Florence in Ecstasy

by Jessie Chaffee

  Luca swings open the door of his house exuberantly. He’s excited to have me here, proud of what he has created. His home is one story but cavernous. White walls stretch up to high ceilings and the doors between rooms are overly tall. Luca, who is usually crouched over in his car, in the boat, in a city constructed for smaller people centuries ago, must feel finally comfortable in a space like this.

  “It’s a home for a giant,” I say.

  “Sì,” he confirms seriously, setting down his keys. “Argo,” he calls. “Argo! You see? Argo is never waiting. Argo speaks only Greek. Solo greco. Also, he is a great artist. But very private, yes?”

  “Like most artists.”

  “Sì. Okay, no Argo today. Allora, you are hungry?”

  “A little.”

  “Andiamo.” He gestures and I follow him to his kitchen, which is narrow but still tall. Beyond a small window are the surrounding hills, faintly lit; they are green brushed with orange in this late-approaching fall, loping like the great bellies of men sleeping below the earth.

  “Let’s see, let’s see,” Luca says, opening his refrigerator and then looking through several cupboards. “I am un po’ bachelor. Mi dispiace. I would have prepared a grand meal.”

  “That’s all right, I’m not that—”

  “Aspetta!” He raises a finger in the air and brushes by me. He returns with a half a leg of prosciutto, grinning. “I forgot this!”

  “Impressive,” I say. “You are a magician.”

  “Certo!” he says. “Allora…” He puts the leg down on the counter, opens a cabinet, and hands me a small bottle of olive oil, then opens the oven and pulls out a paper bag, which he places in my arms. “Bread,” he says. “E poi…”

  He adds to my load a tomato from a dish on the counter and, as an afterthought, a jar of oregano that he nestles between the other items.

  “Instant meal!” he says. “What do they say—a magician?”

  “Tada!”

  “Tada!” He pushes me out of the kitchen. “Allora, va’.”

  Luca’s living and dining area is meticulously clean and sparse except for several pieces of heavy antique furniture. I set our provisions on the dining room table and Luca follows with napkins, plates, wineglasses, forks, a cutting board. He lays all of these items out and then leaves and returns with a bottle of wine.

  “Bop!” he says, pulling out the cork and filling our glasses before toasting: “To our new team member!” Then he cuts us thick slices of bread and shaves the prosciutto into thin strips.

  “Questo prosciutto we won—”

  “You won?”

  “Sì. For a race. In Milano. With Sergio, Gianni, e Stefano.”

  “This was the prize?”

  “Sì. Aspetta.” He brushes the crumbs off his hands and disappears again, returning with a photo—four men and a woman I don’t recognize, all in rowing gear. Luca and Gianni grip the prosciutto between them with large grins.

  “You see,” he says. “When we eat this prosciutto, we taste the victory.”

  “I can’t wait,” I say. “Who’s that?” I point to the woman at the end.

  “Mariella,” he says. “She is il timoniere—like you today! Only when we are in Milano. In Florence, we have the boy.”

  I feel a bit jealous, but before I can say more, Luca exclaims, “Allora, mangiamo!” and places the prosciutto slices delicately onto a plate beside the stiff unsalted bread. He pulls out one of the large chairs for me and then seats himself across the table. I like this simple meal, so much more manageable than our last dinner together, and we take our time drizzling oil on the bread, laying the prosciutto over it, slicing the tomato on top.

  “Victory tastes delicious,” I say after the first bite.

  “Yes, always. Like today. This was a victory.”

  “I don’t think Stefano was happy.”

  “It’s okay. He only does not let himself be—he cannot.”

  “Because he’s the manager?”

  Luca takes a sip of wine, considering this. “No. He was always this way. Since we were children,” and I’m reminded of how far back their roots reach. “Saturday night,” he says, and sighs then. “Finalmente. Tomorrow—no work!”

  “Do you like your work?”

  “Sì. Enough.” He shrugs. “It’s not so interesting, but okay. Anyway, I have the club. I have my home. It is a good life. You think it’s good?”

