by Doug Walsh
He yielded—again—and backed away, reluctantly.
Kara exited the tent several minutes later carrying a pannier. Edward looked up from wiping down his bike, an unnecessary task he busied himself with, waiting for her to speak to him. She scanned the area with disgust then slammed the bag in the dirt. “And not even any Goddamn picnic tables.”
Edward bit his lip and buried his face in the rag, concealing a titter. He’d been complaining about the conspicuous lack of picnic tables since they arrived in Europe. And every time he did, Kara would tell him to get over it, adapt, and think like a European. Whatever that meant.
If she noticed his reaction, she didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, Kara tucked a toiletry bag under her arm, rolled a change of clothes within her towel, and left for the showers, tension trailing in her wake.
He wanted to rush after her, but what could he say? Whenever he imagined trying to apologize, he only heard her words piercing him anew, buckling his knees. Don’t touch me. He knew what he should do. What he should have done back at Heathrow. Or earlier.
Kara’s words played on a loop in his mind as he retrieved his toolkit and flipped her bike upside down. She wasn’t only mad about Madrid, he knew, removing the rear wheel. He’d been lying for months.
“It’s over,” he said, talking to her bike. “I blew it.” Edward wondered how he could begin to repair the damage, without pushing her further away. To tell her about the contest meant admitting a litany of lies and deception. But to not tell her … “She’s too smart for that.”
Edward’s mind drifted ahead, to a future home, as he removed her worn brake pads from the caliper. What would he do for money?
“Dammit,” he said, pinching his finger in the needle-nose pliers. On the third try, he got the new pads in place, and he soon had the wheel spinning freely and the brake rotor perfectly centered. He ran the chain through a rag, wiping away a week of grit. Edward continued tinkering on her bike, soothing his nerves with each turn of a hex wrench, fine-tuning his explanation to Kara.
He hoped the hot shower had managed to be as therapeutic for Kara as the bicycle maintenance was for him. But if not, at least her bike would be in great shape for … wherever she wanted to go, he thought, daring to hope it’d be with him.
Kara returned as Edward locked her bike to a lamppost. She looked gorgeous in a dress he hadn’t seen before, white with red and yellow flowers falling into a pile at the hem. Her hair was combed back and he needn’t get close to smell her perfume. A summer-sweet scent he wasn’t familiar with. Her eyes darted toward him (or was it her bike?) but she didn’t break stride. She disappeared into the tent momentarily, then emerged with her camera and purse.
“You look really nice,” he said, but she didn’t acknowledge him.
Edward watched her nervously. He couldn’t take it any longer, his earlier calm straining under the heft of her silence. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I was thinking of getting some lunch.”
“Not hungry.”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
Kara stopped in her tracks, her back to Edward, her hands on her hips. “If you’re hungry eat, if not, don’t. Just leave me alone.”
“Kara.” He spoke her name as if it was the last word he’d ever say.
She spun to face him. “You want to have lunch and go sightseeing, Ed? Is that it? You want to act like everything’s fine? We’re in Florence!” Kara was practically vibrating with anger, her fists clenched at her side. “Did you forget you lied to me?”
Edward inched toward her, yearning to be closer. “It was an accident,” he said, shaking his head, so used to lying that he couldn’t stop himself, even now. What difference does it make, she already knows.
Kara stomped her foot and took a deep breath. “How dumb do you think I am? You expect me to believe the attendant sold you tickets in the middle of the night for seats on another company’s train?” The pain of his deception wept from her every pore.
“Kara, I’m …”
“You tricked me,” she shouted, pushing him with both hands in the chest. “I can’t believe you would do this to me.”
Edward bothered the rag in his hands, searching for the words like an actor trying to remember lines from an unwritten script. His chest tightened, choking him from the insides, suffocating his thoughts, his voice, his breath.
“So, that’s it? You’ve got nothing to say?”
The words were there, but refused to be spoken. He wanted to come clean about everything, to swear his love, and tell her they’d head to Madrid in the morning, but he couldn’t. Not yet. She was too angry to hear how deep he dug his hole.
