There was something of an earthy quality about the girl sitting across from me, and I found my attention drawn back to her profile again and again. The way her hair was swept up away from her face extended the bold line of cheekbones, and her eyes, outlined in black, reminded me of Sophia Loren’s in her younger years. Madalina’s mouth, however, was almost too small for her face, but her lips were full and painted bright red, the butt of the cigarette she smoked smeared with the same color. She sipped her own espresso—the red lipstick imprint marked the rim of the white cup as well. A platter of assorted pastries sat on the table between us, and I wondered who was paying for things this morning.
“Pops and Crina, they are my nonno e la nonna. My grandfather. Grandmother.” When she finally spoke, she still didn’t look at me, but continued to study the busy street beyond the row of potted geraniums at the edge of the patio. “We are Romanian, but here, in Italy, it is not always a good thing. Many people believe we are Romani. Gypsy. Often customers are rude to Crina, and it upsets me.” Her accent was heavy, but she spoke slowly, emphatically, and I could almost feel my ears adjusting to the tune of her voice, like it was coming into sharper audible focus the longer I listened to her.
I was humbled that she knew at least three languages fluently enough to converse, while only moments ago, I’d been offended that she expected me to know more than my American English. Although I’d never really thought it through, I suppose I’d simply assumed someone around me on my travels would know enough English to help me if I needed it. I was beginning to see how disrespectful that notion was as I sat with Madalina, who, for whatever reason, had decided to extend a hand of friendship of sorts to me.
Over her painted-on black pants and the black shirt with its sleeves rolled up to her elbows, she wore a knee-length white apron that looked like something a butcher might use. It was tied loosely around her neck to accommodate her generous bosom, and tightly around her waist, presumably to accentuate the contrasting curves. With her olive skin, red mouth, and her dramatic flair, I could easily imagine a bit of Gypsy in her, but I didn’t say anything because of the way she’d spit out the word, her upper lip curling, almost a sneer. I couldn’t tell whether her disdain was her own sentiment, or the sentiment of those who thought the old woman at the counter was Gypsy, so I waited, wondering if she would expound. Perhaps that explained the surliness of the man in the trench coat.
She remained silent, though, so I tried listening to what she wasn’t saying, and began to think that perhaps she’d told me about her grandparents in lieu of apologizing for jumping down my throat. “I see,” I simply said, nodding.
I was learning that secrets are often whispered in the silences between words. My tendency was to fill up those spaces with unnecessary chatter, especially with the stoic Jacob, who often smiled indulgently and let me ramble on. But in so doing, I’d inadvertently missed out on what was really being communicated. I was now tormented by the knowledge that had I listened more and talked less, had I waited and not rushed on ahead, I would not be standing here today, still trembling in the aftermath of the implosion of my foolish fantasies.
Madalina turned to me, stubbing out her cigarette, then lined the saucer of her cup with fare from the pastry platter. Apparently, she planned to sit for a while. “So tell me, Miss America, why do you come here to Lucca?” She winked at me, and pointed at my bare left hand, then pushed the goodies my way, gesturing for me to partake. “You have a love? A man at home, waiting for you to return?”
I wasn’t prepared for her change of subject, nor was I prepared for this subject in particular. “I’m on vacation. I’m single.” I busied myself with making my own selection from the goodies, not wanting to think about what was waiting for me upon my return home.
“So you come here to find Italian man? You are Juliette looking for your Romeo?”
I sputtered, the sip I took lodging somewhere in my esophagus. The last thing I needed was a man right now, Italian or otherwise, and I said so. She laughed and handed me more napkins.
“But what about you, Madalina? You’re not wearing a ring, either. Is that why you’re here? Are you looking for a man?” I had to get the focus of this conversation back on safe ground. Off me.
“Weesht! No man I have met is enough for this!” She swept a hand up the length of her torso, ending with a flick of her wrist in the air above her head. “Do you know what is the meaning of Madalina?”