  I nod, looking around and smiling. “A very good life. Some people would say that you’re living the dream.”

  “Living the dream,” he echoes, with a hum in his voice. “And your work, Hannah? How is it?”

  “I like it. It’s quiet. And, honestly, I spend most of the time reading.”

  “What do you read?”

  “Right now, I’m reading about the saints. The women.”

  “Le sante,” he says. “Interessante. Caterina, Teresa, Chiara…”

  “There are many.”

  “They interest you, why?”

  “I guess I understand them in some ways. Not that I’m religious, but…” I pause. How can I explain it? There is so much that I can’t tell Luca. For a moment there is only the sound of the rain outside and Luca chewing and waiting. “I admire them,” I say finally.

  “Perché?”

  “Well, they were able to do more than many other women at the time.”

  “Ah,” Luca says, pouring us each another glass of wine. “Because it was not necessary that they marry.”

  “Yes, but not only that. They were in control of their lives.”

  “And they were very famous.”

  “But they didn’t ask to be. They were famous because of their faith.”

  “Also for the mystical visions. Erano molto sensuali, no?” Luca asks, raising his eyebrows with a wicked grin. “It is for this that you like them?”

  “For their erotic visions, yes.” I smile.

  “But what do you think—of the visions? They were real or created only?”

  “Do I think they made them up?”

  Luca nods.

  “Well, I think they believed what they were experiencing.”

  “But you—what do you think?”

  “Do I believe they were in the presence of God?”

  “The big question, no?” Luca smiles.

  “I’m not sure it matters. I think their belief is what matters. The reality? It seems beside the point.”

  “Many Catholics would not agree with you.”

  “But what we believe is real is real.” I stop, unsure of how to proceed from this position. “I don’t believe they were in the presence of God. But I think they did. Or maybe they just wanted more than what they were offered, and they kept searching for it. Real or not.”

  “E poi?”

  “I understand that. I respect it.”

  There is a pause before Luca says, “Ho capito.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t believe what?”

  “God. Heaven. More life after life. This is life, I think, this only. Only this.” He looks down at his hands, large and blistered from years of rowing.

  I jump as something brushes my legs, and Luca leans under the table and reappears with a bundle of gray. “Ecco Argo!” He raises the cat above his head. “You thought he was a spirit?”

  “No,” I say, and laugh. “Well, maybe.”

  He sets Argo down and the cat is gone in a flash. “You see?” he says. Then he stands and stretches. “Finished?”

  I nod, and he leaves and returns with a roll of foil.

  “Do you think you’ll always work at the store?” I ask as he collects the newly cut slices of prosciutto, wrapping them together.

  “Forse. It is enough money for me. And I am the manager, so I can do as I want. I would change only if…” He stops here, folding the edges of the foil and tearing a new sheet. “I thought, when I was young, I thought… non lo so.”

  “You thought wha
t?”

  He sighs. “I thought to have children.”

  “But you still can.”

  “Sì, maybe, maybe. But not only this. I thought…” He pauses. He is at war with something, too. With the things he can’t tell me, perhaps. Or the life that has failed to present itself. It ripples across his face and then is gone. He gives me a smile but it wavers. “Niente. This is life, sì?” And I realize for the first time how different his life is from the other men at the club. They never speak about their families, but they all have families.

  Luca carefully seals what remains of the bread in foil, as if perfectly content with these small things that have been left to him, of which, I suppose, I am one. But I don’t feel small, and for the first time in months, I feel like I’m not just taking—pity, charity, anger. And so I don’t wait for him to find his expansive smile. Instead, I walk to him, put my arms around his stooped figure from behind until he turns and leans into me. I take in the smells and tastes that are now growing familiar—detergent, shampoo, salt and wine, and, from somewhere deeper, a scent unique to him. We kiss for a long time standing there, and then move to the couch, the aluminum parcels forgotten.

