Italian Passion

by Jayne Castel

  Giovanni listened intently, his handsome face impassive. Yet, as Max reached the denouement of his tale, a smile tugged at the corners of Giovanni’s mouth. Max saw, and bristled.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “No, of course not,” Giovanni held up his hands in front of him and bit the side of his cheek to stop himself from roaring with laughter. “Not at all. It’s just that I’ve heard some women describe you as arrogant and rude.”

  “Are you my friend or my enemy Giovanni? Do you think I should have been civil to such a woman?”

  “I just think it’s a pity that this is the first woman I’ve heard you mention with any passion in months – and you can’t stand her,” Giovanni countered calmly.

  Max glared at his friend, silently fuming as a tuxedoed waiter swooped down on them with two chilled glasses of pinot grigio and a bowl of stuffed green olives to accompany them. As usual, Giovanni was his calm, unflappable self; the antithesis to his fiery friend. Giovanni was a photographer, from Venice but with blond hair, blue eyes and chiselled good-looks that belied his Austrian heritage. He was everything that Max was not, and it meant that their friendship was never boring. Max often played devil’s advocate, while Giovanni was the voice of reason when Max let his temper rule him.

  Now was one of those times.

  Max took a sip of wine and breathed in deeply. There was no reason in taking out his rage on Giovanni. His friend may have been more laid-back than he was, but he did not appreciate being treated like a whipping post.

  “What’s wrong Max?” Giovanni asked finally, his gaze steady. “These should be the happiest months of your life. You’ve made it. So many artists never do – look at me, still photographing weddings to pay the bills when I just want to do my own exhibitions. You’ll never have to paint anything you don’t want to again.”

  Max looked away, glad of the dark glasses that masked his eyes.

  “It never seems enough,” he admitted quietly. “Some days I feel as if it is all going to be taken away from me and I’ll be left with nothing.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re a famous artist now.”

  Max shook his head. “I know, but at times none of it feels real. I worked so hard to get to this point. You know what I’m like. My whole life was my art, and the struggle to get known. Now I don’t have to fight anymore, but I feel like I should. Maybe I’m going mad.”

  Giovanni shook his head before popping an olive into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

  “In that case, it makes sense that you feel this way,” he said after a minute. “Success is never what we think it is.”

  “When that journalist started badgering me about my brother today, it brought everything back,” Max replied. “Marina leaving. Sergio’s betrayal – every nasty detail.”

  “Don’t blame her, she didn’t know,” Giovanni shook his head. “Maybe you should have told the journalist about your brother.”

  “Why?” Max’s anger flared once more. “So she could write some lurid account that ends up in the British tabloids?”

  Giovanni sighed and dragged a hand through his spikey blond hair. Max could see that he was frustrating his friend but he did not care.

  “Everything’s so black and white with you Max,” Giovanni removed his sunglasses and fixed his friend with the cool, blue-eyed stare Max knew so well. “How do you know she would have done that? As it is, you’ve given her plenty of ammunition to paint you as a complete bastard.”

  Max gulped down the last of his wine, his stomach churning. He knew his friend was right, but it would have killed him to admit it.

  Seeing that Max was about to storm off, Giovanni quickly finished his own wine and stood up.

  “Come on. It’s been a long day and we both need to relax. Let’s go for a walk and head over to Il cavallo di mare for dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Max replied mutinously, digging into his wallet for some money to leave for the waiter. Il cavallo di mare, the Seahorse, was his favourite trattoria; tucked away on a side street, a couple of blocks away from the Grand Canal. Famous for its seafood dishes, the restaurant was a favourite with locals. Max had been so busy of late, he had not been there for a meal in months. Despite his mood, he was sorely tempted.

  “You will be,” Giovanni insisted, seeing him waver. “Come on, let’s forget about today. It’s a beautiful evening, let’s enjoy it.”

  ***

  Faye Wilson was in love.

  Yet, the object of her affection was not a man. She was head over heels for Venice.

