A Veil of Glass and Rain

by Petra F. Bagnardi

  “You're bewitched,” he said.

  I was. I wanted to be that girl on the stage with her guitar. I wanted to be an enchantress of souls.

  The following day I spotted Eagan with the girl he betrayed Ines with, and my heart broke a little bit. Mina was with me and she suggested we take off and search for our own adventure. We found on the internet an international language school that organized summer courses. We chose an advanced English course in Canterbury, which was about to start. Our parents were proud and happy. Mina's in particular, because they both worked for the European Parliament, therefore they spoke various languages.

  A few days later we were all packed and ready to leave. As a parting gift, Eagan gave me a blue classical guitar.

  “I can't accept it,” I protested.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it's too much and I can't even play it!”

  “You can learn. You break my heart if you don't take it, kitty-cat,” he insisted.

  So I accepted his gift.

  Eagan has always been an affectionate guy. He often uses warm hugs, gentle caresses and generous gestures to express his feelings.

  A couple of years earlier, when I was eleven and he was sixteen, we went to Rome on vacation. That was when we both began to use words, and not only actions, to declare how we felt about each other, about our families, and our closest friends.

  The cause was an encounter, during an excursion to the Colosseum, with an American screenwriter. He was old, as wrinkled as a tree trunk, and full of vigor.

  While talking to our parents, he admitted that he favored movies where the characters manifested their feelings with actions, and never said “I love you”, but used alternatives such as “I see you”, or “I feel you”.

  Knowing how much our families enjoyed being original and unconventional, we expected to see the phrase, “I love you”, almost banished. So we decided to make it our own.

  When the tour-guide left us free to explore, we stood for a long while in front of the Colosseum, mesmerized. Our faces were lifted up, up toward the sky.

  Eagan broke our astonished silence. “I read on the internet that the Roman arch is the strongest construction ever invented.”

  Staring at that eternal stone giant with all its arches, which resembled eyes, that had witnessed wars and revolutions and human cruelty, I had no trouble believing it; despite all that, the Colosseum was still standing, strong and proud. Right there I knew I wanted, one day, to live in Rome, because it was protected by a construction that could bare the weight of the world.

  “I love you, Eagan,” I said, my voice full of wonder and delight.

  “I love you too, fur-ball,” Eagan said back.

  My trip to Canterbury with Mina was supposed to be amusing. I was supposed to be independent, free and all grown-up. None of that happened. Mina, in the end, did not accompany with me, due to family troubles. I stayed because I wanted to be brave.

  In truth, life forced me to be brave all year long, because my parents were often abroad working, and Eagan lived in the United States, while I resided in Italy. Summer was the time when I could have the people I loved the most with me, and I was missing it. I regretted my choice terribly.

  The English teachers were good, the dorm was cozy, and the other kids were nice; but they were not what I wanted. I held on for a week, then I crumbled.

  While in the room next to mine some girls sang and laughed, I took my lap-top and looked for Eagan on-line. He was there. He was waiting for me. And he was upset.

  “Why are you mad?” I asked his face on the screen.

  “It's been a week, Brina. No emails. No texts. Nothing.”

  “I wrote an email to my dad,” I said defensively.

  “What about me? I heard Mina did not make it. You're there, alone. Why did you turn off your cellphone?”

  “I don't know,” I said and stared at the keyboard, which suddenly seemed very interesting.

  “Of course you know,” Eagan's voice snapped.

  “I wanted to do this on my own.”

  “You do everything on your own almost all year long. Summer is our time,” he said in a softer tone.

  “I know. Will you come and get me?”

  “I'll be there tomorrow.”

  I glanced up and Eagan smiled at me. I smiled back.

  He was staying with his grandparents, who lived in the city of Bath, so coming to get me in Canterbury was easy. But I knew he would have come even if he were on the other side of the world.

  We met the next afternoon in the city main square. I saw him before he could notice me. He was admiring the Cathedral and the people working to restore the façade. A group of girls was openly ogling his ass. Eagan did not mind them, or better he pretended not to, because I saw his cocky grin as I approached him.

  “You already have a fan-club,” I said.

  “Hey, kitty-cat!” He took my baggage from me, leaning in to kiss my temple. Then he turned to the Cathedral.

  “I think I know what I want to do with my life,” he said after a moment.

  I followed his gaze. “You want to fix monuments?”

  “Yes, I want to make things good again.”

  I reached for his hand and took it. He squeezed my fingers.

  The memories I collected during the days I spent with Eagan and his grandparents, Peter and Beth, are all tinted with warmth and kindness.

  During the day we visited the Roman baths, the Abbey, and the city main streets, while the evenings were spent preparing meals, talking and listening to jazz and blues tunes.

  After dinner, while Eagan helped Beth cleaning, I explored the immense library. I chose a different book every night, and Peter kept me silent company, even as he read the newspaper. Only once he interrupted my reading, for he wanted to tell me his own story. He and Beth used to teach art. In the beginning they were part-time teachers, and they lived in a small house. Then, after the birth of Eagan's mother, Bea, they decided to search for a more spacious home and full-time positions. Arthur found work in London and Beth remained in Bath with their daughter.

