Eternity Skye

by Liz Newman

  “Okay,” Roberto said. “I help. I like to own store someday. Maybe sell flowers there, too. Okay? Gratsi, Signorina. Gratsi.”

  “Tell them,” Skye said to Sal. “Tell them to be good to each other. For they may be the only goodness they will ever know.” She turned around and walked quickly back toward the villa, before any of them could see the tears that welled up and spilled from her eyes.

  ***

  They rode with the convertible top of the Aston Martin down on the short ride into the city of Rome. Skye leaned her head back and let the warm spring wind blow through her hair. Sal turned toward her, breaking her heart once again with his sideways, closed lip smile. His eyes turned back toward the road, to the wide expanse of countryside, and the line of amber fire that signaled the arrival of the late evening sky.

  They made snippets of small talk as he led her down a cobblestoned side street into a dark little hovel past the Piazza Farnese. A slender young woman, passing by with her friends, greeted Sal with a kiss on both cheeks. “Il mio tesoro. Come lei è? È stato troppo lungo.”

  My darling. How are you? I miss you so much, Skye translated quickly in her mind. The woman wrapped her arms around Sal’s neck, and surveyed Skye with the cold eyes of a discontent cat. Sal patted the woman on the back, eager to untangle himself from her choking embrace. He took Skye’s hand and led her to a table.

  A waiter dressed in a white apron brought menus, and Skye ordered a gin martini; Sal, a concoction made with Campari liqueur. “Who was that lovely woman?” Skye asked, pretending to read her menu.

  “Just a very good friend,” Sal replied.

  “She’s not coming to the swing dinner. What a shame.”

  “We might see her later.”

  Skye took a sip of her martini, swirling the olive around. “Naturally. Scusi. Cameriere.”

  Sal interjected, lifting his index finger as the waiter approached their table. “What do you need?” he asked Skye.

  “Più olive, per favore,” Skye said. The waiter bowed and hurried to the bar.

  “A woman who insists on doing for herself. Refreshing.”

  “I’d rather ask for olives and open my own doors. In exchange for total devotion.”

  Sal laughed. “Always right to the point, Signorina? Le mie scuse. Skye.”

  The waiter appeared at their table with a pad and pencil ready. Skye ordered antipasti and pointed at an entrée, when Sal stopped her.

  “We have many places to cover. This is Roma, after all. Just one drink, one antipasti, and we shall have the primeri piatti, secundo piatti, et cetera, elsewhere.”

  The gray-haired waiter grunted his disappointment as he took their menu. Skye rested her head in one hand and lifted her glass. “Shall we toast?”

  “Absolutamente. You begin.”

  “To Rome. To meeting you. To finding my way out of a dark place into…”

  She looked around her at the windowless stone walls, and said, “another dark place. Salud.” Their glasses clinked. “You promised me stories, Sal. Tell me all about you. I want to know everything,” Skye said.

  “I wish I was more interessare. There is not much to tell, or show, save for what is before you now. Does that bore you?”

  “Not at all.” A platter of cured meats, roasted vegetables, and olives was set down in the middle of the table. “I could live on these,” Skye said, holding up a green marinated olive.

  “Before you leave, we must walk through the olive grove in the garden. Now is the season when they are ripe. We will pick them. I will cure them, and you can take them home with you.”

  “Home,” Skye said, her face darkening. “This was beginning to feel like home. Marcellus was trying to tell me something this morning. About you. Doing something life-changing. What are you going to do?”

  Sal took another sip of his drink. “Maybe you can tell me the real reason why you are visiting Rome.”

  “This is my vacation,” Skye said with a smile. “I ask the questions.”

  “This is my city. I beg for the answers.”

  “Answers you shall have. I’m taking a vacation before production on my new show begins. Once it does, I will take it over completely. Never leave it; never give it to someone who can destroy it. Never again.”

  “And never vacation again?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. And that’s all that’s fit to print, as they say in the media biz. Your turn.”