Kara wiped her eyes in quick motions, practically slapping at her face as she sniffled. “When you’re ready to tell me what’s going on, come find me. Otherwise, leave me alone.” She thrust an arm through her purse strap and stormed off without another word.
“Be careful,” he whispered.
Edward watched her disappear beyond the campground gate. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. As his gaze retreated along the path she walked, he realized he wasn’t the only one watching her go. A landscaper dressed in a blue and khaki campground uniform was looking in Kara’s direction from up the path. Edward was too distraught to care that they made a scene, or that someone heard Kara shout his list of crimes.
But then Edward noticed something odd. He thought it could be the shadows or a trick of his tear-stricken eyes, but the man appeared to glow. It was a faint blue, similar to what he saw on the French-Canadian with the canoe. Though at the time, he convinced himself it was only an illusion of campfire smoke.
He rubbed his eyes and blinked, yet the effect didn’t fade. Edward stared, mesmerized by what he saw, as the man set down his rake, brushed his hands on his pants, and walked off toward town.
Kara descended the hill from the campground toward the Arno River, where tourists choked the streets, flowing toward the Pitti Palace in segregated flocks. Sunburned Americans, Europeans, and Chinese marched past, oblivious of anyone not in their group. Twice, her feet were stepped upon. Not once did she receive an apology.
She skirted the crowd to Ponte Vecchio, the city’s famed medieval bridge where centuries-old jewelry shops lined its sides in a jumble of two-story squares and taller rectangles bulging outward over the river. The tawny geometry reminded her of Picasso’s disjointed Girl with Mandolin, an unwelcome comparison she pushed from her mind.
The bulwark of stores gave way to a plaza in the center of the bridge. Kara threaded the crowd and paused to take in the upstream view.
The Arno’s banks were lined with ochre-colored apartment buildings, shining like gold in the sun as the water twinkled below. It was a view unlike any she’d seen in her travels, yet her camera remained tucked away. Kara leaned against the ancient stone rail, resting her chin atop her hands, unsure what to do, where to go.
Her wrists smelled of the perfume she bought in Paris, reminding her of the night she had planned for her and Edward, and the dress she bought to celebrate reaching the City of Light—a dress she now wore, alone. She sighed, knowing there’d be no sunset atop the Eiffel Tower or gourmet meals on Place Dauphine. Gazing downward, her chest heaving for what should have been, she rubbed the dress’s crimson floral pattern between her fingers, as if doing so could dull its cheerfulness.
Amongst the crowd surging around her, Kara felt someone looking at her, as if waiting to approach. It was probably Edward, she thought, knowing how incapable he was of giving her space when she wanted it most. She turned to tell him to leave her alone, only to see a couple pushing a pair of fully loaded touring bicycles toward her.
“Mi scusi,” the woman said, holding out her phone. “Photo, per favore?” Her voice cracked with the hesitation of one who knows only a dozen words of the local language. Kara knew the feeling well.
“Sure,” she said, nodding. Kara made room for them to pose, then raised the smartphone. On the screen stood a fifty-something couple
with their arms around one another, their smiles as broad as Ponte Vecchio’s overhead arches. Their bikes leaned against them, the panniers decorated with stickers of international flags.
Kara stared at the screen, struggling to tap the button, her fingers refusing to give what should have been hers. It was the photo of her dreams, the type she’d imagined hanging over their bed, or using as Christmas cards, or getting printed on a coffee mug. She and Edward had been traveling for more than three months, but never posed like this. Not once did they ask someone to take their picture.
She tapped the button. Hard. The blurry image necessitated a do-over, forcing her to linger, to focus.
The screen blinked, searing the image of the couple in her mind. Will we even be together in twenty years? Ten? Kara squeezed her eyes shut and thrust the phone at the woman. She took off across the bridge, pushing and shoving her way through the throng, trying to outrun her envy.
