Tailwinds Past Florence

by Doug Walsh

  He turned quickly onto Via dei Calzaiuoli, the district’s main thoroughfare, and retraced the route he long ago walked each day on his rounds, while acquiring art for his gallery in Malta. This would take him to the center of Florence and Piazza del Duomo. There, in the shadow of the city’s famed cathedral, rising like the North Star above the skyline, he hoped to gain his bearings.

  He walked at a pace that belied his excitement, taking time to read the multicolored signs, struck dumb by the plethora of gelaterias and boutiques lining the road. But it was the scents that nearly waylaid him. From every bar wafted the intoxicating scent of espresso mingling with that of a warm cornetto. His stomach rumbled with approval, demanding he give in to the temptation. Not yet. I’ll eat only after I visit the cathedral.

  “Mamma mia.” Alessio crossed himself and approached a poster inside a store window nearest the piazza. The woman in the photo, revealing expanses of lightly tanned skin in a provocative pose, was the most sexually arresting sight he’d ever seen. Clad only in a miniscule black lace chemise and matching pantalettes, she peered over her shoulder at him, one hand dangling near her inner thigh, the other brushing back her hair, her arm squeezing her décolletage as she twisted in his direction. She stared at him, inviting him to come closer. Alessio darted his eyes left and right, expecting others to be as startled by the sight as he was. But nobody seemed to notice. Or care.

  Inside the shop’s window, a phalanx of headless mannequins displayed a rainbow of string-like garments cleaving unnaturally sculpted backsides. Alessio felt a stir in his groin and dropped his hands to shield his growing erection, shamed by the reflection of the cathedral in the window. He squeezed his eyes shut, but a kaleidoscope of vibrant satin pinwheeled in his memory.

  Alessio was no stranger to the female form. He’d undressed women in the slatted light of a midday rendezvous, felt their warmth, nuzzled at their bosom through the night, but he never knew one to possess such revealing lingerie or the ardor to flaunt it so publicly. Memories of his prior loves coalesced in a single image of a woman leaning out from behind a door, the top two hooks of her corset undone, a seductive smile playing on her lips. Sylvia.

  He shook free of the vision as two women exited the store with shopping bags, laughing, leaning into one another conspiratorially. He wanted to lash out, to shame them for patronizing a business that would endorse such a sinful display of flesh so close to the Lord’s home, in the shadow of the Baptistry of St. John no less. But he was paralyzed, frozen by the woman nearest him, as her eyes locked briefly on his. Entranced by the sway of her hips, his mind filled with images of the lacy intimates he imagined lay hidden beneath her woolen skirt.

  Watching them disappear into the crowd, Alessio struggled to recall the last time he was aroused. He had grown so old in Malta, he couldn’t remember.

  He bolted for the piazza, averting his eyes from any and all women that crossed his path. The massive cathedral’s polychromatic facade, installed in the intervening years, distracted him from his lust. Like most Florentines of his era, he thought the Duomo was destined to remain unfinished forever. Maybe one hundred seventy years really had passed. What else had changed in his absence?

  Outside the cathedral, hundreds of tourists willing to brave the winter season posed for what he could only guess were photographs, while dark-skinned Africans hawked dazzling toys flung into the air. Others shouldered bags of silver canes shouting “Selfie stick! Selfie stick!” Alessio squeezed the envelope of cash in his waistband and reminded himself to keep his head down to avoid attention.

  He took a seat on the aged cathedral steps, shadowed by the towering steeple above him, relishing in a dose of the familiar. He needed food—that had to come first—and proper trousers and stockings. A jacket too. Though it was unseasonably warm for February, he knew the Tuscan nights could remain cold for months to come. Months? How long was he going to be stuck here? He didn’t know, but thought it best to be prepared.

  Alessio craned his neck, taking in the cathedral soaring above him, as he struggled to recall the trade districts of Florence. The shops on Via dei Calzaiuoli were no place for paupers. He needed an alternative.

  Mercato Vecchio. Of course! The goods were much less expensive there.

