Il Postino
THE WINTER SUN is slanting low through the pine trees, throwing orange light across the glassy Altaussee lake and onto the pale grey mountains. Gerhard signals for us to follow him up a twisty path to his brother’s Lokal (bar) for some Glühwein to warm ourselves up.
‘I’ll join you in a minute,’ I cry. ‘I just want to stay here a bit longer before the light goes.’ Gazing out across to the Totes Gebirge mountain range, I lift my face to the sky, drawing in the crystal clear air.
I feel an overwhelming Maria-von-Trapp moment coming on. Jamming my hands deep into my pockets I spin on the spot and am reminded of the last time I felt like this: atop Crinkle Crags.
I feel the rough, sharp edges of a small stone and remember placing it there all those months ago, as a reminder of that magical time. I toy with it, make a wish, then send it skipping across the lake.
I collect more stones and send them skimming in a kind of cleansing ritual:
This one’s for you, Nigel. I truly believe what you did to me was sent as a major lesson in life, and I have you to thank for putting me on this path.
Greg, it’s okay that you dumped me for a man, and I don’t want you to feel guilty about that any longer. I would have dumped you first but you got there before me. I hope you are happy now.
Mum, I know you are quick to remind me of my rapidly disappearing prime and have, on occasion, urged me to seek medical help to cure me of my ‘delusional thoughts’, but I understand you only want the best for me.
And finally, Emily, you too are acquitted of the crimes of which you have been guilty:
Allowing your heart to make major decisions instead of your head.
Failure to provide your parents with grandchildren and peace of mind.
Displaying wilful behaviour, not befitting a normal, respectable, middle-aged woman.
* * *
I arrive back in Vienna to find a postcard from Francesco, suggesting some possible dates to visit.
As Wendy is pencilled in for some of them, I call her from the theatre that evening to check they don’t clash with her schedule.
‘I don’t think I’ll make it now, hon. Liam is short of volunteers at the riding school and I’ve kind of promised I’ll support him on hacks whenever I’m free,’ she says.
‘Liam’s name has been cropping up a lot recently,’ I say, ribbing her.
‘I told you – he’s the new stables manager,’ she says evasively.
‘And there’s a smile in your voice whenever you mention him.’
Ignoring this last comment, she continues, ‘Those kids so look forward …’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah …’
Joking apart, there’s no doubt in my mind that Wendy’s voluntary work at the riding school is a godsend. The reason? Because those horses and those disadvantaged children are helping her to heal. Catching a frisky pony in an open field or keeping a disabled child safe and happy requires the utmost concentration and doesn’t allow your mind to stray elsewhere. Equine therapy, I believe it’s called. All I’m suggesting is, where’s the harm in her enjoying a little sexual therapy too?
‘Don’t change the subject,’ continues Wendy after a pause. ‘What’s the matter with you, darling? It’s high time you started putting Francesco first. I understand why you’re being cautious, but he’s a good ’un, that one, so you fix that up right away, d’you hear me? Francesco first.’
‘But …’
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the On Golden Pond Company, this is your Act One beginners’ call. Act One beginners to the stage, please.’
‘Wendy, you still there?’ The phone clicks. ‘Wendy?’
* * *
BA 0696 LONDON HEATHROW GELANDET
As I wait for Francesco to appear through the sliding doors of the arrivals hall, I realise even more how much I’ve missed him these last few weeks, and what a wrench it will be when he returns to Naples.
I’m practising mindfulness like mad, but still these anxious thoughts prod my brain, threatening to cloud our precious time here.
Hotels and guest houses are all fully booked, though I managed to get us one night at a little Pension just off the Kärtnerstrasse.
Call me old-fashioned, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking Anna if he could sleep at hers, so her sister, Cristina, has offered to put him up for one night. She speaks no Italian and very little English, but loves company and to cook, so I have no doubt they’ll get along just fine.
‘Ciao, bella!’ And suddenly he’s standing there before me, looking effortlessly stylish in faded leather aviator jacket, white shirt, and cords, an expensive holdall bag swaying from his shoulder.
He wraps his arms tightly around me and kisses me for a long time, his familiar scent making me giddy.
‘Ciao!’ I whisper, dipping my head.
We interlace fingers and share a glance as we make our way down to the subway in contented silence.
The train clatters and jostles noisily along the track.
As we pull into Enkplatz, Francesco nudges my foot with his and points to a poster advertising the play. Our eyes meet. He traces his thumb back and forth across my hand, kisses my forehead and smiles.
* * *
My performance that evening is not my best, as I find it hard to concentrate. In between my lines, when I’m normally listening to what the other characters are saying, I’m thinking about Francesco and wondering if he found his way to the theatre, did he pick up his ticket, and where should we eat afterwards? I am playing with fire. It therefore comes as no surprise that I miss one of my cues; serves me jolly well right. Oliver, ever the consummate performer, comes to the rescue, jumping in with his next line.
As soon as the curtain comes down for the interval, shamefacedly I flee the stage to the dressing room, slam the door shut, and burst into tears.
Mags enters quietly, puts a mug of tea down in front of me, and stroking my hair says soothingly, ‘Listen, sweetheart, it happens to us all, and tonight, well tonight it was your turn. Not one member of that audience will have noticed you missed a line, believe me.’
‘I wasn’t concentrating. I was being totally unprofessional, and I’ve let everyone down,’ I bleat through gasping sobs.
