At that moment I saw Lorenzo in a much different lig
ht, one far more approachable than the stuffy host he first presented himself as being. And when I finally found my voice, it was to say, “Please, call me Ellen.”
Chapter 11
Testa Dura
If only Giorgio had
listened to me instead of his mama’s cellular whining from Vicenza.
Testa dura,
my mother would’ve called him. Hard head, a term she often used to describe me and my sis, more often me because El had a more malleable nature, one I refused to adapt, thank god. But we were in Italy now, having gone our separate ways, and what could I, a mere
Americana
, have known about the artistic temperament of an
Italiano
whose ego far surpassed the talent he took such pride in honing to perfection, at least in his estimation, which I was starting to doubt.
Although Giorgio didn’t live far from
the Piazza della Signoria, he insisted on our taking a taxi to a side street near the pedestrian area of The Uffizi, just as he’d done on our return the day before. After I paid the driver, we walked the rest of the way, each step bringing Giorgio closer to that of his mime personae. Me, wearing a backless sundress guaranteed to draw my own admirers. A crowd had already gathered at the Ufizzi in anticipation of his afternoon performance, a welcoming plus. First thing Giorgio did was to make a big production out of handing me his cape. Next came the staging. He drew an imaginary line down a thirty-foot row of cobblestones. This became his tightrope and on either side of the tightrope, he walked off two more imaginary lines which he gestured for his audience to stand behind. I set his basket on the Gallery steps and stationed myself at the far end of one line, a perfect angle for viewing.
Slowly, ever s
o slowly, Giorgio began easing his way across the tightrope, hands gripping the imaginary pole he used to support his every move, all the while mesmerizing the tourists into unspoken admiration. About half way across the line, Giorgio stopped and allowed the pole no one could see to slip from his hands. Arms overhead, he lifted one leg to a forty-five degree angle, held it motionless while the audience oohed and aahed. But whatever message he’d willed his brain to deliver, the stationary leg had failed to receive. Back and forth he wobbled and wavered, unable to convince his grounded leg to do what it had done so often in the past. Eventually, and to everyone’s horror, Firenze’s star performer came crashing down. He could’ve saved the day, made this awkward display appear to be part of the act, to which his audience would’ve responded with a collective sigh of relief followed by a round of applause. But did he? No. His fall came as such a surprise it couldn’t be considered graceful or comical but more on the order of pathetic.
How could the best mime in all of Firenze
have fallen off an imaginary tightrope, I just didn’t get it. A few seconds passed before reality smacked me in the face like the proverbial halibut. I hurried forward, wrapped the mortified Giorgio in his cape, and escorted him away from an audience mix of snickers and disappointed murmurs.
***
Back in his apartment, Giorgio didn’t bother to undress before finding the refuge of his bed, the whole scenario a bit over the top for me. He curled into a ball, and stared into not a damn thing. Had he stuck his thumb into his mouth, I swear I’d’ve left on the spot. Instead, I lay down beside him, spoon fashion until the steady Zs of his deep breathing passed on to me. Hours later when we both awoke, I brought his little soldier back to life with promises of more to come if he’d indulge my modern sensibility by removing that ridiculous costume. He finally gave into my demand but only because I teased and petted him into a frenzied submission. Wearing nothing more than my lace panties with the open crotch, I climbed aboard, determined to make both of us forget the mortifying afternoon that never should’ve, make that would’ve, happened, if only … ah-h … a little music, please.
We were tighter than two drunken sailors and every bit as naughty whe
n I heard the start of a wail that soon evolved into a scream, piercing every wall and crevice in Giorgio’s bedroom.
“Gi
orgio!” a woman cried out, her voice already having passed the stage of hysteria.
I turned to see what can only be described as
The Mama Italiana from Hell
. Well-fed, well-groomed, definitely not well-mannered, regurgitating a string of Italian words, most of which I didn’t understand except for one: the very nasty
puttanesca
. The nerve of that b-i-t-c-h: calling me a whore, what about her insatiable son I’d been doing my utmost to satisfy. Before I had the chance to roll off of Giorgio, he sat up and dumped me. Without so much as a
mi scusi
,
onto the polished floorboards that felt every bit as unyielding as they were meant to look.
If that wasn’
t enough,
Mama Italiana
showed me her forefinger and pinky, what I took as the Italian version of our American bird, only worse since Giorgio shouted, “No, Mama, no!”
When
Mama Italiano
stomped her foot, he responded with his own string of Italian words that sounded way too apologetic for a grown man and prompted her to fling a handful of euros in my direction. Forefinger pointed toward the door, she ordered me to leave. The ultimate humiliation and for sure one I never want repeated—never, ever, never.
El sweet El
, where are you. I need you—now!
