Chapter 41 Michael
Michael
It took me a week of nonstop work, including a few all-nighters, but I finished.
I’ve planned meticulously for tonight, fulfilling every promise I’ve ever made—even the ones from fifteen years ago.
I arrive at the annex at the agreed time, and Elisa, dressed in an evening gown, is waiting for me outside on the swing that hangs from the chestnut tree. As soon as she sees me, she jumps up, her hands on her face, which is contorted into an expression of pure amazement.
“I don’t believe it!”
I get out of the car and open the passenger door for her. “I hope you cleared your schedule through tomorrow.”
“Mauro’s Cinquecento!” she exclaims, walking around to take a better look at it. “You got it fixed.”
“Small correction: I fixed it myself. Max gave me a hand, but I did the bulk of the work. I have to say I’m quite pleased with the result.”
“You should be! It’s . . . it’s extraordinary. It looks like a model car.”
“Elbow grease and sweat of the brow.”
“So that’s where you’ve been disappearing this week! Maybe you should consider a career as a mechanic.”
In fact, this little Cinquecento L in Positano yellow, with its gleaming chassis, seats smelling of wax, convertible top, and crackling twin-cylinder engine is truly a source of pride for me.
I asked Max to get me four two-tone black-and-white tires, while I found a vintage wicker picnic basket with the Fiat logo on eBay: It looks great.
“Now, the question is, will your dress fit in?” I ask, nodding at the vaporous black tulle dress she’s wearing.
“I don’t know, but I can always take it off.”
“I’m tempted to let you, but let’s enjoy the evening first. Please,” I invite her to get in.
“Wait,” she says. “You’re missing something.”
“What?”
“A pocket square for your jacket.”
“They were all in the suitcase I left in the taxi,” I explain. “But at least I have this suit.”
“Here.” Elisa picks a red vine leaf and sticks it in my breast pocket. “Now you’re all set. Where are we going?”
“Where I promised to take you fifteen years ago: Florence.”
I don’t need her to say anything; the smile she flashes me is enough. I drive over the Chianti hills aflame in the sunset, the car radio accompanying us to the city of the lily, as my anxiety about driving on what to me feels like the wrong side of the road slowly dissipates.
We arrive in Florence around half past nine, right on time for dinner. We park in a garage in the city center and dive into the stream of tourists.
“I hope you’re hungry. And thirsty,” I say, taking her arm.
“Very. But I’m more curious to know why you asked me to wear an evening gown. I hope the restaurant isn’t too far away. I’m not used to wearing such high heels.”
“It’s closer than you’d think,” I reply, turning up Via Ghibellina and, after a few feet, indicating an eighteenth-century building with columns at the entrance. “It’s here.”
“You’re crazy,” she replies, seeing that we’re outside of the renowned Enoteca Pinchiorri.
“I told you it would be worth the wait.”
“Not that I can’t appreciate this, but two Michelin stars would have been just fine.”
“It’s three or nothing. What do you say, shall we go in or stand here and stare? I also reserved a visit to the cellar, I know you’re dying to look through their one hundred and fifty thousand bottles.”
“I wouldn’t set foot in there even if I was dead, or at least not without an insurance policy for third-party damages. If I tripped in these heels, I could destroy ten rare bottles that would cost me a lifetime of dishwashing to replace.”
“Thank goodness I’m here to hold you up, then.”
We enter arm in arm, as she observes everything with her chin lifted and her mouth half open.
“Good evening,” I say to the ma?tre d’ when we reach the dining room. “We have a nine-thirty reservation for two under the name D’Arcy.”
“I’ll check right away.” He furrows his brow at the computer. “D’Arcy, you said?”
“Michael D’Arcy, yes.”
“For tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm.”
His tone is hardly reassuring, so I ask for clarification. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m afraid I can’t find your reservation, sir. Did you use the online form?”
“Yes.” To avoid issues with the signal, I went to Max’s bar. “I have a confirmation email here.”
“Can you show me, please? Maybe I can see what happened.”
I take my phone, open the email, and show it to him. “Here you are.”
He reads it and shakes his head. “It looks like you booked for two people at nine thirty, but for October tenth.”
“September tenth,” I specify. “Tonight.”
“No, 10/10 is a reservation for October tenth,” he insists, indicating the date on the email.
I stare at the ma?tre d’, then at the phone, then back at the ma?tre d’, and again at the phone.
Well done, asshole is the writing I imagine on the screen, accompanied by fireworks and the blaring of trumpets.
I must have jumped ahead a month when I was booking.
“Might you have a free table for two anyway? A last-minute cancellation, perhaps?” I ask, anxious that the perfect evening is going belly-up.
I really wanted to make Elisa feel special.
“Unfortunately, we’re fully booked. I’m sorry for the mix-up, Mr. D’Arcy.”
I’m about to insist that they find us a foldaway table, but Elisa beats me to it. “No problem. We’ll see you on October tenth. We’ll find something else for tonight.”
“I feel like an idiot,” I say as we leave. “I’ve ruined everything.”
“You didn’t ruin anything. I know just where to take you. You’ll like it, even if we’re a little overdressed. You’ll just have to steady me for another ten minutes and keep me from falling on my face.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
We head down toward Lungarno, then turn onto a deserted street with a large crowd at the end.
