He laughed again and leaned toward her. “First, you give una fortuna to the porter…now, you want to give another fortuna to beggars. What will you do when their brothers and sisters and cousins and in-laws come rushing to you like locusts to a grain field?”
“Non lo so.” I don’t know.
“Our lives and theirs”—he gestured toward the window—“are different.”
“But that’s cruel,” Willa said. “They’re people just like us.” He laughed and shook his head. His face is strong. It has character. Perhaps a three-quarter view would be better.
He shrugged. “They have their fate. We have ours.” He accepted these circumstances as if there were nothing to be done, an acceptance suffused with regret perhaps, but the kind of regret that is not accompanied by any sense of responsibility for or commitment to righting an injustice.
“I don’t believe in fate,” Willa said. Signora Farnese cleared her throat and glanced at the seat next to her. Willa sat down. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what this soldier thinks because I don’t want to know him. Just then, the train lurched forward.
“It’s your charity that’s cruel,” the soldier continued, “and selfish, too. You feel good because you throw your money out the window, but suppose you cause a riot or a fight? They’ll be arrested or fall under the train and be worse off than before.”
Willa couldn’t let his challenge pass. “I know it’s possible to do better. Someone—perhaps your government—has to help the poor.” Signora Farnese put her hand on Willa’s, but Willa was already too involved to remain cautious.
“Where do you come from that you think that it’s possible to end poverty?” the soldier asked.
“Erhart. Ohio. America.” Willa wished that the place she came from sounded more interesting. “But I live in Firenze now.” Signora Farnese glanced over at her, but said nothing.
“I’ve never heard of this place, Ohio, Erhart.”
“But you’ve heard of Firenze.” He is quite handsome, Willa thought. She smiled. He returned her smile.
“In any case, our government supports land reform.” He spoke with great seriousness. “Many people, including myself, believe that the poverty of the peasants will be alleviated when they are allowed to grow enough food to eat and to keep some to sell instead of giving everything to the landlord.”
So he does favor fair treatment for the less fortunate, after all, Willa thought. “If that’s what you believe,” Willa said, “why is it wrong for me to help them?”
He laughed. The train picked up speed, leaving Naples behind. He seemed to draw up to attention. Willa looked at the gold watch that hung on a chain around her neck and opened the engraved lid. “Anyway, we’re too far away for me to start a riot in Naples now,” she said.
“But you still have enough time to tell me why you’re going to Firenze.”
Willa looked at Signora Farnese, who shook her head. A warning. “I didn’t say I was going to Firenze,” Willa replied. “I said that I live there.” She turned the page in her sketchbook, intending to work on the drawing of the children while she could still remember how they looked. “I’m going to be an artist.” She wished there had been more time to study the children before drawing them, though Maestro Ottaviani believed that the feeling of life could be captured in a single line in no time at all. She wanted her work to reflect this aesthetic ideal.
“An artist.” The soldier seemed to ponder this possibility. “I think that must be the reason that you’re so impractical.” He spoke as if he were merely restating an hypothesis that had already been tested and verified.
“I’m not,” Willa said. She didn’t mind being considered impractical, but she didn’t believe he could judge her character on such minimal and, to her, irrelevant evidence. Is that how Italians really are? she wondered. “What could be more practical than for an artist to study in Firenze with its history of great art and artists?” She took a deep breath, wanting to say more about her ideas about art and why people considered a concern with aesthetics impractical, how that was a mistaken assumption. There was so much she wanted to talk about. But where to begin?
The soldier leaned closer to see the sketchbook that lay open on her lap. “Why don’t you draw me? I think you were planning to do it anyway. There’s time and I’ll sit very still.” He adjusted his cap, crossed his knees and moved the armrest to support his cast.
“I was planning to draw the children,” Willa said.
“Wait, I’ll even pay you.”
Signora Farnese shook her head. “That’s improper.”
Willa was curious about the soldier’s offer. “How much?” My first Italian commission! I must write to Maestro Ottaviani and tell him, she thought.