  Sal raised his hand and flagged the waiter down. The waiter dropped the check on the table with two powdery mints wrapped in foil. Sal and Skye reached for the check at the same time. Sal quickly snatched it away and reached into the breast pocket of his dinner jacket for his wallet.

  “Let me pay for it,” Skye said. “There are so many other things you should do with your wages.”

  “You can open your own doors,” Sal said, leaning forward, “if you promise not to insult me. The Signora Luciana pays very well, and it is my pleasure to pay the check.”

  “When you are in New York City again, you must let me take you out to dinner.”

  “After the World Trade Center Attacks, I swore never to set foot in that city again.”

  “Why?” Skye asked. Recollection of their first meeting dawned upon her quickly. “You were there. The night before the attacks. I met you in the studio.”

  “Yes.”

  “You invited me to dinner, and I was so rude. I called you—”

  “Guido. Yes, I remember.”

  “My apologies. Truly. For insulting you.”

  Sal waved his hand in the air. “A Guido is slang in America. In Italy, it is a very flattering term. A Guido is someone who dresses well, has the best of everything; technology, clothing, mannerisms, women. Perhaps I am a Guido. If only for tonight. I’m glad I came back to New York, or I wouldn’t have stumbled on a chance to escort you to the awards. To know you, like I do now.” He rose from his chair and took Skye’s hand. “On to the next ristorante.”

  Just across the river from the Castel Sant’ Angelo, they dined on homemade sausage and savory veal rolls with tomatoes. Skye patted her hand on her expanding stomach as she and Sal exited the tavern. She insisted they walk a few blocks before getting back into the car. Arm-in-arm, like an elderly couple still in love, they strode down the streets of Rome in silence. The smell of his jacket, the light hint of his cologne, fragrant and sharp, made her feel as if she was encased with him in a glass water globe, deep and soundless. Even with the honks of passing cars, the rumble of engines, the catcalls of vendors and locals, and the cascading noises of fountains and steps of pedestrians, her senses were drowned and attuned only to him.

  “Tonight you’re my date,” she said as they walked under the awning of a fine hotel. “I won’t share you with her.”

  “With who?” he asked.

  “That exquisite brunette. Swinging or no swinging.”

  He pulled her closer under the crook of his arm, and she leaned her head onto his shoulder. She looked up at him and smiled, and his beautiful, full lips were inches from hers. He leaned forward as if to kiss her. A car dodged in front of them and honked loudly as they teetered precariously on the edge of the street curb, still gazing at each other.

  “Not a bad way to die,” Skye said.

  “A bit embarrassing, si?”

  “Uh-huh.” Considering the underwear I’m wearing. The modern day chastity belt, also known as bulky, oversized panties with a hideous large flower print. “Where to now?”

  “Let’s find the car,” Sal said.

  The Aston Martin whirled around the city streets to the Campo de’ Fiori. Sal glided it in front of a restaurant, where a valet attendant opened Skye’s door. Night had fallen, and the city teemed with life; the trees glittered with clear lights, and peals of laughter accompanied the peals of church bells striking the hour all around the city.

  Sal took Skye by the crook of the arm and led her into a restaurant beckoning
with the warm, welcoming comforts of a nineteenth century country house. They sat down at a candlelit table beside a white wall. The flower arrangements sprang from counters and pedestals, their blooms open and magnificent; the smell of fragrant blossoms and ripe fruit perfumed the air. Sal ordered two Proseccos, and Skye ordered risotto entrees for the both.

  “Per favore portarmi il risotto di gambero,” Sal said to the waiter, a young man who resembled Rudolph Valentino.

  “Shrimp. Not much for spinach and mushroom?”

  “I thought we could share,” Sal said. “Try this,” he said when their dishes arrived. He held out a forkful, topped with a small, plump shrimp.

  She closed her eyes and took a bite. “Mmmm,” she said. “I like mine better, though.”

  “Let me try,” Sal said. She spooned some into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. “I like yours better, too.” He spooned his risotto onto a bread plate and passed it over to her.

  “I’ll be generous. Only because I like you,” she said as she heaped spoonfuls of her risotto onto his dinner plate.