I sat back in my chair, shaking my head. “No. What is the meaning of Madalina?” I smiled, beginning to enjoy myself again. “Please tell me.”
“My name is ‘high tower’ in the Greek, but in Romania, it means ‘magnificent!’“ She laughed and stood up, arms out. “I am magnificent Romanian woman. I wait only for the man who is not afraid to climb this high tower. Like King Solomon.”
“King Solomon?” That came out of nowhere.
“King Solomon, yes! In the Bible. You do not know the Bible?”
“Uh… the Bible? What?” I sounded like a dolt, but once again, Madalina had changed directions on me, and I was scrambling to keep up.
“The Bible! You have heard of the Bible, yes?” She returned her cigarettes and lighter to her pocket and clicked her tongue admonishingly. “Maybe if you read the Bible, perhaps it will help you not to be so sad.”
“I’m not sad,” I retorted, making a face when she rolled her eyes. “And of course I’ve heard of the Bible.”
“Then you know what I am saying!” She placed both palms on the table, leaning forward, her eyes lighting up. “You read the sexy love poems of King Solomon, yes? The Song of Songs? That is the man I am waiting for.”
“King Solomon? I see. You set the bar pretty high.” It slipped out before I thought how cynical it made me sound.
“You think? It is a good thing, yes? Too many girls with low bars. No rules, anything goes.” She straightened, loading our dishes onto a tray she’d left on the table next to ours, before pausing to study me. “I am a high tower, like my name. But what about you?” Shaking her finger at me, she continued. “I am thinking you are perhaps a high tower, too, but maybe you do not know it yet. What is your name?”
I laughed, having forgotten to introduce myself. “I’m Anica Tomlin. Ani.”
“Ani.” She said it with the emphasis on the second syllable, and although it sounded lovely and a little exotic coming from her, because she seemed to think names were important, I wanted her to get it right.
“Ani,” I repeated, accenting the first syllable. “Short for Anica.” I was named after my maternal grandmother, Annika, who’d left Sweden to make a new life with her young husband in America. I hesitated as I always did. “Anica means grace.”
“Yes. Grace. I already know that. Anica is like Anca in Romania. So maybe I call you Princess Grace instead of Miss America?” Madalina laughed at her own joke.
“I could get used to that,” I quipped.
“I must go to work now. You want another espresso, Princess Grace?” I shook my head. I was already buzzing, the tips of my fingers tingling, but it was a rather lovely sensation.
“You listen to me, Ani.” She still said it wrong, but I didn’t try to correct her. “I can see you are crying. Your eyes, they are puffy and red.” She waved off my immediate denial. “You do not pretend to me. I am a woman. I see you here.” She positioned the tray on one hip and patted her free hand over her heart.
“Well,” I began, dropping my gaze to the tablecloth where I traced the scrolled pattern of the fabric with one fingertip. “I came here to try to fix that,” I finished lamely.
“You run away from your pain?” She tsked at me again and pulled out her order pad. Flipping it open on her tray, she tallied up my bill and laid it face-down on the table. “You should not do that, Ani.”
“I’m not running away.”
Madalina just raised her eyebrows.
“Besides, I don’t like pain.”
“My mother says, ‘Pain, she is a beautiful wom
an. You must hold her and comfort her until she is ready to go. Then she will leave some of her beauty with you when she goes.’”
I looked away, not angry, but wishing the conversation was wrapping up differently.
“It is hard to like a beautiful woman, no?”
I chuckled and pointed up at her, grabbing at the opportunity to change the subject. “I like you, Madalina, and you’re a beautiful woman.”
“Ah, but it was not so easy to like me, no? And now look at you. You are a better person for not running away from Madalina the Magnificent.” She winked and turned to go, declaring over her shoulder, “Now I need to find a man who also does not run away from this high tower!” Her boisterous laugh followed her back inside the shop, the bells on the door applauding her parting words.