Chapter 12
Lemons and Anchovies
Lorenzo knew what he was talking about when it came to
the lemons and anchovies: a superb combination and even more so when eaten in the comfort of an oversized terrycloth robe he’d been gracious enough to lend me. Add to that his private balcony enclosed with iron railing, its view of the sun’s red and orange hues setting on the Ligurian Sea. I followed his lead, wiping my plate with small pieces of bread to absorb the salty remnants of olive oil and lemon juice—what a delicious yet simple treat. He offered coffee. I refused, remembering my hyperactive bout from the previous night.
H
ad that weird scene occurred less than twenty-four hours before? Where had the time gone? Where had the mysterious woman gone? Would she return to feed her entourage of cats? So many questions remained unanswered, probably due to over-thinking what didn’t concern me. Nor should it have. After stifling an overdue yawn, I knew enough to end on a high note.
“This has been
a terrific evening,” I said. “But we really should go back to the villa.”
“Or, you are welcome to
spend the night here.”
Oh, yes, I wanted to hug him for asking. No, not really
. “If it’s not too much trouble ….”
“I would not
have offered if it were.”
“You’ll call your z
ia so she won’t worry?”
“I’ve already spoken to her. She knows not to expect u
s. Now if you’ll excuse me, I will say
buona notte
.”
“Good night, Lorenzo. And thanks for everything.”
I lingered a while longer on the balcony, taking in the lively music and an avenue of bright lights that would eventually lead to what Lorenzo called the boardwalk and beyond there, white sand glistening in defiance of the approaching night. After yawning again, this time with an
open-wide
my dentist would’ve appreciated, I went inside to where I’d napped earlier. There on the bed lay an embroidered nightgown, exquisite in its simplicity and a perfect fit. As to its origin, that was a question which would have to wait for another discussion with Lorenzo. My last thoughts were of his dead wife and of the mysterious woman in his garden, neither of which should have concerned me in the least.
***
After sleeping in a peaceful vacuum of nothingness, I awoke the next morning to the smell of freshly-ground coffee beans. I rolled out of bed with joints aching and stiff, but loosened up after undertaking some stretches I’d learned in a yoga class, one that had eventually led to a case of heartburn that never really left me.
Good thing Mom
had trained me to never leave home without an extra pair of panties tucked in my handbag. I stepped into mine ever so gently while checking out my rear view in the mirror. Yesterday’s bruises were tender to the touch and had pooled even further under my skin. Covering them with yesterday’s clothes did nothing to make me forget they still existed. Having spent more time than usual on my make-up and hair, I declared myself suitable for breakfast and whatever else would come my way.
T
he scent of hazelnuts lured me into the dining area where Lorenzo had laid out breakfast, a carbon copy of the spread in La Spezia—crusty rolls and butter, assorted jams and cheeses, hot milk and coffee. He pulled out a chair and I sat down at the small round table covered with two cloths, peach over green draped to the floor.
“You slept well?” he asked, having again assumed the formal role of host.
“My best night since coming to Italy.”
“And
if I may be so bold: what about the painful injury?”
“Healing nicely,
thanks to the hot water and lemons.”
One corner of his mouth curled into
a slight smile as he poured my coffee. I added the hot milk, more than I ever drink at home but a necessity here, considering the ultra-strong brew the Italians favor.
“
Please have breakfast with me,” I said. “I shouldn’t hate eating alone but ….”
Lorenzo sat down, crossed his long legs to the side of the table, and poured another cof
fee, adding twice the milk I had taken.
“I
have some unexpected free time,” he said. Again, a tinge of red circled the rim of his ears. “We could spend the next two days seeing Cinque Terre together, at a much slower pace to accommodate your injury.”
Before I
could answer, Lorenzo’s phone rang. He excused himself and went out on the balcony to take the call.
What bet
ter way to see the villages, I thought, my very own guide, who knew everything there was to know about Cinque Terre—from a full-blown authentic Italian but not a mama’s boy. Several minutes passed before he returned, with ears redder than before which I didn’t think possible.
“That was Zia Octavia. She does not speak to stranger
s who telephone the villa after her bedtime.” He handed me his phone. “It seems your sister called last night around midnight. She wants you to contact her as soon as possible.”
What now. Margo probably needed one of Mom’s Italian/Am
erican recipes, as if any of our short-cut versions could compete with the most basic of those in Italy. I went into the bedroom and tapped in the cell number we shared.
Margo answer
ed on the first ring, her voice bordering on panic. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Cinque Terre, just as we
’d planned in case you’ve forgotten. Is there a problem?”
With that, Margo started to sob, her voice choking with the next words. “You must come back, right away as in today. It’s Giorgio, he’s
… oh, El, he’s—”
“My god, he’s dead?”
