by Diana Cachey
Before entering the station, Louisa waved to Rouge the universal drink-signal and pointed to the adjacent wine shop. Rouge nodded and continued up the ramp with Barbara.
In the wine shop, Louisa started to pick up snacks for an Alpine adventure, choosing bread, cheeses, cold-cuts, cookies, two bottles of red wine, and a single split of champagne.
An elderly gentleman with long creases around his eyes and mouth but with a smile to match any young charmer, placed everything in a sack except for the champagne. Next, he grabbed some plastic folks and knives. He grabbed for plastic glasses and held up two, then three, fingers.
“Tre,” (three) answered Louisa.
The man then grabbed a bottle of cold sparkling water, sliced some lemons, wrapped them in plastic and placed them in the bag.
“Grazie, Tomasso,” she said. She always forgot to get sparkling water with lemon for Barbara, but Tomasso didn’t. Of course Louisa knew the first name of the owner of the wine shop directly adjacent to the train station. Like all locals and expats who travelled in and out of Venice, it was a necessary stop for packing food and wine to take on any road trip, or at least for a pre-journey shot of coffee or something stronger.
Next Tomasso opened the champagne and poured the contents into a large wine glass for her to drink at the counter. As she drank it, he laid out a few more sheets of plastic in which he wrapped up small packages of olives, artichokes and mixed berries.
“Dove vai adesso?” he asked.
“Cortina.”
“Bene, bene. Bellissimo,” he approved.
“Mi no volio,” (I don’t want to go.)
“Perche no vuoi,” (Why not?)
‘No lo so,” (I don’t know.)
“Perche tuo amorosso stata quoi?” (Because your lover stays here in Venice?)
“Forse.” (Maybe)
“No forse.” (Not maybe).
He was right, of course, but Louisa didn’t know how to tell Tomasso that she’d managed to fall in love with a local, after a brief hands only interlude, and she didn’t want to tell him she hadn’t called her new, hot, local lover or seen him since the interlude. She wouldn’t and didn’t tell Tomasso any of this.
But he knew. It was written all over her infatuated and frustrated face.
Raising her glass to Tomasso, Louisa tilted her head, sighed and gulped down the rest. She pulled a paper from her parka, it held Antonin’s phone number. She stared down at it then looked at Tomasso with her lower lip puckered.
“Chiama lui,” (call him) said Tomasso.
Louisa shook her head back and forth. She thanked him and started to leave.
At the door, having begun to feel relaxed from the flow of champagne into her blood, she turned to him and said, “Forse.” (Maybe)
“No forse,” he said. He pounded his fist on the counter then made an Italian hand-signal. A full open hand near his head as if he were turning a light bulb near his brain. It meant “crazy.”
Louisa shrugged and nodded while slurping her last few drops of sparkling wine with eyelids lowered.
“No forse, ma va,” he then cursed at her as she departed the wine shop.
Inside the train cafe, Barbara pondered the mysteries of her strange new lover. Louisa pondered hers on the steps of the station for a brief moment before entering.
Rouge had convinced them a road trip was in order. Barbara had used her golden phone numbers for Saba and Gianni and asked if they might also join them, for skiing or other merrymaking. Rouge had invited one of her Francos. All three of these willing men, hopefully, would be waiting in Cortina for their arrival. After skiing they might all drive to a spa. Perhaps they would go to Austria. Maybe Switzerland.
One never knew in Northern Italy, in the Veneto, where adventures might lead. Louisa was ready to be led.
A gentle tap on Louisa’s head arrived mid-thought.
“Ciao bea, come zea? Dove andemo?” Louisa heard a familiar man’s voice say, “Hello beautiful. How are you, where are you going today?”
She knew instantly it was Matteo, speaking to her in Venetian dialect.
Another startling coincidence? She had finally decided once and for all to end her disastrous affair with this cheater, drunk, liar, thief, to name a few occupations.
Today he looked clean, bright-eyed and cheerful but also not the least bit remorseful regarding the insane recent past they shared. He, the director of the asylum, stood next to her, the inmate.