  I interrupted his tale then with a question. “Were you unhappy to be apart?”

  “Certainly,” he answered.

  “How did you survive?” I demanded.

  Peter wasn't surprised by my confusion, because he knew how difficult it was for her daughter to stay separate from her husband, and how my own parents experienced the same sort of distress.

  “We wrote letters to one another,” he explained.

  Then he presented the letters to me. There were so many, that he had to conserve them inside a large box. He chose his favorite one and let me read it. Only one word was written on the wrinkled paper: You.

  “With one word she told me that all she could think about was me,” Peter said, and his eyes shone with love and pride.

  “Tell me the end of your story,” I urged, my pulse pounding a wild tempo within my chest.

  He gave me Eagan's easy smile. “The school where Beth was working offered her a full-time position, so I returned to Bath and I resumed teaching part-time, while I took care of our little girl.”

  “Thank you, for sharing your story with me,” I told him, and my voice broke a little, for I realized that I yearned for the kind of strong relationship he and his wife had.

  I was young, and yet my heart was already swelling with sensations, desires and expectations I couldn't fully comprehend, but I certainly accepted.

  When the time to depart came, I had to swallow a river of tears. Eagan noticed my sadness. He didn't utter a word; he just held me for an infinite moment.

  3.

  Rome is a city full of steps. And wherever there are steps, there are also people sitting on them.

  The place where I'm supposed to meet Eagan is an art gallery situated downtown. It is an imposing, white building, that resembles an ancient Roman temple.

  I'm early, which for an Italian is quiet a rare event. But then, I'm Italian only from m
y mother side, my father is from the French part of Switzerland.

  I'm sitting on the ample steps, that lead to the entrance of the gallery. To keep me company I have Alessio, one of my best friends, and his mp3 device, playing a tune Alessio composed; the melody is so powerful and haunting, that it pierces my already tender heart.

  Alessio, and his twin brother Ivan, are partly Italian and partly British. Their father is from Sicily but, due to his job, he and his family had to move to Germany, therefore Ivan and Alessio went to high-school in Berlin. When they speak English they have a slight German accent, when they speak Italian, they have an almost incomprehensible Sicilian intonation. Their British mother gave them their black, straight hair, their pale skin, and their love for music.

  I'm nervous. I keep licking my lips and rubbing my sweaty palms across my jeans-clad thighs. Alessio, very gently, removes the earphones from my ears, then he thumbs off his mp3 player.

  “Clém wants us to compose the music for her show,” he says.

  I smile. “We are a cover band. We don't create. We imitate. Did you remind her?”

  “We can give it a try,” he replies gently, even as he strokes my long, inky-black hair. Then he rummages inside my black shoulder purse, which lays in my lap, and hands me my dark-purple lipstick.

  “Stop licking your lips,” he reprimands.

  “Why didn't Clém mention the music idea to me?” I give him the lipstick and leans toward him, so that he can apply it, as I'm too shaky to do it properly.

  ”I'm her roommate. I should be the first to know these things,” I complain.

  “You've been a little preoccupied lately,” he remarks.

  He smooths the purple smudges around my lips with the tip of his thumb, then he glances over my shoulder; a wide grin slowly stretches his mouth.

  I turn and see Eagan approaching. Dark-blond hair cropped short on the sides, a bit longer on the top of his head. Broad chest and shoulders. Full, lush lips. Bright blue eyes and an easy smile. Tall and fit, he's wearing dark denim jeans and a gray sweatshirt.

  Girls around us drop their conversations, lift their gazes from books, forget about the text messages they were about to send, to stare at him. He just got himself another fan-club.

  As we stand to greet him, I wave and Alessio murmurs, “Wow.”

  “I know.”

  I make the introductions. Eagan shakes Alessio's hand and gives him a warm smile. Alessio blushes. His eyes wander to the white steps, to the façade of the gallery, to the people. He is incredibly timid especially around attractive guys. He is sweet and caring, and he could have all the best boyfriends in the world, if only he'd overcome his shyness.

  Alessio kisses my cheek and presses the lipstick to my palm. “Forget what I said about licking your lips,” he whispers.

  I shove him playfully. “Go! I'll see you later.”

  Eagan observes Alessio walk away for a moment, then his eyes settle on me; they're not their usual bright blue, they appear darker, more intense.

  “I'm jealous,” he says.

  I frown. “Of what? Alessio is-”

  “I know. I caught the vibe. I'm jealous because he gets to touch you and kiss you. All I get is a wave.”

  He moves toward me, and I take a step backward, even as I gaze up at him, but I'm unable to gauge is expression, for the early-spring sun blinds me and forces me to avert my gaze. To hide the discomfort and nervousness caused by his presence and proximity, I make a show of replacing the lipstick inside my purse.

  “It's been years, Eagan. Things have changed,” I mumble.

  I'm still not looking at him, even so I can perceive the tension gripping his taut body, like a gust of heat. He shifts toward me, blocking the sunlight with his frame.