I reached for the tab and let out a small snort when I saw she’d crossed out the total and scribbled in a big zero with a line through it. In looping, bold letters, Madalina had written her name, her phone number, and “Have a day of beauty, Princess Grace!”
I left enough cash on the table to pay the bill and leave her with a sizable tip as well.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The first thing I did was follow Fabio’s directions to the medieval Guinigi Tower, famous for its rooftop garden that could be seen from all over the city. I climbed the two-hundred-plus steps to the top and was pleasantly surprised to find it nearly empty of visitors. I snapped a few shots of the aerial view of Lucca to send home, and then spread my map out on a bench under one of the tough little Holm oak trees to get my bearings. I located my street a couple blocks away and realized I could see l’Aurora’s awning from there. I waved, just in case Madalina happened to be looking my way.
I meandered back the way I came, stopping for a pistachio gelato along the way. I’d made the decision to taste as many different flavors of the Italian ice cream as I could before leaving the country. I’d have to eat a lot of the stuff in the sixteen days I had left, but I was game.
I found the bicycle rental place Fabio recommended in the piazza just past the end of my street. Beyond the row of shops was a ramp leading up to the top of the wide stone wall that had embraced the ancient city since the Renaissance period. I planned to ride around the two-and-a-half mile perimeter and to do a little people watching. I’d read that the wall was more like a promenade, where locals and tourists alike paraded and cycled, played and picnicked. According to popular travel gurus, if I wanted to experience the way of life that embodied Lucca, the wall was the place to start.
The bike I rented was essentially a modified beach cruiser, and I tucked my purse, Fabio’s map, my water bottle, and a few carefully wrapped sweeties, courtesy of the generous patroness of l’Aurora, into the wicker basket hanging from the handlebars. I’d grown up on a bike, our kid-friendly street ending on a cul de sac, so had no qualms about getting on one now. In fact, once up on the wall, the paved, tree-lined path looked wonderfully inviting, and for the first time since arriving in Italy, I almost felt like I could blend in with the locals.
Although the busiest part of the tourist season was winding down, people were everywhere and I moved among them, soaking in the hypnotic ebb and flow of local conversation and the universal music of young children playing. Breezes rustled the leaves overhead and fluttered the skirts of the women who walked arm and arm with their friends and lovers, relishing in the lingering echoes of a Tuscan summer. I smiled at an elderly couple holding hands on a bench beneath a stately oak still in full leaf, the filtered sunlight dancing on the bright yellow fabric of the old woman’s dress.
“Does anyone work in this city?” I asked myself out loud.
I rode leisurely, stopping at will whenever something caught my eye. From this slightly elevated position, I could look down into the city: ancient churches with bell steeples, tiny garden plots inside walled courtyards, citrus trees in containers on terraces four and five stories up, and laundry strung from window to window. Narrow streets led into the heart of the city, disappearing between tall buildings, and I wanted to explore every single one of them.
Slowing to a stop at the top of one of the ramps that lead off the wall and down to the street level, I reached into the basket for my water bottle. From behind me came a sudden burst of unintelligible shouts, and I turned to look over my shoulder just in time to see the panicked face of a child on a bicycle before she careened into me. Unprepared for the jolt, I tried to jump free as my own bike went over. My left foot caught and twisted in the metal frame, and I fell on my backside, hard, the palms of my hands scraping along the gravel at the edge of the pavement. I was stunned, and terribly embarrassed, but I didn’t think I was hurt too badly.
The little girl, however, lay in a crumpled heap right behind me, sobbing and holding her arm. A man, presumably her father, knelt over her, clearly trying to console her, but his words came out in such a rush, I was sure he was only feeding her fear with his own. A memory came to mind of when I was about this girl’s age, and I’d sliced open my heel on a piece of glass that had somehow found its way into our back yard. I’d been so brave as I limped onto the porch, holding back my tears. My father, however, took one look at all the blood and began to panic. So I panicked, too, until my mother took charge of the situation, sat me down on a lawn chair, and sent my father inside for a cold washcloth. By the time he returned, we all were a little calmer.