Matteo always, somehow, recreated history, manufactured believable lies, to ingratiate himself and wiggle back into hers, and everyone else’s, good graces.
But he never changed and she knew it. No matter how good he looked, how clean he smelled, how smart he dressed, how quick witted he spoke, he was still a rogue, a simple charmer. No matter how sensuous his lips or how fragrant his hair, she had to resist.
He was a fucking ghost if ever there was one.
Metaphorically speaking.
Maybe literally.
How did he survive all of his close calls with death? And the police?
“Sono no contenta civedemo?” he said in dialect. (You’re not happy to see me?)
Why would I be? She thought, yet, as usual she was intrigued, attracted and maybe even a little hopeful, despite her fears and misgivings.
He sensed it. With the widest, sincerest grin, arms outstretched, inviting, he said, “I so very happy to see you. Can we embrace?”
No, she thought, “Yes,” she said.
Louisa couldn’t imagine any bear could hug better than this rogue. Charm? No man could impart so much feeling in just one not-so-simple embrace. It was as if she was another person in his presence. He had cast some hex. She had to be another person. She couldn’t be letting this happen. Again.
In her mind, it went like this:
He lifted her, twirled her, finished with kisses on both cheeks, twice on the eyes, then on the lips. A long passionate kiss that she had no choice but to reciprocate. He put his forehead on hers, both arms on her shoulders, clasped his hands gently around her head, and looked her straight in the eyes and said, “You know I will always love you.” She answered, “Lo so,” (I know) because that’s what he taught her to say. She was him now. And he was the Italian, sexier version of her. They had played this dance before. Both knew it, loved it. Yet, they were never on the same page. Ever. It was always one chasing the other. She ran, he ran after. She grabbed, he pulled away. It was frustrating, annoying, impossible to love or not to love this man.
Then she was back in reality.
She looked at her watch.
Oh please God, let it be time to get on my train, she pleaded in her mind to her spiritual guide, wherever, whoever or whatever that was.
“You must go now?” he said, trying to ask her to stay without asking, still aloof, yet seductive.
She just looked at him.
Was she now in love with him again? Ready to skip the train, fall back into the insanity. Maybe he was sober, single? Maybe not. It didn’t ever really matter. He was a different species. They could never produce offspring. What was the point in continuing to hope for a change where none would ever be?
She started to utter words.
“I’m sorry,” she began and attempted to kiss him again, this time to kiss him back, to express herself to him.
He stopped her abruptly. Stopped holding her. Whistled to another Venetian. A man.
It didn’t matter, man or woman. He had her hooked again and knew it. He would not even allow her the satisfaction of letting her say, “I must go.”
It was Matteo, not her, who got to say, “Ah, I go now.”
Off he went, pursing his lips at her, blowing departing kisses.
Beautiful and wickedly done.
“I hate you,” she screamed.
There it was. Full-circle. In less than five minutes.
Matteo had taken Louisa from her peaceful contemplation to surprise, to caution, to ecstasy, to another world, to love and back, then to
sheer hate and anger. Quite a feat.
An extremely painful, telling one.
Would she never be free of this obsession, this weakness? Would he always be able to catch her emotions off guard and smash them -- hurl them through the air?
After all these years, how could she immediately pick up that drink, of him, of his insanity? Even when she thought she’d had enough of him, his teasing, flying moves, false words and holds, he would still hook her?
Tears streamed down her cheeks, into her mouth and dropped onto her bosom. But something caught her breath and gave her tears pause.
It was the sight of what Venice had laid before her — the light-catching spectacle of the grandest of canals.
“What a beautiful vista is this,” she declared aloud, to everyone and to no one.
The Grand Canal and a woman feeling such depth of emotions in the most romantic of places? That was her true love, her only true obsession because, unlike Matteo, Venice always delivered.
I must go now. I can go now. For these things I must be grateful!
For passion so deep and fantastic, and yet so fleeting and faint, Venice romance was at least still magical in its power to evoke feeling.
“Time to go, it’s okay,” she said alone, to herself.