Kara fled into the historic quarter of Florence, not slowing until the crowd was behind her. Side streets named after a who’s who of saints and apostles beckoned with quaint storefronts and immaculate herringbone brickwork. But her mood favored the shattered pavement of the main road, her feet at home on the warts of its lumpy asphalt patches. She proceeded, flanked by graffitied shutters, windows encased in rusted burglar bars, and the orange netting of so much unfinished construction. And she wore the ugliness like a shawl.
Blocks later, in no mood to sightsee and craving a snack, Kara stepped inside a gelateria. “Bonjour,” she said upon entering.
“Ciao,” the clerk said pointedly, as if tired of dealing with tourists who didn’t speak Italian.
Kara blushed, remembering she was no longer in France. “Sorry. Ciao, of course.”
“Ah, English,” he said. “What would you like?”
Two dozen varieties of gelato provided a palette of colors piled high in oblong stainless steel bins, their flavors labeled in Italian. Normally, she’d be happy to be somewhere without bilingual menus, evidence it wasn’t just a place for tourists. But now? She wanted familiar. And rows of unpronounceable flavors and a balding, forty-something man in a pinstriped vest and bow tie was anything but typical for an ice cream shop.
Where’s the Chunky Monkey when you need it?
“Uhh …” she said, hesitating, pointing from one bin to the next, guessing at the translation of stracciatella, amarena, and croccantino as the colors and foreign words blurred in a kaleidoscope of thoughts and emotions. Kara felt herself quailing under the pressure. Not just of choosing a flavor, but of the suddenness of swapping countries, languages, and customs—and navigating it alone.
Behind the counter, the clerk held his ice cream scoop in a manner that betrayed his impatience. Kara wanted only to avoid seeming ignorant. “I’ll have the pistachio,” she said, an impulsive selection.
“Mi scusi, but that’s not a wise choice.” The voice, masculine and confident, came from behind her. Kara startled, not realizing someone had entered the store.
She turned, facing a man with wavy black hair, an aquiline nose, and sharp jaw. His clean-shaven face had the complexion of someone who spent a good deal of time outdoors. His broad chest and muscular arms reinforced the notion. Yet despite this—and the grass stains on his khaki pants—she sensed an air of refinement.
“Why is that?” she asked, deciding to humor him.
“Look at the color. It is false. The color of good pistachio,” he said, halving its syllables as he spoke, pronouncing the word pi-stash, “should be a marriage, as much the tan of the shell as the green of the nut.”
Kara asked the clerk if this was true.
He shrugged, turning up his hands and bobbing his head, like a man not wanting to lie, but unwilling to defend his employer’s product. Kara turned back to the pistachio expert. “So, which flavor should I get?”
“The pistachio is the barometer. If it’s no good, you leave. All of Italy knows this.” He moved to the door, and pushed it open with one hand. “Come with me.”
Kara took a step back and raised her hands, laughing in a you-got-to-be-kidding-me kind of way.
She turned to the clerk. “Two scoops of chocolate,” she said, pointing at the bin marked cioccolato. “On a waffle cone.” Watching him scoop the gelato, Kara noticed Mr. Pistachio’s blue shirt reflecting back at her from the glass case. She took a half step away, checking the reflection for a glimpse of his face, to gauge what interested him, but the angle was all wrong.
Kara withdrew her wallet from her purse. As she did, a tanned arm reached past and placed three euros on the counter. “Per la signora,” the man said.
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” she said, thrusting a five at the clerk.
He was beside her now. “It is the least I can do for insulting the pistachio.” He plucked two napkins from the dispenser and handed them to her, gazing at her with a roguish smile. “A risky choice for a lady in white.”
Kara looked at the chocolate gelato, a drip already forming, and smiled sheepishly. Well, if someone hadn’t distracted me … “Thank you,” she said, taking the napkins. She returned the wallet to her purse as the men conversed in Italian. Kara felt them sneaking glances at her as they spoke, the clerk clearly referring to her as il turista. Typical men, she thought, turning to leave.
Kara wasn’t the least bit surprised when Mr. Pistachio followed her out the door without ordering. When she pointed this out to him, he dismissed it with a wave.
