Florence in Ecstasy

by Jessie Chaffee

  I will never leave you.

  Sound grows thunderous—my footsteps or the coursing of my blood, I cannot tell.

  I will never let you go.

  I’m almost sliding, arms out, stone scraping at my hands as I round corners. If the roads are growing narrower or wider, I cannot tell. I let myself be pulled by gravity, pushed by momentum. I run and run and it is as though I have never not been running.

  Until a soft glow appears above the walls, then bright flashes in my periphery. Homes. I don’t stop at the first or the second or the third. I fall again and get back up, my limbs awkward and loose. I don’t stop when I reach, finally, the little piazza, the nameless bar, now dark. I keep running, aware of how loud I must sound to whoever lives up here, and find the road that I hope will take me to the center and take it down and down and down. I run until I hear sounds of life—first sporadic voices escaping the windows of low buildings, then collective laughter, low music, utensils striking dishes. The road widens and spits me out onto a busy street by the train tracks. I wait for a break in traffic, then keep running, under the tracks and back into streets with buildings and people. Civilization rushes in, lights and noise wash over me, crushing after the panicked quiet. I keep going, running even though people are staring. Still I run until I’m back at the Arno. I run straight up to the river’s wall and let it catch me hard in the stomach before I stop, breathing loudly.

  Gradually my eyes adjust, my breathing slows, and the pressure in my ears dulls as the sounds of the city separate into distinguishable parts: the bass from a club beating low, shouted greetings close by, the orange night bus wheezing, splashes in the river below, and somewhere a band playing music, music, music. Here Florence sits, filled with life but somehow empty, oblivious to the expansive darkness just beyond its lit perimeters, creaking and moaning.

  My body aches, my muscles scream, and I’m covered in scratches. I look up and down the river. The Ponte alle Grazie is visible in the distance. I’m only a few blocks from home. I stare at the river, my arms shaking as I press them into the wall’s ledge. I push up my sleeves to feel the rough surface on my flesh, and still I cannot anchor myself. The city that had held me with such care feels different, gone suddenly like the folded parcels of the street vendors when the carabinieri arrive.

  Where is the woman who had been held by this place and found joy in it?

  And then a new question drops, heavy. I hear it. Hear it clearly. The only question that matters.

  Why did you come here? Did you come here to—

  I don’t finish the thought. I don’t have an answer. Maybe if I knew what had caused this. But I hadn’t found an answer to that, either. Instead, I ended up drinking, whittling down, throwing up, disappearing. And now here I am, alone again and facing this impossible question with no answers and no way of moving forward. Because what would be the point? What would be the point of finding new places and new people and new lives, or returning to the old, when either way this friend might be waiting, might return as much as I will it not to? What is the point of living as a question mark if the answer is always the same? In the hills, I felt like I could break free, float clear away, join those saints who knew more, saw more, felt more. Could disappear along with them. But instead, I woke to the dark, to the fear, and I am still here, cold and tired and afraid, and I wonder if the saints had felt this frustration, if their searches felt as futile.

  I hear the question again and I try to take all the moments of the past year, line them up in my mind, weigh them against what the future might hold. I think about my mother’s hardness, my sister’s pain, my loneliness, my confidence, the bathroom floor. About my first day at the club, the stares of the men, Luca’s broad smile, the uneven pull of water. About Dario sweating in his bar, Francesca bent over a sink, my body curled over an oar, and the brilliant afternoons in the grove. About the dust in Orvieto and the birds in Cortona, and all the saints whose corpses litter these cities. About Luca’s hands, about waking up in his bed, about waking up without him. And finally about that day months ago, when it all came apart, and I could feel the weight of this thing that I could not look in the eyes. Here it is again, staring me down.

  Did you come here to—

  I feel something then. It is a physical sensation, a movement from deep within me. The question repeats but it is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter anymore why I came here. There is only one answer. It was there when I left Boston. And it was there tonight. My friend was still with me, yes. But there was something else with me, too—something stronger than the impulse to disappear. It had chased me out of those hills, back to this city. It didn’t feel stronger than my old friend, but it was, must be, because here I am. Here I am.

  I am still here. That is the only answer. For the time being, there is no other answer.

  As soon as I think it, the weight lifts and the city comes back into focus: the beat of the bass from the club, the bridge glowing in the distance, the band playing. I stand and listen until the song hums to a close and I feel a shot of hot breath in my ear, a presence at my back.

  “Dove va?”

  I don’t turn to look but begin to walk quickly, listening for steps that do not follow, past the club, past the bridge, and, finally, home.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I sleep late. Then I shower, wash the dirt from my hands, arms, and knees. I clean the cuts and cover them. I go out to the store. The world is still foggy, but I am determined. Once I begin to weigh out vegetables, I’m ravenous. I force a smile for the cashier as she rings up my groceries, and then walk quickly home with my provisions. I make a plate of mostly produce, but add several thin slices of cheese at the last minute. I will take small steps, just like before. I cut a slice of bread, toast it, and drizzle it with oil. I eat it all without regret.