“As much as you gave the porter,” the soldier said. “A thousand lire.”
“A thousand lire. Very well, but half of the fee has to be paid in advance,” Willa said.
“Is that how they do it in America?”
“Yes.”
“In Italy, we pay only if we like the result.” He stood up and worked his wallet out of his back pocket with his good hand. “Since you are an American, I will make an exception.” He counted out a thousand lire.
Signora Farnese put her hand between them. “No. She does not accept money from….” Before she could say more, Willa took the note and put it in her purse.
“See how impractical you are?” the soldier said. “You didn’t even look at it. How do you know it’s the right amount?”
He seems pleased, as if he won a competition, Willa thought. “I know it’s double what we said. What else do I need to know?” In an effort to restore some formality between them, she pointed to a place next to the window. “If you will sit over there, please.” He didn’t move.
“I would have paid you even more, but you didn’t bargain with me. Very impractical!”
Despite Signora Farnese’s disapproving look, Willa took his bait. “You’re mistaken. I didn’t need to bargain with you because you gave me twice what I asked. Besides, you don’t know whether I can draw or not, so it’s you who’s impractical.” Signora Farnese shook her head and took refuge in a book on Italian art. “Please, move where the light is better,” Willa said again, but the soldier refused.
“Draw!” He waved his hand like a monarch. “I want to watch you work.”
“You’ll make me self-conscious.”
“You say you’re an artist. I paid for my portrait, so you must do this portrait the way I want it. Ask your…mother?”
“What do you think?” Willa asked Signora Farnese.
“I think you made a mistake to take the money in the first place, but now that you’ve accepted it, you’ll have to draw whatever pose he requests or return the money.” Signora Farnese resumed reading her book.
“Don’t talk,” Willa told him. She took out a hard pencil first and began to block the key points of his shape, aligning his proportions with the length of her pencil as Maestro Ottaviani had taught her to do. She changed to a softer lead to note the curved lines of his body under the fabric of his uniform, the thrust of the jaw, the slight indentation where the mandible met the ear, then followed the line of the long, smooth nose, the outward bulge of his eyelids, the rounded darkness of the iris itself, erasing in the white highlight. Moving to the mouth, she traced the full upper lip, the slight smile, the thinner lower lip, and then the hair, which curled around his face like smoke. She followed the line of his sturdy torso to the left ankle resting on the right knee, ending in the left foot thrust toward her, his left hand on his knee, solid and firm. She traced the passage of each finger, erasing, changing, and correcting the angles of the knuckles. Does this drawing have life? she asked herself. What would Maestro Ottaviani say? The soldier looked soft, yet fierce; kindly, but capable of slaying gorgons. She smudged the gentle edges of his mouth and dug her pencil into the paper in the places where she wanted to emphasize his strength.
“Do you always draw like you’re trying to kill
something?” he asked.
“Shhh.”
“I’m Gabriele Marcheschi and I live in Orvieto.” He lifted his arm from the sling, leaned toward her. “I’m going home to get well.”
She glanced at him. “What happened to your arm?”
“Un incidente.” An accident. He made a rolling motion with his good hand. “In Ethiopia, the truck I was driving overturned near Addis Ababa. My arm is broken in three places.” He pointed to his upper arm, then to just below his elbow, and to his wrist, his eyes on her.
Willa looked down at her work. “Perhaps you’re not such a good driver,” she said as she erased an area that troubled her. “You should have been more careful.” She heard his quick intake of breath.
“But I was almost killed!” He sounded affronted. Have I said something wrong? she wondered. “I am not careless or weak,” he continued. “I am ready to die for my country.” He put his good hand on his chest. “I was never afraid.” He reached into his pocket and took out a medallion attached to a crumpled purple ribbon. “Look.” He put it on her sketchbook and leaned closer, pointing to the inscription. “It says ‘for bravery and courage in battle’.”
