4 May 2012

The stench of Nazionali and cheap supermarket wine gripped the apartment. Ancestors with forced smiles and piercing eyes and oil paintings of girls he didn't know stared down at the older middle-aged man in the wife-beater seeping into the sofa, still a look of shock on his face from the events of five minutes before. He sipped the shit wine in his hand anxiously. She had shouted curses at him and blamed him for everything: their boring relationship, her putting on weight and her miscarriage. The bitch had told him that it was his fault she has lost the baby. She had had the nerve to say such a thing. She had drunk and smoked and now his son, his only child, was gone. It was her fault and her fault alone. And now, surprise, surprise, there was nothing left between them and their relationship was a cold, dark, hollow shell. They had been together for a while. They were only 19 when their eyes met over the bonnet of his Fiat that warm summer night in Tuscany. He remembered the sound his cigarette made as it fell to the ground. And for years they had been perfectly happy and had enjoyed la dolce vita behind the tinted lens of a pair of wayfarers. And now what did he have to show for it? A reeking apartment splattered with memories and photos of people who had been and gone and some 'priceless' art. He could see the leaks from upstairs spreading along the ceiling and dust starting to collect over his mamma's face on a photograph. Typical fucking Roman apartment the man thought to himself. But despite his rage, the man couldn't help but wonder where his wife had scurried to. Probably that bastardo Silvio he thought with newfound concern. Not many men he knew could say that they introduced their wives to the man they now shared a bed with. Of course she had denied it. But he could read those warm hazel eyes, she had, or desperately had wanted to at least. The man took one more loathing look around and stood up. He spotted his favourite grey flannel suit just returned from the cleaners and a grin extended across his face.

Tortoise-shell cigar cases and velvet cushions filled her admirer's luxury apartment. The woman sat nervously. Legs crossed, hands on knees. Just like in one of those dreadful school photos that now lay dead and forgotten in the closet with layers of dust covering it. Her soon-to-be inamorata's braces swayed as he poured and shook, twisted around and handed her the cocktail. "Please enjoy, mia colomba. This won't knock you out like those dreadful hooligans you hear about these days," he sang with a confident grin. He looked at her for a minute, motionless. His eyes fixed on hers as she took her first sip of the striking mix. His legs crossed, he examined every move and muscle. She wondered if she was just a conquest to him, some kind of trophy? Then finally, with one swift glide he put his hand to the box as if to pick it up and offer one to her, but then he remembered the rules and stopped himself. He reached into the varnished cigar box and pulled out an expensive looking cigar before producing a silver box of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. "Principessa?" the wooer purred as he pointed the open case to the woman's face. She shook her head uncomfortably, as if she were a five year old being told to go to bed. That same, intimidating half-grin rose again, and the woman's face drained. All she could think about was her husband. The couch engulfing him and the timid face he wore as she slammed the door. Suddenly her eyes turned towards the rest of his apartment. Typical fucking roman bachelor 'pad' she thought to herself, her face still fixed in intimidation. At home she was the one in control. Her husband bent to her every wish, but here it was a very different story. Her eyes - unwilling to meet his - searched the apartment for something to fix on. And there it was. Her husband had joked to her that although she could once spot a particle of dust from a mile away, she had lost her touch. But nothing was more poignant than the stain hidden underneath the wooden side table on her right. It was old, had turned a deep brown, and could have come from anywhere. But that blood stain told her she needed to get out.

