by C.J Duggan
As he led me away from the doors and towards the kitchen, I couldn’t help but hope that he wasn’t entirely joking about the shackles. Could a pleasure room lie behind those double doors? I could be convinced to experiment …
‘Rosalia, this is Sammi, the one I have been telling you about.’
I looked around the kitchen, startled to find that Rosalia was standing right before me, so tiny that I had almost missed her altogether.
‘Oh, hello,’ I said.
Looking up at me was a weathered face, framed by silver hair tucked neatly in a bun and lit up with sparkling, kind eyes. Thanks to the lessons of various films and TV shows, I expected her to embrace me and then usher me to sit, and start piling up food in front of me while exclaiming how terribly thin I was. Instead she turned her attention to Marcello, unleashing a loud, free-flowing tirade of Italian that had me flinching and looking at Marcello.
Jesus, what had I done now? It didn’t sound good. If Marcello turned to me and told me to get my things and get out of his house, I wouldn’t be surprised. Instead, I watched his profile as he listened to her intently, giving her his undivided attention. I stood frozen in place, not sure if the twisting sensation at the base of my stomach was hunger pains or fear as I watched the little old lady wave her arms around as she spoke without taking a breath.
‘Is everything okay?’ I murmured out of the corner of my mouth, trying not to draw attention to myself.
Marcello broke into a broad smile, nodding his head. ‘Ah, yes, she said that you are very beautiful.’
I cocked my brow. ‘Is that all that she said?’
‘Mostly,’ he said, leading me to the table, leaving Rosalia to mumble at the stove and cross her heart, as if praying for the strength to get through lunch.
We came to a table, where I expected to see, at most, some crusty bread and minestrone soup dished up for us. Wrong! This wasn’t lunch, this was a feast. You couldn’t see the surface of the table for food.
‘Are you expecting company?’ I asked, my ravenous eyes roaming over the dishes.
Marcello laughed. ‘No, just us, but you’re hungry, right?’ he said, pulling a chair out for me.
‘Umm, would you judge me if I said I was relieved I don’t have to share?’
‘Not at all.’
A bowl slammed down onto the table, followed by another verbal onslaught that continued all the way through the kitchen, out of the room and down the hall. I sat, unmoving, remembering to breathe when it seemed the coast was clear.
‘So Rosalia is not joining us for lunch, then?’
Marcello shook his head. ‘She’ll have a nap now, rest up for the next course. She’s only small,’ he laughed.
‘But incredibly feisty.’
‘Oh, si, molto.’
I loved it when he broke into his language, even if only a word or two; the way he rolled his tongue around the words caused a shiver to run through me; I knew how incredibly clever his tongue could be.
‘Sammi?’ I blinked back into the here and now, looking blankly at the plate Marcello held out to me.
‘Where did you go?’
‘Oh, nowhere,’ I lied. ‘Wow, will you look at all this food, Rosalia does take care of you.’
‘She does,’ he agreed, spooning a serving of thick spaghetti smothered in a rich tomato sauce and stringy cheese. Marcello couldn’t have passed it over quickly enough. ‘We may not be blood, but Rosalia is my family.’
There was something rather beautiful in Marcello’s words, the way he had said them, meant them. Looking at him from across the table, I had no doubt that in this big, old house, being yelled at, fussed over, cared for by a feisty old lady was something Marcello would love. I saw it in the endearing way he had looked at her, despite her tirade. It was a true insight into his character. I didn’t know when or how Rosalia came into his life, but there was one thing for certain: they really were family; it even had me missing my own, which was most unexpected. Despite the lovely aromas and colourful display of mouth-watering dishes, my mood dimmed as I began to run my fork through my pasta.
‘Listen, I don’t want you to worry about your passport. Maria has her faults but she won’t let that kind of thing pass. She is going to feel terrible when she finds out the truth.’
I swallowed a big mouthful of salty, delicious carbs.
Oh, sure, Maria’s a real stand-up gal.