“You don’t need a reservation here, but I assure you it’s as good as a Michelin restaurant,” says Elisa, pointing to a sign that says All’Antico Vinaio. “The most important thing is to understand where the queue begins and ends.”
“Are you sure you want to have dinner here?” I ask skeptically. It’s not really a place I’d associate with a romantic evening, rather the kind of place to grab a quick bite between one guided tour and another. Among the casually dressed patrons, the two of us stand out.
“More than sure. Trust me, it’s not a fallback.”
As we patiently await our turn, she leans back against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her waist, every now and then planting a kiss on her head and breathing in the scent of her hair.
In reality, I couldn’t say whether kissing her is an excuse to smell her or smelling her is an excuse to kiss her. Probably both.
I watch the customers ahead of us leave clutching sandwiches that are bigger than they are, and I start to get a little worried. With food that heavy, I’ll sleep until next Wednesday.
“What can I get for this beautiful couple?” the man at the counter asks when it’s our turn.
“Schiacciata with crudo and burrata,” orders Elisa without hesitation. “Cut in half.”
He cuts a piece of bread the size of a double mattress and shouts “Look at that steam!” The flatbread emits a hot puff and a fresh-from-the-oven smell as it’s loaded with a monstrous amount of prosciutto and a whole burrata. “Look how much he’s pining for her! Have a good night, kids!”
As our monster sandwich cools down, we stroll to the river, where we lean on the parapet in the light of the Ponte Vecchio, to our right, projecting onto the Arno.
“How is it?” she asks after I take the first bite.
“It’s like a drug,” I groan, voraciously biting off another piece.
“You know, it would have been nice to see Pinchiorri’s cellar, but I must admit I’m much happier here, like this. Plus, look at that,” she says, pointing to the sky. “You’d have to go to space to have a starrier night.”
True, the evening is perfect, warm, and serene. It would have been a waste to dine indoors. “You’re right; this is even better.”
“Now let me say something that will shock you: I’ve never had a real romantic courtship in my life.”
“You’re joking.”
“Never.” She licks the burrata mustache from her lip.
“When Linda was little, between studying, taking care of her, and the few hours of sleep I got, I didn’t have the energy to face an evening out.
And by the time she got older . . . let’s just say no one ever interested me enough to go on a romantic evening. ”
“Really.”
“It only happened once with a boy I met in a plant pathology course; in the middle of our dinner, Giada called to tell me Linda had a rash and a fever. I rushed home to find my daughter with chickenpox, and I never heard from the boy again. Maybe I should have faked a colitis attack . . .”
“I would like to say I’m sorry to hear it, but I’d be lying.”
“How selfish.”
“Indeed. If that date had ended happily, it would have been followed by a second, then a third, then you would have gotten emotionally involved to the point of marriage and more children, and then I wouldn’t be here with you now. I have your daughter and her timing to thank.”
“I’ll let her know.”
“So you haven’t had any relationships since then?”
“Nothing I’d call a relationship. And I certainly don’t have the energy to go ‘hunting’ for one now. The thought of putting on make-up and heels and dragging myself to the clubs every other night of the week is so demoralizing.”
I lift her up to sit on the stone parapet, my hands around her waist to keep her from falling backward. She takes off her heels and places them next to her. “Elisa, a single night out would be enough for you.”
“If all a girl has is her personality, she needs time to play all her cards.”
“You know very well that’s not the case for you,” I reply, resting my forehead against hers.
“Then what is the case?”
“Here’s how it would go: You go out with Giada for an aperitif; a group of men notices you . . .”
“They notice Giada, you mean. She’s the beautiful one.”
“She may be beautiful, but you have all the charm.”
“Cad.”
“Will you let me finish the story?” I ask, resting a finger on her lips.
“One man in particular can’t take his eyes off you because even though your dress doesn’t reveal an inch of skin, you’re magnetic.
It’s clear from a mile away you’re nothing like any of the other women in the room, that you’re a cut above, and for someone like you, he’s going to have to work hard.
He convinces his friends to sit at the next table and strikes up a conversation.
Plot twist: The man turns out to be surprisingly interesting and doesn’t seem like a total nutcase, so you’re happy to chat.
You finish your first drink without even realizing it, so when he offers you a second, you accept.
You talk for a long time. He loves listening to you, and even ventures some physical contact; he touches your hand, your arm, and you let him because you like his attention. ”
“Fantastical but interesting reconstruction. Go on.”
“Giada’s tired, she wants to go home, and one of the others offers to accompany her.
You’re undecided between staying and going, because you’re having fun and the man has a certain something.
The two of you stay and chat for hours until you’re the last people in the bar, to the point that they have to tell you it’s closing time.
On the street, with so much left to say, the man suggests a walk along the river, and as you walk, he takes you by the hand. ”
“This man is enterprising. Does he have a name?”
“Let’s call him Michael.”
“This Michael is enterprising,” she repeats, her lips breaking into a smile when she says my name. “Keep going. I’m curious now.”
“You decide you like Michael, you decide not to be shy, and you tell him. You stop on the Lungarno, he holds you close, and you put your arms around his neck.” I guide her gestures to do exactly what I just described.
“Like this?” she asks me, intertwining her fingers behind my neck. “Just like that,” I whisper, bringing my mouth closer to hers.
“And then?”
“And then, this happens.”