The First Year

by Genevieve Gannon

  ‘Andy, look.’ She pointed to a fountain in the middle of a traffic island. Cars and Vespas swirled around it.

  ‘Even modern Rome has a touch of whimsy, with its streets lined with orange trees,’ Andy said.

  Amid the traffic lights and the municipal rubbish bins, Gods and cherubs frolicked on street corners, carved into fountains and etched onto churches. They turned a corner and discovered a piazza filled with market stalls and tables piled high with fresh loaves of bread, bottles of olive oil, cured meats and fruit and vegetables. The store owners competed for shoppers’ attention.

  ‘Maybe we could get our breakfast here,’ Saskia raised her voice to be heard over the hawkers. The canvas marquees threatened to fly away with the wind, which was stirring up the meaty smell of olives and the earthy scent of coffee.

  Vendors shouted over each other. One tall, bald man with a bulbous stomach stood by his table of fruit and sang the prices in a rich tenor. Another man with a black beard and a table of peaches addressed his pitch to Saskia.

  ‘Biologiche! Locali! Direttamente dal nostro frutteto!’ he called, waving his hands in that uniquely Italian fashion.

  ‘What is he saying?’ she whispered to Andy.

  ‘His peaches are local and organic, fresh from his own tree.’

  They wandered from stall to stall, picking the best-looking fruit, squeezing it and holding it close to their noses. Andy taught Saskia the native words as she chose what she wanted to buy.

  ‘Ciliegia,’ he said, as they bit cherries from their stalks and spat the stones into a brown paper bag.

  ‘Fragole,’ he said as they stained their lips with strawberries.

  ‘Uva,’ he said, snapping a grape from its stem and pushing it between Saskia’s lips. ‘Also known as future wine.’

  She giggled as she broke the skin with her teeth and felt it burst, flooding her mouth with sweetness.

  ‘Delicious,’ she said, smiling as she fed Andy a grape.

  He wiped a trickle of juice from the corner of her lip with the pad of his thumb. Saskia felt a flicker of electricity at his touch. She hooked a finger into one of his belt loops and pulled him towards her. ‘I think I left something on the bed,’ she said.

  They returned to their pensione, unbuckling and unbuttoning as they rode the lift up to their room where they crashed onto the Italian sheets, still crumpled from the night before. They ventured out again about forty-five minutes later, looking dishevelled and flushed, with content, just-wed smiles on their faces.

  They started with the major landmarks: the Forum, the Palatine and the Spanish steps. Saskia snapped eagerly with her camera. Outside the Colosseum, she sat with a pencil in her hand and her notebook propped on her knee, trying to capture the curve of the Corinthian arches on the top level.

  From there they strolled without purpose, the midday heat robbing them of the energy to battle crowds. They passed men in high-vis vests jack-hammering a road and came upon a fountain.

  ‘Andy, look.’

  She pointed at a statue of a man with a long, brambly beard lying across a dais, while a large cat looked on. A carved stone willow sheltered his forehead.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Saskia. ‘At home this would be a major landmark. Here, it’s just another fountain. As unremarkable as a billboard advertising phone plans.’ She lifted her camera and captured the image.

  ‘Do you want to draw it?’ Andy asked.

  It was a smoggy corner. The traffic was loud and the roadwork even louder.

  ‘Mmm . . . Maybe later, when it’s quieter.’

  ‘You’re just saying that because you don’t want to make me sit here. I don’t mind. Look.’ He pointed across the street to a shop. ‘I’ll get us some lunch while you get started.’

  ‘Okay,’ Saskia nodded, already feeling in her bag feeling for her sketchbook. She sat on an iron bench on the footpath. The metal was warm from the sun.

  She absorbed the fountain for a moment. She imagined the craftsmen labouring on this street corner four, maybe five hundred years earlier, when the only traffic would have been donkeys and men in togas.

  With a pencil in hand she started to copy the man’s features, and the details around him. She knew echoes of the pattern would repeat themselves in her jewellery designs when she prepared her next collection. She became lost imagining the willow leaves rendered in silver dangling from earring hooks; a gold ring, designed to look like the folds of fabric carved into stone, sitting snug on a finger.