“Worse than dead, we had a terrible fight, over how long to cook pasta, for god’s sake. Al dente, Giorgio kept saying, pointing to his teeth as if I were some kind of idiot. All I could think was … dental hygienist. He threw me out, literally, tossed my luggage down the stairs. The entire episode was too mortifying for words. I’m back in the lobby of our former pensione, trying to decide what to do.”
I
glanced over to Lorenzo who was standing in the doorway. He raised his brow, a polite way of asking how he could help.
“Ellen, a
re you there?” Margo all but shouted. “Say something, anything. Just don’t leave me stranded in Florence.”
Florence, not Firenze. Not a go
od sign. Could Margo have been reverting to her American ways—on the verge of boredom and expecting an immediate rescue from me, her younger sister and presumed protector, the intelligent one who was supposed to have all the answers? I needed to pull myself together before making a commitment I might later regret.
“Uh, I’ll ha
ve to call you back.”
Margo responded with her usual
sigh, followed up with the click of her phone. Gone forever were those days when an angry response got double the mileage by slamming the phone onto its receiver.
“My sister
’s plans didn’t work out,” I told Lorenzo. “She’s stuck in Florence and has no one to play with.”
“Stuck in Florence?” He spread his arms in disbelief. “How can this be? No one gets
stuck in Firenze
, one of the most intriguing cities in all of Italy.”
“You’d have to know
Margo—she’s really quite remarkable. In any case, it’s hardly worth her time to come here, even by train. So, I must decide whether to return to Florence or stick to my original plan—two more days between Cinque Terre and La Spezia before meeting her at the airport.”
“Of course the decision is yours,
signorina—”
“Ellen, we agreed you’d call me Ellen.”
The tinge again, this time it crept across his cheeks. “In Italy we say Elena. Would you mind if I pronounced your name the Italian way?”
E-LAY
-nah
, the name had a certain quality, almost lyrical. “I suppose I could get used to … Elena. Yes, I rather like Elena”
“Good, then it’s settled. You will stay.”
“What about Margo?”
“As you said, it would hardly be worth her while to travel the distance. But you are already here and must not deny yourself the opportunity to enjoy Le Cinque Terre. It would be my pleasure to show you the villages. We could start this morning in Monterosso.”
Lorenzo had repeated an offer too tempting for me to resist. While he straightened up the breakfast clutter, I walked out to the balcony and called Margo again.
She
answered immediately, her voice evoking the same desperation as before. “Thank god, El, I knew you’d come through for me.”
Som
ehow whatever words I’d planned to say stopped short of my throat. Not one of them found the nerve to venture out.
“El
, are you there? Please, no more games.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, released those shy words
from my mouth like the rapid fire of a machine gun. “I’d like to help you but I fell yesterday and really can’t return to Florence.”
“You broke something, a foot, an ankle, a clavicle, what?”
“Yesterday I was involved in a horrific … incident. Not to worry, I only bruised my hip and thigh,” I paused, gave thought to my next words before speaking them with a catch in my voice. “I know, I know, I should’ve seen a doctor but decided to tough it out—big mistake.”
“You’ve seen a lawyer?”
“You forget we’re in Italy. Today every inch of me is so stiff I can hardly move.”
“And every day will just get worse, trust me
, I’ve been there. Healing takes time so don’t agonize over a few lost days.”
“Thanks, Sis.
I knew you’d understand.”
“Absolutely, n
ow, here’s what I want you to do. First, turn in the Fiat. Then take the train to Milan and from there, an express to Malpensa. I’ll meet you at that hotel near the airport.”
“What part of my pain are
you not feeling? The nearest car rental office is located in Genoa. It’s over a hundred miles from here, an hour and a half drive for the Italians, for me a minimum of two and a half hours. I’m not up to the challenge.” My next words came out before I had a chance to ponder them. “In fact, I may have to postpone my flight home.”
“You what?
”
“You heard me.”
“Wait a minute, do I detect a certain lilt to your voice, in spite of this terrible pain you claim to be enduring. You’ve met someone, haven’t you.”
This time it
was Margo who sounded like our mother; and my turn to sound like Margo. “Don’t be ridiculous. I only left Florence two days ago.”
“Where are you now, I hope at the villa in La Spezia.”
“Not exactly.”
“El
, you’re either there or you’re not.”
“Actually, I’m staying in Monterosso, at the apartment of Lorenzo
Gentili.”
“Who the hell is Lorenzo
Gentili?”
“The host of our villa at La Spezia, the man you stood up
for … what’s-his-name: Giorgio.”
“And now you’re thinking about extending your vacation? What about your job?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a school librarian, Margo. School is out for the summer, which means I am too.”
“
More like out of your mind. Mom’s not going to like this, not one bit.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something to
tell her. Now, really, I’ve got to hang up. My hip is killing me.”