“I’m sorry about your arm. Does it still hurt?” Willa said. She handed the medal to Signora Farnese, who returned it to the soldier.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to work again.” His expression included sadness, remorse, and self-pity. Willa found the contradiction of his rough exterior and sentimentality appealing in a romantic way. He seems overly dramatic, she thought. After all, he’s here and alive and evidently quite well.
“What does your doctor say?” Signora Farnese asked. Gabriele leaned toward her as if confiding a secret.
“Signora, in Orvieto we had three doctors. One was my brother who was killed in the same accident. Crushed under the truck. He died instantly. The other fellow, also a doctor…his foot was nearly cut off. They took him to the same hospital where they took me. Gangrene set in. He became a hunk of rotten meat. He knew he was dying and he cried for his mother the whole time. Death is a terrible thing.” He watched Willa, assessing the effect of his words. “Now, there is only one doctor left for all of Orvieto: Dr. Lucarelli who knows only herbs.” Willa looked out the window at the parched hills thinking of Chip and Eddie. Just then, they—and Gabriele Marcheschi, too—seemed beautiful to her, the idea of their being in a war tragic. “Mussolini wants to restore our greatness like a Caesar,” Gabriele continued, “but this is why there is no doctor for my arm in Orvieto.” He shrugged. Did he regard this, too, as a matter of fate?
“If I were you, I’d go where they had doctors,” Willa said, glad that she would be an artist in a city with real doctors.
“You mean you would go somewhere for just such a small thing as a doctor? Why would I leave my home, my family’s podere?” Gabriele replied. “I’m the only son left and I must always care for the land of my family. Our vineyards. Our crops. Our tenants.”
“I think a good arm is more important than a piece of land,” Willa said. “How could I be an artist without my arm? How could you take care of your family’s land without yours?”
Gabriele shook his head. “Without my land, how could I be a man? Anyway,” he said, “if you saw how beautiful my family’s land in Orvieto is, you wouldn’t say that.”
“I would too say it. I’d say it no matter what,” Willa said.
“Is this how you think?” he asked. She nodded, erasing a line. “You must be an American to leave your home for such a foolish reason.”
“That’s not why I left,” she said, carefully redrawing the line. “I left to become a painter.”
“They don’t have painters in America?”
“Not in Erhart, Ohio.”
“So people in this Ohio, Erhart, leave the land of their fathers and grandfathers just to be painters?”
“Erhart, Ohio. Yes,” she said, “we do.”
Gabriele threw up his hands. “So, now you have nothing.”
The conductor entered their compartment. Signora Farnese gave him their tickets and excused herself. One of Willa’s pencils rolled off the seat and onto the floor. Both she and Gabriele Marcheschi reached for it. He put his hand around hers and pressed his medal into her palm. Willa pulled her hand away. He put the medal on her sketchbook.
“A gift from your new friend, Gabriele Marcheschi.”
“You can’t give me this.” She handed the medal back to him. “I don’t know you.”
“You know me well enough to take my money for a portrait.” He fingered the medal. “So now you must tell me your name.” It was true. She would have to tell him her name when she signed the drawing. She looked out through the window of the compartment door. Signora Farnese and was nowhere in sight.
“Willa.” She pushed a long strand of hair away from her face. “Willa Carver.”
Gabriele stood up, bowed slightly, and removed his cap with his left hand and put it on the seat. His dark curls tumbled over his forehead. He held out his hand, and she shook it. “So now we are friends, Willa Carver.” Using his good hand, he slipped his identity card out from the band inside of the cap and handed it to her.
“Per favore. Write your name and the address on this card. So I know where to come for my picture.” She hadn’t considered this possibility, but he was right. Of course, he would have to come for the picture. He had paid for it. Since she couldn’t deliver it, she must allow him to come for it. He probably won’t come, she thought. She found her address book and copied Signora Farnese’s address in her careful, vertical cursive onto the back of the identity card. He studied it.
“Fiesole? You said you lived in Firenze.” The compartment door slid open and Signora Farnese entered. She had a small, pink-striped paper bag in her hand.