  I pick up my phone and begin to dial the library, then put it down. It is Sunday. There is no one there. I send Lorenza an e-mail, tell her that I will be back tomorrow. I call Kate and am relieved to get her voice mail. I leave a brief but friendly message. I think about calling Luca but don’t. I’m not sure what I want to say.

  I collect the books that are scattered in the kitchen and stack them on a shelf, wipe the wine stains from the counter. I fill the bottom of the aluminum coffeemaker with water, level espresso into the little nesting basket, replace the top, light the stove, and wait for the sound and the smell. Then I sit out on the balcony for a long time. There is no sign of the old woman today, her shutters closed against the chill.

  The buzzer rings just after dark. I look out the window. Luca. He is looking up and I raise my hand slowly, unsure of whether he can see me. He shakes his shoulders, rubs his hands, then rings again. I don’t wait for the landlady to appear. I step back from the window and buzz him in. I check my face in the mirror—I don’t look well, I know. I don’t look well at all. There’s nothing to be done. For the moment, this is who I am.

  “Ma cos’è successo?” Luca asks in a rush as soon as I open the door. “Are you sick? Your arms. You are hurt? How?” He puts his hands on my arms, scabbed from the falls, and I step back. His figure in my doorway is overwhelming. I want to hug him, want to wipe the concern from his face. But I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the words for it. It has been days since I uttered a sound to anyone—it feels like years.

  “I’m okay.”

  “What happened? I was afraid. I call. Nothing. I come here. Nothing. Sergio tells me he sees you, but I cannot find you. I go to your work—”

  “You went to the library? When?”

  “Friday. The woman—she doesn’t know. I thought maybe you left Firenze. That you went home—non lo so. Without telling me. But then I thought you wouldn’t, no?”

  “No.” I take his hand and lead him down the hall to the living room. Outside, the lights of the city are twinkling on. We sit down.

  “What happened?” he asks again.

  “Your father?” I finally say, surprised by how clear my voice sounds.


  “It’s okay,” he says quickly, the last syllable lilting up.

  “He’s all right?”

  “Now, yes.” He shrugs. “Tomorrow, after tomorrow, we don’t know, but now he’s okay. I will tell you—later, later. What happened?” He squeezes my hand. “You were sick? You look sick—no, mi dispiace. You look nice, come sempre, but also I think you were not well.” He puts his hand to my cheek. “Are you hungry? Did you eat?”

  “I ate. I’m tired. I don’t know—I don’t know where to start.” I can’t look at him, so I turn into his shoulder. Everything about him is warm. The crevice of his neck. His arms around me. I feel raw beside him, cold and stiff. And then determined not to be, I lean into him and kiss him, tasting my tears in the kiss. He responds without questioning it, though it must seem strange to him, all of it.

  I’m here. I’m still here. But I have to do more. Why won’t you talk to me? If things are going to be different, I have to do more. I take a breath and speak into his neck. “I’ve had some troubles for a while.”

  “Sì,” he says quietly. “Lo sapevo.”

  “You knew?” I pull away.

  “I knew there was something. Some…” He gestures with his hands, looking for the words. “Troubles, like you say.”

  “Then why did you go out with me?”

  Luca smiles. “You think I would not see you because you have some troubles? We all have some troubles, no? Tutti. You, my father—sì—and also me. And so what can we do? Speak to no one? Be with no one?”

  I shake my head.

  “Maybe you have greater troubles. I don’t know. You are a puzzle. I knew there were some things…” He pauses. “Sad. But I thought if you don’t want to talk about it, va bene.”

  I nod. We sit in silence for a moment.

  “You want to talk about it now?” he asks.

  I realize I’m holding his hand tight—I don’t even remember reaching for it. “Maybe.”

  “You want wine?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Water?”

  I nod, and he disappears and returns with two glasses of water. Then he sits down next to me, puts a hand on mine, and smiles. I take a sip, look at him, take in that broad smile, the crinkles around his eyes. I can see some pain in his face, but something else, too. Hope. Resignation. Warmth.

  “For a while,” I say, “I didn’t eat.” It feels strange to say it directly like that. It is so simple. It is just the starting point, or the ending point—I’m not sure which. But right now, here with Luca, it is a beginning.

  “Niente?”

  “Not enough.”

  “Ah, sì. I understand. In Boston?”

  “And also here.”

  “Here? Not so easy in Firenze—the best food in the world, no?”

  I laugh. “True.”

  He looks concerned. “Scusami. I don’t mean to joke. It is serious. Allora, you did not eat. Why not? Not to be so skinny—it is not necessary.”

  “I don’t know.” I sigh. “It wasn’t a decision. It started as one thing and then it became something else.”

  Luca nods.

  “It crept up. Like an illness.”

  “For how long?”

  And so I tell him. Slowly. I don’t tell him everything, not all of it, but I tell him enough. More than I’ve told anyone else. Luca doesn’t interrupt, even when I pause, self-conscious. He keeps his hand on mine, waits for me to continue. And so I continue. Luca will understand or he will not. Will bear it or not. Will leave or not. But I have to speak. The words take on a life of their own, filling the room. It is such a relief not to be hiding, for the first time in months and months, not to be lying.