  The gondola slid across the sparkling water; bobbing gently in the wake of a vaporetto, a water bus, which chugged by, laden with passengers. Faye leant back against the upholstered seat and lifted her face to the warmth of the setting sun. The day had started off beautifully and then turned disastrous. Now, Faye felt Venice working its magic once more.

  After the interview with Max Paolini, Faye had returned to her hotel and taken a hot shower. Then, she had stretched out on her bed and taken a nap. Upon waking an hour later, Faye had lain there ruminating over the artist’s rudeness, and his complete lack of respect, until her stomach began to hurt from the force of her rage.

  This would never do.

  She was in Venice, and who knew when she would have the opportunity to return. She would not waste one more moment seething over a man who was not worth a minute of her head-space.

  Invigorated, Faye had leapt off the bed and got dressed. She tossed aside the sweaty shirt and drill pants she had worn earlier in the day, instead dressing in a green, halter necked dress that reached her knees and fitted her perfectly. On her feet, she slipped flat, Grecian-style sandals; better to navigate Venice’s cobbled streets with than heels, and brushed her freshly washed hair so that it settled in bronze waves around her face. Applying a minimal touch of make-up, just a swipe of mascara and lip gloss, Faye had left her hotel room with a fresh outlook.

  Now, as she swept her gaze over the peeling façades of magnificent buildings and listened to the chiming of far off bells, Faye felt the happiest she had in years.

  “Are you enjoying the ride, bella?” the flirtatious gondolier asked. He had been delighted when she had returned to the mooring later in the day, and had spent the ride giving her long, sensual looks.

  “Very much,” Faye sighed. “You are so lucky to live here.”

  The gondolier smiled, before shrugging. “Venice, she is beautiful, but maybe better to visit than to live in.”

  “Why’s that?” Faye asked, vaguely irritated that he had just intruded upon her romantic haze.

  “The things that make her beautiful – the water, the old buildings – are the things that are ruining her. Venice is sinking. We are trying to save her, but every year the sea rises higher,” the gondolier replied, gesturing towards the row of buildings they floated by. “Many of these buildings are now empty. The old families; they have all moved away. It may sound romantic to live on a canal, but the reality is different.”

  Faye nodded, glancing back at the pastel façades with a new eye. Of course, he was right. As beautiful as Venice was, she would always sit uneasily in the modern world. Yet, despite this, Faye was glad Venice was still here, and glad that she was able to appreciate it.

  “Don’t go, bella,” the gondolier gazed at her with puppy-dog eyes as Faye climbed back onto the pier once they had finished their ride. “Let me take you out for dinner.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but no,” Faye replied with a smile.

  “But why? Do you have a boyfriend, a husband?”

  Faye shook her head and walked away. “Grazie Alfonso – arrivederci!”

  She ignored his continuing pleas and walked on. The last thing she wanted this evening was to fend off his amorous advances over dinner. Tonight, Venice was her lover.

  Faye wandered Venice’s back-alleys and side-streets for a while, marvelling in how fun it was to get completely lost. Eventually, as the last of the setting sun slid beh
ind the rooftops, Faye decided to find somewhere to eat.

  In a charming street lined with porticos, Faye stumbled upon a traditional, family-run trattoria. Even as she approached, her stomach began to rumble. The aroma of garlic frying in olive oil reached her and she heard the clink of cutlery and crockery, and the muffled sounds of voices from the kitchens. There was a messily scribbled blackboard outside, and Faye stopped before it. She was pleased to discover that her university Italian had not completely deserted her; she still grasped enough to decipher most of the scrawl. The menu was seafood based, and looked authentic enough.

  “Signorina,” an elderly man enveloped in a white apron greeted her. “Would you like to sit outside?”

  “Si, grazie,” Faye chose a small table at the far end of the cramped terrace and waited as the gallant waiter pulled out the chair for her. Then, he left her with the menu while he went off to serve other customers.