“So, what brings you to Florence?”
Kara was in no mood to chat, or be hit on for that matter, but the sweetness of the gelato and the warm, buttery smells of the waffle softened her resistance. Still, his question cut close to the bone. My asshole husband, she thought with a sigh. “I’m not really sure, to be honest.”
“Most come to see the museums. And the Duomo, of course.”
Kara crinkled her face and looked away. An immature reaction, she knew, but didn’t care.
“Someone who didn’t come for the art? I don’t believe it.”
“I wanted to see the art in Madrid.”
“Madrid?” The man sounded baffled.
“Yes, Madrid,” she said sarcastically. “Dali? Picasso?” Kara licked her gelato. The cream seemed to coat her tongue in a layer of fudge.
The man nodded, but his brow furrowed ever so slightly as he did. To Kara, he looked confused, as if he’d never heard of two of the most famous painters of the last century. Maybe he didn’t know they were Spaniards, she thought, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Together, they meandered their way through the historic quarter, Kara taking the lead, turning at random. Though part of her wanted to lose him, she didn’t have the energy to be rid of him—that, and she liked his accent.
“So, why not go to Madrid?”
“My husband brought us here instead,” she said. Kara watched him out the corner of her eye, wondering how he’d react to her being married.
He stayed silent for several steps then said, “Not an easy mistake to make.”
“Well … it wasn’t a mistake.” Though she didn’t turn to look at him, she sensed his smile.
They continued walking as Kara ate her gelato, eventually arriving back at Ponte Vecchio.
“Do you see the corridor atop the bridge? It goes straight to the Uffizi Museum. It has been many years since I’ve been, but perhaps I can give you a tour. I once knew the museum quite well.”
Kara scrunched her face. “No thanks, I’m not really into portraits of dead Catholics.”
A storm flashed in the man’s eyes ever so briefly, but he quickly calmed it by clutching his chest and feigning mortal pain.
“No offense,” she said, making a note to bite her tongue in the future. “I’m Kara, by the way.”
“Kara,” he said, softening it as he repeated it. “Mia cara, Kara.”
The dulcet tones of his Italian rose and fell, as if reciting poetry. She watched him, waiting for the next line, then, covering her
lapse, blurted out, “Hey, that’s the logo of the campground we’re staying at.” She pointed at the embroidered image of a tent and sun on his chest.
“Ah, you’re staying at the campeggio. I work there. Mi chiamo Alessio.”
“Nice meeting you,” she said, hoping he’d continue speaking in Italian.
“The pleasure is mine.” He took her hand in his, raised it slowly to his lips and kissed it, not taking his eyes from her.
Kara felt herself gasp, then made a half-hearted attempt to remove her hand from his lingering lips. “I’m not used to that,” she said, as the heat of the moment rose in her. She felt herself leaning toward him, melting, offering her wrist, her arm …
“You should be,” he said, with a glint in his eye. He straightened and released her hand.
She recovered quickly and looked all around, the guilt of her prior infidelity rushing in, as it always did when she was alone with another man. But nothing happened. She told herself that him kissing her hand was nothing more than long lost chivalry. Are you sure? She wasn’t. As much as she’d love to believe it, she couldn’t deny what had transpired. In that moment, in his eyes, his touch, she felt a connection on a deeper plane. Familiar and true.
Kara balled the napkins in her hand, trying to look anywhere but into his eyes, dismissing the attraction as a result of feeling lonely and sorry for herself. Just like last time.
She wanted to believe that’s all it was, but he kept staring at her, smiling, reveling in the effect he had on her.
“I must return to work. Would you care to accompany me?”
“Oh, I …” she stammered, taking a step back.
“Ah, you’ve not yet tired of seeing the sights. Perhaps you can join me for dinner at the campeggio trattoria.”
Absolutely. “I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t,” she said, spinning her wedding ring nervously on her finger.
Alessio laughed. “It’s not like that. Bring your husband. My colleague Hiromasa will join us.”
Kara bit her lip, thinking.
“Eight o’clock?”