One Hot Italian Summer

by Karina Halle

  Maybe this is a part of moving on.

  Maybe Claudio knew that all along.

  “Perfetto,” he says after I put the last one back on the shelf.

  I balk at the giant paper bag in his hands. “Did you buy the whole store?”

  He looks a bit sheepish and he glances down at a triumphant Vanni. “He had to have some new books that came in. Who knows how I’ll bike home with it all.”

  Vanni just grins. “I got a book about the Tipler Cylinder.”

  I don’t know what the Tipler Cylinder is, but I have a feeling I’ll hear about it.

  “Also,” Claudio says, reaching into the bag and handing me a ticket. “This is yours. For the concert on the thirteenth. INXS, remember?”

  Not like I could forget. He only told me this morning. “Grazie,” I say, slipping the ticket into my purse.

  “Grazie,” Vanni corrects me, even though I know I said it right.

  I ignore it. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Owe me?” Claudio looks borderline insulted. “You’ll never owe me anything. Come on, let’s go back. Emilio should be home and I need to start preparing dinner. He eats as much as Vanni does.” He pauses and says under his breath, “And complains even more.”

  When we get back to the villa, Emilio is deep in the olive grove, tending to the trees. I’m exhausted from the bike ride, so I excuse myself to go have a nap. I end up sleeping so long that once again Vanni has to knock on my door to tell me it’s time for dinner.

  I get up, feeling groggy, and chastise myself for sleeping instead of attempting to write. I only just got here and it feels like the days are slipping through my fingers, and along with it, my chance to finish this book.

  I slide on a pair of leather sandals and a cardigan in case the evening gets chilly and head downstairs and outside to the veranda.

  Everyone is already there, Emilio and Claudio on one side of the table, Vanni and my seat on the other. In the middle is a bottle of mineral water, plus two bottles of red wine. I suppose with Emilio here, we’re going to hit the wine harder. Everyone’s plate already has food on it and there’s a basket with a small loaf of brown bread in it.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say, and I nod at Emilio as I sit down. “Buongiorno, Emilio.”

  The old man gives me a slight smile and nods, eyes twinkling. He’s wearing the same plaid shirt he was wearing when he picked me up but now it’s caked in dust.

  “Ciao,” Emilio says.

  “It’s buona sera,” Vanni whispers to me. “Good evening. Buongiorno is good morning.”

  “Ciao is what we usually say,” Claudio points out. “Much less formal.”

  I nod, distracted by the food. It looks amazing and elegant, even if I don’t know what it is. It’s also a rather small amount. “What is it?”

  “It is just antipasto,” Claudio says, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring me a glass. “The starter. That’s mashed celery root with some asparagus, a poached egg, and those are truffle shavings.”

  Holy shit. My mouth is already watering.

  “Please, please eat,” Claudio says. “Dig in, that’s the saying, right?”

  I nod and dig in.

  One bite and I’m already in heaven. Then I have the wine and my eyes practically roll back in my head.

  I catch Claudio watching me, his eyes glinting, and I know I’m making my food orgasm face again. Thankfully he doesn’t call me on it.

  I finish the course in no time and then Claudio brings out the next dish, placing it in the middle of the table.

  “Pronto,” he says. It looks to be a small chicken basted in a dark sauce, surrounded by slices of pickled red onion, fennel, and oranges. The smell is out of this world and I’ve never seen a prettier, more elaborate looking dish.

  “Grace, would you like a choice of meat?” he asks, bringing out a sharp knife.

  I’m usually boring and go for the white meat or breast when I eat chicken but I say, “Whatever you think is best. I like chicken.”

  “Ah, but this is cappone,” he says, flashing me a wicked smile. “The cock.”

  I blink, feeling heat between my legs.

  “It’s rooster,” Vanni adds quickly. “And it’s very good. Usually we eat it around Christmas, but I’m not complaining.”