  The band struck up an Italian folk song. “The Tarantella,” Sal said. “Watch the group at that table. The ones having their dessert. They will dance. You will see.”

  A party of twelve elderly people filled the table he had singled out. They were raucous in volume, but feeble in body. “That would be quite a sight,” Skye said.

  “I promise you they will. The Tarantella is a dance named after the convulsions people have after being bit by the venomous spider. It is the cure for the venom. For the demon.”

  Skye leaned toward him. “In America, we call the cure ‘jogging.’“

  The alcohol slowly melted away her inhibitions. Sharing food. One step closer to exchanging body fluids. Skye smiled into her glass before remembering that this was a swing dinner. She shifted to the left, feeling the elastic of the granny panties cling to her hips. When in Rome, when in Rome…echoed in her mind.

  “So when does the swinging start?” she said. “Maybe we can just watch. Just for a little bit. I’ve never been to a swing party. Well, not a participant.” She told him the story of the Knicks basketball player interview. He stared at her in stunned silence. “I’m sorry. I suppose I’m not very fun, am I? It’s okay. You can drop me off at home—I mean, at the villa, before that part.”

  Sal burst out in laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Swing…” he struggled to catch his breath. “Dondersi de la cena. A swing dinner. The woman by the Piazza Farnese,” he laughed and laughed until he dabbed the corner of his eyes with his napkin. “Is this part of American romance as well?”

  “Did something get lost in translation here?”

  “Forgive me, Skye. This is your swing dinner. Antipasti, primera piatti, second course, all at different places. After this, coffee and dessert at a café. Visiting many places to dine. This is a swing dinner.”

  “Ah.” Skye’s upper and lower sets of teeth clamped together in an agonized grin. She raised her glass and drank, unsure of what to say.

  The slow beat of the Tarantella quickened, and the table of elderly people whooped in delight and rose, shuffled toward the dance floor. The band kept a slow pace, its members smiling widely at each other as one of the white-haired diners lifted his hands above his head and clapped out the increasing rhythm. A buxom woman with a gash of pink lipstick and coiffure blue hair let her husband spin her in a half circle, clutching his hand and moving her other hand as if she conducted an orchestra. Contentment and ease replaced desire as the focus of Skye’s thoughts.

  She gazed at the Ara Pacis through the restaurant’s wall of glass windows, and she consumed the view just as eagerly as she devoured the risotto. The seasonings of the dish, mouthwatering on scent, with its texture buttery and delicate, melted on her tongue.

  “The Ara Pacis,” said Sal as he looked over to where Skye’s eyes were fixed. “A reminder to the world that history repeats itself. A warning. The first panel of a woman, the goddess Roma herself, sitting on weapons of destruction so that man cannot make war. The second, the goddess Venus, and her children. All boys. Love and war. Life and death. The guardian of the innocent, and the innocent rising to take arms and die, putting themselves aside for their children to gain strength and take their place.”

  The description squelched her prurient thoughts. She put her fork down and took a deep breath. “Where were you? On the eleventh?”

  “Marcellus and I were having breakfast at a café, four blocks away from the crash,” said Sal. He stirred his risotto around with his fork. “Let’s dance.” Sal unwrapped Skye’s pashmina shawl from around her shoulders. She remained seated.

  “No. Please. I’d really like to talk about this.”

  He leaned closer toward her. His warm breath lingered seductively close to her ear. “Why dwell on death, when there is so much life to be lived? Come with me.”

  She took his hand. He draped her folded shawl over his shoulder and brought her to the middle of the dance floor. The band went back to the beginning of the song, and the elderly group clapped their hands in approval at the sight of the beautiful young couple who joined them. Sal held his hands and elbows up to the height of his shoulders and snapped his fingers, moving from side to side in his black dress shoes. He wore remarkably well-tailored clothing. She’d always known him to dress expensively during his time off work. She shrugged the thought away.

  He pulled her close to him, his lips almost touching hers, and then pushed her away. And they danced for hours this way, him pulling her forward, breathing her in, his hand running down her cheek. As the pace of the music quickened, he twirled her and twirled her around faster, until she felt she convulsed in circles.

