Juliet's Answer

by Glenn Dixon

  She chuckled at that. “You should,” she said. “You should come.”

  It was winter when we arrived, and the crowds were nonexistent. It felt like we had Florence all to ourselves. A dark rain spattered the streets, but when the sun edged out from behind the clouds, the buildings were lit by a dramatic chiaroscuro light like a painting by Caravaggio. In the Academia, we rounded a corner and saw before us Michelangelo’s David, his marble hand towering over our heads, his noble face lit by the heavens. It was so striking that Claire grabbed me by the arm and insisted that we go back and come around the corner again, just so we could experience again the sheer awe of seeing it for the first time.

  Florence shone and Claire was entranced. Italy is like that. It casts a spell like no other place on earth. One cold but bright afternoon, Claire was going back to a shop by the Ponte Vecchio where she’d seen some shoes of Florentine leather that she wanted to buy. We stood across from the Duomo, the exquisite domed cathedral, and I was showing her the doors on the baptistery. They are fitted with panels of cast bronze by the sculptor Lorenzo Ghiberti and over the years the doors have come to be known as the Gates of Paradise. “Okay,” she said, “let me go get those shoes and I’ll meet you back here at three o’clock.”

  “Here? At the Gates of Paradise?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll meet you at the Gates of Paradise.” She laughed and her voice chimed like earrings dropped into an empty wine goblet. She was beautiful when she was happy. Her jade-green eyes sparkled. She trundled off, but at three she was nowhere to be seen. I waited and was just starting to get worried when she showed up half an hour late, in a bit of a mood, and the bronze bas-reliefs—framed by angels—were all but ignored behind us.

  Still, for the next year or two, Claire would tell that story at dinner parties. “I’ll meet you,” she said, shaking her head in delight, “at the Gates of Paradise.”

  Only she never did.

  We were friends and, let me be honest here, there was no sex. Nothing had changed on that trip, and I found myself right back where I’d begun years before. Obviously this was not going to be a traditional relationship, but I began to think that there really were all sorts of relationships in the world and, if this was how it was going to be, then c’est la vie. I guess I’d deal with it.

  But everyone yearns for a little magic. Everyone wants the Gates of Paradise to open for them, and when I wrote my letter to Juliet, it was one last knock on the door. It was one last attempt at a happy ending.

  * * *

  When I left Juliet’s vault, I headed straight for the Club di Giulietta, and when I strode in through the door, I thought I’d made pretty good time. It was just after ten, and an old man stood by the front desk. He wore a canary-yellow tie and a navy-blue vest and he was reading the newspaper, La Repubblica. He refused to look up at me.

  “Ah,” I floundered, “is Giovanna here?”

  He stood straight, proud, his yellow tie arrowing down his chest like a swath of moonlight on a dark lake. He clamped his lips shut and waved an impatient hand, which I took to mean, “She’s in the back, you foreign monkey.”

  “Scusi,” I said, scurrying by him. I could feel his eyes jabbing into my back as I went. “Giovanna?” I called quietly.

  “Giovanna?” I said, a little louder.

  “I am here.” I heard a shuffling and Giovanna appeared around the doorframe of Anna’s office. She was wearing an elegant purple dress and a string of black pearls. She looked like Sophia Loren’s kid sister.

  “You have a question?”

  “No. I was just making sure you were here.”

  “Good, then,” said Giovanna. “We are quite busy today.” She swept back into Anna’s office and I slouched into my office across the hall, thumping down into my chair. The counter had a scattering of pens and paper clips and, unaccountably, a pink box of Japanese Pocky sticks. The box of English letters was just where I’d left it yesterday. I plucked out a few letters, reading two or three to get my head into it. I stopped when I came to this one:

  Dear Juliet,

  There’s a boy back home who I think is really special. He’s kind and he values his words. He knows what’s going on in my mind, and he is genuinely interested about me. He knows I love to cook. And he looks directly in my eyes, even when he’s talking in a group. He loves me with his gaze. I’ve never felt so vulnerable and comfortable at the same time as when he’s looking at me.

  In all my little-girl daydreams about my wedding day, I could never picture the groom’s face—even when I dated other guys. I never saw the face. But now, I see this boy’s face at the end of the aisle. He smiles, drawing me closer and closer to my future. And I want that.

  I leaned back in my chair and sighed. Yes, I thought. That’s what I wanted too. That’s what the letters were all about. My own letter was burning in my backpack, begging to be mailed, begging to be answered.

  Giovanna called down the hall to say she was going out for a while. I heard the front door open and close and then all was quiet. When I got up a few minutes later to stretch, the man with the canary-yellow tie had also disappeared. I poked my head into Anna’s office. The blue of her laptop screen was reflected in her glasses. “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Who was who?” She was still looking at the screen.

  “The older man.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, “was that Giulio Tamassia?”

  “Who else?”

  “Wow. So that was—”

  “Giovanna’s father. Yes.” Anna looked like a teacher waiting for her slowest student to catch up. “Giulio started the Club di Giulietta. You should know this. He is the Club di Giulietta. He is a very important man.”