‘Nonsense. Look, love, we all have our off nights,’ she says putting a motherly arm around me. ‘We’re not superhuman. And promise me one thing: if Francesco, or anyone for that matter, congratulates you on your performance, you smile sweetly and simply say thank you, do you hear me?’ she says firmly. ‘Don’t you dare draw attention to the fact you missed a line, or Mama Mags will be very cross with you, do you understand? Now dry your eyes and drink your tea before it goes cold,’ she says, snatching a tissue from the box on the table.
As the curtain goes up on Act Two, I can feel the adrenaline pumping round my body. Five pages of dialogue until my next entrance. Can I put my silly goof-up behind me, or will I freeze and ruin it for everyone? Is this what they call stage fright?
Our doubts are traitors and make us lose … Our doubts are traitors and make us lose … rings Portia’s voice in my head.
Despite my initial tentativeness, it goes without a hitch, and I am the complex Chelsea once more, at odds with her father and finally reconciled. The pent-up tears of earlier come in very handy during my emotional scene with Ethel, and then finally with Norman.
* * *
‘Brava!’ enthuses Francesco, as I emerge from the stage door. ‘It was fantastico!’
I give a modest smile and murmur, ‘Grazie.’ The others file past, calling out their goodnights. Mags turns and darts me a knowing wink.
Francesco takes my hand as we make our way along the Graben (one of the many posh, pedestrianised shopping areas), past the fountain and illuminated statue of Saint Leopold, up the alleyway, and through the stained glass doors of Annerls Beisl.
The waiter nods in recognition and guides us through the snugly arranged tables to a discreet, low-lit booth. As soon as we sit down, he brings over two glasses of complimentary champagne, lights a candle, and hands out menus.
A pianist plays quietly in the corner.
‘Allora, la mia cara attrice, come stai?’ asks Francesco, clinking glasses.
‘Bene,’ I reply. He looks at me expectantly. ‘Bene, grazie.’ I swallow hard, shuffling in my seat. ‘Erm, Vienna è meravigliosa … Che città fantastica!’
‘E-milee?’ he says, with a seductively cocked eyebrow.
‘Che cosa?’ I say innocently from behind the menu, cheeks flushing.
‘E-milee?’
‘Okay, okay,’ I say, raising my hands in submission. ‘I haven’t been studying Italian lately. Sorry, but come on, Italian and German are worlds apart. I mean, the other day, when I found myself ordering G-nocchi instead of Knödel, I realised my poor wee brain can’t cope with learning two languages at the same time any more.’
‘Scusi?’ says Francesco, with his famous, whataya-talking-about-hand gesture.
‘G-nocchi. You know, dumplings. Knödel, in German.’
‘Aah!’ he says, teasing me with a small smile. ‘You mean “gnocchi”! My cara imbecille, the “g” is silent.’ Leaning forward, he removes my glasses and plants a kiss on my nose. My heart gives a little jolt.
In between sips of bubbly and mouthfuls of dumpling, I tell him about Anna, Mags, Oliver, the play, the opera, the trip to the country. Francesco orders more wine, we eat, I talk some more, and because I’m a little bit squiffy, I divulge the Nigel saga (not, you’ll be relieved to hear, in a bitter, all-men-are-bastards rant, but rather in a things-happen-for-the-best way). All the while he listens intently, shakes his head, and smiles in all the right places.
‘Hey, enough about me, Francesco,’ I say, a voice in my head warning me my chattiness is verging on self-obsessed gabble. ‘Tell me about the restaurant, Luigi, Nonna Maria … I want to know everything.’
‘Zio Luigi and Nonna Maria are well. They send auguri (good wishes). Every Friday and Saturday we now have Serata di Opera – how you say? – opera cabaret. Rosalba and Lucio, they perform opera, and the restaurant is so busy you must make a reservation at least two weeks before. Allora, Zio Luigi is a ver-ry happy man.’
‘And Sergio?’ I ask as casually as I can.
‘Bene,’ he says, nodding. ‘He will return to work full-time very soon.’
‘Aah,’ I say, nervous of the answer to my next question. ‘Do you know when exactly?’
‘Mit the compliments of the house,’ says the waiter, delivering two Maria Theresia liqueur coffees.
Francesco turns, raises his glass in thanks to the barman, then says, ‘Look, cara, is your mother and father, over there.’
I lean forward, turn forty-five degrees, and sure enough, deep in conversation, oblivious to the world around them, are Oliver and Mags, the light from the candles illuminating their faces. He takes a neatly pressed hankie from the top pocket of his jacket and gently dabs her eyes. I bob my head back, pretending I haven’t seen them.
‘You don’t say hello?’ says Francesco.
‘No … don’t wave,’ I say, grabbing his arm in the nick of time. ‘I don’t say hello because … well, it’s complicated. But trust me, it’s better they don’t know we’re here.’
‘Aah,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Amore, cara, is never simple – even when we are old.’
He then proceeds to tell me how his grandparents were married for sixty years, and at his grandfather’s funeral, his mistress pitched up. It transpired their clandestine affair had been going on for over four decades. Francesco was only eight at the time, but remembers hiding under the altar table, hands clasped tightly over his ears to block out the caterwauling the arrival of the shameless strega (witch) brought to mass that day.
However, the two women eventually became friends and would meet in the piazza, where they would sip limoncello and compare notes about the old man’s flaws and irritating habits. Both agreed they were better off without the old bastardo.