  ‘You really are very talented.’ Andy leaned over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh!’ Saskia jumped. ‘You frightened me.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I was miles away.’

  ‘I found a panini shop. We have salami and Mozzarella, or basil, tomato and bocconcini.’

  ‘This one, please. I love Mozzarella.’ She took it from him and bit into it, relishing the oozing melted cheese. She didn’t know if it was because she was in Rome, or because she was on her honeymoon, but she had eaten these ingredients many times and they’d never tasted this harmonious before.

  Andy sat next to Saskia, admiring her pencil strokes while she completed the sketch. The afternoon soundtrack of trucks and traffic was broken by the squeal of children and the slap of school shoes on stone. Saskia closed her book and burrowed under Andy’s arm.

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, to think of children going to school in Rome,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Rome is a place for travel and romance. It’s hard to imagine anything as routine and necessary as maths classes happening here.’

  ‘Or, getting your pet de-sexed or putting air in your tyres.’

  ‘Paying gas bills.’

  ‘I can imagine people shopping, but only for leather shoes and herbs that come in bunches, like flowers. Not things like air freshener and garbage bags. Plums, but not mayonnaise. Olives, but not margarine.’

  ‘What else would you like to see today?’ he asked. ‘The Trevi Fountain’s not far from here. But I thought perhaps we could save that, get up really early one morning and visit it at dawn. That way you can sit and sketch without the crowds. I’ve made a list of churches that I thought you’d like. We can visit some this afternoon.’

  ‘Do you really want to spend your honeymoon sitting in churches while I draw?’

  He nodded. ‘I want to see the look on your face when you step through battered old doors and discover the Baroque ceilings.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked up at her new husband. His sunglasses were hanging from his shirt, pulling it down to reveal skin slightly pink from the sun. A surge of love coursed through her. She rested her head against his shoulder.

  ‘It’s so unfair,’ he murmured, flipping through the pages of her sketchbook.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘This, all this. You’re so talented but you still have to work in that cafe.’

  ‘I like the cafe. There’s nothing wrong with working in a cafe.’

  ‘The cafe’s fine. I just wish it was easier for you to make money from your jewellery so you could do it full time. You’re so devoted to your profession. I wish your remuneration reflected that. If your talents and passion lay in, say, accounting, you wouldn’t have to work in the café to make ends meet.’

  ‘I don’t think many people are passionate about key performance indicators.’

  ‘You know what I mean. I wish I had juniors who spent as much time thinking about law as you do about jewellery. It just seems so unfair.’

  ‘The work is the reward,’ she said and kissed him. ‘Not everything’s about money.’

  Day 7, Saturday, October 18

  ‘Alberto!’ Andy got up from the table on the edge of the piazza and thrust his hand towards a man in a linen suit.

  ‘Andrew. Che piacere vederti! Come stai?’

  ‘Va benissimo!’

  Saskia squinted up at the figure in white who was blocking the afternoon sun. Alberto had a feminine, almost feline face crowned with thick black hair raked back into a
bouncy quiff. The woman on his arm was also dressed in white and had a Mediterranean tan and wide, owlish eyes. She uttered something in Italian as Andy kissed her on each cheek.

  Saskia smiled dumbly. She could never remember which word was appropriate for the time of day. Buona sera, Buona notte, Buongiorno? The handful of greetings she’d memorised from her Italian phrase book were jumbled in her mind, and that morning she’d made the mistake of wishing their concierge Buona Pasqua (Happy Easter) after he had given them directions.

  ‘Andrew, what are you doing in Roma?’ Alberto spoke perfect English, clapping a hand on Andy’s shoulder. ‘When did you arrive? Why didn’t you call?’

  ‘Actually, we’re on our honeymoon.’

  ‘A honeymoon? No, is it possible? You got married?’ Alberto’s smile grew bigger. He turned to his partner. ‘Tesoro, did you hear that?’

  Andy put his hand on Sas’s. ‘This is Saskia, my wife.’ The word still caused a reflexive smile in both of them.