“Vicino.” Near. Gabriele put the card inside his cap and sat back in his seat.
“Near what?” Signora Farnese asked.
“Near to done,” Willa said, indicating the drawing.
“Near Firenze,” Gabriele said. “She says she lives near Firenze, but in Fiesole.”
“I hope you’ve not gotten into any more trouble in my absence.” Signora Farnese offered Willa a chocolate.
Willa took the candy and ate it in one bite. “I’m just working on this drawing.” Signora Farnese held out the bag of chocolates to Gabriele.
“No thank you. I’m working, too,” he said, smiling. Signora Farnese sat down and took out her book. They rode in silence. Willa continued to draw, shading the contours of Gabriele’s cheeks with a soft pencil, the curve of the brow already etched with fine lines. She traced the drape of his half-lowered eyelids, drowsy in the warm car, carved out the depth of the septum and the definite chin, then the folds of his uniform revealing a powerful chest and the muscles of his arms under the fabric. She imagined him as a marble sculpture. The train came to a stop, and she looked up at him. In Gabriele’s eyes, Willa noticed a deeper liveliness within, an animation she hadn’t seen earlier. Was this the life that Maestro Ottaviani thought so important? She changed her pencil strokes to match the vividness of this presence.
“How long will you stay in Italy?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Long enough to become good at painting uomini nudi, I think.” Gabriele started. Signora Farnese looked up.
“Nudi,” said Signora Farnese. “Nudes—not naked men,”
“Yes, nudi, I mean,” Willa said. “And long enough to cure Neapolitan poverty, too!”
“A long time, then,” Gabriele said. Willa thought he looked pleased.
About noon, the train slowed again and moved onto a siding while another train overtook and passed them. When tea service and sandwiches arrived, Gabriele insisted on buying refreshments for them.
“That’s very considerate,” Willa said, “but I want to finish this drawing.” Signora Farnese nodded at her approvingly and declined as well. The train slowed, and the conductor announced their next stop. “Orvieto.”
Gabriele stoo
d up. “I get off here,” he said. “Let me see my portrait once more before I go.”
“Here, it’s done. You can take it with you.”
“Keep it to remember your friend, Gabriele Marcheschi.” He bent over to look at her drawing. “It’s worth more than I thought.” He took out his wallet and counted out another thousand lire. “For a picture and a frame. I want you to hang it where you will see me every day.” Signora Farnese raised her eyebrows.
Willa tore the drawing out of her sketchbook. “Here, you must keep it and frame it yourself.”
“I will see you very soon, and my framed portrait.” He put the bill in Willa’s hand and closed her fingers around it. “I will come next Sunday.”
Signora Farnese looked alarmed. “It’s quite premature,” she said. The train came to a stop. I shouldn’t have given him the address, Willa thought. Another mistake.
“Arrivederci,” Willa and Gabriele Marcheschi said to one another simultaneously. Then, Gabriele bent over her and with his good arm pulled Willa to him, held her tightly, and kissed her on the lips, pressing his tongue into her mouth. Willa gasped and flailed. Gabriele released her with a shout, and she fell back against her seat. He dropped the medal into her lap and went out into the corridor, laughing.
Willa laughed, too. “That soldier is pazzo,” she said to Signora Farnese, but she liked it that Gabriele Marcheschi had kissed her, had surprised her, had done something she hadn’t expected. He had a way about him that was confident and certain.
“It’s a complete scandal,” Signora Farnese said. “You accept money from a stranger of unknown reputation. He gives you gifts. He says he will call on you without a proper introduction or an invitation. And to make matters worse, he kisses you in public.”
To Willa these things weren’t scandalous or regrettable. She thought them amusing, but she understood that she had let things go too far. “I’ll give everything back right now.” She went to the window. Gabriele was standing on the platform, looking up as if he had expected to see her. She opened the window and leaned out with the medal, the drawing, and the money in her extended hands. The conductor’s whistle sounded again. The train moved forward, stopped, and moved forward again.
The Train to Orvieto Page 4