  Zigzagging south toward the river, he took a meandering route that led through Piazza de Cimatori. There, to his pleasant surprise, a kiosk was selling one of his favorite sandwiches, the lampredotto panini. Relishing a taste of something familiar, he ordered one of the peasant sandwiches from the proprietor who appeared to be of Persian descent. His mouth watered at the sight of the simmering tripe being heaped onto the roll. Unsure what language the man spoke, Alessio gestured for him to dunk the bread in the broth and then pointed to the pot of green sauce. It wouldn’t be a lampredotto without the salsa verde.

  “Vino?”

  “Yes. Si,” Alessio corrected himself.

  “Ah, English?”

  He nodded, taking a bite of the sandwich and instinctively bending forward so it wouldn’t drip on his shirt. Out the corner of his eye, he could see the man staring at him as he poured the wine.

  “Let me ask. Why you dressed like that?” Then, with a smirk, “Your lady kick you out?”

  Alessio wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, taken aback. “It’s a long story. I’m on my way to Mercato Vecchio to buy some new trousers right now.”

  “Mercato Vecchio? There’s no such place. Central Market, maybe?”

  That’s impossible, Alessio thought. “No, Mercato Vecchio. Near the ghetto.” Alessio took the small glass of wine and nearly dropped it when the clear material flexed in his grasp.

  “My friend, there is no such place. Go to Central Market. Inside is just food, but the tents outside sell clothes. Very cheap. Good choice. Very cheap.” The man wiped his hands on his apron. “That will be five euros.”

  “Is this market outside the city walls?”

  “Walls? Florence has no walls,” the man said, mocking Alessio’s ignorance with his eyes. “Central Market is in the biggest building in San Lorenzo. You can’t miss it. Been there a hundred years.”

  Alessio’s hand began to tremble. No walls? No Mercato Vecchio? The notions were preposterous, yet the man did not seem to be passing fraudulent information. The morsel of confidence gained by the familiar sandwich had vanished. Alessio took the wine in his left hand, the steady one, and raised it to his lips. He downed it in a single gulp.

  “Ahem,” the man said, holding his hand up, five fingers extended wide.

  He retrieved his envelope and sheepishly gave the Persian one of the smaller notes. The man thanked him and offered directions, but Alessio scoffed at the help. Things may have changed, but of course he knew where San Lorenzo was. The neighborhood was only a few blocks north of the Duomo. Anyone familiar with the city could find it in their sleep.

  But Alessio’s nerves frayed with each step as he considered the news. Could Florence exist without walls? What would protect her from invaders? Alessio found himself wishing for someone to ask as he neared the cathedral. Someone he could trust. He paused outside the heavy bronze door nearest the bell tower and considered attending confession, drawn by the organ music heard from within.

  But what would he say? Which of his sins were so abhorrent as to justify this miraculous torture? Forgive me Father, for I have awoken in the future? He spat at the absurdity of it while his hand shook, beating thumb and pinky against his thigh like the wings of a game bird. Penance would steady his nerves. It always had in the past. But three Hail Marys and an Our Father weren’t going to clothe him. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said, turning his back on the church.

  Central Market was just as the trippaio had said. Dozens of white tents encircled a building the size of a palace. The crowd was suffocating, hundreds of shoppers from all corners of the globe jostled him, squeezing tight to scour the racks and tables for bargains. Leather perfumed the air, mixing with the earthy scents of cheese and aged beef whenever the ma
rket’s doors opened.

  Alessio purchased a pair of trousers as dark as the basalt paving stones of the piazza, a matching canvas jacket, and a gray sweater. He stepped from the makeshift changing room in the tent and modeled his strange new clothes before a full-length mirror strapped to a tent pole. He turned from side to side, admiring the cut of the clothes, flexing his chest and legs, and smiling at his new look. In the mirror he caught the eyes of a woman staring at him. It was the one from the lingerie store.

  Has she been following me?

  Their eyes locked and Alessio, feeling a surge of his old self fueled by his restored physique and modern clothing, offered a roguish smile. She arched her eyebrows and licked her lips as she held his gaze in the reflection. For the second time in as many hours, Alessio felt a stirring in his loins.