  That makes more sense, yet my mind is wrapping around the way that Claudio said “cock,” particularly how his lips looked.

  Sheesh. I need to get a grip.

  I busy myself with a sip of wine as he puts slices of meat and a leg on my plate.

  “Go ahead,” Claudio says. “Try it.”

  There is a teasing quality to his voice.

  He’s trying to get me to make that face again.

  With everyone watching, I slice a bit off, rubbing it in the orange and fennel, and take a tentative bite.

  Holy crap.

  While I try not to let my eyes roll back in my head, I’m unable to stop from grinning. “Wow.”

  “Really?” he says, brows arched. “Good.” He starts to slice pieces off for Vanni.

  “This is incredible,” I say through another bite. It’s far more tender than any chicken I’ve ever had. “Are you even for real?”

  “I hope so,” Claudio says, his overly earnest expression making me smile. “Or perhaps I am a figment of your imagination.”

  Impossible. My mind could never dream up someone like him.

  I turn to Vanni. “Tell me, is your father as good of a cook in the other dimension?”

  “In Gio’s universe?” Vanni asks. “No. He is even better.”

  He gives his father a pointed look. “Because in Gio’s timeline, his father isn’t an artist. He doesn’t work at all. He has all the time in the world to spend with his son.”

  Oh boy. An awkward silence stretches between father and son while Emilio gulps his wine, seeming to pay no attention.

  I clear my throat, hoping to smooth it all over. “If Gio’s father doesn’t work, then how do they make money?”

  “His mother,” Vanni says. “She’s an agent in that timeline, too.”

  I want to ask if his parents are still married in that timeline, but I decide against it. That would probably be opening a can of worms.

  “Well, that’s not the timeline you live in,” Claudio says hastily, pouring himself a glass of wine. “And in this timeline you better eat your food before it gets cold.”

  Vanni shrugs, seemingly unaffected, and shoves a piece of cappone in his mouth.

  Despite that minor blip, dinner is wonderful. I savor every morsel of food (who knew fennel could taste so good?) and sip of wine, and there’s still room in my stomach when Vanni brings out a wooden slab arranged with sliced fruit, cheese, and half a honeycomb, the honey oozing across the board.

  When we’re done, Vanni and Emilio start to bring the empty dishes inside and I’m about to do the same when Claudio comes out holding two small antique glasses of bright yellow liquid. He stands at the end of the table and motions with his head for me to get up.

  I get out of the chair, leaving my cardigan behind on it since the evening air is warm, the sun close to setting. Then I go over to him, taking the glass from Claudio and raising it to my nose to smell. “Limoncello?”

  “Sì. I made it myself.”

  That brings a smile out of me. “Of course you did. Is there anything you can’t do?”

  He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Probably. I’m not sure I can write.”

  “I’m sure you can write.” I take a sip of the liquor. It’s blissfully sweet and cold.

  “I can’t write well.” He takes a sip of his drink, my eyes focused on his lips, the quick flash of pink tongue. He swallows, gazing at me, and raises the glass. “It’s a digestif. Perfect for after dinner, along with a walk. Would you like to keep me company?”

  I hesitate, though I’m not sure why. “Sure.”

  He picks up on it and frowns. “I’m not keeping you from your writing, am I?”

 
That’s not it.

  “Probably not. I’m not sure I’ll get back to it tonight.”

  “Ah,” he says as we start strolling across the lawn. “You work more in the morning, yes?”

  “More like I need to have a lot of time prior to physically writing just to let it percolate. You know, simmer in my brain. I mean, I guess I could force it right now but…”

  “But art can’t be forced.”

  “Not for me,” I admit. “A lot of authors have this ability to write on demand but that’s never been my method. I don’t even have a method, I just know I have to feel it, live it. It takes a lot out of me, so going into it is like going into battle sometimes.”

  “I know how that feels,” he says. “And I’m guessing it can be a battle to be pulled out of it.”

