“Sì. Lucrezia chooses Clarice. Because she has grand hips.” Luca takes his hands off the wheel to show me the size, laughing. Big hips. Good for bearing children. And I wonder again when I will bleed, if I will bleed. I never used to think about this. I always assumed—but how many months have passed? One, two, three. More, I think.
“And also she is from a good family,” he continues. “Allora, they marry. They have many children—nine, penso.”
“Nine?”
“Sì. Nove. Lorenzo does not love her. But Clarice, she loves him. She writes, ‘I love you,’ and ‘Come home, per favore.’”
Luca is a passionate storyteller, and the more animated he becomes, the younger he appears. The car begins to feel lighter, and I relax and lean in to better hear him.
“She writes, ‘The children wait for you,’ e ‘I hope to see your shadow in the garden.’”
“How sad.”
“Sì. But Lorenzo, he stays in Firenze with the politics and the women. Allora, Clarice, she knows his favorite food è la quaglia. Conosci?”
“Quail?”
“Sì. She writes, ‘Every day I watch for you. I save for you the best quail.’ Tragico, no?”
“Very tragic. But it doesn’t make sense.”
“Cosa?”
“Lucrezia—Lorenzo’s mother—was a strong woman.”
“Certo. Lucrezia was a woman forte e… particolare.” He chooses this word carefully. Unique, he means, particular. Though it also translates to peculiar.
“But she didn’t look out for Clarice.”
Luca turns off onto the road for Radda in Chianti and we climb another hill. “No. But why? Lorenzo was of her blood.”
“Well, they were both women. Perhaps they could have understood each other.”
“Perhaps.” Then he glances. “But you forget. Lucrezia is Fiorentina.”
“And?”
“Clarice is Romana. This is why it is impossible.”
“No,” I say. “Really?”
“Sì. Really.” He laughs.
We ride in silence then. Luca turns the music back up and I watch the landscape pass. I wonder if it was really regional pride that made Lucrezia cold to her daughter-in-law. Clarice, with her big hips and nine children, waiting and watching for a man who did not love her. Saving the prize quail and setting a place that always remained empty.
Finally, I say, “She had it all wrong.”
“Chi?”
“Clarice. Writing Lorenzo those sad letters. It was stupid.”
“Stupid?” Luca laughs. “Perché?”
“He probably didn’t even read them. Instead she should have gone to Firenze to find some men for herself.”
“Men for herself? No. It is not possible.” He puts his hand on mine, still laughing.
“Or at least she should have eaten the prize quail.”
“Sì. That, perhaps.” Then he points to a cluster of lights, white shot with red, twinkling in the shadow of the hills above us. “Eccolo!”
When we pull to a stop in the small lot at the top of the hill, I realize that the lights are in a garden and the red accents are glowing heat lamps. A chill hits me when I get out of the car, the October air much colder up here than in Florence’s center.
“Signor Galletti,” Luca says, embracing the owner—an older, rounder man—who meets us at the gate. They converse in low tones before I hear my name.
“Piacere,” the man says as he takes my hand, unsmiling now, and looks me up and down in a way that makes me want to cover myself. He nods to us to follow him into the garden. It is all couples and I can feel their eyes on us as we pass. I need a glass of wine. He gives us what must be the prime table right at the garden’s edge. Below, the late-day sun pours into the valley like water.
“A perfect spot,” Luca says when the owner leaves us to our meal, then, smiling slyly, “I think this place is not in the Baedeker, no?”
“Definitely not.” I laugh, surprised. “And it’s not in my Lonely Planet, either.”
I take my time looking at the menu, but when the waiter arrives, I’m still undecided.
“No problem,” Luca says. “It’s okay if I order for us?”
“Sure.”
But then the evening turns. Because Luca orders every course. He orders too much. Bruschetta, soup, pasta with mussels, wild boar, dessert. Just hearing the list makes me tense. I curse my lunch, curse that I suggested this evening. I’ve set myself up. It will be exhausting to try to pick at it all in such a way that it looks like I’m eating. I’m practiced at this—even when my sister began watching me at meals, I was convincing. Still, it will be exhausting.