  ‘Mrs Saskia Colbrook.’ Alberto took Saskia’s hand in his and pressed his lips to it. ‘How wonderful to meet you. Welcome to Italia.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Saskia said. She took the woman’s limp hand and shook it too, ‘Nice to meet you, Tesoro,’ she said.

  The woman laughed in a tittering, joyless way. ‘No, no, I’m Carla. Tesoro is just Alberto’s nickname for me. It means darling, I think.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Carla peered down at Saskia. ‘You don’t speak Italian?’

  ‘Yes, but only a few words. Mozzarella. Gelato. Fettuccini.’

  ‘The most important words,’ Andy grinned.

  Alberto laughed heartily. Carla blinked slowly then addressed Andy.

  ‘It must have all happened very fast.’

  ‘We met right after my last visit.’

  ‘In December?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s fast, no?’

  Andy nodded. ‘Yes, it was fast.’

  ‘Andrew,’ Alberto slapped his shoulder again. ‘Why did you not tell us you were coming?’

  ‘I had planned to call.’

  ‘You must come and have dinner at the house. We want to get to know your new bride and hear all about this whirlwind romance.’ His voice was several decibels louder than necessary.

  Andy looked at Saskia who smiled her assent.

  ‘That sounds like an excellent idea. We’d love to.’

  ‘Bravissima.’ Alberto clapped his hands together. ‘Come tonight if you can. Papa arrives in Rome tomorrow and you know how he monopolises my schedule. We have to go; we are late for my aunt Rosaline. She’s giving me a seventeenth century Genoese armoire. Whenever she wants attention she calls and announces she’s bequeathing us a family heirloom so we have to visit. Call me about dinner, yes? Ciao, ciao!’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew the King and Queen of Italy,’ Saskia said after they had left.

  ‘They’re the Marianos.’

  ‘Alberto’s very friendly. Very nicely dressed too.’

  ‘You know our monstrous silver coffee-maker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Mariano coffee-maker.’

  ‘Oh. Wait, I thought that was a wedding present.’

  ‘It was. It was from Alberto Mariano Senior. He’s an old friend of my parents. He still runs the company.’

  ‘We serve Mariano coffee at our cafe. All the cups have Mariano printed on them. The sugar is Mariano too.’

  ‘They have an office in Melbourne that Alberto Senior often visits.’

  ‘What does Alberto Mariano Junior do?’

  ‘He’s mostly responsible for cash flow — as in, helping cash flow out of his father’s company. I think he has a nominal deputy vice president title but really he just spends their money. He’s their head hedonist.’

  Saskia chuckled and took another olive from the bowl in front of her. She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head. They had been at the table all afternoon, slowly eating and drinking Prosecco after a morning of sightseeing, and now she felt sleepy and full.

  ‘I hadn’t really planned to call. Alberto is fun but, like many rich delicacies, he’s an acquired taste. We don’t have to go.’

  ‘Oh let’s. He seemed so excited to see you.’ She yawned again.

  ‘Siesta time?’ he asked hopefully.

  She nodded and Andy left some money on the table and took her hand.

  They took a slow route back. Andy had chosen the pensione because its balcony had a view down a narrow street and, at its end, a slice of the Colosseum. Their room had polished floorboards and a grand king-sized bed on a raised platform. When they reached Via Labicana, Andy stopped to kiss Saskia before they went in. ‘I resent having to share you with the Marianos.’

  ‘If they bore us I’ll steal some silverware so the night isn’t a total waste.’

  ‘You could melt it down. Save yourself a trip to your silver supplier. You’re going to need to stock up when we get back now that you’ve coming up with all of these new designs.’

  ‘Even this is inspiring.’ Saskia touched the metal lattice work on the lift. It was an old-fashioned kind with a cage and stiff, iron doors that rattled as the lift moved. Once inside, Andy slid his arms around Saskia and kissed her again.

  ‘You could make a bracelet in the style of the lift cage.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about work now.’ She nuzzled against him.

  ‘No clients,’ he said. ‘No deadlines. No emails.’

  When they entered their room he stepped out of his shoes, and whisked Saskia up into his arms. She wiggled her feet until her shoes fell off with a clank and a clunk. Her skirt followed, fluttering to the floor, then her shirt. Andy took hold of the lace waistband of her underpants and slid them down over her hips. Then he hooked the elastic around his thumb and flicked them across the room like a sling-shot, saying, ‘Be gone.’