  I bob my head. “Aye. If I’m into it. If I’m not, well, it’s a little too easy to hit save and leave it and go and do something else. Some authors have the urge to write all the time. I find it much easier to just … not. Sometimes I think that makes me bad at what I do.”

  He glances at me, a look that makes me feel strangely appreciated. “I doubt that. You’re just human. Every artist is different.”

  I try and take that to heart instead of pushing it away. I’ve so rarely had the chance to talk about writing that it’s a relief to find someone who seems to understand.

  We turn up a pebbled path that runs parallel to the villa, lined by potted lemon trees and pink oleander, and the occasional marble statue. I pause by one of them, a woman covered in roses. She’s not only life-size, she looks so lifelike, as if she was once real and turned to stone, like a victim of Medusa.

  “How do you do it?” I whisper, running my hands over the roses, feeling their hard grooves, the petals as smooth and velvet soft as a real rose. They seem to glow in the coral light of the setting sun.

  “Do what?”

  “Make this,” I say. “My brain can’t wrap itself around this kind of creation.”

  He has another sip of his drink and runs the back of his hand over his lips. There’s something intensely sexual about it that for the second time this evening, my body feels like it’s betraying me, heat pooling inside my core.

  “It’s easy,” he says after a moment, his gaze leaving mine and drifting over the statue. “I should say, it can be easy. It depends. I create statues for people, churches, cities and towns. Those are commissioned. I make replicas of other works, more or less. Those are easy. That is just based on skill. If you have the skill and the training, then it is easy to do as they say. I’ll admit, easy sometimes means boring. But it’s money.”

  “Which one was this?” I ask.

  “This was for me,” he says. “I have an idea and then I work with it. You know, for her, the lady of the roses, I could see her in my mind. But I was unsure of how to free her. Sometimes it’s already there in the marble or the clay and you just have to unearth it. It already exists in this world and you’re uncovering it. That is the best. You feel like an archeologist unearthing dreams.”

  An archeologist unearthing dreams. I like that.

  He sighs, sucking in his lower lip for a moment. “And sometimes it’s blank. You’re not sure what to mold, what to sculpt. You need to create it. You need to create the idea. That can be hard. That is when you are waiting for the muse. Perhaps writing is the same?”

  “Pretty much,” I say as I finish the rest of the drink, a nice buzz picking up. “Sometimes the book is there, somewhere, already.” I gesture to the space above my head. “It’s already a thing and you just need to transcribe it. You’re like a medium, writing down messages from some other life. And other times…”

  “It sucks.”

  I laugh and give him a sly smile. He gets it. It’s so rare to find someone who knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Yes, sometimes it just sucks.”

  He tilts his head, eyes raking over my face, then raises his glass. “Here is to our muse, then. May she bless us both.”

  I raise my empty glass and he finishes the rest of his. He swallows and then plucks my glass from my fingers. “I shall get you a refill.”

  “Actually,” I say quickly as he starts toward the house. “I think I’m going to make another attempt at writing tonight. I’m inspired now.” Or at least determined.

  His face falls slightly. “You can still have another drink for inspiration?”

  I shake my head. “I better not or I’ll be tempted to go to bed. But perhaps I’ll have another espresso to take to my room.”

  “Of course,” he says, and we head inside the house, the sun setting at our backs.

  Eight

  Claudio

  Despite my blathering on about the methods of my art to Grace a few nights ago, the muse has been refusing to show her face today and every day before. Oh, she’s here. I can tell. It’s brewing, this need to create, even if I can’t identify it, even if I can’t see it. I can feel the vibrations in my bones.

  The door to my studio vibrates on its hinges from frantic knocking.

  I shut my eyes, drawing in a long breath. I know it’s Vanni. Grace would never dare to disturb me when my studio door is closed. I’ve learned that about her these last few days. She knows creation is sacred. She’s been keeping to herself, writing, while I’ve been doing what I can in here. If this was a competition between us, however, I’m pretty sure I’d be losing. She has found her muse, but mine is still shy. It doesn’t help that it’s my job to be a father first. Art must always come second.