  I knew the facts, just not the face. In 1972, Giulio Tamassia began hosting dinners for his friends, a group of intellectuals—all men—who ate and drank and talked about love and women and politics. They named themselves the Club di Giulietta. In 1989, a city commissioner approached them with the problem of the letters—now hundreds every year—and Giulio offered their services. They would write back to the senders. That’s how it all began.

  Giulio had done well for himself. He’d started off as a baker. He’d worked his way up to running a large confectionery business, and when he retired, he’d bought an apartment building that had an empty space on the main floor. He decided to set it up as an office, this office, dedicated entirely to the answering of letters to Juliet.

  “Maybe I should have introduced myself,” I said.

  “Probably he is a very busy man,” Anna said, giving a last glance at her laptop before closing it down.

  “He didn’t seem to want to talk,” I said meekly.

  Anna put two fingers on either side of the rims of her glasses and pushed them up the bridge of her nose. “I told you. He is a very important man. He is good friends with the sindaco of Verona, the mayor. Many politicians still call on him for advice. And he was friends with Zeffirelli.”

  “The movie director? No way.”

  “Yes, and with Pavarotti.”

  “Wow.”

  “Probably he is very important.”

  * * *

  All through that first winter after Claire returned, I helped her out by picking her up in the mornings and dropping her off at her new job. It was on my way to work, anyway.

  Every morning, I ground fresh coffee and brought along a cup for her—black, how she liked it—and she’d take it in her hands to warm them. Morning after morning, I’d drive through the sunrise with her, the frosted windshield sparkling, her hands wrapped around the coffee. “Thank you,” she’d say. “I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  And then, in the spring, came a surprise. “I’ve bought a house,” she told me. We were driving home. I’d swung by to get her and we were going to go for a walk along the river.

  “That’s fantastic,” I said. “Where’s your new place?”

  “There,”
she said, pointing to a house as we drove by it.

  I was surprised. It wasn’t that far from mine. Now we’d be near enough to walk over to each other’s place. Close enough to guarantee we would be spending a whole lot of time together.

  It’s funny. Research shows that the best predictor for whom you might fall in love with is not physical attraction. It’s not height or weight or hormones. It’s nothing like that. It’s much more simple. The number one predictor of love is proximity. This has been tested over and over. In one study, university researchers mapped out the relationships that developed in a student residence over a semester and there was nearly a one-to-one correlation with how far apart the lovers’ rooms were. A massive follow-up study was done for the entire island of Manhattan, geo-teching a thousand relationships. Again, the proximity theory proved true: If you live close to another person, your chances of falling in love with them will skyrocket.

  So Claire was moving into my neighborhood. My fate was sealed. There was no sign of a boyfriend—for the first time since I’d known her—and I began to think it could all work out. Maybe, just maybe, she really was the person I would grow old with. And there was nothing more that I wanted.

  * * *

  Anna sauntered into my little office later in the morning carrying a Tupperware container of cookies. Soa had come into the office too, and she edged in behind Anna. Anna plunked the cookies down on my desk.

  “Time for a break,” Soa said. “It’s an Italian thing.”

  Anna stifled a smile. “Are we working you too hard, Soa?”

  Soa pulled the lid off the container and sniffed at the contents.

  “What are these?” I asked, examining the cookies.

  “Chocolate mint,” Anna said. “I baked them last night.”

  I crunched down on one of them and a flood of pleasure danced across my tongue. “Delicious,” I said.

  Anna laughed, making a sound like somebody shaking a tambourine.

  “Anna,” I said, “what’s with these Pocky sticks?” I pointed to the little pink box of Japanese treats.

  “Those must be Manuela’s,” she said.

  “Have I met her?”

  “We are many secretaries,” Anna said. “Manuela, she has worked here for many years. Elena, Barbara, there are many.”

  “But where is everybody?”

  “It is August. Everyone in Italy is on holiday, but the letters must still be answered. So Soa here, she must come every day. Is that not correct, Soa?”

  Soa performed a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

  “Manuela,” Anna continued, “says it’s good to have young people. They will understand better the hearts of the young people who write to us.”

  Soa remained poker-faced.

  “Soa,” began Anna again, “is an exchange student—from where? Somewhere near Russia?” I could see Anna was egging her on.

  “The Czech Republic,” said Soa. They held their sour faces for a moment, then both broke into wide grins.

  “Exchange student?” I asked.

  “I am with Erasmus. You know it?”

  I did. Erasmus was an exchange program for university students in the EU. “So what are you studying?”

  “Languages.”

  “Ah,” I said. “That figures. How many?”

  “Italian is my fourth, no, my fifth language.”

  I studied the girl with her blond ponytail. At least a dozen colorful bracelets dangled from each of her wrists.

  “Manuela,” continued Anna, “she answers the Japanese letters.”

  “Is she Japanese?”

  “No. But she studied Japanese for some years. This is usually her room.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Probably you should not eat her Pocky sticks.”

  “I won’t. I haven’t touched them.”

  “Manuela will lead our tours. She is an official guide for the city. It will be good if you can talk to her about your Shakespeare play.”

  “I’m actually leaving in a few days.”

  Soa looked surprised. “But you have only just arrived.”