She thanked the universe for yet another blessed coincidence. She would never be rid of her emotions. Yet she could learn to live with them. One day at a time. Sometimes even less.
She walked up the ramp and saw Barbara waving frantic at the top.
Louisa began to run like hell for the train and for those few seconds, she didn’t think of Tony. Or Matteo.
She then quickly punched her ticket and jumped on a train out of Venice, just as it was about to depart.
Once plopped into her seat, Louisa ignored Barbara’s glare and instead handed the bag of goodies to her sister with a look meant to say, “Here bitch, this is what I stopped for, not a drink.” Louisa also hoped Rouge would read her mind and eyes too, which said, It’s none of her business if I drink too much today. I plan to get drunk and I’m in no mood for her bullshit.
“Did our friend Tomasso pop the corks on those puppies, cuz I’d like some wine, pronto per favore.” Rouge responded as she nodded towards to obviously brown paper bagged bottles of wine.
Louisa smiled, nodded affirmatively then continued staring out the window.
“I assume you want one too, right honey?” Rouge said filling two glasses.
“You assume correct,” said Louisa.
“Hell, I almost want one too. Drink away. Don’t let me stop you anytime soon,” said Barbara.
They all laughed at the relief in tension that the train’s motion away from Venice and her sarcasm brought to the moment.
As wonderful as Venice was, Louisa recalled what a dear friend had said to her during one of her earliest visits, “We love it here but we have to leave it every once in a while. Or we get mad.”
True it was. Mad — in every sense of the word.
Instead, the Alpine scenery on the way to Cortina now complimented their fabulous picnic of wine, cheeses and other Italian antipasti.
Magnificent empty green meadows soon turned into snow-blanketed hillsides filled with chalets. The soft hills eventually rolled into majestic mountains. The ride to Cortina never disappointed, especially on sunny days. These window scenes, reminiscent of The Sound of Music, featured white-capped spires alive with little churches impossibly propped up onto precarious perches of stone, enchanting and inspiring all of the passing train riders.
The masterful snaking of the train — around curves, against cliffs and along drop-offs — amazed them as well.
Nearing their destination, the three women finished their cookies, berries, water and wine, whether they wanted to or not. Cross-town lugging of leftovers on icy streets was out of the question.
Louisa started to feel better about the trip, thanks to the wine, which she didn’t fail to notice her sober sister never stopped pouring for her.
The train reached the end of its route where the bus to Cortina waited, just as they finished the wine. The driver stood outside the bus, lighting a fresh cigarette. He also made it clear there was plenty of time for passengers to have one too.
Seeing Barbara seize the opportunity to smoke, Louisa walked over to rub her back.
“Bastardo,” Louisa said in alliance with her sister against Massimo.
Inside, however, she wondered why Barbara had come down so hard on Massimo. Swept off her feet, Barbara both wanted him yet seemed also to dread it. The sisters acted out their fears of commitment in different ways, both of them running, all the same.
Massimo, a catch for too many reasons to list, was smitten with Barbara too. Louisa felt they were perfect for each other. She decided to pray that it would all work out for the two new lovers.
Please God, or Goddess, maybe there are two of you? Anyway, I want my sister to marry Massimo. Can you arrange it?
Her phone then chimed, the scheduled alarm for their Cortina bus departure time.
And, possibly, also signaling that the God, or Goddess, had answered her, in the affirmative.
“I’m getting dolled-up and going out for spritz after we check in, immediamente. Girlfriends, are you comin?” Rouge asked as they walked through the lobby of a typical Alpine hotel — a ski chateau filled with wood beams, blazing fire, fur throws and mounted deer and moose heads.
“Yes!” said Barbara for both her and sister as Louisa eyes brightened.
During spritz hour, Rouge wasted no time finding her mountain man. She left with him, leaving Barbara and Louisa sitting by the fire without her.
Louisa marveled at the vampire-like speed with which Rouge had swooped over, from seated sofa position, to standing across the room cradled in the young man’s arms.