  *

  They dozed, waking around 6 p.m. when beams from the setting sun shot through the chink in the curtains. Saskia slept tucked inside Andy’s arms, her face against his chest. From above, he could admire the long pointed shadows her eyelashes cast over her cheeks. He kissed each one and said: ‘If we’re going to the Mariano’s for dinner I’d better call Alberto.’

  Andy took his phone from one of the concealed zipped pockets in his suitcase. When he turned it on it vibrated as it filled with messages and email alerts that had built up over the days.

  ‘You’re sure you want to go there for dinner?’ he asked Saskia again as he found Alberto’s name in his contacts list.

  ‘Of course.’

  She heard the dial tone, then Andy had a short, loud conversation with Alberto.

  ‘Va bene, va bene, va bene,’ he said, trying to get off the line.

  After finishing the call, Andy saw the envelope icon that indicated new mail. His thumb quavered over the animated letter. He had promised not to work on their honeymoon, a pledge he’d so far found easy to keep. He clicked, thinking, I’ll just read one.

  ‘Andy.’ Saskia’s voice held a warning that was only half playful. ‘Why is that phone still in your hand?’

  He didn’t react for a moment. His eyes were locked on the screen.

  ‘Andy?’

  ‘Hmm?’ He took in the subject of the email, its first line. A meeting time. All staff. Mandatory.

  ‘Andy!’

  He’d been at Harris, Morse and Lowe for five years and they had never once had an ‘all staff’ meeting. He shut off his phone.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It was spam. For penis pumps . . . It gets through the filter sometimes . . . I was mesmerised by the before and after shots.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Best shower before dinner.’ He bounced off the bed and into their en suite.

  Saskia heard the whish of water as he turned on the taps. She could detect the change in Andy’s expression when he was not telling the whole truth. His sentences would become stilted, delivered in little bursts. He’d
start with a simple lie, like, ‘Mum really liked you.’ Then he’d add detail to make it seem more real. ‘She admired the fact that you have your own business . . . Said it was very enterprising. Particularly in the arts . . . And she liked your earrings.’

  Saskia wrapped herself in the sheet but decided she decided she wouldn’t say anything about what he’d seen on his phone, or the fact he took it into the bathroom with him.

  *

  An hour later they were wending their way up the cobbled roads to the address Alberto called ‘the little city house’. The scenery changed from the garish tourist quarter into grand and restrained suburb. Tacky souvenir shops painted red, white and green, were replaced by boutiques that only seemed to sell gauzy, silk garments that hung from sparse padded hangers.

  ‘Here we are, the House of Mariano,’ Andy said when they reached an iron gate.

  He pressed an intercom button hidden behind ivy leaves and they were admitted through a stone archway into a courtyard filled with the burbling of a fountain. In the centre, a marble woman poured water from a pot into a pond. Points of her white skin shone through the gown of moss that covered her body. Green vines climbed the stone walls.

  ‘Andy, Saskia, andiamo! Welcome!’ Alberto threw open the door. He had changed into moleskin pants and a light grey cashmere jumper that felt softer than duckling down against Saskia’s bare arms as she hugged him. She was wearing her new favourite dress — a silvery-grey lace shift she had rescued from an op shop, then restored by replacing its torn black polyester lining with cream-coloured silk. Her hair was pinned up in a style that Andy said made her look like 40s screen siren Cyd Charisse.

  ‘Andy,’ Alberto said, holding Saskia at arm’s length. ‘How did you manage to find such a ravishing wife?’

  ‘Ebay,’ said Saskia.

  ‘I thought it was safer than online dating because they have such a good returns policy,’ Andy explained.

  Alberto laughed, offering a full view of his molars. ‘Come, come in.’

  At his side was a butler with a tray of crystal glasses.

  ‘This is my new favourite cocktail,’ Alberto said as he handed one each to Andy and Saskia. ‘Muscatel with sloe gin and sweet vermouth. Saluti.’ He clinked his glass with theirs then drank half of it in one gulp.