Young lovers laughed as they held each other walking along the Tiber. Stopping every twenty seconds or so to stare into each other's eyes. The older middle-aged man - wearing his favourite grey flannel suit and brown brogues - walked along by them. But there was no-one to hold his arm, giggle at his stupid jokes or show him lust or even love. If he had ever had any of that he had given it away for a few glasses of grappa. The thought made him sad. He had only felt this way once before. When they had lost the baby. He had blamed her not because of fact, but out of anger. When you are hurt so bad that a part of you is lost, then a man will go to the ends of the earth and on just to find something to blame. The man who had so nearly become a father had looked right in front of himself, and had found that thing. But of course! Now he could see. He was being selfish! If anyone could be more hurt than he was that day then it was her. His wife. It had died inside her. She must, at one point, have blamed herself. She must have. And gotten over it? No, it was clear now. Neither of them ever got over it. The man was now sitting on a bench, looking out across the Tiber. Behind him he could hear the traffic and bustle of Travestere. As he sat gazing upon the river that ran through Roma, he saw every time his eyes had met his wife’s and he had seen the love shyly hiding behind her pupils. He saw the pain and the suffering and the laughter and feeling that everything was right and that was how things were supposed to be. The man sighed and let his body drop forward. He stroked his hand through his hair and cleaned his eyes. He sat there for a few minutes more, just watching the lovers and boats go by. Suddenly he gagged at the overpowering taste of grappa that had been brewing in his mouth and ducked into one of the alleyways leading into Travestere in search of coffee.

She pulled her face away from the Tiber. The water had reminded her of the admirer’s eyes. She would never return to that velvet hole again. But where would she return to? To her apartment? What would she say to him? To Venezia? Possibly. But for right now, the woman would follow the wind. At the back of her mind, an echo, a small voice could be heard; it whispered “La risposta sta soffiando nel vento.” She had whispered it into her future-husband’s ear that night in Tuscany. That amazing night. She stopped and put her back to the Tiber. looking down the Via Beatrice Cenci. In one of those calli was Piperno; the best artichoke in Roma and one of her husband’s favourite eateries. Suddenly, a gush of wind rushed past her face. She ducked, only to hear the laughter of the young people passing by. She shook her head, half out of embarrassment and half out of frustration, when she noticed an abnormal lightness atop her scalp. She felt her head and jerked back to see her hat floating mockingly along the Tiber. The woman sighed, closed her eyes and put her hand to her face. This is when she noticed the hospital on Tiber Island. So much had happened to her in that building: her miscarriages, her birth, her sister’s birth... and death. It had become some form of temple. And then she looked further. Travestere. The wonder neighborhood. A light inside her was switched on. In her heart, her brain, and in her stomach. She smiled, quite possibly for the first time today, regained her posture and set off towards the Ponte Garibaldi bridge accross the Tiber, gazing out at the grey water again, now at peace with it. She laughed quietly and to herself. She had been right all those years ago when she had whispered that phrase to her husband. The answer was blowing in the wind.

The air smelt like smoke and tasted like coffee, the interior of the cafe was dark but accommodating. The whole room lit up when some one would open the door to enter or leave. The coffee was good. And more importantly, it did the job. He didn’t taste like a drunkard anymore. Even better, he didn’t feel like one. But while he had now re-gained his strength, that was only half the problem. What now? How was he to win her back? He wouldn’t blame her really, if she decided to have nothing to do with him again. He had done wrong. He had hurt her and himself and he knew it very well. But that was the past and his future was going to start now. He stopped himself and remembered his age. How naive was it for such an old man to have such young and ambitious dreams. It had never stopped him before. It was the reason he was in this mess and his wife was in Silvio’s arms. The thought made him angry. No. This wasn’t anger. Not as simple as simple, raw fury. It was passion. This was not a new feeling. It was an old friend he had not met in a while, and the old man greeted with happiness and fulfillment. The cup was empty. He waved his hand to catch the waitress’ eye but she was too occupied talking to a male waiter. They were flirting. Through experience, the old man had learned to spot it a mile away. Frustrated, he stood up to approach the waitress. The man unintentionally caught the eye of a young woman on the other side of the cafe, sitting next to a wall of black and white photographs. She looked at the man, with interest, and then with concern. He heard a scream and jerked to the right. His wife stood before him. A shocked expression gripped her face. He was speechless. Mentally, and strangely physically. He suddenly felt breathless, forced to steady himself on a table, pain sprinted up his right arm. His chest seemed like it wanted to shoot out of his body. He looked up at his wife. She was screaming. Her eyes ablaze. Tears ran down her cheeks in slow motion.

freddiejgreenThat One Night On Tuscany • Opuss № I