A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  Reprising their conversation in Pisa, she feigned a shrug and added, “Well, of course, Emerson. As it is in physics, so it is in life.”

  He chuckled. “That’s what I always say.”

  6

  All the World’s a Stage

  Saturday–Friday, July 7–13

  The next several days passed like one of those dialogue-free montages Gwen always found so delightful yet unrealistic in the movies, where the passage of time speeds by and lively music swells to fill the cinema as the onscreen characters are seen joyously partaking in a myriad of activities:

  Strolling along the sunny boardwalk in Nice and taking a quick dip in the cool waters of the French Riviera.

  Taste-testing pastries at a sidewalk café in Lyon at a stop en route to Geneva, Switzerland.

  Riding by train to the Alpine hideaway of Zermatt—the Matterhorn rising in the distance—and hiking up to see and touch an actual glacier.

  She’d been a bit confounded by the tour’s itinerary at first, but had been too busy getting ready when they were back in the States to question it. Once she was actually meandering along France’s southern coastline, however, admiring their lovely view of the Mediterranean, she had to ask about this.

  “So, we’ve left Italy to go to France and Switzerland, but then we’ll be returning to Italy later... .” she said to her aunt one afternoon in Nice. “Isn’t that inefficient?”

  Bea only laughed. “You don’t get to check Italy off your list, Gwen. Not just yet, anyway.” She reminded Gwen of the proximity of the French Riviera to the Italian Riviera. “It would be more inefficient to crisscross the country twice, especially with Venice being so far to the east and much nearer Hungary,” Bea explained, “which is where we’re headed after Venice.”

  Gwen couldn’t deny the practicality of this and she eventually conceded that, yes—geographically—they’d made a logical move. But she wasn’t able to abandon her extensive list of sites (or her desire to check them off) until she’d realized, during one particularly mountainous trek up to see the glacier, that she’d lost her sheet of paper for Switzerland. And she further realized she didn’t really need it.

  Checklist or no, she was seeing plenty in Europe.

  Every once in a while, she would step outside of herself and examine these experiences. It was phenomenal, really, when she took time to think about what she was doing. How different it all was from her “real” life back in Iowa. But, in the parallel world of the tour, such marvels had become a daily reality. She’d come to accept them as normal, if not quite ordinary, and had managed to slip into the life of a tourist, who rose to greet each summer day with the certainty that her high sensory expectations would be met during Hans-Josef’s various excursions.

  And though she was still often wowed by the wondrous sites she’d seen and the privilege of being gifted such a summer adventure, she suspected she wouldn’t fully assimilate all that she had encountered in Europe until many months after she’d returned home. Sometime, perhaps in midwinter when she was sipping a cup of peppermint tea during her prep period, she’d remember what it felt like to run her fingers over one small corner of that glacier in Zermatt, and she would feel the full thrill and comprehension of that experience.

  But on this bright Wednesday, as the bus ambled its way to a rest stop in Verona, Italy—having left the Alps behind for a time as they headed toward the mysterious city of Venice—Gwen knew she’d only been collecting memories from these excursions, much like Colin Pickering had been collecting photos. She would have to sort through them all later to select her favorites and to find the ones that were the most meaningful to her.

  “We will stop here for two hours to stretch and have lunch,” Hans-Josef informed them. “Then, on to Venezia.”

  Gwen found herself lured by Aunt Bea, Matilda and Dr. Louie into grabbing a hot calzone to go and visiting the supposed balcony of “Juliet.” (Which was not, of course, real because Juliet was a character in a play. Not that the native Veroneans wanted to be reminded of such a thing.) Sally and Peter tagged along, carrying water bottles and a couple of Italian chocolate bars for extra sustenance.

  Since Gwen had spent a number of excursions in the company of the younger people, she didn’t want to keep abandoning her aunt—regardless of Bea’s encouragement to do so—and she had been making an effort to divide her time equitably between the two groups.

