From Scratch: A Memoir of Love, Sicily, and Finding Home(7)

“Sì, of course, I am off tomorrow.” It was effortless with him. “My friend is editing a film at a studio near the duomo. You like film and acting, no? Do you want to stop by the editing room and then have lunch?”

Had I also mentioned that I dreamed of one day becoming an actress?

“Yes, I do. Acting is also a part of my studies back in the States.”

“I will meet you at Piazza del Duomo tomorrow morning. Eleven o’clock?” With that he released the brake on his Vespa, and I stood in perfect stillness as I watched his figure recede into the crowd as he headed across the Ponte Vecchio.

The next day, snow fell in Florence for the first time in more than a decade. I parked my spit-polished crimson bicycle at the edge of Piazza del Duomo, retrieved my backpack from its wicker basket, and made my way to the cathedral steps. That morning Florence was in a state of wonderment and scurry. Children, enchanted with the large sloppy flakes, stuck out their tongues to the sky as their parents drifted into and out of coffee bars, murmuring in disbelief at the snow. Florentines donned helmets to shelter them from the gentle flurries as their mopeds left tracks on cobblestoned streets. Even the buses took extra time to load and unload passengers, and the street vendors had all taken cover.

On the steps of the duomo, I positioned myself in front of Ghiberti’s voluminous bronze cathedral doors and waited for Saro. Behind me the cast relief figures from the Old Testament appeared all the more stoic and timeless as the snow grazed their frozen forms. Then I watched as the snow fell further and melted away as it landed on my scuffed boots, the chill of the marble steps beneath me penetrating the soles of my feet. I felt barefoot. The clock struck 11:00 a.m. My date was late.

By 11:15 a.m., my hat and coat were soaking wet. Of course I had taken our meeting time as an exact thing. Had Italy taught me nothing? Punctuality was only relatively important, time was always approximate. I reached into my bag to see if I had anything to eat. I looked across the piazza to the people seated inside sipping cappuccino and pounding back espresso. I began to wonder if this date would end like the less than perfect romances I had had since arriving in Italy months earlier. Just the thought made me want to get onto my bike and head back to my tiny new apartment in Piazza del Carmine.

Twenty minutes was more than even I could bear in the cold—picture postcard or not. I didn’t have classes that day, but I did have a shred of common sense. The last thing I needed was to catch pneumonia while waiting for someone who clearly wasn’t coming. So I pulled my coat tighter and tried desperately to remember where I had misplaced the gloves my grandmother in East Texas had sent. I brought my fingertips to my mouth and gave a hearty blow to warm them up. Then I took the duomo steps, two at a time, back toward my bicycle. What kind of guy gives you a bike and then stands you up for a first date?

Blinking snow from my eyes, wondering what on earth could have happened, I pedaled my way back across the Arno to my apartment.

An hour later, I looked out the window of the penthouse apartment in Piazza del Carmine. It was too late for breakfast, the only type of food we kept in the house, and I was too worried to go out for lunch. I wanted to wait for Saro’s call. I knew it would come. I would have bet my life on it. I felt as though I knew him. Well, I didn’t really know him, but I knew his heart. Surely something serious must have happened for him to have stood me up.

Then I heard a ringing. I slid across the marble floor at breakneck speed to be the first to grab the communal phone that hung on a pillar in the center of the living room.

“Mi dispiace. Sorry. I am sorry.” Saro’s voice was sped up, urgent.

“What happened?”

Silence.

“I overslept.” Then, in rapid fire, “Robert Plant came to the restaurant last night. I made dinner for him and the band after his show. They didn’t leave until two in the morning. I got home at three. I am sorry. Would you care to meet me again in the center? We can still have lunch, no?”

“I have a class in an hour and a half. I don’t think so,” I lied. I wasn’t exactly sure why, except that the idea of going back out into the cold didn’t appeal. Maybe I wanted him to come to me.

“I will take you to your class, and then I will wait for you.”

“That’s not necessary.” I now regretted my earlier lie. Hadn’t I played hard to get enough with this guy?

“Then come to the restaurant tonight. I will make you dinner.” Before I could respond, his voice broke with sincerity. “Please, come. Invite a friend, if you please. It would be my pleasure.” Then he paused. “I think we could be something great.”

No one had ever said anything like that to me. Those two words, “something great,” jolted through me like a lightning bolt. He conjured a vision of an us and greatness so effortlessly that it suddenly seemed as right as butter on bread. I was taken aback by his boldness, his certainty. He was inviting me into a vision for my own future that until that moment, I didn’t even know I wanted. But as the words registered, I understood that there was no going back. Of course, yes, I wanted something great, and maybe, with him, I could have it.

“Va bene,” I said, quietly exhilarated that my destiny with greatness might just begin with a good meal.



* * *



Acqua al 2 was packed that night, people milling outside the front door, braving the cold and hoping for a table. I waited at the crowd’s edge, looking for my two exchange student friends Caroline and Lindsey. I had followed Saro’s suggestion and invited them, partly because I didn’t want to dine alone and partly because I was curious to see what Caroline and Lindsey thought of Saro.