It’s amazing how clean sheets, hot showers and amazing food can make depressing experiences seem like a lifetime away. So enamoured was I with my current situation that I kind of hoped Maria wouldn’t call back. The spaghetti was so bloody amazing that I wouldn’t mind if my passport was never found.
‘I know she didn’t mean to leave me behind—it’s not her fault.’
‘Well, she should have checked with you directly,’ he said, breaking a piece of crusty bread.
‘Yes, but what is done is done. As long as I get my passport back in one piece, it’ll all be okay. But I never want to think about Bellissimo Tours ever again.’ I half laughed, trying to spear some pasta with my fork without success. Marcello’s silence made me glance up at him; a crease etched across his brow as he examined his glass of water in deep contemplation.
Then I realised the error of my words. ‘Oh, hey, look, I didn’t mean to bag the tour, I just think that tours in general probably aren’t for me. I mean, I’m not exactly worldly, so I think I just need to be eased into things—I’m a bit of a sook like that,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood.
‘No, you are right. Maria has a lot to learn when it comes to business,’ he said darkly, and I knew I had hit a nerve.
We both grew quiet, and after a while I actually wished for Rosalia to come back to yell some more. I didn’t know how to restart the conversation; should I comment on the food, the weather? It was going to be a long meal.
‘Just to be clear, I actually found your business card at the hotel.’
Marcello’s eyes flicked up from his meal.
‘You know, just in case you were worried that I might have stalked you. I didn’t.’
‘Well, that’s disappointing,’ he said, tucking back into his food.
‘I know, it’s not nearly as interesting, but what is rather interesting is that you’re an artist … I never knew that. I felt as subtle as a brick, trying to work in a neat segue to the topic I was most curious about.
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t mention it.’
Ugh, this was not going to be easy—it was like trying to communicate with a surly teenager. Perhaps it was this closed-off part of him, the one that appeared so cold and professional, that made his career choice so surprising? I glanced at his hands: they were big and strong, and felt amazing against my skin, tipped with perfectly squared, immaculate nails. These were the hands of an artist? There were no telling signs.
‘So, what kind of art do you do?’ I pressed.
He shifted in his seat, clearly wishing we could be talking about something else.
Interesting.
The usually composed, almost perpetually cocky Marcello had a weakness, and it was linked to his passion.
‘Buildings, streetscapes, landscapes.’ He sounded bored, trying to play it down; it made me even more curious. But then I thought, What if he wasn’t any good? What if the reason Maria was so reluctant to involve her business with his was because he was talentless? Had she told him that? Was that why he was so reluctant to share?
He sighed. ‘Do you want to see?’
I blinked. ‘See what?’
‘The paintings?’
Did I? If they were really hideous, I didn’t know if I’d be able to fake it. I met an ugly baby once—the mother and I were no longer friends. Some things you just couldn’t fake.
‘Ah, sure, love to!’
Marcello seemed to melt in relief, his shoulders dipping as if he had been tensing them for the whole conversation.
‘Okay,’ he said, nodding.
‘Great!’ I lied, digging back
into my pasta, the same thought rolling over and over in my mind.
Oh, please, be good, please, be good.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Curiously, we were standing back at the double doors.
‘You will have to excuse the mess—I’m not expecting anyone until tomorrow,’ he said, rubbing the back of his neck and seemingly stalling for time. He was a fascinating character study in a moment like this; in his home Marcello seemed almost like a small boy, vulnerable and uncertain.
‘What’s tomorrow?’
‘I have a class. A tour group is stopping by.’
‘Oh, really? That sounds awesome.’
‘Yeah, my friend Giovanni runs some day tours around Rome. He has kindly included me on one of his days.’
We continued standing there, neither one of us moving, until it started to get a little ridiculous. Just as I was about to tell him that he didn’t have to show me if he didn’t want to, Marcello pushed the giant doors inwards, stepping into the room and revealing what lay beyond.