“We train, so we must eat.” Luca smiles. “We are buone forchette, no?”
Good forks. The Italian phrase for a person with a healthy appetite. A clean-plater.
“A perfect spot,” Luca says again, and I nod.
This is healthy, like the vines, like the olive trees, I tell myself. This is good.
But it’s too much. Too much food, too much time, and conversation is again difficult. I drink a glass of wine quickly as we sit in silence. When the bruschetta comes, I cut the bread in half, pick the tomatoes off and eat them slowly, pushing the crusts to the side. Does Luca see this careful surgery? The soup is easy. I press down my spoon, catching only the broth, leaving the beans and pasta stuck to the bowl’s base. If I can save enough space I will survive the additional courses.
The sun begins to disappear behind the nearest hill and I’m grateful for the approaching darkness. The waiter lights our candle and the server sets two empty plates and a platter of steaming pasta between us. Dark mussels are nestled in the strands.
Luca heaps pasta onto my plate. I have to say something, to fill the air with words so that he won’t notice if I don’t eat. But he speaks first.
“So there is someone at home, Hannah? In Boston?”
I shake my head. Not that.
“Non credo.” He smiles, twirling his fork, loading it with thick roping. “Many, no?”
“No.” I look at my plate. “Only me.” I pull open a mussel and spear it with my fork, wishing it would disappear at the touch.
“Okay,” Luca says. “If you say so—I believe you.”
I want something to happen: a natural disaster, a hurricane, even a strong wind to upend our table. I put the mussel in my mouth, chew slowly, put the fork down. A good start, but how am I going to make any headway into these thick cords? They look strong, frightening. I pick up my fork and pry open another shell. Luca eats rapidly with large bites, smiling up at me occasionally. I snag a piece of pasta. Say something.
He takes a gulp of water, sighs, and then says, “I think you are un mistero.”
I look up at that. He knows. “A mystery?”
“Sì,” Luca says, pleased with himself. He picks up his fork and pokes a mussel in my bowl, which is still nearly full. “Like this. Un po’… hard to see.”
Or maybe he doesn’t know. Either way, I defiantly twirl my own mound of pasta, hating it, hating him. It slips and slips, only one thick strand making it to my mouth. Take that.
“Scusami, Hannah.” Luca looks concerned. What does my face look like? I must seem mad. He knows, he doesn’t know. I don’t know. I’m spent. “It is not bad—mystery is good, no? Come un enigma. Un gioco.”
A game. I swallow. “A puzzle.”
“Sì.”
He shrugs and returns his attention to his plate, leaving me to my battle. I take a few more bites as he uses his bread to mop up the sauce—he is making a little shoe, as the Italians say. Fare la scarpetta. He does it with ease. I take two more bites. Then he places a hand on my shoulder and excuses himself. I immediately flag our waiter and tell him we are finished.
I look around the garden—everyone is engrossed in conversation—then slip off my coat and push up my sleeves to examine my arms. I put my hands on my stomach, where I can feel already the pasta growing. I can feel myself getting larger. I need to lo
ok.
“Va tutto bene?” Luca asks when he returns, sliding into his seat. “You are warm?” He nods to my bare arms, and my face does feel warm as I pull down the sleeves of my sweater.
“I was for a moment.” If I could just see myself, make sure that I haven’t changed beyond repair, I could get through the rest of this night. I smile at Luca, but his face is going in and out of focus. I need to see myself.
The bathrooms with which I have a history. There were places that were safe and places that were not. At home in my apartment. Clean—not white and sparse like my sister’s, but clean. Light blue walls. One clear mirror. A bright overhead light I would turn off to leave only the soft night-light glowing by the sink. Bent over the toilet, I felt safe. The room would spin when I was done, but it was safe. At work. All steel, all echoes. Not safe, never safe, but still known. And then there was the bathroom in that tall building that swayed and swayed, where Claudia found me. The afternoon when it all came apart.