  “It’s okay? You want to stay?” Luca asks. The room is dark except for a small lamp in the corner, and in this light I can see how he must have looked years ago, smooth-faced, perhaps laughing less than now but believing in more. I feel so safe, so in control for once—a control that has nothing to do with food—that I nod, decisive. And as we continue kissing and then make our way to his room, there is not a small part of me that imagines that with each kiss, I am replacing something spoiled with something fresh, something healthy, something new. It is good, I think, glad for the weight of Luca on top of me. There is no fumbling here, though Luca moves slowly, and I can still say and mean it is good. Good to be with this person, good to have this other form growing familiar.

  But when my body is exposed and I feel his hands on my skin, something shifts, as though I’ve been abruptly awakened, and I become sharply aware of lying in this room, my body almost bare, my body that I haven’t looked at, really looked at, in weeks. And then I’m not in control, not at all, and though I try to remain in this room, in this body with Luca close to me, I feel the moment break, the change so rapid that I don’t even have time to cry out, to say anything. It is as though I’m outside of myself, watching everything from above. For when love is pure, you see yourself as dead and as nothing. I can see the forms in the room and hear the sounds: birds beating their wings above the rafters, the wind blowing hard at the exterior walls, Luca’s breathing growing heavy. I can see and hear all these things, but I can’t feel them. There is in my soul a chamber. Why alone? Why always alone? I don’t want that, don’t want to be always alone. That is not what is meant for me. There are these things that I can be with other people. I know that there are these things that I can be. I could not imagine a death vile enough. I see Luca’s hands sliding up and around my back but don’t feel them, and I see myself kissing him but my lips are cold. I can’t feel anything. I am a body in a tomb, I am without a body, I am a mind, a set of eyes floating, and I want someone to pull me down, back into the bed, back into my body, back under the weight of him, just to feel the weight, just to feel something. It is only when I’m fully naked that I feel anything at all, and then it is pain. I could not imagine a death vile enough to match my desire. My body is laid out there below me and I cannot look at it. I don’t recognize myself. It is too much to take in. I close my eyes.

  Luca stops. I feel his body tense, hear his voice. “Hannah, stai bene? Che è successo?”

  I touch my face. I’m crying.

  “Hannah. Look at me.”

  I open my eyes. Luca is looking at me with concern, his head in his palm. “You are okay?”

  I shake my head.

  “What is it?” He softly runs his hand up and down my arm, that arm that I cannot look at.

  I take a breath in and I can feel a door opening as I say, “I’m embarrassed.”

  “Perché? Because you are crying? Crying and still beautiful—that is not so tragic.”

  “I don’t feel beautiful. I don’t know.” The tears continue to roll out. It is ridiculous, humiliating, and still I can’t stop. I shouldn’t have come here.

  “Madonna!” Luca cries then, sitting up on his knees with his arms raised, and even through the tears, I smile at the sight of him, so easy in his nakedness, comical shock on his face.

  But when he says, “Regard yourself. Look,” I shake my head. Look at me.

  “Davvero? Only for one moment?”

  I keep my eyes on him, a pit of dread in my stomach. “Let’s turn out the light,” I say.

  “Definitely not! I would be embarrassed to turn out the light on such beauty. Aspetta…” He drops down beside me so our faces are close. I remember my body in that fogged mirror. I remember myself in many mirrors. What would he say if he knew about that? He sees the beauty in everything, it seems, but what would he say to the reality of me naked in a restaurant bathroom?

  “An idea,” he says, rolling onto his back so that he’s lying beside me. He holds up his hands above us, his index fingers and his thumbs meeting to form a circle.

  “Look, per favore,” he says. I follow his hands as he uses the little window he has created to frame the lamp, the beams in the ceiling, a stack of books, and finally—sitting up and bringing his hands to his face—his eye, sparkling with rough skin folding around it. He takes the little window he’s made and places it in front of my cheek. Then he shifts the frame to kiss the spot before moving on to my eyes, my lips, my chin, making me laugh.