* * *
‘Anna?’ I enquire next morning.
‘Ja, liebling?’ she says, clearing away the breakfast things.
‘I should have thought of this before, but do you know of anywhere that rents bicycles?’
‘Komm’ mit mir,’ she says, wiping her hands on her apron, then leading me down to the basement. There, behind various old rusty garden tools, is an ancient bike with ‘Schildberger und Söhne’ painted in faded lettering along the crossbar.
‘This bicycle belonged to my man … in English, husband, ja? He worked for his father in the Bäckerei, the bakery,’ she says, feeling the tyres. ‘A little Luft (air), dann ist alles in Ordnung.’
I wiggle along the road, pushing both bikes, unwieldy as supermarket trolleys.
‘Buongiorno, principessa!’ calls Francesco from Cristina’s balcony, as I weave unsteadily round the corner.
‘Buongiorno! Ho una bicicletta!’
‘Madonna mia!’ He guffaws in disbelief, then smiles and gestures. ‘Eh, whaddya think I am? Il postino? The postman?’
* * *
As we rattle across Herbert von Karajan Square towards the opera house, I can’t help but think what Nigel would have said in Francesco’s shoes: Are you mad? There’s no way I’m riding that heap of metal. We can afford a taxi. Why can’t you be sophisticated? Just once? Then we’d have an argument and he’d storm off. But he just didn’t get it; you see, it has nothing to do with saving on taxi fares or worrying about how you look; it’s about being a little bit wacky and not giving a damn if you might get oil on your designer jeans or mess up your neatly coiffed hair.
‘Eh, il postino! Attenzione prego!’ I yell. ‘Stop here!’
We lean our bicycles against a lamppost and join the growing line of mainly American, Japanese, and Spanish-speaking tourists waiting for the box office to open.
José Cura, the Argentinean tenor, is playing the role of Rodolfo at tonight’s performance of La Bohème, and the couple in front of us has flown over especially from Buenos Aries to see him perform. (Pity his understudy.)
‘Excuse me. Do you speak English?’ comes an American drawl from behind.
I look over my shoulder, and before I have time to respond, a large lady sporting a baseball cap and multicoloured poncho says, ‘We were just wondering if you and your husband have ever seen La Bohème, and how it compares to Les Misérables? We saw that on Broadway and loved it.’
‘Oh, um, we’re not …’
‘My wife and I, we love this opera, don’t we darling?’ interjects Francesco, a cheeky grin creasing his chin. ‘We come from England by bicycle to see it.’
‘Really?’ says the woman, mouth gaping to reveal a large piece of gum.
‘Sì. And my great-grandfather, he write the music.’
‘Omigod!’
‘Ja, bitte?’ calls the lady through the box office window.
‘Two for tonight, per favore, in the upper circle. One for me – and one for my wife.’
‘One hundred and forty euros, please,’ she says with a knowing smile, as she passes the tickets through.
‘We should be going,’ I say, promptly dragging Francesco away by his sleeve, before our American friends have the chance to probe any further – and before I crack up.
* * *
We head out along the shady Augustinerstrasse, lined with rows of unchained bicycles (bike theft is non-existent here), past the antiquarian bookshops, quirky galleries, and a life-sized wooden figure of Pinocchio perched on a bench, and on towards St Michael’s Gate. We stop by the church and go inside. The sweet smell of incense mixed with lilies hangs heavy in the air. Solitary figures sit in silent prayer. Who or what are they praying for, I wonder? For a sick parent, a pet, a premature baby, a son fighting in some foreign war, for a lotto win, or for success with a job interview?
I look round to find Francesco lighting a candle, head bowed. I leave him to his private thoughts, and retreat on tiptoes to an empty side chapel.
I drop to my knees, close my eyes, and ask Steve to keep Wendy safe, to encourage her to pick up her paintbrushes again, and although no one will ever take his place, would it be all right for her to fall in love again someday?
Feeling a gentle hand on my shoulder, I tilt my head back and am met by Francesco’s kind, watery eyes. He holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet, our fingers locking together. He kisses the crown of my head lightly, and as we walk along the red-carpeted aisle towards the exit, and out into the bright and busy square, I am reminded once more that silence can be filled with meaning; that you don’t have to cram every void with inane chatter. I don’t feel the need to impress Francesco with my wit or knowledge of Viennese rococo architecture, and am not embarrassed that he’s caught me crying.
* * *
Of all the places I have so far visited in Vienna, the little innocuous market just around the corner from Rudolfstrasse has to be one of my favourites. It’s so … well, ALIVE. Sure, I appreciate the magnificence of the Opera House, the Spanish Riding School with its chandelier-lit paddock, the over-the-top, baroque, faded golden glory of Schönbrunn Palace, but they all have a LOOK-BUT-DON’T-TOUCH feel about them; whereas here, in this little market, I can see, feel, smell, listen to the Vienna of the here and now.
I know I shouldn’t compare, but Nigel would not have been impressed: So what? It’s just a market. All these historic buildings and you drag me here?