  He hesitated—how long had it been?—but the invitation was undeniable, and so he wheeled on her, closing the distance in two strides as his pulse raced, and without hesitation placed one hand on the small of her back, his other behind her head, and he kissed her. The woman resisted, if only for decorum, then matched his dominance, smashing her lips against his with vigor. He released her, ignoring the catcalls of the onlookers, as he planted his lips delicately on her hand, breathing in the scent of her perfume, exhilarated by his own daring.

  She soon retreated into the swelling masses of the crowd, their moment consumed in a flash of spontaneous lust. Despite all that might have changed, there was no doubt in Alessio’s mind: this was still Florence.

  Alessio returned to the apartment, sixty euros lighter, with a bounce in his ill-fitting step and a dormant swagger rekindled. As he licked the residue of the woman’s cosmetic from his lips, his thoughts again turned to Sylvia and the glimmer of hope that she had returned to Florence too.

  Chapter 10

  Friday, April 24 — Detroit Lakes, Minnesota, USA

  Kara woke the next morning with pins and needles in her arm. Grimacing with discomfort, she slipped it from beneath Edward’s pillow and massaged it. He slept on his side, his back to her. The double bed in the O’Donnell’s guest room made for cramped conditions, but she’d never seen him toss and turn like he did that night. Especially not after a long day’s ride and an evening of drinks.

  She cozied up behind him, welcoming the warmth of his body against her skin, the familiar scent of his hair, and the softness of the linens and comforter enveloping them together. It was a lovely break from their steady diet of sleeping bags and scratchy motel sheets.

  Kara dragged the tips of her fingers along his leg and side, back and forth, willing him awake. She dropped her hand over the horizon of his hip and brushed his sex. He didn’t flinch.

  Nuzzling behind him, her cheek in the reverse nook of his neck, Kara ached with the unfulfilled craving she wore to sleep. He was next to her, body against body, but miles away. Still.

  She never thought she’d be the type to have sex in a stranger’s house, but last night was different. She nearly tore free of her clothes before the bedroom door shut behind them. And it wasn’t just the wine. It was everything: being back in the Midwest, her talks with Brenda, seeing Edward in something other than a fleece sweater for a change. And, of course, the chardonnay. But more than that, it was witnessing the future she narrowly escaped. How could she not feel hot after seeing, in Brenda’s loneliness, the life of isolation and boredom from which Edward’s firing had saved her? And though she’d never admit it, a part of her wanted to be loud—to celebrate that rescue with wild abandon.

  Kara bit her lip as the lingering frustration of the prior night’s failed seduction gnawed at her. He’d been distracted before, especially when he was working, but not like this. Through the kissing, fondling, and tickling his disinterest was absolute. Still she pressed on, taking him in her mouth in an ultimate attempt at coaxing him to attention. Yet his body was broke, his blank face a portrait of white space. Only now, in hindsight, did she realize it was the look she expected to see back in February, on the night she planned to ask for a divorce. A chill ran through her and she snuggled up behind him, pressing deeper into his warmth, smothering the memory.

  Hoping the night’s slumber calmed his troubled mind, she tried again, wrapping her hand around his member and giving him a squeeze. Nothing. She wanted him. Not just inside her, but to be held and kissed. She wanted to plummet asleep spooning on the too-small bed, legs intertwined, their bodies joined like the soul mates Brenda called them.

  Kara propped herself against the headboard, adjusting to the dim light, scanning the room for her clothes. “Oh, for chrissake,” she said, tossing the comforter aside and striding across the room to snatch her underwear from the head of the porcelain doll staring down from atop the dresser. “Real classy, Kara.”

  She tugged on her pajamas and pulled open the blinds, illuminating the room in stripes of morning sun. Outside, steam rose from the driveway while the barren trees swayed in a gentle breeze. A gray squirrel clambered down the side of a tree and hopped from one square of sunshine to the next, staying clear of the tree branch shadows. Great day for a bike ride.

  Yawning, she found her wristwatch in her handlebar bag and saw they had overslept. “Time to wake up,” she said, gently shaking Edward by the shoulder. “It’s past eight.” When Kara returned from the bathroom, she found him lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. She pulled the covers off him. “Come on. We gotta get moving.” She paused, noticing his immobility and remembering how detached he was. Ever since dinner. “Everything okay?”