  “Now look,” he says, moving his fingers down my arm, each framing echoed by a kiss and a soft bella. I follow with my eyes, willing myself to trust him, looking only at the image between his fingers—a breast, my ribs, my stomach, a knee, each one met with a kiss. And I find that I can do it, can look at these parts without flinching, can look at one piece and then the next and the next. When he’s made his way all the way down to my toes, climbing off the bed to do so, he looks up at me with his eyebrows raised, and I look all the way down the length of my body for just a moment, and only for a moment, but in that moment I do not feel pain. I smile at him and gesture for him to come back up to me. And when he begins to kiss me again, very slowly, I stay with him, feel his kisses, feel his hands on me, and feel my own hands on him.

  “It’s okay?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Sicura?”

  “I’m sure,” I say. And I am.

  It is a quiet kind of lovemaking, none of the violence of that last time with Julian. And though the calm is punctuated with moments of uncertainty, this time I do not float away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I wake up in a bed not my own, to a new place with its own early-morning sights and sounds. I hear the persistent call of a bird before my eyes open. On the wall is a perfect square of light, pink—a temporary painting of shifting hues—and I wonder how long it has been there, ignored by our sleeping bodies. I get up and walk to the window, lean my head against the pane with my hand on my stomach, feeling it rise and fall, and look out at the bright garden and, beyond it, valleys and valleys. I remember all the mornings that I have woken to stand alone by my own window. My own window, somewhere far below and empty this morning, its view unseen. I look back at Luca, hidden except for his face and one hand that curls over the edge of the mattress, and I feel a rush of affection—it is exhilarating to feel this again. My breath spreads and retreats off the glass. I wait as the pink square traces a path across the wall and evaporates, and the sunlight turns a pale orange, biting at the ends of my lashes. I’m startled by a movement: two birds, one after the other, knock at the window and then fly off. I watch as they disappear before returning to bed.

  When I open my eyes hours later, Luca is still curled away from me, his breath whistling lightly. I turn over and meld myself around him. He shifts, his body beginning its sl
ow ascent out of sleep. He twitches, rolls over, sighs, and looks at me with fogged eyes. His brow furrows, but the concern passes and is replaced by a small smile. He squeezes my arm.

  “’Giorno,” he says finally. Then he grins fully and pulls me in. “’Giorno, bella.” His hand makes soft circles on my back and I can feel his body growing heavy, but he sighs and says, “Mi dispiace. I have to go,” and pulls away. “You stay. Rest here.” This is Luca in the morning. Short sentences.

  “Go where?” I watch him cross the room, hunched a bit. He looks out the window where I had stood earlier, stretching his arms high above his head now, pulling his back smooth, before turning around with a smile.

  “I go to my sister’s. It is Sunday.” As though that explains everything.

  He disappears into the bathroom, and I pull up the covers and remain stiff as I listen to his choreography. The ease of it. He whistles, hums, any of the fears that I had witnessed in him the night before now shed. Where is my place in his bright morning? As though reading my thoughts, Luca comes back into the room and leaps onto the bed. He’s fresh from the shower, his body fragrant and warm, and his wet hair drips, little droplets hitting my cheeks.

  “Madonna,” he says, smiling down at me, “I wish I could stay.” He burrows into my neck and plants a few wet kisses, making me laugh.

  “Allora,” he says, “I will go but take with me this picture.” He closes his eyes tight and then opens them. “And I’ll see you very soon, okay. Tomorrow? We go to a movie?”

  “Sounds great,” I say.

  “Sicura?” he asks, dubious.

  “Sì. No games.”

  “No games,” he echoes. “I like that. No games. Perfetto.” He gives me a few more wet kisses before hopping up. “Va bene. I go.”

  After he leaves, I take my time showering and dressing. In the kitchen, I find a note with the number for a taxi company, a promise to call, and “un bacio,” followed by Luca’s signature in smooth script. I make coffee and pace the living room as I drink it. My body is tired, depleted, and now that I’m alone, there is an edge of melancholy. The whole day stretches out before me without the promise of interruption. The club is closed, the library is closed, and there is no one waiting for me down in the city, and so I decide to stay for a bit.