‘Che bello!’ enthuses Francesco, disappearing into its maze of colourful stalls: pyramids of blood-red, vine tomatoes, bunches of thin asparagus, reaching out like witches’ fingers, rosemary, oregano, and garlic bound up with raffia, swaying from metal hooks, roasted chestnuts, smoking in a coal-filled, metal drum, speckled eggs, nestled together in straw-filled baskets, row upon row of freshly baked Kaiser rolls, rye, wholegrain, sourdough, and seeded artisan loaves that send your taste buds into overdrive, trays of sausages, cuts of meat in pools of pink blood, and trotters with sprigs of parsley stuffed between their piggy toes. Aaw. If I allow myself to think about those cute little porkers too much, I could turn vegetarian.
I seek refuge in the flower stall, where the air is perfumed with woodsy pine, cinnamon, eucalyptus, and orchids. With Christmas just a few weeks away, it’s like entering an ice-white winter wonderland. Ladies in voluminous dirndls and boiled wool, fir-green jackets with rustic horn buttons and heavy-duty gloves deftly create advent crowns from aromatic spruce, holly, metallic frosted pine cones, red berries, cinnamon sticks, silver ribbons, garden twine, and candles.
I return to the food section where I left Francesco. Through the rows of hanging, cheesecloth-wrapped salamis and hams, pretzels, and dried chillies, I watch him as he zips from one stall to another, tasting olives, smelling herbs, feeling tomatoes, and aubergines, checking they are ripe. He laughs and jokes with the amiable stall holders, cosied up against the cold in furry earflap hats and fingerless gloves, his hand vocabulary and humour bridging the language gap.
I’m learning that the Italian hand gesture can be used either to convey a meaning that it would take several words to express, or to simply emphasise a point – a kind of communication shorthand.
He’s spied me and is gesturing for me to come over, so I shall now do my best to demonstrate this point:
‘Eh, cara, I have an idea,’ he says (forefinger stabbing temple). ‘Call (thumb to ear, little finger to mouth) Anna and Cristina. Tell them tonight, before (forefinger rotating backwards) the opera, I prepare dinner.’(fingers of right hand clasped together and indicating mouth.)
‘But you’re on holiday.’ I groan. ‘You don’t want to be cooking on your night off. There’s a lovely taverna near …’
‘Punto e basta! Enough!’ (horizontal cross-over and swiping of both hands.)
‘But …’
‘I insist.’ (forefinger stabbing the palm of the other hand.) ‘Now, let’s have an espresso.’ (forefinger and thumb touching, other fingers extended in drinking mime.)
* * *
I sprinkle some of my precious Bad Aussee mix into the bath and slither down into the warm water, swishing my hand gently back and forth. I can almost feel the toxins draining out of my body.
Opening one eye, I lazily lift a pruney arm and grope around for my watch: 5.40. I haul myself out of my warm cocoon, slip into my LFMD (little flea-market dress), scoosh some mousse on my hair and scrunch it up, apply some lip gloss, and put on my shopping channel, diamante earrings. I grimace then grin as I relive that particular cringeworthy presentation …
ME: Notice the way they catch the light.
VOICE IN EAR: Twenty-five more seconds to fill. Keep talking.
ME: Yes, the light catches them in a most alluring way – blinding even.
VOICE IN EAR: Twenty-two seconds.
ME: My mum has a pair like this … and my friend.
VOICE IN EAR: Twenty seconds.
ME: And my aunty.
VOICE IN EAR: Okay, enough of the family-tree thing. Change tack. Eighteen seconds.
ME: In fact, Wills, if you’re watching, I can guarantee Kate would love these and wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between these and your granny’s.
VOICE IN EAR: Cut!
* * *
‘Ready, Anna?’ I say, popping my head around the living room door.
‘Fertig,’ she says, buttoning up her dark green Lodenmantel and collecting her basket.
As we totter along the street arm in arm, she tells me that since Walter her beloved husband died, she rarely ventures out in the evening.
Her lovely warm face creases as she pats my hand and says out of the blue, ‘Francesco is a good man, liebling. This I see in his eyes. Und good men are hard to find.’
‘You can say that again,’ I say, half laughing.
‘So, you should marry this man, ja?’
‘I … I …’
‘Life is short, and you are not so young,’ she remarks squarely.
Had anyone else said this to me, I’d have thought, here we go. Give me a break – not all us single ladies of a certain age are on a quest to harness a husband.
Yet, old she may be, and like many Austrians, steeped in traditional values, but I know from our many discussions over coffee and strudel, Anna is a modern, forward-thinking woman, who juggled career and family life at a time before it was the norm. So no offence taken. She’s right though; men like Francesco are a rare breed, but finding your happy ever after isn’t just about chemistry and meeting ‘the one’, like in some Hollywood romcom, is it? Real life is complicated and can sometimes pull you in opposite directions.
As we climb the winding staircase to Cristina’s apartment, the mouth-watering, Mediterranean mix of sweet tomatoes, garlic, and fresh herbs drifts down to meet us.
Anna depresses the brass handle of the solid dark wood door and beckons me to follow her inside.
‘Grüss Gott!’
‘Guten Abend!’ replies Cristina, emerging from the gloom of the long, dark hallway, an antique rosary swaying from her waist. Her mouth breaks into an appreciative smile when I present her with the floral arrangement of trailing jasmine, paper-white narcissus, and burnt-orange roses I had created especially for her at the market.
She takes my arm and leads me into the front room.
While the sisters exchange some words in dialect, I look around. The apartment is very similar to Anna’s: old-school Austrian, with high, ornate ceilings, weighty oak wood furniture, traditional double doors, lace mats and antimacassars, framed photographs, and watercolour paintings depicting alpine scenes.