  Nevertheless, she kept an eye on the Brits, and she spotted Emerson, Thoreau, Cynthia and Louisa having lunch together at an outdoor café downtown, near the city’s imposing amphitheater. She was pleased to watch as Connie Sue, Alex and Davis were welcomed to their table. A nice intermingling of American and English S&M members ... of young and young at heart.

  “What do you see when you look at Sally’s water bottle?” Peter asked her, jarring her from her thoughts as was his habit.

  “Er ... um—” she began, not knowing what, precisely, he was getting at. The object he was referring to looked very much like, well, a water bottle.

  “It’s that question about how you see life,” Sally hinted.

  “Oh,” Gwen said, understanding. “In that case, I guess I see it as half full,” she replied, wanting to be perceived as an optimist, even if that wasn’t strictly true.

  “I say half full, too,” boomed Dr. Louie.

  “Me, too,” piped Matilda.

  “Without a doubt,” added Aunt Bea.

  Sally chuckled, and Gwen sensed that a math joke was imminent.

  “It’s all in your perspective,” Peter said, stating the obvious. “The optimist says the glass is half full. The pessimist says it’s half empty. And the engineer says it’s a container twice as large as it needs to be.”

  “Ha!” burst Dr. Louie.

  Aunt Bea said, “Ah, that’s clever, Peter. And so true.”

  Gwen fidgeted with the silk scarf she was wearing loosely around her neck and had to reluctantly agree with Peter’s assessment. It was all in one’s perspective. Certainly, if Emerson were to take a look at any glass, he would describe it like a highly intelligent physicist. Or an extroverted musician. Or, maybe, a somewhat deranged and overly dramatic poet. She smiled to herself. He was all of these, in her opinion. No one category could define or contain him.

  As they approached “Juliet’s balcony” (a tourist trap, to be sure, but at least it was a free one), Gwen studied the tan-brick building, the enclosed boxlike balcony above them—similarly tan and covered with arched design, the large rectangular doorway leading to it, the ornate window beside it and the two arched windows just below. She didn’t spot any signs to label it as such, but people in the know were snapping pictures.

  Gwen could, with very little imagining, picture the scene where the star-crossed Romeo and Juliet first declared their mutual adoration.

  Dr. Louie—simply because he was being himself—gazed up at the smallish balcony and pronounced in singsongy tones, “ ‘But, soft! What light through yonder window breaaaaaaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sunnnnn!’ ”

  Gwen glanced over at him with mild amusement and spied Matilda trying to blink away a stare of enraptured awareness. While Gwen had always suspected Matilda harbored feelings for the retired vet, she hadn’t understood until that moment that it was more than some cute, old-lady crush. Gwen watched her more closely as she was watching him, and the truth was clear.

  Matilda loved him. Truly loved him. Loved every crazy, loud, unbelievably exuberant thing the man did. There was a full-length feature film behind that single affectionate gaze. But, though he appeared to greatly enjoy their friendship, Gwen couldn’t detect reciprocal romantic feelings from him. He seemed oblivious to Matilda’s deeper admiration. Was it because he didn’t feel similarly? Because a relationship with an “older” woman wasn’t something he’d want? She was, after all, eighty-three to his seventy-five.

  No. Gwen decided it wasn’t a question of age. Matilda was physically spry and mentally sharp. Yet, inside that perfection
istic persona of hers beat the heart of a woman still very capable of falling in love. Perhaps the only difference between Matilda and Dr. Louie in that regard was that—in spite of love’s challenges—Matilda was willing to risk romance again, and Dr. Louie was either unwilling to do so or unable to open his eyes to the possibility of love standing there.

  Is it ever too late for us? Gwen wondered. Are we ever too old to open our hearts?

  She was still mulling over her observations by the balcony when they wandered back toward the bus. The tour-group members gathered together in friendly cluster, awaiting the word to board again.

  Emerson glided up alongside her. “So, you visited the famously fictional balcony?” he asked. When she acknowledged the truth of it with a nod, he said archly, “Deny thy logic and refuse thy sense, Juliet. Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn to partake in a time-wasting tragedy.”

