Page 64 of The Dolce Vita Divas
‘In vacanza?On holiday?’ he said.
I nodded and tried to dredge up some Italian words.
‘A special occasion.Un’occasion speciale.’
That didn’t sound terribly convincing, and I thought I had made it up, but Genero nodded and smiled and flicked some cake crumbs off the table onto the ground, where a couple of sparrows swooped in to pick them up.
‘Non così occupato.Not so busy today,’ he said.
‘It’s a beautiful place,’ I said.
Genero looked pleased.
‘And you areun’amica, a new friend to Paulo?’
‘Oui.’No, that was French.‘Sì,yes,’ I agreed, not sure if that was true or not; after all, I’d known him for decades, but my Italian wouldn’t cope with that. So I might as well use what little language skills I had.
‘Nice. Nice,’ Genero said, smiling broadly. ‘È un brav’uomo.Mi amico. Good man.’
‘Yes,’ I said, stirring some sugar into the remains of my coffee.
‘He will be…Sarà con Stephanie, always. Many times.’
So, was he with someone called Sara or Stephanie?
I had visions of an actress I remembered from my childhood, Stephanie Powers, tossing auburn curls and a pocket rocket figure, and felt mildly discomforted.
‘Allora, enjoy!’ Genero said and went off to escort a new couple to a table inside.
I took another taste of my zeppelin cake, enjoying the tang of the sour cherries on my tongue. Paulo had been right; it was sublime.
Then I wondered again where he was and what he was doing.
The Piazzetta was filling up by the time I had finished. I’d had a text from Alex asking if he could use my washing machine as his wasn’t working again. In a spirit of rare assertiveness, I sent him the phone number of the local odd job man and went inside to use the loo, because I never passed up the opportunity, and then I paid my bill.
I strolled over to the end of the square where there was a clock tower covered in scaffolding, a building housing the funicular railway, and a row of columns framing another fabulous view.
I sat down on a bench and a middle-aged couple sat at the other end, taking pictures, arguing about where to go for lunch and complaining about something. He was wearing shorts from which he had forgotten to remove the price tag, and it dangled just beneath the edge of his shirt. He looked like a weather-beaten dog. She had a face which was all angles, her mouth a steel trap of disapproval.
What a shame, to be wasting time grumbling when they could be simply enjoying the lovely day together. Would they rather be home, in the rain? She complaining about something else and him escaping to work with a sigh of relief? At least they had each other for company. Perhaps they should appreciate that and make the most of it.
They moved on, physically together and yet emotionally far apart. I supposed it made me a bit sad because in a way it reminded me of how Greg and I must have appeared to a casual observer. Would it have been better to just be alone rather than hang on to a relationship where neither one seemed to like the other?
And yet what did I know? When push came to shove, he might be the sort of man who would fight off a bear, throw himself in front of a bullet or a car in order to save her, although I couldn’t for a moment imagine Greg doing any of those things. The most I would have expected from him would have been an eye roll.
She might have been putting the loo seat down and picking his socks off the floor for the last thirty years and at the end of her tether. But on the other hand, she might be the only woman in the world who understood his moods and fears. Appearances could be deceptive. Had I understood Greg? No, not really. But I had tried. He was just one of those men who compartmentalise their lives. Wife and family in one box. Work and everyone else in another.
I had been like that woman not so long ago. Irritated and dissatisfied. Perhaps now I was learning how to enjoy life, to accept it and to make of it what I wanted. I was single again; no one else was going to do it for me.
I sat there for a while and all around me was the chatter of people, admiring the view in various languages, complaining about the heat and the prices in the cafés.
I wished yet again I had a water bottle. Everyone else seemed to have them. Young people in particular seemed incapable of going anywhere without one. Some of them had massive water flasks which must have held a litre and been incredibly heavy. One of those and I would be searching for a loo all day. It didn’t bear thinking about.
I went for a walk, strolling down little streets and alleyways as the fancy took me. I passed a bus station, the orange buses lined up in a row, which made me feel very optimistic and capable. At least I would know how to get home later on if I needed to. There was always a solution to any problem if one looked hard enough.
There were pastel-painted hotels with brightly coloured shutters, ice cream parlours and pharmacies. Further on, some fashion shops, some of them open, others closed until later in the afternoon. There were high-end names displaying unusual handbags and dresses, presumably catering for all the wealthy, woodlice, celebrities when they ventured forth into the evening.
I wondered what Paulo was doing. Where was he? How long would his appointment take? What was he doing?