Francesco appears from the kitchen, the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt neatly rolled above the elbows.
‘Buonasera!’ he says, kissing each of us in turn. He cracks open a bottle of Sekt and Cristina takes four crystal glasses from the carved, antique cabinet.
‘Prost!’
‘Salute!’
‘Cheers!’
We sit down to an antipasto misto of mixed Austrian meats followed by Melanzane Aubergine Parmigiano.
‘The last time I went to the opera was in nineteen eighty-eight,’ says Anna, putting down her knife and fork, and producing a sepia snapshot from her purse. ‘This night it was also La Bohème.’ She passes me the picture of a young man in military uniform. Her eyes mist over as she continues, ‘Since many years, my Walter has wished with his whole heart to see this opera. I save my money to buy the tickets – to make his dream true. Three days after we see it, Gott has taken him from me.’
I return the picture to her and cover her hand with mine.
‘Now,’ she says, voice brightening, ‘Francesco, it is my turn – today I make schnell, quickly, just for you, Austrian speciality.’ She produces a foil-covered dinner plate from her basket. ‘Apfelstrudel Anna.’ We applaud the strudel, and Cristina shuffles off to the kitchen to heat up the vanilla sauce.
* * *
We make it to the opera house with fifteen minutes to spare, but arrive at our seats (luxury) just as the lights go down.
The orchestra is tuning up. I steal a sideways glance at Francesco. He takes my hand in his. I look away quickly and try to focus on the story. That Mimi will die in the end is a given, but the circumstances leading up to this are doubtless complicated, and will require the utmost concentration, particularly as the dialogue is sung in Italian.
* * *
The interval arrives. Francesco goes to the bar while I nab a table. I put on my glasses and look at the programme. I need to know what the big deal was with Musetta’s shoe at the end of Act Two. What the hell has a goddamn shoe got to do with anything? Why did she suddenly take it off and give it to the bearded man? It was like she wanted him to try it on, or something. It doesn’t make sense. And I’d been doing so well up to that point.
‘Salute, cara!’ says Francesco, handing me a glass of Sekt and clinking glasses.
‘Salute!’
* * *
As Mimi lies dying, she and Rodolfo recall their past happiness, in the soul-stirring duet ‘Sono Andati?’ (‘Have They Left Us?’)
A huge tear rolls down my cheek. I’m not just crying for Mimi and Rodolfo, but for Anna and Walter, who sat in this very place, listening to the same opera almost thirty years ago, and who were to be parted for ever just days later.
The music rises to a crescendo. I feel his hand squeezing mine, then our fingers entwine. The space between us is electric. I close my eyes and let the music swallow me up. I don’t want him to ever let go of my hand or for the music to stop. I wish I could hold on to this moment for ever.
* * *
Placing his arm firmly around my shoulders, Francesco propels me across the cold, windy square.
‘Vai! Vai!’
My hat blows off, and as he runs back to pick it up, I notice an attractive, middle-aged woman standing at the tram stop. She cuts a lone, forlorn figure, shoulders hunched against the rain, a Billa supermarket bag at her feet. She smiles wistfully then looks away. I am reminded of that night, waiting for Mags, eating a hotdog and enviously watching the loved-up couple dashing across the square.
I wonder if the woman at the tram stop is going home to her partner, or to her one-bed flat and ready meal. Did someone break her heart? Is she trapped in a dead-end job or relationship, too afraid to make a change? If so, I’d like to say to her, It’s never too late. Life doesn’t always go the way we plan, but some things happen for a reason. I had my heart badly broken and my world fell apart. But the life I have now is better than the one before. I’ve learned to be stronger, to not put up with shitty behaviour, and to just enjoy being in the here and now. So hang on in there.
On the other hand, she’s probably perfectly happy and wondering why there’s a strange woman gawping at her.
The Graben’s opulent shop windows, a-shimmer with extravagant displays, cast their reflection onto the wet cobbles.
A violinist, wearing an old army coat, plays a waltz before the Pestsäule statue, undeterred by the downpour and lack of audience. Francesco tosses a handful of euros into the young man’s instrument case, gives a little bow, and holds his hand out to me.
‘What? Oh, no, Francesco, I can’t dance. And anyway, it wouldn’t feel right, dancing here, in front of a memorial dedicated to plague victims.’
‘Esatto! We must celebrate the life, cara – la dolce vita,’ he says. He takes my right hand, places it in his, snakes his arm tightly around my waist, and pulls me close to him. I freeze.
‘Uno, due, tre, uno, due, tre …’ he whispers hypnotically, mouth grazing my ear as he gently rotates in time to the music.
‘Francesco, please, I am not joking. I’ll only tread on your toes …’
‘Uno, due, tre, uno, due, tre …’
He pulls me closer, drawing me in with those magnetic eyes, his signature scent of Dolce & Gabbana tapping into my female senses.
Slowly, tentatively, my brain gives my arms and legs the green light to loosen up, and I yield to the ebb and flow of the music, the rise and fall of Francesco’s body.
As we gather speed, I tilt my head back. Coloured lights flash across my eyes, buildings move, sounds are distorted, wind rushes in my ears. I am a child again: vulnerable, trusting, spinning, carefree, weightless, dizzy; like I’m back on the merry-go-round of my youth. Is this how it feels to be high on hallucinogenic drugs, I wonder?