  “O, Romeo, Romeo,” she mocked. “Why did thou not become an actor? I feel thou hast missed thy calling.”

  He laughed. “ ‘She speaks: O, speak again, bright angel!’ ”

  “You and your quoting,” she said, smiling. “I can’t keep up with you or your brother. I am—a bit out of my depth with the two of you.” There, she’d said it. Let him think of her what he may. She wouldn’t feign sophistication. She couldn’t pretend to be the Renaissance woman to equal him. But, if he hadn’t figured that out by now, he was hardly as clever as she’d been giving him credit for.

  He shook his head. “Gwen, I think you keep up very well indeed.” Then, softer, “I am, I realize, a somewhat challenging personality. I can be, I know, very forward and kind of a know-it-all.” He paused, letting these understatements sink in. “But there are things about you. Things you do that I admire, too. Your way of being is different from mine, but it’s ... it’s—”

  “We are leaving,” Hans-Josef commanded, sending a stern look in Gwen and Emerson’s direction, even though they were hardly the last to get on the bus. When had their tour guide directed them to start boarding?

  “It’s, uh ...” Emerson said, seemingly distracted by the other tour members grazing past them, talking.

  “It’s what?” Gwen whispered to him.

  He waited until Thoreau breezed by, eyeing them with one brow raised, to say, “It’s lovely. You have a gentler way of being in the world, and there’s more to you than that sweet and smooth surface. Something deeper and a bit darker underneath. But the more I get to know you, the more I like you.” He exhaled and nudged her toward the bus. “Shall we get onboard?”

  Most of the seats toward the front were taken, so they meandered to the back. Rows behind Aunt Bea, who was sitting with Colin. Rows behind Cynthia and Louisa, who were sitting together. Even rows behind Thoreau, who was sitting alone. Emerson led her to the very last row and let her sit by the window.

  Aside from a few pleasantries directed at a couple of fellow travelers near them, he was unusually quiet for much of the drive to Venice. But, even in his silence, she remained acutely aware of his presence. She felt ... oh, how did she feel? It was an odd emotion, actually. The simultaneous danger of him and, yet, the glorious-ness of what she recognized as a heady infatuation. She found she couldn’t lose herself in the pretty Italian scenery no matter how intently she tried because, with him seated so near to her—even un-speaking—he had a way of displacing the air beside her and forcing her to acknowledge every shift in its currents. On a molecular level, he was absolutely disturbing her, but it wasn’t an upsetting sensation, per se. Just one so palpable as to be impossible to ignore or deny.

  She was reminded of Pythagoras in his bath, finally discovering the key to displacement when he stepped into the filled tub and an equivalent volume of water sloshed out. He’d cried, “Eureka!” as the solution he’d been seeking finally became apparent to him. Gwen felt she could just as easily shout the same.

  Thinking back on the day Emerson had played piano at their Lake Como hotel, she’d appreciated his scientific explanations, his attempt at forming his personal “Theory of Everything,” but she’d needed more reflection time herself to know her own mind on the subject.

  She’d gotten that time. She’d let a handful of experiences and observations collide around outside of her, and within her.

  There was Shakespeare’s Juliet. A girl on a balcony, giddy with anticipation, professing her adoration for a teen boy by saying, “ ‘This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.’ ”

  There was Matilda, professing a much more mature love with a mere glance.

  There was Andrew Lloyd Webber’s song “All I Ask of You” from The Phantom of the Opera, where the heroine pleads with her romantic young lover to help her live in the light, away from the Phantom’s haunting darkness.

  There was Gwen’s father, playing his violin in her memory. Surprising her and her mom with a series of fun staccato notes after several minutes of flowing classical melody.

  There was Emerson, playing piano as he spouted off his explanation of string theory. Trying to convince her that the universe vibrates the same way as her dad’s violin strings ... as Webber’s harmonies ... as Shakespeare’s poetry ... as Matilda’s beating heart ... and as the air currents between a man and a woman who were strangers not two weeks before.