  “What?” I say loudly, trying not to sound angry at the interruption.

  The door opens and I look over my shoulder to see my son poking his head in.

  “Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t look sorry.

  “What is it? I’m trying to work.”

  Vanni looks at the lump of clay and the mess of sketches across the table. Generally the clay would have taken shape by now, but it’s just a giant blob with my knuckle indents in it.

  “That doesn’t look like anything,” he comments glibly, walking over.

  “Because I keep being interrupted,” I tell him. “What is it, Vanni?” I repeat, trying to sound more patient this time.

  He throws his arms out, his head back, and wails, “I’m booooooooored.”

  I exhale and spin around on the stool to face him. “You’ve read all your books already?”

  “The Tipler Cylinder is bunk,” he cries out. “It’s impossible, physically impossible, to create an infinitely long cylinder! In space!”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter, because Vanni whines a lot when he’s bored. His brain needs constant stimulation or he just sort of falls apart. This is why I wish his school stayed in session all summer. Instead, they get out earlier than they should.

  “Okay, well, we can get Emilio to come over and you can help him—”

  “Nooooooo.” He throws his arms dramatically against the table, burying his head.

  “Look, I need to create something,” I tell him. “You know I do. This is work.”

  “Maybe Grace will pay attention to me,” he mumbles.

  “No,” I say sharply, enough that he lifts his head in alarm. I clear my throat. “No. Grace is here as our guest.”

  “She’s Mom’s guest.”

  “Regardless, she is our guest now. She needs to write. I need to work.”

  “You weren’t supposed to be working right now anyway,” he points out, his fingers tracing over the abstract sketches I’ve made. “We should be on a boat on the Mediterranean with Toni. Like we are every year.”

  “Last year we were in a cabin in Austria.”

  He shoots me daggers. “And this year was supposed to be on a boat. But no, Toni had to break his stupid leg.”

  “Hey,” I tell him, putting my hand on his arm and giving it a light squeeze. “That’s not very nice. This isn’t Toni’s fault.”

  “It is! He’s the klutz who fell down the stairs.”

&nb
sp; “You’re a bigger klutz than he is.”

  “Am not!”

  “You are. That could have been you.”

  His face is starting to get red. A meltdown might be imminent.

  Which means I need to stop my attempt at working.

  “This timeline sucks!” he snarls and then storms off.

  “Vanni!” I yell after him.

  I get up and walk into the house, which is a lot cooler than my studio, thanks to it being a literal greenhouse, even with the curtains drawn and panels open. I can hear Vanni stomping up the stairs to his room.

  I pause and pinch the space between my brows, warding off a headache. I know how he feels, but I also need to take this opportunity to work.

  But that’s what being a parent is all about. The balance that keeps you running from one side of the seesaw to the other.

  I do what I can to work, though my mind keeps wandering, feeling guilty about Vanni. Then my phone rings.

  My sister Maria.

  “Claudio,” she says. “How are you?”

  I sigh, finding it too hard to lie. Besides, she knows me too well.

  “Uh oh. That sounds like a frustrated artist,” she says.

  “It’s Vanni.”

  “I see. And you are the frustrated artist.”

  “I feel bad that I need to work…”

  “That’s what I thought. Listen, Sofia here has been moping around, bored. All her friends are on vacation, but of course I am working, same as you. But my job has reduced some hours for the summer and anyway…how about Vanni comes and stays with us for a few days? Sofia would love the company.”

  Maria’s daughter, Sofia, is the same age as Vanni and they get along quite well, especially as she likes science and things like that.

  “Are you sure?” I ask suspiciously. “Because I don’t want him to get excited over nothing.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She’s agreed to come by and pick him up in a couple hours. She lives in Livorno, which isn’t far.

  I head upstairs to tell Vanni the news, hoping he’ll be excited.