Page 8 of All Saints Day
I sidled up to her; her gnarled knuckles folded neatly over thecurve of her cane, her stylish silver shingle bob sharp as a knife at her cheekbones, a pair of bright orange, ovular glasses' frames perched on her elegant Roman nose.
For a moment we stand silently beside one another in front of “Still Life with a Glass and Oysters” by Jan Davidsz de Heem; the small painting–still incredibly impactful despite its size, and muted color palette.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dr. Perla’s weight shift nigh imperceptibly, moving slightly onto her right foot, her right hand about to lift from her cane to allow her to push off from the left like a gondolier navigating her aging body through the gentle eddying flow of museum goers.
“It’s enough to make one hungry for a little afternoon snack,non?” I ask brightly without turning my gaze from the painting.
“Spring is still too early for oysters,” the doctor dismisses me, no doubt taking in the sight of my tattoos, my painted fingernails, my wild hair and unshaven jaw—assuming I’m just another tourist or artist haunting the halls of this sacred mausoleum of arts and artifacts.
“For me, it is never too early for something delicious.” I grin, turning my eyes to regard Dr. Perla—her hooded green eyes still screwed to the painting, but I don’t miss her exhausted sigh. She’s wearing enough expensive Italian designer wear that she might think I’m just sniffing around for a sugar mama—not the man she’s been keeping secret correspondence with for weeks.
She says nothing.
“And that lemon peel in the glass.” I gesture to the painting, the tattoos in black ink seeming to jump up from my skin, oxblood nail polish chipping at the edges of my big thumb where I’ve been gnawing anxiously. “Never seen citrus in a still life look so a-peel-ing,” I tease, hoping to break the ice.
I can smell the expensive cigarillo smoke on her over the sweet muscat and tuberose of her scent, can see the slight downturn in her lips as she prepares to turn and face me—to dismiss me to wait for her secret meeting in peace.
Azzura opens her mouth, taking a deep breath to begin her denial—but when her cloudy green eyes fall on me, her lips purse in a surprised ‘O’ shape, her pencil-thin brows disappearing behind the sheaf of her blunt bangs.
“Cazzo,” she hisses under her breath as she looks me up and down.
“Not here, Dottore,” I laugh before adding, “but perhaps after some oysters.”
“They are supposed to be an aphrodisiac,” she snorts a laugh, shrugging off the Italian along with her look of shock, regaining her composure.
“Shall we?” I ask, offering her the crook of my arm.
Without shame, the old bird reaches out and gives one of my bulging biceps a good squeeze. A giddy titter escapes her before she links her arm through mine, switching her cane to her free hand as we move slowly toward the exit.
“I don’t know what I was expecting,” she sniffs haughtily, both of us pausing to put on dark sunglasses as we finally make our way into the open daylight, taking our time shuffling down the accessibility ramp. “Certainly not a muscle thug covered in…” She pauses for a moment—disdain dripping from every motion as she juts her chin toward my tattoos.
“What were you expecting? Some clean-cut Poindexter with thick glasses and a plastic pocket protector, eh?” I laugh.
“It’s like covering a Michelangelo or a Rodin in graffiti!” She ignores me, continuing her tirade on my tattoos.
“You don’t have to wrap your flirting in insults, Dottore,” I tease her. “I promise I already know my place.” I wink at her.
“Tch!” she clucks her tongue at me, but she’s grinning. “You never seemed like such a romancer in your… letters,” she says carefully, doing her best to casually look over her shoulder, assuring that we’re not being followed.
“There’s just a certain something about my animal magnetism that doesn’t come across in print,” I sigh dramatically, patting her hand where it lies over my forearm.
Her nostrils flare, and I can tell she’s getting a handle on my scent for the first time.
She must approve of what she smells, because she lets out a captive breath—her shoulders loosening slightly.
“Has there been any update since your last letter?” she asks, the resignation in her voice revealing the depth of her exhaustion.
“No, I’ve no news,” I admit ruefully.
“And what about the girl?” Azzura asks hopefully, her grip tightening on my wrist. I don’t need to ask which girl; I know she’s talking about Louise.
My chest aches, and I have to take a deep breath before the words will come.
“She’s still alive,” I say and leave it at that. Any other details wouldn’t be a comfort. In fact, at any moment, I could be dropped to my knees—Louise’s pain and suffering, screaming white hot down the mating bond.
Silence unfolds as we cross the street to the park beyond.
“Will you help us?” My voice breaks the silence as we enter the shade of a large elm.