How my view of Italian men has changed since that school trip to Rome when I was sixteen; I remember how my classmates and I watched gleefully gobsmacked from a street café during rush hour, as overcrowded mopeds and cars mounted the pavement, while a group of cool Carabinieri posed in the doorway, smoking Camel cigarettes and flirting with pretty women, oblivious to the chaos all around them.
I had grown up presuming all Italian signori to be loud, reckless, unpredictable, smooth-talking, fashion-addicted gigolos. Now I know first-hand that beyond the wild gestures, these passionate people derive pleasure in the simplest of things: organic food, family, wine, conversation, espresso, music, dancing – and it’s contagious. Right now, I would rather be here, in this damp square, feet squelching, mascara running, nose dripping, than dressed up to the nines, sipping cocktails in some trendy nightclub in downtown Manhattan.
‘My flight tomorrow is not until the evening, so we have some time together, sì?’ says Francesco, stopping and turning me to face him as we enter Kärtnerstrasse.
‘Sure,’ I say in what I hope is a seductive tone, my head starting to swim with the giddy mix of Sekt, Strauss, and La Bohème. He reaches out and removes my hat and a wet strand of hair from my eyes, then raises my freezing hand to his mouth. I feel the warmth of his breath on my skin as he says in a low voice, ‘Aah, cara, today is una bella giornata – a beautiful day for me.’
I open my mouth to speak, but unusually for me, no words come, so I just grin. Long-lost emotions are starting to stir inside me. The passionate woman of three months ago is coming back to life. I’ve missed feeling like this. I want to let myself melt into his arms …
We turn up a little cobbled alley and arrive at Pension Margaretha after midnight.
Herr Wildthan, the proprietor, opens the heavy wooden door in his dressing gown and slippers.
‘Entschuldigung. Sorry,’ I whisper.
‘Kein Problem,’ he replies good-naturedly.
After signing in, we follow him quietly up the dimly lit staircase. To enter the room we have to stoop low and pick our way down a flight of narrow steps.
‘Breakfast is from eight until ten. Gute Nacht,’ says Herr Wildthan, closing the shutters then pulling the door to.
‘Gute Nacht.’
The room has a low, oak-beamed ceiling, exposed stonework, and the linen is embroidered Egyptian cotton. Francesco produces a bottle of Sekt from his bag, fetches two tumblers from the bathroom, sets them down on the oval table in the arched window, turns off the lamp, and reopens the shutters.
‘Salute, cara,’ he says, clinking glasses.
We sit in the darkness, looking down onto the deserted, tree-lined street below, not saying a word.
There’s something in the air tonight; something has changed or is about to change, I can feel it.
Francesco puts down his glass, pulls me onto his lap, his warm, dark, liquid eyes holding mine for a long moment.
‘Amore mio,’ he says, his voice low and serious. My heart accelerates. ‘In two weeks Sergio will return to Il Mulino full-time. Then I must go home to Napoli. My father is nearly eighty years old and is hard for him to manage our family restaurant alone. Isabella will begin to teach at the elementary school. They need me back in Italy.’
‘I know,’ I say softly, toying with my locket, eyes brimming with tears. ‘Please can we just enjoy tonight and not think about the future?’
Without warning a flash of silver rips across the sky, followed seconds later by a mighty crack of thunder. Heavy, sullen rain pelts against the window and onto the leaves of the cherry trees below.
He pulls me closer to him with an intense yearning I’ve never felt before.
We lie side by side, holding each other tight, breathless in a tangle of limbs, staring at one another in the blackness, our faces eerily illuminated by beams of evanescent, blue lightning. No need for words. I fight the urge to sleep. Plenty of time for sleeping when he is gone from me.
* * *
The next morning we collect our bikes and head for my favourite Kaffeehaus.
I am in dire need of caffeine after a fitful few hours’ sleep. I dreamed that Francesco and I were cycling through the sun-baked, back streets of Jeddah. He started to pedal really fast, and hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep up. I called out for him to slow down, but he would only turn his head and laugh mockingly. I kept catching glimpses of him, but then he’d disappear again. I woke up, pillow on the floor, heart pounding, sheet wound tightly around my legs.)
‘Kaffee und Kipferln?’ says the waiter, taking a crisp, white tea towel from his long apron and flicking it across the table.
‘Natürlich. Zweimal, bitte. Oh my God, Francesco, before you leave, you have got to taste Kipferln pastries – they are the best things EVER. Once you’ve tasted one of these …’
‘You are like we Italians,’ says Francesco propping his chin in his hand and grinning roguishly. ‘A good fork, no?’
‘Sorry? A good what?’
‘Buona forchetta – crazy for food – passionate about food.’
‘Oh, yes, Francesco, I’m a very good fork,’ I reply, feeling a hot flush coming on.
Fuelled by coffee and pastries, we head south, towards another favourite place of mine, Belvedere Palace, which houses the world’s largest Gustav Klimt collection. Now, I’m no art expert, but you can’t be in Vienna and not notice the unmistakable metallic gold ink postcards, posters, key-rings, and tea towels for sale in every Tabak, every gift shop, on every street corner. This makes Klimt sound like tasteless kitsch, but to stand here, before the real thing is … well, I defy anyone not to be bowled over by the glittering, sensual beauty of his paintings.
‘Mamma mia!’ exclaims Francesco (told you) as we enter the gallery.