“We’re going to his friend’s home, an artist, to see his paintings,” Rouge had said. Then she whispered to the sisters, “Is this the new version of, ‘would you like to see my etchings?’”
They all laughed as she said it, including Rouge, who certainly hoped so.
Despite ordering a delicious Alpine dinner of venison, potatoes, root vegetables, fresh salad and goat cheese, the sisters didn’t eat much, further indication of their both being love struck.
“Are you going to tell me about the secret man who has you all twisted-up,” Barbara said between what little bites she managed to force down.
Louisa, muted, moved about with her fork her barely touched game meat and carrots.
Without looking up from her plate, she shook her head back and forth.
“Just like you’re probably going to dodge any probing questions I might have about Massimo, right?”
Equally muted, Barbara sipped her water.
Luckily, a group of professional skiers soon invaded the restaurant and struck up a conversation with them from a nearby table. True, this entertained them. It put smiles on their faces and words into their mouths. But Louisa spoke nothing of her man, despite the quantity of liquor she consumed while Barbara, on the brink of tears herself, somehow kept it all at bay too.
They eventually returned to the hotel in silence then chain-smoked their selves to sleep.
Skiing held little more interest the next day than the food had held for them the night before. Rouge was preoccupied with last night’s mountain man, Barbara was still pissed at and hurt by Massimo’s disappearance while Louisa, distracted by the whereabouts of Antonin, built a passion inside her to boiling point. She blew down each hill and skied straight to the lodge bar then waited with wine for the other two after every run.
Finally it was lunch and Rouge needed a drink too.
I’ve got no idea what I am doing here, or why I am in Venice, Louisa thought. She sat alone by the lodge fire where the girls agreed to meet for lunch.
Soon Rouge arrived. Without Barbara.
“Your sis decided to take the chair lift up to the double-black area,” said Rouge
“Why?”<
br />
“God knows.”
“What did she say?”
“Said she wanted to do a little ceremony up there for ole Ricko the wacko, you know, the one who offed himself.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I know, honey.” Rouge pointed to two handsome men. “Let’s go sit by those two lovelies over there.” As she glanced over that them, one of the men gestured for them to take the adjacent table, which was close enough to be almost the same table, European-style cozy.
“She’s not coming to lunch?”
“I dunno,” said Rouge. “Who cares?” She motioned to the waiter the table she wanted next to a table with the two handsome men. “Table for two, per piacere.”
Halfway to the table with the two men, she stopped, turned to Louisa and whispered, “We’ll be skiing with those two hotties soon.”
Louisa took the seat next to her new soon-to-be lunchtime and ski companion, a dark-haired beauty, a doctor from Rome. Across from Louisa, Rouge had her own handsome Roman, also a doctor with which to fraternize, or rather, with which to flirt. After much lively conversation, wine with lunch, and some aperitifs of Zambucca, the foursome headed out and up to ski, riding the same lift Barbara had recently taken.
Once out on the slope, Rouge and Louisa easily descended the narrow tube between two cliffs, an expert ski run. They knew it would impressed the Roman doctors. What they didn’t know was that another doctor, a Venetian one, was impressing Barbara near the top of the very same slope.
Barbara had removed her skis and climbed a small hill by the ski run where in the summer she remembered seeing a nice viewing terrace. The area, now covered in three feet of snow, was where Barbara intended to lay a heart built from loose stones for her deceased friend, Rich, or Ricko the whacko who offed himself, as Rouge crudely put it to Louisa.
Barbara collected some quartz, granite and other stones she saw near the snow-making equipment, cleared a small path of snow, and laid out stones in the shape of a heart, to honor Richard. She wanted to say a few prayers too.
When she’d thrown his ashes into the Grand Canal, she’d not been satisfied with that scene -- the horrible glass skeleton glaring at her from across the canal, the ashes floating on murky waters, the emptiness she felt left grieving alone on the vacant boat dock. She knew then that many people chose to have their ashes spread in Venice canals, usually along the bella vista of Canale Grande. Because their souls had been lifted up by the beauty of Venice when they were alive, they wanted their souls to remain permanently in that romantic venue after death.