I untangled my feet from my bicycle and tried to stand, but gasped as my ankle buckled. Thanks to my sturdy boots, I didn’t collapse, but the pain shooting up my left leg packed a wallop, and I carefully lowered myself back to my knees and scooted toward the girl, concern for her temporarily overriding any for my own injuries.
I placed a soothing hand on her shoulder, but jerked it away at the sting in my palm. To my chagrin, I left smeared blood on her white blouse.
Her father lifted his head to look at me, brown eyes wide with concern, and reached across his daughter to grab my wrists, then turned my hands over to look at them. “Signorina! Si sono feriti? Hai dolore?” His words came out so quickly, I only caught the word dolore which meant ‘pain.’ Tish had used it to describe me when I decided to take this trip now instead of after graduation, and I’d heard it often enough that I knew it well. “Mi dispiace molto, signorina!” Then he lifted them to his mouth and began kissing my fingertips, making me gasp and pull them away.
“It’s nothing. Really,” I assured him, trying to turn my grimace into a smile. I cupped my hands together on my lap, not letting my palms touch; they burned almost as much as my cheeks did.
“Niente. Only scratches.” Flustered, I turned to the girl whose sobs had quieted as she watched the interaction between her father and me. With eyes just like his, wide and expressive, she stared up at me, still whimpering, but more softly now. I tried to recall how my mother had soothed my fear, my father’s fear; I could hear her voice in my head.
“Hello, beautiful.” I spoke quietly, searching the tear-streaked face under the brim of her purple helmet. Did she speak English? “Are you hurt? Dolore?” I didn’t touch her, but smiled reassuringly, jutting my chin toward the arm she still cradled against her chest. “I’m Ani. What is your name?”
She smiled, shyly at first, and I let out a small exhalation of relief. Her gaze shifted to her father’s face and she whispered something to him. He nodded and helped her sit up.
“My name is Simone.” She pointed at her father. “Il mio papa.” Then she touched the back of my hands where they rested on my knees. “You have blood.”
Peering down, I could see I was in for a world of hurt when it came time to clean the wounds. The skin of my palms, desk-work tender, had shredded like soft cheese as they slid across the gravel. Pieces of sand were embedded under the torn flesh, and the nerve endings were waking up, causing both hands, my right one especially, to throb and burn. But I nodded, tight-lipped. “I’m all right. I just need to wash them.” I curled my fingers gingerly so she couldn’t see what I saw, and fought not to gasp
.
“You are very brave. Not like me.” She sounded a little awestruck. “You do not cry.”
“I want to cry,” I teased, glad she understood English. “But you were crying first, so I had to wait my turn.”
Simone giggled. “But I do not bleed.” She held up her arm to show me, then turned to her father again. “See Papa?” Straightening her arm, she winced a little, but didn’t complain. “I will be brave, too.”
A crowd was beginning to gather around us and I suddenly remembered the contents of the basket on my bicycle. “Oh no! My purse!” Without thinking, I tried to stand again, but this time my foot wouldn’t cooperate, and I went down to my knees hard, catching myself on one raw palm. Trying desperately not to cry out, my words came out on a moan. “My purse.”
I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t crawl, all I could do was point at my fallen bicycle. The contents of the basket were scattered where they’d spilled out, but my big black bag was nowhere to be seen. Someone had made off with it while I was tending to the little girl, my back turned.
My passport, my driver’s license, my credit cards, even my cell phone; all were gone. Maps, reservations, Eurail pass, gone. Why, oh why hadn’t I just strapped on my money belt this morning instead of shoving it into my purse? Dropping my chin to my chest, I closed my eyes, no longer able to hold back the tears that squeezed out between my eyelashes.
“It is your turn to cry now, Ani?” Simone asked. She said my name the same way Madalina did, and I just nodded, my thoughts reeling.
What on earth was I going to do now?
All the Way to Heaven Page 4