‘Oh, my …’
My words fell away; it took me a moment to step forward, to take in the entire space. Dust particles danced in the air in beams of sunlight, momentarily distracting me from the scene. Drop sheets, easels and flecks of paint dotted the aged wooden floors and shelves of paints and brushes, charcoals and pallets overflowed on industrial-style shelving. I could imagine that Marcello was now wishing he kept his things in better order. But aside from the impressive space, the sprawling art supplies and the eclectic energy imbued in every corner of the room, it was nothing compared to what stood on the easel.
‘Oh, yeah, that’s not finished yet.’ Marcello came to stand next to me, scratching his jaw and fidgeting in great discomfort. I tore my eyes away from the canvas to look at him, hoping that he could see the sincerity in my eyes when I said, ‘This is incredible.’
Marcello stared at me, his eyes flicking across my face as if looking to see if I was joking. But I was deadly serious.
‘So, you like it?’
I turned back to the giant painting, a scenery of oranges and yellows offset with blue and grey skies, broken by green pops of trees that twisted up into the air. It was colourful and textured, structured yet natural; it was like it was breathing, it was the strangest thing.
I shook my head. ‘Marcello, you need to change your business card.’
Marcello stared at me, my meaning completely lost on him.
‘Why is that?’
‘Because it needs to read Marcello Bambozzi: Motherfucking ARTIST!’
I think I shocked him—no, I know I did—his brows disappearing into his hairline. I thought it might have been a step too far, a bit too crass, but then the biggest, broadest, most blinding smile appeared.
‘So, how would you say that in Italian?’ I grinned, turning fully to him now.
‘Madre cazzo d’artista.’ He almost sang it with pride, and it sounded kind of beautiful. A gasp sounded by the open doorway and we turned to see Rosalia standing with a drink tray, mouth agape and shaking her head, casting us a look so severe it could strip lead paint. She waddled away, the tray clinking all the way to the kitchen.
Marcello winced, then we looked at each other like a couple of naughty schoolkids who had been caught out.
‘Oh, dear, I think Rosalia is going to think I am a bad influence on you.’
Marcello burst out laughing. ‘Well, I really hope so,’ he said, a devious sparkle in his dark eyes.
I could feel myself blush, knowing that when Marcello was on game I never stood a chance against him. Thankfully he saved me from myself, breaking the tension.
‘Do you want to see my inspiration?’
I tilted my head, intrigued.
‘Sure.’
And although he didn’t need to, he grabbed my hand and laced his fingers with mine. It was the strangest sensation, to be touched in such a simple way, yet to be so grounded by it. I didn’t want to feel it last night, that connection, knowing I would have to let it go, but now it was back. I lost my breath, and I know he felt it too—I could see it in his face. Gone were all traces of humour; instead, he simply pulled me into step, breaking the trance a little.
‘Let’s go.’
As the elevator door closed behind us, I grinned from ear to ear, my delight apparent when I turned to Marcello.
‘What?’ he laughed.
‘You have an elevator.’ I beamed.
Marcello shook his head. ‘You are mad.’
‘True, but happily mad!’ I said, delighted that I had been saved from the ludicrous amount of stairs.
‘Still, Rosalia must be grateful for this.’
‘You would think so, but she refuses to use it.’
‘What?’
‘She will use only the stairs—she calls the elevator “la trappola mortale”.’
The elevator reached the top floor, bouncing to a stop, the doors slowly sliding to the side.
‘And what does that mean?’
Marcello stood to the side, placing his hands on the divider to keep the doors open.
‘Death trap,’ he said with a cheeky wink.
That was all the translation I needed, and I dived out of the elevator. ‘Ah, you know what, I think stairs are underrated. Good exercise and all that.’
Marcello’s laugh echoed down the wide, expansive space. I squinted a little, the sun reflecting off the marble floor. My shoes clicked on the floor, so I could only imagine how Maria’s would sound. Marcello reached a thick iron door, pushing at it with considerable effort; a cool breeze blasted us, whipping my hair from my shoulders as we stepped through.