This bathroom is at the end of a long hall beyond the kitchen. Yellow walls; a floor tiled black and white; a single bulb dimmed behind a ceiling fixture; a small mirror, fogged, above the sink. I try to empty myself as much as possible without throwing up. I will not throw up. I have come too far for that. I can hear the sounds from the kitchen—conversation dipping up and down, the hiss of the stove. I flush the toilet, pull up my pants, and wash my hands. I look at myself in the mirror, which is hung too high. My eyes are dark; they shift side to side. I look crazy. I try to rub away the circles beneath them but they remain. Outside, the laughter of the staff dies as the owner’s voice cuts in. I will need to move quickly. I turn the water back on to mute my own sounds, then take off my shoes and pull down my pants and underwear. Struggling to get all that material over my feet, I knock my elbow on the wall.
“Shit.” That will bruise. I pull my shirt and sweater over my head and add them to the pile, unhook my bra and toss it on top. The floor is cold under my socks—I take them off, too.
I step back, close my eyes, then open them and look. I wince. I am there in the mirror, or part of me is, anyway, down to just below my breasts. I cannot take it all in at once.
Eyes.
Cheeks.
Neck.
Shoulders and the area in between.
Ribs slightly raised below skin.
Arms hanging out, pressing in.
Breasts limp.
I close my eyes and think back. I begin with the morning.
Coffee. No milk, no sugar.
Toast. Two slices, a thin layer of butter.
Salad at the bar near the library.
Vinegar. A tablespoon maybe?
Mozzarella: two round disks.
A half a slice of bread. Already things are adding up and I haven’t even gotten to dinner. My stomach knots.
The bruschetta: a stack of tomatoes soaked in oil, a soggy center of bread.
Broth. Five spoonfuls?
Mussels. Three.
Pasta. Thick ropes—how many? I don’t know.
Wine. Two glasses—or was it three?
I open my eyes.
My cheeks look fuller, are fuller.
My upper arms, my breasts—fuller, too.
Below them, fog, and I try to loosen the mirror, but it is screwed in.
I walk back to the toilet and stare into its pool. I feel ill, truly ill. If I throw up, this will be why. I am truly ill. I look down at the floor tiles between my feet. Black squares framed by rectangles of white. Cubic roses, their centers dark pupils staring up at me. I turn around. No seat cover, and so, with a hand on either wall, I step up onto the porcelain lip. Braced, I look to the mirror at the other end of the room. It is too dim and I am too far away, a blur of pink with a patch of dark. I squint. Where are the edges? Nothing, nothing. I can see nothing.
I look down and the tiles stare up. The pattern shifts, the floor blurring. What are they seeing? A woman, grown, knees bent, feet gripping a dirty toilet like an odd insect or an awkward beast. Large bodied, this must be true; I have grown into this larger body. What am I doing up here? It is humiliating.
It is only when I step back down onto the tiles that I realize I’m freezing. I sit on the edge of the toilet, imagining I’m smudging away my footprints, and wrap my arms around myself, shivering. A heaviness wells up in my throat. Not the pasta, though it feels like that, too, might come up. Instead, a sob emerges that shakes and shakes and shakes and threatens never to stop. It is too much. I thought that I was well enough for this, thought that I was getting better, but I’m not. I’m not. I fold into the sobs, waiting for them to slow, trying to steady myself, and still I shake and shake and shake.
A soft tap on the door. It jerks me to attention. A second tap, sharper this time. Then I hear the water running in the sink, the buzz of the lightbulb, the voices in the kitchen outside. I remain frozen, hoping the person at the door will give up, leave, return later when I’m comfortably back at my table. How long have I been gone? I imagine Luca waiting, worried. I open my eyes and see the black and white tiles. I can’t. I pick up my head and look at my clothing heaped by the sink. I can’t put my clothes back on; I can’t go back out there. There is nothing left in me to sit up straight, to smile, to talk. It’s too much. Far too much. I wrap my head in my hands. I stare at the floor through my fingers, at the shadow my body casts, at the stain on the yellow wall. If I could sit here for a few minutes more and look at these things.
Another tap on the door. Panic.
I clear my throat and lift my head, my shoulders still shaking. “Un momento,” I croak.
I can’t. How can I face whoever it is that is tapping and tapping and tapping? And to walk from there past the kitchen and all the way back to the garden. To speak without sobbing. How will I be normal? I am not normal.