  It was a balmy evening and Faye enjoyed sitting, with her back against the wall, watching people walk past, and listening to the rise and fall of Italian voices at the tables nearby. Once the waiter returned she did something she had not done in years – she ordered herself a proper meal. Not just a salad and a sparkling water as she often did in London, but a proper Italian dinner.

  She ordered a carafe of house white and a bottle of sparkling water, followed by crostini smeared with anchovy paste. Then she ordered squid ink risotto followed by sea-bass baked in a salt crust with roast potatoes and sautéed chicory. When the food arrived, she ate slowly, savouring every bite. The wine was delicious and it was not long before Faye settled into a contented, food and wine induced, stupor. Every dish was perfectly cooked and mouth-watering. Once the waiter cleared away the dirty dishes, she ordered a tiramisù and sipped the last of her wine. The light had long since faded and the street lights stained the ancient façades a deep resin. Nearby, Freya caught the strains of an accordion, as a busker began to play.

  Faye turned towards the music; her gaze sweeping to the end of the terrace where two men approached, talking animatedly together. She watched them a moment, noting that although one was dark and the other fair, they were both very handsome – especially the dark haired man. Faye watched in silent appraisal as the man neared, before she froze.

  No, not twice in one day.

  Massimiliano Paolini had not yet looked her way but Faye knew that if she leapt up, he would be sure to spot her. She sat, rooted to the spot while he approached, dreading the moment his gaze shifted to the terrace.

  At that moment, the elderly waiter approached Max.

  “È da tanto che non ci vediamo Massi!” the waiter cried, embracing Max like a son – I haven’t seen you in ages!

  Max laughed and clasped the waiter on the shoulder.

  “Ciao Vincenzo – you knew I’d be back,” he grinned. “Now, is your best table free?”

  “As always,” Vincenzo ushered the two men towards the terrace, gesturing towards a table at the opposite end to where Faye sat, willing herself to become invisible.

  Max’s gaze swept across the terrace and rested on Faye.

  His face paled.

  Faye stifled a groan. Her relaxing evening had just been ruined.

  ***

  “Giovanni, she’s here,” Max hissed, turning to his friend accusingly, as if he had personally invited Faye Wilson to dinner, just to spite him.

  “Who?” Giovanni frowned, confused.

  “That journalist. That obnoxious woman I met earlier today. She’s here, eating dinner.”

  Giovanni’s gaze followed his friend’s, resting on a very attractive woman dressed in a green halter-neck dress that showed off her slender shoulders and arms. He let out a low whistle.

  “She’s gorgeous Max. I wouldn’t mind being interviewed by her.”

  “She’s a shrew. I’m not eating here.” Max turned to go but Giovanni caught him and hauled him back. When Max’s gaze met that of his friend’s he could see that Giovanni was on the verge of losing his temper.

  “Enough of this,” Giovanni snapped. “I’m hungry, and she’s sitting at the other end of the restaurant minding her own business. Let’s just do the same.”

  Without waiting for Max’s answer, Giovanni dragged him over to the table, where Vincenzo had just left two menus out for them, and virtually shoved Max down into a chair.

  “If she comes this way, I’m leaving,” Max growled.

  “Fine,” Giovanni replied shortly. “Let’s just order a meal and forget she’s there, shall we?”

  Vincenzo presently reappeared and rattled off the trattoria’s specials of the day. Giovanni ordered a bit of everything while Max settled for a bowl of spaghetti – tomato and clams – followed by a salad.

  While they waited for their food, Giovanni started to tell Max about a girl he had met two days before at a photo shoot. Although Giovanni lacked Max’s fiery temper, his love life was just as disastrous as his friend’s. Giovanni always went after the wrong woman – the exciting, mysterious girl who tied him in knots and gave nothing in return. Upon hearing about Maria Luisa, a model from Verona, who had flirted with him through the entire shoot, Max came to the conclusion that this affair would end as badly as all the others. He told Giovanni so.

  His friend shrugged and speared a piece of fried squid on his fork. “But she’s a knock-out,” he finished with a sheepish smile.