‘Marcello—’ My breath caught. And although I wanted to turn to him, to say something, it just wasn’t possible, I was too much in awe of what I was seeing. Before me was Marcello’s muse, the same view portrayed in his painting. It was breathtaking, made even more beautiful by his interpretation of it.
‘It’s funny, depending on the cloud, or sun, the colours are always changing; I could paint this view a thousand different ways.’
I shifted my eyes from the view, turning to him. ‘You have to paint them all.’
He laughed, but it petered out when he saw my serious expression.
I stepped closer to him: he had to know. ‘You have to, Marcello, you have to paint them all. You’re so bloody talented, yet you have a business card sitting on the desk of a shitty hotel and the whole world is passing you by. I reckon Maria has done you a favour: you shouldn’t be wasting your time on hungover backpackers who are more interested in the next power hour at a nightclub.’
I had probably said too much, getting involved in something that wasn’t my business, but the thought of Jodie or Nate slouched in Marcello’s studio painting penises on their canvasses made my blood boil.
‘You make it sound so simple.’
‘It is simple!’ I as good as shouted. ‘Look at this place, it’s amazing; where do you host your classes?’
‘In the studio.’
I grabbed his arm. ‘Bring them up here.’
Marcello’s eyes went from my hand on his arm to the horizon, his focus intense, the cogs in his mind turning.
‘Target the right age demographic. Charge them double and offer Roman terrace workshops. You can offer a traditional Italian feast prepared lovingly by Rosalia.’
A small smile curved the corner of his mouth. ‘It would stop the waste of our food.’
‘Yes! See? Do it!’
‘How is it that in the space of one afternoon you have managed to come up with the solution to all of my problems?’ He looked at me now like I was some kind of mythical unicorn; it was the kind of look a girl could get addicted to.
‘Because sometimes something wonderful can be in front of you the whole time—you just don’t see it.’
As stunning as the view was, the ever-impressive panorama of the Eternal City blasted with colour, in that moment nothing compared to the beauty of Marcello’s eyes. So soft, ye
t dark and intense, I swear they were the one thing I would never forget about my trip; the next being the bow shape of his lips or the way it felt when he brushed the back of his knuckles against my cheek as he was now, moving into me and running his fingers down my neck and across my collarbone. His eyes traced the path of his fingers, only to lift and lock with my eyes once more as he leaned into me, his lips oh-so-close to mine, his breath hot against my mouth.
‘I see you,’ he whispered, and just as he leaned in to close the small distance between us, a loud, jangly tone rang in the air, killing the moment and slicing the serenity of the rooftop terrace. Marcello cursed, drawing back and reaching into his pocket, annoyed until he checked the screen, his eyes flicking up to me. ‘It’s Maria.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
I sat in the kitchen, my elbows resting on the spotless table top where Rosalia had cleaned the entire kitchen within an inch of its life; you would never have guessed we’d feasted here just an hour ago. I sat there, my head in my hands, never wanting to show my face again.
I felt warmth at my shoulder as Marcello’s hands rubbed calming circles on my back.
‘Sammi,’ he said gently, trying to coax me to look at him.
‘I can’t believe I made Maria cry.’ My voice was muffled through my hands.
‘She’s tougher than you think.’
I ran my hands through my hair, sighing. ‘Is that a Bambozzi trait, is it?’
‘I like to think so.’
‘Oh yeah, and who instilled that, your Mama Bambozzi or your Papa Bambozzi?’
It was an innocent enough question, a little tongue in cheek even, or so I had thought, but there was something in Marcello’s eyes that looked almost haunted.
My small smile fell away. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.’
‘No, it’s okay.’ But he didn’t continue; he just sat there with that faraway look in his eyes. The mood had turned my own despair to his, and I really wished that I hadn’t said anything. I was all but ready to shift the focus back to me and my seemingly first-world dramas. I went to speak, ready to shatter the silence, but something worse broke through, the unexpected words of an unguarded Marcello.