  What if it all really was connected?! What if Emerson was right? Oh, boy. She couldn’t help but believe he might be onto something.

  Not that she could prove anything, even if locked in a physics lab and forced to work out some long theorem. But it worked for her, intuitively as well as logically. It reminded her of that saying, “Only connect ... only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted... .” If Emerson and the philosophic scientists of his ilk were right, if humans needed only to connect their words with the ardency of their love, would both be made glorious? Would inspiration and illumination be theirs? Would death itself feel less finite if the power of such connection in life were realized?

  The world seemed, suddenly and simultaneously, more expansive and wondrous, yet, more intimate and explicable, as she sat beside Emerson—breathless—and watched the scenery whiz by. Faded gray pavement cutting through the lush green hills. A hot-air balloon in the distance dashing a crimson streak across the cerulean sky. Nerve-tingling excitement hiding beneath the placid cloak of pale skin ... her own. The unexpected fire of infatuation dancing in step with the temperance of the mundane.

  A study in contrasts and contradictions—the grandiosity of the world outside meeting the complexities of the world within.

  She pulled off her scarf and folded it on her lap, letting herself enjoy the softness of the silk against her fingertips. She slipped one hand beneath it. Feeling it, nearly weightless, but not quite. Appreciating the subtlety of the distinction.

  Emerson watched her do this, still in silence, but he must have sensed a shift in her. A response to his unarticulated question.

  He touched the folded silky edges first, then slid his fingers beneath the fabric to meet her hand. He coaxed open her palm and laced his fingers with hers, holding her hand so gently but firmly that she could feel her blood pulsing hard in her wrist at the point where her thin flesh met the air between their hands. It was not, however, empty space. That shared current radiated between them.

  She feared so many things. Too many to want to count them. Some she would not even want to try to justify.

  But his touch?

  Surprisingly, this was not one of them. It was a physical manifestation of their twelve days of acquaintanceship. Their holding hands succeeded in making visible what Gwen already felt: That on a number of levels, she and Emerson were bound together. That, just as their fingers interlocked, so were their fates connected.

  From that second onward, Gwen didn’t try anymore to pretend she didn’t care about Emerson. She did care. She just told herself it was a temporary thing. A function of the trip’s magic. She clung tightly to Davis and Dr. Louie’s notion that t
ravel created a kind of parallel world and her usual behaviors, while not having disappeared, were currently dormant. She would have known this might happen if she’d taken a foreign tour before. She wouldn’t have been quite so blindsided by it then. Next time, she told herself, she would expect personal upheaval. Anticipate it.

  As it was, she’d only managed to do her flexibility exercises about five times on the trip so far—she was tired in the morning!—and she found herself eating all sorts of unusual things during the day that she would’ve considered unhealthy at home. Still, she had to admit that these lapses in routine had not caused any ill effects (at least not yet), and she hesitantly but definitively embraced the fact that, as long as she didn’t compromise her principles, everything else was reversible. No real harm would be done in the end.

  Of course, that was before they sailed into Venice.

  Transport into the famous city was more challenging than for most. They couldn’t just drive the big tour bus into the historic center of a town that had rivers in place of streets. So, the bus traversed the Ponte della Libertà (“Freedom Bridge”) causeway, then parked safely near the rail station, loading everyone and their luggage onto a large water-bus, called a vaporetto, to glide them toward their hotel on the Venetian Lagoon.

  Gwen and Emerson were sitting next to each other as the vaporetto sped through the water, en route to San Marco’s Square. The late-afternoon sun played a game of hopscotch on the small, multicolored homes and apartments lining the Grand Canal. The combination of the buildings, bridges and red-and-white striped poles jutting out of the water created an interesting visual effect. So very vertical, Gwen thought, but ostensibly impermanent. To her, it looked as though the paint was sliding off its structures and seeping into the water. Behind her, she could hear the feverish clicking of Colin’s camera, as he attempted to capture a view too elusive for mere film.