  “Look at me,” he demands.

  I glance up at him and wince, for his eyes are full of pain. I exhale a trembly breath, then I go to him. I bury my face in his chest; the familiar scent of cinnamon envelopes me, and so do his arms; a cradle of velvet and steel. I wrap my arms around his waist, and I feel the tenseness leave his muscles.

  “I missed this, kitty-cat,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice deep and rough.

  The popular, young artist Eagan is so curious about, is a very mysterious personality. She despises the media, so much so that no one has ever seen her face. Regardless, people adore her paintings, because the characters she depicts have soulful and penetrating eyes, that mesmerize and enchant the observers.

  The unusual artist is quiet famous, but it is a warm spring Sunday, and the Romans don't spend such a day indoors, therefore the museum is not crowded. Even so, Eagan keeps bumping playfully against me.

  “Sorry, didn't do that on purpose. Someone pushed me,” he says with fake remorse.

  “You're so doing that on purpose,” I comment, and feign deep interest in a huge painting portraying an emerald-green garden, dotted with purple flowers and lemon trees. But the beauty of the picture is unable to capture my complete attention, for Eagan's presence, his easy smiles, the smell of cinnamon, claim my concentration; all my senses are focused on him.

  I resume walking, but I don't really notice where I'm heading. Eagan follows me.

  All of a sudden, he grabs my hand. Startled, I look up at him, but his eyes are not on me, they are fixed on one of the paintings. It's a portrait of one of artist's muses. The naked woman is lying on the wooden floor of the painter's studio; her long strands create a dark halo around her face, her breasts are small and rounded, her nipples a deep red; her legs are slightly parted, revealing a dark patch of hair. She is staring at her audience, at us, with raw and unveiled desire in her gaze. As we admire her, Eagan's thumb draws small, insistent circles across the back of my hand. My eyes move to his face. His neck is flushed, and his Adam's apple moves up and down, as he swallows; he is aroused.

  The unrelenting caress of his finger draws goosebumps on my skin. My nipples harden and strain against the thin cotton of my dark, long-sleeved shirt. I feel an insistent throb between my legs. I disentangle my hand from his and curl my arms around myself in an attempt to shield my body from all this sensations.

  Eagan notices. “You alright?” He pulls me into the cradle of his embrace.

  “I'm fine.” My voice is small and strained. I don't recognize it.

  Eagan tucks a finger under my chin and tilts my face upward, so that our gazes meet. His eyes roam my face; except for a spark in their blue depths, I can't figure out his expression. And I can't stand his probing appraisal, so my eyes dart away from his, and the moment breaks. He lets go of me.

  We continue walking, gazing and admiring. By the end of the exposition Eagan suggests we find a coffee-shop, to enjoy a cappuccino, but mostly to talk. I nod. In truth, all I want is to run away.

  When we leave the exposition, the white steps leading to the entrance of the gallery are occupied by numerous people; their faces are raised toward the sky, allowing the spring sun to brush their skin.

  Someone calls Eagan's name, and we turn to see whom the voice belongs to. A portly young man, about Eagan's age, approaches us. He has longish dark hair and a round, beaming face. He is followed by two pretty young women; one is a brunette, the other has long, curly red hair. Eagan introduces us. They are all his coworkers, and they're all Italians. They have a slight accent when they speak English, that sounds funny on Enrico, the young man, and sexy on the two young women. As soon as I hear their names, I forget them.

  They all smile at me politely, but then their attention turns completely to Eagan. I half-listen, because both my mind and my body want to be somewhere else. I am witnessing a fragment of Eagan's new life in Rome. It involves fancy parties and clubs, that I've never been to, although I've been living in Rome for almost two years.

  They want Eagan to go with them; apparently they have a big night planned out, which will begin with an early happy hour in a famous Irish pub. This one at least I know and have been to. Eagan glances at me and grins, then he invites me to join the
m. The other three, once again, smile politely. They don't seem to really care if I go with them, or not.

  I don't have a real reason to decline the invitation, but I pretend I do, because the entire situation is making me uncomfortable. It is all evolving in a sort of painful slow motion. The forced politeness, the way the woman with dark hair smiles and touches Eagan's arm and chest. In my mind, this strange film moves quickly forward, and I can imagine what I would see, were I to follow them. Her body leaning in, grazing his. Him grabbing her hand, and drawing arousing circles across her skin with his thumb. I realize that it is all a product of my active imagination, but it hurts nonetheless.

  “Thank you, but I have a previous engagement.” This is what comes out of my mouth.

  I wave politely, then I leave.

  I used to adore Eagan's expansiveness, but now I detest it.

  4.

  When I was fourteen and Eagan was nineteen, we argued once more. And I yielded another shred of my heart.

  That summer, with our families, we went on a special cruise. The journey started in Moscow and ended in Saint Petersburg. Though I enjoyed the Russian capital and all the small villages we visited when the boat stopped, what I really wanted to see was Saint Petersburg, because of the Hermitage, the Palaces, and the bridges that at night, like well attuned instruments of an orchestra, split in two and raise, to let the ships through.