  Her heart pounded with elation as she moved with the group, their faces smiling and laughing, their feet stamping with the rhythm of the music. A strange word came to mind as she surveyed the elderly faces swimming about her, and Sal’s crooked smile and soft eyes gazing at her. Family. If I can have one, so fabricated yet so true in its experience, for only one moment in time such as this, I’ll take it. Just a few moments when all pretense is abandoned. This collective enjoyment is family. She raised her hands and clapped, clapped, clapped. The group joined hands, moving forward, raising their arms, and then back. Once again, forward and back. Heels stomping, hands clapping, peals of laughter rang out from the enthusiastic dancers. The band played on for song after song until it needed to take a break, bowing as the group on the dance floor applauded.

  An elderly lady took Skye’s hands and squeezed them gently.

  “Bellisima,” she gushed through puckered lips.

  She squeezed Sal’s cheeks as he patted her shoulders gently and smiled. Strangers pecked kisses on Skye’s cheeks, and she smiled at the attention. As the crowd moved away, the world stopped again. On the dance floor remained Skye and Sal, their eyes on each other. They stood that way for an eternity, or so it seemed, until he reached forward and took her hands in his.

  “Where to now?” she asked.

  He sighed, words on the tip of his tongue he dared not say. “Coffee and cioccolata.”

  “A good enough substitute.” She grinned. He placed his arm around her shoulders and they walked down the street to a sidewalk café. He walked up to the counter and brought back two delicious plates of chocolate and vanilla panna cotta with blackberries on top, their purple sweetness oozing over the dark brown and white dome.

  “What time is it?” Skye asked.

  “Two thirty in the morning.”

  “You’re joking. I had no idea it was so late. My watch is still set to New York time.”

  “After two weeks of being in Rome?”

  “Almost two weeks. My executive producer refuses to take my calls until I return. At least I can imagine what they’re doing while I’m gone.” She spooned another mouthful of panna cotta into her mouth. “When I come back to work, I’ll have a good idea of what is already done, and I can begin imp
lementing what needs to be done.”

  “A good plan.” Sal took a sip of his coffee.

  Skye wrung her hands in her lap. She had become ridiculously infatuated with him, like a girl on a first date, desperate for a first kiss and not wanting to show it. “Sal…” she said, “when we were on the yacht…I wondered if…perhaps, you were interested in me. Not just as a friend, but something more? In New York, I’m limited to my description of…love. Never have I believed love could be any more or any less than what fit in my previous definition.”

  “Everything else about my life has fit a plan. My finances, my career choices, even my diet. A rigid schedule. A regimen. Love to me was no different. Except in Italy; where the very word to me means love, because you are here.” She took his hand in hers. His skin felt smooth, softer than expected. She curled her fingers around the outside his hand, bringing it to her cheek.

  “Skye, you are beautiful in so many ways.” He brought his hand back to the side of his coffee cup, clenching it into a soft fist. “But I fear your heart belongs to someone else, or something else. I am a pastime, like your vacation. You will leave. You will forget. For me, it is not so easy.”

  “Why?”

  “It is difficult for me to explain. The memory of you may be all I have left, for a very long time.”

  “Is it because of what Marcellus tried to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you please tell me the full story? Please. I think I deserve to know.”

  Sal shook his head sadly. “No.”

  Skye’s eyes tilted down toward her coffee cup, the cream inside swirling around like her thoughts. Steam rose from the hot beverage. “In New York, I bared my soul to you. I know I’m not imagining the…way you look at me. What’s holding you back…I deserve to know. I’m not going to beg you. You owe me an explanation. After all I have shared with you, you owe me this much.”

  Sal wrapped Skye’s shawl over her arms and picked up his jacket. “Shall we go? It is very late.”

  They remained silent on the ride back to the villa. Skye’s eyelids weighed heavy with drowsiness. She stole glances at Sal. Stone-faced as one of the statues in the garden, his eyes remained fixated on the illuminated road. He walked her to the door of her room and said good night.