Another tap at the door. “Va tutto bene?” It is a man’s voice. What if it’s him? I haven’t been gone that long, have I? I squeeze my eyes shut. There is a way out of this.
“Va tutto bene?” the voice asks again.
This is a puzzle and there is an answer.
“Chiuda l’acqua, per favore.”
Turn off the water. Don’t think past it. I stand up, go to the sink, turn off the water, and then stay there. Another tap at the door.
“Scusi, signore, signora. Va tutto bene?”
It isn’t him. The voice doesn’t know if it is a man or woman in here taking so long, running the water.
“Sto bene,” I say. “Un momento.”
I pick up each piece of clothing and dress slowly, not looking in the mirror now, not looking down. I need to keep moving. I reach around to adjust my bra. I zip my pants, button my shirt, pull my sleeves down under the sweater. Pull on my socks, my shoes. When I’m dressed again, I turn on the water for a flash, splash my face, dry it completely. I breathe slowly in and out, counting. Then I turn to the door, unlatch it, twist the knob, and open it to reveal the furrowed expression of the owner, Signor Galletti.
“Madonna, sta bene?” he says with concern, though his face says, It is her, of course it is her, and his eyes remain narrow. He stares at me, a staccato note in this long hallway. How to get past this small, angry man?
“Mi dispiace,” I say. I put my hand on my stomach. “Non mi sento bene. It must be something I ate.” He doesn’t understand.
“Qualcosa che ho mangiato,” I say, and he registers this. His eyebrows go up and he is immediately apologetic.
“Mi scusi, signora.” He hurries off to the kitchen, and I feel guilty as I hear his sharp voice begin the investigation.
I weave through the dark garden, my legs gaining more strength with each step. No one looks up at me, only Luca when I arrive back at the table. I preempt any questions with a smile.
“Sorry that took so long.” I sit down and force the quiver out of my voice. “There was a line.”
Luca looks concerned, but he nods as though it is all perfectly logical. My nerves sit on the surface of my body, my ski
n crawls with the breeze. Luca has already placed hunks of meat on each of our plates and his portion is almost gone.
“Scusami,” he says. “I waited for a time. I can ask to have it made warm again.”
I look at the pile of boar in front of me and I’m surprised at how easy it is to say, “It’s okay. I’m not hungry anymore.”
He lifts up the wine bottle and raises his eyebrows. I nod and he fills my glass.
I feel wrung out. My eyes ache. I need to speak, to stay alert.
“Do you do this a lot?” I ask.
“Cosa?” He looks confused.
“This.” I gesture around the garden. “Dinner.”
He shrugs. “Not so much.”
“There are many, no?” I attempt a smile.
Luca chuckles but it is hollow. He pauses, takes a sip of wine, then says, “Now, no.”
“And before?”
“When I was young—sì. Certo. E poi there was one woman. For many years, we would start and stop, start and stop. But… non lo so. Italian women are difficult.”
“Difficult?” I echo, my surprise obvious. I’m awake and feel suddenly quite sober.
“Very jealous,” Luca explains.
“What about the men?” I ask, since we’re speaking in generalizations. My rawness has hardened me and there’s a meanness in my voice. I can hear it when I say, “Aren’t the men difficult? Aren’t they jealous?”
“Scusami,” Luca says. “I speak like an idiot. But this woman, she was jealous all the time.”
“Of what?”
“Of nothing. There was no one else. When we were together, there was nobody else.” He is adamant. “Capisci? She was crazy.”
I nod but don’t say anything.
Luca puts his fork down. “I think you don’t believe me. Why not?”
“It’s too easy.”
“Cosa?”
“To call her crazy. Anyway, I think you can tell when there is someone else.”
“Ma davvero, Hannah. There was nothing. She was crazy with these ideas.”
“I’ve been called crazy. I wasn’t crazy.” I’m not sure of this.
“Who said so?”
I ignore his question, keep talking fast. “Maybe I was crazy. When you care enough about someone—or something—maybe it does make you crazy.”
Florence in Ecstasy Page 11