  “And now?” Luca asks.

  “Now? I don’t know. I mean, I feel better right now, sitting here with you.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “But I’ve also felt better before. And so I worry. That it will all happen again.”

  Luca looks confused. “Ma perché?”

  “Because I don’t understand it. Because I can’t control it. Because you can’t—” I sigh and my voice shakes, but I am adamant. “How can I prevent something if I don’t know why it happened in the first place? I went to a doctor. It didn’t help.”

  “Allora, you think there is nothing that can help.”

  “I don’t know. What if this is just who I am?” My voice catches and I feel I might begin crying again. I want to live. Someone who wants to live. That is a part of who I am now. But there is also that other part—the part of me that might end up back in that place, back at the edge. I don’t know how to make Luca understand. I don’t have the language. Or maybe it’s just that this illness has its own language reserved for those inside of it. “It’s like it won’t let go of me,” I finally say.

  “It?”

  “The illness, the disorder—whatever it is.”

  Luca takes a sip of water, considering. “Forse. Forse it will not let go. But—non lo so.”

  “What?”

  “You have to let it go, too, no?”

  I nod. “I’m trying. But I can’t stop thinking about the past. And worrying about the future.”

  “Sì,” he says, “it is good. We must think of the past—and care for the future. But there are things to do now, yes?” He looks at me with his eyebrows slightly raised. He isn’t making light of this. He is asking a serious question.

  There are things to do now. And he’s right. I’m tired of fearing the other, tired of living in anticipation of it. There are things to do now. It’s enough. For now, it’s enough.

  “Things,” I say, “like what?”

  He puts his arm around me. “Come, we can have a walk or take some dinner. Se vuoi, we can go to Spain or Francia. We can visit Argo, who now is lonely and also missing you.”

  I put my arms around him, smiling. “And…”

  “Or perhaps we stay here and I can kiss you for a while, which I was missing.”

  I lean back into him. We kiss for a long time and then I lay against him without speaking, trying to hold on to the now.

  I’m nervous about returning to the library, but as soon as I open the door on Monday morning, I hear “Eccola!” and Lorenza has me in a hug. It is so uncharacteristic, so strange having her small arms around me. She steps back and I hoist my bag off my shoulder; it is heavy with books.

  “I was worried,” she says. “Extremely worried. Especially when your friend came by.”

  I’m here. But I have to do more. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t myself.” This is true. “It won’t happen again. But I understand if you can’t keep me on. I know—”

  “You can’t possibly leave,” Lorenza says. “It’s the end of the term—we’re flooded with students. I think it’s the only work they’ve done all semester. You have to stay on.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  She smiles and eyes my bag of books. “Now that that’s settled, let’s get those back where they belong, sì? Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Later that week, I see Peter at the club. He’s walking down the hall of boats.

  “Hey!” I say.

  “Oh, sorry.” He tries a smile. “Ciao, Hannah.”

  “How have you been? I’ve missed seeing you.”

  “That’s strange. I’ve been here.”

  “I bumped into Pam, and she said—” I stop when I realize he isn’t listening as his eyes dart around. I know how it feels to hide. “Anyway, maybe we’ll see each other back in the States?” I ask.

  “Sure.” He nods, looking at the door. “Sure.”

  The next day, I’m greeted with another surprise. Blood. My period for the first time in more months than I can remember. I’m confused, not sure of what to do, and for a moment I am an adolescent again, awkwardly wadding up toilet paper. The blood is light, pale, little more than a few drops over the course of a day, but it is still there, recognizable. It is a relief. Because even though I’ve been eating well again, my hair is thinner, my breasts smaller
, and it is difficult to put on flesh, as though my body can’t regain its footing. It is like waking up to find someone else has lived my life, warred with my body, and left me with these remnants of battle. The blood is a small victory. I begin eating more.

  The final days of work are a mad dash—for Lorenza, for me, for the students frantically researching, typing, printing—and then my duties are officially done. Lorenza asks if I want to return in January for the new term, and I tell her what I haven’t yet told Luca—that I’ve decided to go home. I’ve promised Kate I’ll be there for Christmas, and I will. She won’t have to cover for me, explain why I’m not there, because I’ll be there. I’ll sort things—the bills, the apartment, the questions. And then? I don’t know. I only know that if I’m going to move forward, I have to account for what I left behind.

  When I tell Luca that I’ll be leaving, he immediately says, “Allora, then you return for Capodanno!” New Year’s. I smile, but tell him that I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.

  “Va bene,” Luca says. “You don’t know when—va bene. But you come back. Certo. You always return to Firenze.” And then we drop the subject altogether and continue, as Luca had suggested, with the now, the finality of my departure making each day more urgent.

  It seems as though everyone will be leaving for the holidays, and the wives and children who have been so invisible emerge at the center of the conversations at the club now. Gianni is going to Florida with his family. When I ask him, “Why Florida?” he shrugs and says, “Why not? It’s nice there, no? Miami,” he croons. Meeeeeaaaa-meeee. Stefano and his family will be in the Lake District, and Sergio and his wife are visiting her relatives in Rome. Even Carlo will be taking his children skiing.