  “So was Marina,” Max raised an eyebrow in reply. “That didn’t stop her from running off with my brother. You can never trust a woman that beautiful.”

  Giovanni sighed. “She is not like all the others.”

  Max shook his head, leaning back as Vincenzo placed a steaming bowl of spaghetti with clams in front of him. “She sounds exactly like all the others.”

  They ate their meals, exchanging the odd comment; but all the while, Max felt his gaze drawn to the other end of the terrace.

  He did not know what possessed him, but he could not keep his gaze from returning to Faye Wilson.

  Giovanni was right, although Max did not like to hear him say it. Faye was stunning. The green dressed matched her hair and creamy complexion. She was beautiful in an understated, classical way that intrigued him.

  Vincenzo brought her a dish of tiramisù. She sat rigidly at the table, looking everywhere but at Max. It was obvious she had been enjoying her evening until his arrival. Now, she looked like a deer in a hunter’s sights, poised to flee.

  Max had just glanced in Faye’s direction for the tenth time since he had started his spaghetti, when Giovanni put down his fork and fixed him in a level gaze.

  “Why don’t you go over and apologise.”

  “What?” Max spluttered, nearly choking on his food. “I don’t think so!”

  “You can’t take your eyes off her. Either you’re struck by her beauty or wracked with misgivings about your behaviour towards her,” Giovanni continued, relentless. “Whichever it is, put us all out our misery.”

  Max glared at Giovanni. “Sometimes you go too far.”

  “Go on, apologise. It won’t kill you.”

  “That’s not the point. I’m not saying I’m sorry – she should apologise.”

  “For what? For the fact you were late, and bit her head off at every turn?”

  “I won’t tell you anything in future if you end up using it against me.”

  “So, I’m wrong then?”

  Max ground his jaw and struggled to control his temper. Sometimes he wondered why he was still friends with Giovanni. His friend did not let him get away with anything – although Max supposed he gave him the same in return.

  “Go to her,” Giovanni urged once more. “It’s been too long since you even went out on a date with a girl. It’s making you hard and bitter. Don’t let the memory of Marina and what she did to you ruin your life.”

  Max stared back at Giovanni, hating him but knowing he spoke the truth. He was starting to remind himself of his own father; a hard man who treated women, his own wife included, with
contempt.

  With a muffled curse, Max threw down his fork and got to his feet. His gaze shifted to Faye’s table before he froze.

  The table was empty.

  While Max had been deliberating, she had paid her bill and left. In the distance, he caught a glimpse of green before she disappeared around the corner.

  Max cursed again. Now that he had decided to speak to her, he could not let it go. Without a word to his friend, he took off up the street, in pursuit of Faye Wilson.

  Turning to watch Max go, Giovanni smiled.

  Finally, Max had admitted to being human. Now, if he managed to catch up with the girl and apologise, he might be able to let go of his bitterness. Giovanni had watched his friend grow steadily unhappier of late. His simmering resentment had taken the shine off his life, and even risked ruining his success. Giovanni hoped it was not too late for Max to choose another path.

  ***

  Faye slid on the slippery cobbles and rolled her ankle. Even with flat sandals on, Venice’s unevenly cobbled streets were perilous. Righting herself, Faye strode on, determined to put as much distance as possible between her and the man who had ruined not just her afternoon, but her evening as well.

  She had been looking forward to the tiramisù, but her dessert tasted like ash once Max Paolini arrived. Worse still, he kept looking her way; fixing her with that unnerving stare of his. Eventually, Faye had been unable to take it anymore. She had asked the waiter for the bill and left the money, including a healthy tip, on the table, before grabbing her hand bag and fleeing.

  “Faye, wait!”

  A voice reached her from behind. Faye cast a glance over her shoulder and saw, to her horror that Max Paolini was running towards her.

  Could this evening get any worse?

  “Wait, I need to speak to you!”

  He had said plenty to her earlier in the day – more than enough. Faye was not in the mood to listen to another word from this man. In response to his calling out her name once more, she put her head down and ran.