This is the sort of modern art I like: not poncy, hurl-paint-at-a-canvas or nail-in-a-brick art, but simple, beautiful paintings I can understand and admire without having to think up some pretentious, symbolic, la-di-da nonsense as to what the artist is expressing through his work.
‘For me, this is true, uncomplicated love,’ says Francesco, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he studies the painting entitled The Kiss. ‘See the way the man protect the woman with his arm? And the woman, she feel safe with him. The love between them is equal. In many love affairs, there is imbalance, you understand?’
‘Absolutely, Francesco, I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Look here, how she has one hand around his neck, the other on his hand,’ he continues. ‘This is no a casual relationship; this is about lasting love – there is passion, of course, but this love is about friendship, respect, trust – the kind of love maybe you find once in your life – two times, if you are very lucky.’
My gaze travels the length and breadth of him: his intense, gleaming eyes devouring every detail of the painting, his thin laughter lines creasing up, his strong hands emphasising every word – sorry guys, but when it comes to speaking the language of love (without sounding corny), nobody does it better than the Italians.
‘Like Mimi and Rodolfo,’ he continues.
‘Like Posh and Becks,’ I quip.
Francesco looks me at blankly. ‘Chi?’
Why must I always do that? Spoil magical moments by saying something flippant?
Ravenous once more (how nice to be with a man who doesn’t calorie-count on my behalf), and with one eye on the clock, we leave Belvedere and head for the tranquillity of the Volksgarten, via the hotdog stand by the gates. As I’m a regular and speak English to the owner (he’s a devout Anglophile), he always slaps two Wurst in my roll for the price of one.
‘Good afternoon, Fraulein,’ he says, switching off the radio.
‘Good afternoon, Tobias,’ I reply. ‘This is Francesco, my Italian teacher.’
They shake hands. ‘She is a good student, signor?’
‘Eh, no’ bad,’ says Francesco, turning to me with a smirk.
‘If I did not have a wife, I will marry her,’ says Tobias, scooping up four sausages with his tongs.
‘Would marry her, Tobias. The future conditional is I would marry her,’ I say with mock scorn.
‘I would marry her,’ he repeats, handing over my chubby hotdog. ‘And you, signor, would you marry her?’
‘Allora …’ replies Francesco, ‘if …’
‘End of today’s lesson,’ I say quickly, darting Tobias a warning glare as I hand over my five-euro note. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. You owe me an extra Wurst, mate.’
I lead Francesco to my favourite place to picnic, past the hibernating rose bushes to a secluded corner, where the gleaming white statue of the Empress Elizabeth, like an ethereal goddess, sits staring at the water fountain, lost in melancholy thought.
‘Who is this bella donna?’ enquires Francesco, spreading his scarf on the frosty grass before her, and beckoning for me to sit down. ‘She look so sad.’
‘Francesco, meet my friend Sisi, wife of the Kaiser, Franz Josef. I come and visit her whenever I’m passing. She and I have quite a lot in common.’
‘Cosa?’
‘We both used to travel a lot, and we both had our hearts badly broken.’
‘The Kaiser, he was an imbecille, Sisi,’ says Francesco, waggling his wrist at her.
‘She’s not too keen on Italians, I’m afraid.’
‘Perché? Why? We are not all Romeos.’
‘No?’
He gives me a playful clip.
‘Maybe not, but she was murdered by one,’ I continue.
‘A dangerous race,’ he says, solemnly shaking his head.
‘Thanks for the warning, il postino,’ I say through a mouthful of hotdog.
‘Mr and Mrs Puccini!’ comes a familiar transatlantic drawl behind us.
Jeez. It’s them – our American friends.
‘Buongiorno!’ says Francesco, leaping to his feet and shaking their hands.
‘Hi,’ I murmur, giving a feeble wave.
‘Did you enjoy the opera?’ asks Francesco.
‘To be honest, and no offence to your great-grandfather, but we couldn’t understand a word, could we, Bob?’
Bob opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by his wife.
‘And it was way too long,’ she continues, pointing her camera at Sisi. ‘Do you know anything about this statue?’
‘Allora …’ begins Francesco.
‘Darling, look at the time,’ I say, in an attempt to rescue another potentially farcical situation. ‘Plane to catch,’ I say with a weak smile, hastily gathering up our stuff.
‘Oh, we thought you said you came by bicycle …’
* * *
Sono andati? Fingevo di dormire
Have they left us? I was not really sleeping
perché volli con te restare.
because I wanted to be alone with you.
Ho tante cose che ti voglio dire,
So many things remain for me to tell you,
o una sol, ma grande come il mare,
or just one, that is vaster than the ocean,
come il mare profondo ed infinito.
as the ocean so deep and infinite.
Sei il mio amore e tutta la mia vita!
You are my love and my whole life!
Tears spill freely down my cheeks as Mimi and Rodolfo’s heart-breaking lament floats through the tiny speakers of my portable player. I read the words scrawled across the CD cover:
A la mia cara Wurst. Un caro abbraccio, Francesco. (Wurst or Sausage is now his pet name for me.)
I will never forget last night – the opera, dancing in the square, his tender lovemaking, the secrets we shared.
I glance at my watch and tell myself to stop daydreaming and concentrate on tonight’s show. The prospect causes my tummy to flip over. It seems so long ago since Saturday’s performance and my awful memory lapse. I must stay calm, not give in to stage fright, and give a stellar performance.