  “I know. I have to go back, to teach.”

  “And for another reason?” Anna prodded.

  I looked from one to the other. They had me cornered.

  “Did you write your letter yet?” Anna asked.

  “What letter?” Soa asked. “You are writing a letter?”

  * * *

  Okay, so I know what you’re thinking. The letter. What did I write in my letter to Juliet?

  Well, here it is, word for word:

  Dear Juliet,

  It’s been a long journey. I have had my share of broken hearts and I have had romance too. I have traveled the world, but in the end I am still alone.

  There is one, Claire, whom I have known for many years. I fell in love with her in the beginning, but it was unrequited. Over the years, we became the closest of friends. I have seen her through long-term boyfriends but now she too is alone.

  How shall I tell her a spark is still there? I am too afraid to endanger a long friendship. In this I feel like a foolish schoolboy. Perhaps you have some words of wisdom for me?

  It’s a bit pretentious, I can see that now. I guess I thought I had to adopt a certain tone with Juliet. Perhaps you have some words of wisdom for me? I mean really.

  That’s what I stuffed into the red letter box in the courtyard across from the statue of Juliet. Juliet of the golden right breast. I imagined Soa would be by within a day or two to collect the letters, and mine would be among them. I certainly hadn’t put my last name on it, so I hoped that no one would recognize it.

  There was nothing to do now, except go back to Canada and wait for my answer.

  * * *

  Sadia peered up at me. “Do you believe in fate, Mr. Dixon?” I could see that she wasn’t intending to challenge me. She was being earnest. “I mean, that Juliet and Romeo are meant for each other. Like, what did you say . . . star-crossed?”

  “Sounds kind of dubious,” Devin said.

  “But look.” Sadia turned around in her seat to face Devin. “He met her right when he needed to meet someone. It was like it was meant to be.”

  Devin harrumphed, but Sadia ignored him. “So what do you believe, Mr. Dixon?” she repeated.

  “Well,” I said, “I can’t say I believe in fate. I think we are the architects of our own misfortune.” I don’t know where that came from. “As far as love goes,” I fumbled on, “I don’t think there’s only one person for you in the whole wide world and that you have to go and find them. I don’t think it’s like that. Sometimes love is something you have to work at. Sometimes it takes a long time.”

  I could see from the expressions on the faces of my students that most of them didn’t agree with me. Young people are hopeless romantics.

  “Okay,” I said, trying a different tack. “Why don’t we see what Shakespeare has to say? Right after the balcony scene, Romeo declares his love for Juliet to Friar Lawrence. He’s quite suddenly forgotten all about Rosaline and now, he’s madly in love with Juliet.”

  “Okay.” Sadia eyed me warily.

  “Wisely and slow, says Friar Lawrence, they stumble that run fast.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That young people like you shouldn’t go all crazy over love. You shouldn’t rush into it.”

  “So, don’t fall in love at first sight?” Sadia said.

  “Well, maybe, but the point is—”

  “But Romeo and Juliet did fall in love,” she insisted. “They are crazy about each other.”

  “Yes, but . . .” I stopped and rallied. “Listen,” I said, “Romeo and Juliet are playing with fire here. They’re going to die for this love. The friar can almost see it coming, so he’s asking: Is it worth it?”

  I’d meant these to be rhetorical questions, but Sadia nodded savagely. “Yes,” she insisted. “Yes.”

  “Maybe they can make it work,” I said. “That’s exactly what Friar Lawrence is st
arting to think—that maybe their love can end the fighting between the families. Look here, he talks to them both in scene 6. Love moderately, he says. Long love doth so.”

  A few of the students shook their heads, not understanding.

  “It means you have to be careful about love. It means you should take it slowly. The kind of love that lasts a lifetime isn’t about good looks. It’s about more than hormones, more than, I don’t know, pheromones.”

  “Mr. Dixon,” Devin said, “can I ask you a serious question?”

  Devin, being serious. That surprised me.

  “Why do we have to study all this stuff. It’s so old I mean, if this book is four hundred years old, then what’s in it for us?”

  “Ah,” I said. “Good question.”

  “Well?”

  “I think, Devin, we study Shakespeare because what he says is universally, perennially true even after all this time.”

  Devin leaned back in his desk again, but he nodded to show that he thought that was a pretty good answer. “Okay,” he said, “so what happens next?”

  * * *

  I’d be flying home the following day. I’d thought a lot about love on this trip and I was happy to at least have written a letter, even if it was mostly symbolic. Maybe I wouldn’t even receive an answer. Maybe the writing of it was enough—just to fling it out into the universe like a wish. Maybe that was enough.

  I walked through the streets with Soa, up to the new office on Vicola Santa Cecilia. Anna wasn’t coming this afternoon. It was just the two of us going to meet Veronica. I couldn’t help but ask Soa how she’d gotten into all this.

  “Do you have some kind of special interest in love?”

  Soa pulled to a stop. “Doesn’t everyone have an interest in love?”

  We were passing by the street where Juliet’s house was—you could tell by the crowds we had to push through.

  “I suppose so,” I said. “But don’t you worry about giving advice to all these people?”