  “Huh? Yeah.” Edward rose and looked around the room as if he had never seen it before. “I’m not ready for this,” he muttered.

  “Want me to ask Brenda if we can stay another day?”

  He didn’t respond, choosing instead to pull on clean bike shorts and socks.

  Kara shrugged and turned to do the same, rummaging through the stuff sack containing her cycling clothes. “Oh, speaking of Brenda, I have to tell you,” she lowered her voice before continuing, “That woman is lonely. Lone-LY.” She stretched the word for emphasis. “Listening to her is like being stuck in a Dickens story. All I kept thinking was how much I’d hate to become like her. Thank God you’re not working for Madsen anymore. I swear it was like talking to the ghost of housewife yet to come.”

  “Huh.”

  Kara stiffened and balled a long-sleeved jersey in her hands. “That’s all you’ve got? Huh?” she repeated, imitating him.

  He looked at her, his face expressionless, almost catatonic. “We should try to get eighty miles in today.”

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Minnesota’s flat. Maybe we’ll aim for a hundred tomorrow.”

  “What’s gotten into you? We’ve never ridden more than sixty-five miles, and that was downhill. With a tailwind! Now you want to do a hundred?” She scoffed loudly and watched as Edward transitioned from getting dressed to packing. Only, instead of rolling up his dinner clothes, he collected random items from around the room. She watched as he placed a box of tissues in one bag and her shoes in another.

  “Hey space cadet, you gonna steal the towels too?”

  Edward snapped to, a small figurine in his hand. He rolled it between his palms as he looked from his panniers to Kara, who now studied him with growing concern.

  “Wanna tell me what’s on your mind? This isn’t like you.”

  His eyes flashed wide, as if he’d been slapped, then settled on hers. He managed a weak laugh that crept into a smile. “I guess I was just daydreaming about today’s ride.” He walked around the bed and gave Kara a kiss on the cheek.

  Kara returned to her packing, rolling her pajamas with nervous detachment. Something wasn’t right. They’ve had bad days before. Each of them. But he was acting like he’d seen a ghost. Kara hoped a home-cooked breakfast and the responsibilities of navigating the backroads of Minnesota would distract him from whatever was troubling him.

  Downstairs, they found the dining room table set for two. Edward
placed their panniers against the wall and sat while Kara went in search of their host. Brenda was in the kitchen, filling a carafe of orange juice. “Good morning, Brenda. The pancakes smell wonderful.”

  “I hope you’re hungry. Did you sleep well? I know the bed can be a bit tight, but you two don’t look like you mind snuggling.” She gave Kara’s elbow a squeeze on her way to the dining room.

  “You and Tom aren’t joining us?” Kara asked, then quickly regretted doing so.

  “He flew back earlier. I’m surprised you didn’t hear the Cessna.” Perhaps reading the apology written on Kara’s face, Brenda explained. “I’m going to stay a few days and get the house ready for the summer. I’ll fly back from Fargo later in the week if he’s too busy to come get me. Tom said he might have a new hire to prepare for.”

  Kara watched as Brenda winked at Edward as she mentioned Tom’s departure. A practiced gesture of spousal support in front of another man, no doubt to ward off sounding ungrateful. Kara knew the move well.

  “Enough about that. Sit and enjoy. I’ve got scrambled eggs coming right up, and there’s toast keeping warm in the oven. Help yourself to as much as you want.”

  Edward remained distant through breakfast and Kara was too focused on filling her stomach to force small talk. After eating, he excused himself to tend to the bikes. It comforted Kara while she cleared the table to know he was outside going through his pre-ride checklist, squeezing the tires and checking the chain and brakes, always making sure her bike was safe.

  He probably just needed some food in him. A hundred miles? Kara couldn’t help laughing.

  With their bags mounted and helmets on, it was time for goodbyes. Brenda went to Edward first, as he was closer, and hugged him farewell. She appeared to linger, leaning in as if whispering something in his ear. But Brenda was moving toward Kara before she could give it much thought. “It’s been so nice having you here,” Brenda said. “I really hope we see each other again.”