I turn off the music and pick up my script. I know I’ll feel better as soon as I’ve got that dreaded scene over with.
* * *
The loons have flown and so must we. The run has sadly reached its end. Goodbye, Vienna. Goodbye, Chelsea. Hello, London. Hello, Insecurity and Unemployment. Are you going to accompany me on my journey once more? I’m trying to think positively and visualise drowning in a sea of scripts, but I’m well aware that jobs are thin on the ground. Perhaps I’ve been living a little too much in the moment of late, splashing out on pastries, coffees, wine, the opera – and a need-it-now winter coat by the Viennese designer, Franz Blumauer.
Oh God … even if Luigi gives me my job back, how long can I survive on a waitress’s wage? Do I want to work there anyway after Francesco has left? It won’t be the same. Maybe it’s time for me to move on as well. But where to?
* * *
Half asleep, I pull my bag off the carousel and head through the green channel towards the exit.
‘Excuse me,’ calls a customs officer. I turn my head towards him and mime, ‘ME?’ He nods and beckons me over. ‘Mind if I check your bag?’
It’s the early hours of the morning, I’ve had about two hours’ sleep, and there’s a gorgeous man waiting for me on the other side of those doors, so of course I mind, but I somehow doubt Mr Customs Man would reply, ‘No? That’s okay, love. I’ll try someone else. You have a nice day now.’
So with my best you’re-barking-up-the-wrong-tree smile, I reply, ‘Sure, go ahead.’
‘Olly and I will wait for you outside,’ says Mags reassuringly.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ I say airily. ‘It’s just a formality.’
They throw me a dubious look.
‘Really. I’ll be fine. Your son will be waiting. Give me a call soon.’
We hug and they disappear.
I unlock my suitcase, and while the officer rifles through my toiletries and manky washing, I study the mixed bag of bleary-eyed passengers, sleep-walking their way to the chilly, outside world.
Snapping my bag shut, he says sternly, ‘Come this way,’ and I’m promptly ushered into a small interview room. As we enter, he slides the OCCUPIED sign across sharply and firmly closes the door.
‘Passport, please.’
Hot-faced, I surrender it to him, hand jittering uncontrollably. He flicks through the pages in silence. Then looking at me with a weighty stare he says, ‘Apart from Vienna, where else have you been travelling to?’
‘Where …? I … nowhere,’ I stammer, face reddening, doubtless giving the impression that I’ve got bags of heroin strapped to my thighs. I wiggle the loose button of my coat nervously. One eyebrow raised, he studies me for several seconds, a smug, disbelieving look on his face. I swear he’s deriving some sort of twisted pleasure in watching me squirm.
He disappears, leaving me alone. I look around the stark white walls, my eyes coming to rest on the poster of a man behind bars. Underneath, in bold lettering are the following words …
HM CUSTOMS AND EXCISE
DRUG SMUGGLING ZERO TOLERANCE
I scream inwardly. Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. I have absolutely no reason to feel guilty, so how come those words strike raw terror in me?
The flickering strip lighting is starting to make my head spin. Small beads of sweat are forming on my neck. I glug a cup of water from the machine.
Scenes from the film Bangkok Hilton are flashing through my mind. You know the one, where Nicole Kidman’s boyfriend hides heroin in his camera case and gives it to her to carry, then she’s banged up abroad in a filthy jail until she eventually has to dig her way out? A knot of fear grips my throat.
The customs man reappears, accompanied by a formidable female (at least, I think she’s female) officer, wearing latex gloves. She looks like she’s been flown in especially from Prisoner: Cell Block H – not someone you’d like to bump into on a dark night, let alone be body-searched by.
The chairs screech harshly as they are pulled out from under the table.
Several plastic bags containing a white substance are shoved under my nose. Two sets of eyes glue themselves to my startled face.
‘Can you explain to me what this is, and what it was doing in your suitcase?’
I look from one to the other in disbelief. ‘I … what … erm …’ I bury my head in my hands. How idiotic of me. I should have left them behind. They were bound to cause suspicion.
Expelling a long breath, I look up and humbly confess. ‘It’s bath salts.’
The customs officer pauses for thought, brow furrowing. ‘Bath salts? Hah! That’s a good one.’
Reading the scepticism in his face, I do what I always do when I’m nervous or scared: PRATTLE. ‘Really. It’s salt, mined in the Austrian mountains. This guy, Gerhard, he’s the director of the play I’ve just finished doing in Vienna, well, and oh, he’s an Elvis impersonator too, anyway, he makes all these spa remedies from purely natural things, and … I’ve got loads. You’d be welcome to take …’
He bursts the bag open and tentatively puts a little on his tongue, then passes some to Scary Mary.
Shaking his head, he pushes the bag and my passport towards me and deadpans, ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m more of a Radox man myself.’
With that they both stand up, indicating that it’s okay for me to leave.
‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice diminished to a wobbly whisper. ‘Sorry, I should have … sorry.’
I click my case shut and exit hastily through the sliding doors to freedom.
Francesco is pacing up and down by the barrier, looking overwrought and confused.
‘C’è un problema? Your friends, they tell me you were stopped by customs …’
‘No, no problem.’ I smile, wearily holding up a mollifying hand, then pecking his cheek. ‘Just a silly misunderstanding. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you in the car.’
Hmm. Not quite the cinematic, running-towards-each-other-in-slow-motion reunion I’ve been dreaming of.