clock, we leave Belvedere and head for the tranquillity of the Volksgarten, via the hotdog stand by the gates. As I’m a regular and speak English to the owner (he’s a devout Anglophile), he always slaps two Wurst in my roll for the price of one.

  ‘Good afternoon, Fraulein,’ he says, switching off the radio.

  ‘Good afternoon, Tobias,’ I reply. ‘This is Francesco, my Italian teacher.’

  They shake hands. ‘She is a good student, signor?’

  ‘Eh, no’ bad,’ says Francesco, turning to me with a smirk.

  ‘If I did not have a wife, I will marry her,’ says Tobias, scooping up four sausages with his tongs.

  ‘Would marry her, Tobias. The future conditional is I would marry her,’ I say with mock scorn.

  ‘I would marry her,’ he repeats, handing over my chubby hotdog. ‘And you, signor, would you marry her?’

  ‘Allora …’ replies Francesco, ‘if …’

  ‘End of today’s lesson,’ I say quickly, darting Tobias a warning glare as I hand over my five-euro note. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. You owe me an extra Wurst, mate.’

  I lead Francesco to my favourite place to picnic, past the hibernating rose bushes to a secluded corner, where the gleaming white statue of the Empress Elizabeth, like an ethereal goddess, sits staring at the water fountain, lost in melancholy thought.

  ‘Who is this bella donna?’ enquires Francesco, spreading his scarf on the frosty grass before her, and beckoning for me to sit down. ‘She look so sad.’

  ‘Francesco, meet my friend Sisi, wife of the Kaiser, Franz Josef. I come and visit her whenever I’m passing. She and I have quite a lot in common.’

  ‘Cosa?’

  ‘We both used to travel a lot, and we both had our hearts badly broken.’

  ‘The Kaiser, he was an imbecille, Sisi,’ says Francesco, waggling his wrist at her.

  ‘She’s not too keen on Italians, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Perché? Why? We are not all Romeos.’

  ‘No?’

  He gives me a playful clip.

  ‘Maybe not, but she was murdered by one,’ I continue.

  ‘A dangerous race,’ he says, solemnly shak
ing his head.

  ‘Thanks for the warning, il postino,’ I say through a mouthful of hotdog.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Puccini!’ comes a familiar transatlantic drawl behind us.

  Jeez. It’s them – our American friends.

  ‘Buongiorno!’ says Francesco, leaping to his feet and shaking their hands.

  ‘Hi,’ I murmur, giving a feeble wave.

  ‘Did you enjoy the opera?’ asks Francesco.

  ‘To be honest, and no offence to your great-grandfather, but we couldn’t understand a word, could we, Bob?’

  Bob opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by his wife.

  ‘And it was way too long,’ she continues, pointing her camera at Sisi. ‘Do you know anything about this statue?’

  ‘Allora …’ begins Francesco.

  ‘Darling, look at the time,’ I say, in an attempt to rescue another potentially farcical situation. ‘Plane to catch,’ I say with a weak smile, hastily gathering up our stuff.

  ‘Oh, we thought you said you came by bicycle …’

  * * *

  Sono andati? Fingevo di dormire

  Have they left us? I was not really sleeping

  perché volli con te restare.

  because I wanted to be alone with you.

  Ho tante cose che ti voglio dire,

  So many things remain for me to tell you,

  o una sol, ma grande come il mare,

  or just one, that is vaster than the ocean,

  come il mare profondo ed infinito.

  as the ocean so deep and infinite.

  Sei il mio amore e tutta la mia vita!

  You are my love and my whole life!

  Tears spill freely down my cheeks as Mimi and Rodolfo’s heart-breaking lament floats through the tiny speakers of my portable player. I read the words scrawled across the CD cover:

  A la mia cara Wurst. Un caro abbraccio, Francesco. (Wurst or Sausage is now his pet name for me.)

  I will never forget last night – the opera, dancing in the square, his tender lovemaking, the secrets we shared.

  I glance at my watch and tell myself to stop daydreaming and concentrate on tonight’s show. The prospect causes my tummy to flip over. It seems so long ago since Saturday’s performance and my awful memory lapse. I must stay calm, not give in to stage fright, and give a stellar performance.