20. Matteo
MATTEO
Claire walks into my study carrying eight photographs and says, “I have a problem.”
My attention goes to the photographs.
“You have several.”
“Useful.”
She puts the stack on my desk, then moves my coffee two inches because one corner of the top print is too close to it.
I move the coffee farther.
“Thank you.”
“What happened?”
“A gallery had a cancellation.”
“What gallery?”
“The small one below the square. The one with the terrible green door.”
“The director saw the Return sequence I sent her last week. Someone pulled out tonight.”
“I know it.”
“Of course you do.”
“It has been there twenty years.”
“You say that like buildings introduce themselves to you.”
“They should.”
Claire ignores that, badly hiding a smile.
The problem is probably good.
“How much notice?”
“Five hours.”
I check the clock.
Two twenty-three.
“What do they want?”
“Eight to ten images from Return. Developing work, not a finished exhibition. Forty people if everyone they invited actually comes, which they will not. Wine. Folding chairs. A discussion afterward.”
“And you said yes.”
“I said I needed seven minutes.”
“Why?”
“Because I enjoy theater.”
“Claire.”
“I said yes.”
She finally smiles, and I love her.
The fact is no longer new. It still interferes with useful thought.
I lower my eyes to the photographs before she can see anything I am not prepared to explain.
The top image is the Ravello stationery shop. The grandmother is behind the counter, her granddaughter beside her, both of them looking toward something outside the frame.
Under that is the old couple carrying folding chairs.
A bakery stool.
A doorway.
Hands green from herbs.
A narrow station bench.
The sequence has changed since the first time she showed it to me. More people now. Fewer empty rooms carrying the whole story.
“Which eight?” I ask.
“That is the problem.”
“You brought eight.”
“I brought twelve. Four are in my bag.”
“Then you brought twelve.”
“Your math is oppressive.”
“You came to me.”
“For emotional support.”
“You want selection help.”
“No. I want you to tell me whether the print on top is crooked.”
I check the print.
“It is not.”
“Good.”
She gathers the stack.
“Are you coming?”
“Yes.”
The answer leaves before I check the time.
Claire pauses.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“At seven thirty.”
“I heard you.”
“You have the dinner in Naples.”
“I do.”
Her smile thins.
“You can’t come.”
“That is not the same question.”
“Matteo.”
“I said I will be there.”
She watches me for another second.
I have already moved the dinner once.
Carlo Fabbri is arriving from Florence at six and dislikes schedule changes almost as much as I do.
Moving him again will cost me most of tomorrow afternoon.
I keep that part to myself.
She points one photograph at me.
“If you make this into a billionaire emergency, I will ban you.”
“From the gallery?”
“From art.”
“That seems difficult to enforce.”
“I know people now.”
“You know Elena.”
“Elena is enough.”
She leaves before I can answer.
At two twenty-nine, I call my assistant.
“Move Fabbri.”
My assistant pauses.
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“To tomorrow?”
“Lunch.”
“He is not going to like that.”
“No.”
“He changed his train for tonight.”
“I remember.”
She pauses again.
“What time?”
“Twelve thirty. His hotel.”
“That takes most of tomorrow.”
“Most of the afternoon.”
“Do you want me to explain why?”
“No.”
That would be worse.
“Tell him I apologize and the afternoon is his.”
“He won’t like losing tonight.”
“I know.”
My assistant sighs.
“I’ll call.”
“Thank you.”
At seven twenty-four, I walk into the gallery alone.
The room is narrow, too warm, and full enough that the folding chairs leave no obvious path between them.
Claire is near the far wall talking to a woman with silver hair and bright orange glasses.
She does not see me immediately.
I stop beside the door.
Eight photographs hang in a line.
The stationery shop is first.
Then the old couple with the folding chairs.
The bakery stool with a woman blurred behind it.
A window with two cups on the sill.
Stefano’s hands.
The station bench.
A family outside a restaurant, one chair empty because somebody has stood to take the photograph.
The last image is the old Bellamare crate with the lettering almost worn away, but this time Luca’s hand is visible at one edge carrying bread through the background.
I recognize Luca’s hand immediately.
I have watched it reach across tables for fifteen years.
The pride catches me off guard.
A man beside me says, “The fourth is the strongest.”
I study the two cups.
“Why?”
He has paint on one thumbnail and a linen shirt open too far at the neck.
“The light.”
I wait.
He turns toward me. “You disagree.”
“I did not say that.”
“You have the face.”
Claire has infected the coast.
“I like the fifth.”
“The hands?”
“Yes.”
“Too obvious.”
I nearly argue.
Then I remember whose room this is.
“What do you think of the last one?” I ask.
He studies the crate.
“Better than the hands.”
“Why?”
“Because she almost missed the person.”
My eyes return to Luca’s hand.
Claire finally sees me.
Something flickers across her face.
The woman in orange glasses says something, and Claire turns back to answer.
She does not come over.
I like that too.
For the next hour, strangers discuss her work. Claire answers some questions, pushes back on others, and keeps moving through the room.
Somebody thinks the station bench is lonely.
Claire says, “It wasn’t.”
The woman asks why.
“Because three minutes later a family sat there and ate sandwiches. I liked it better before they arrived.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“No. It sounds like I liked the bench.”
The woman laughs.
Another man asks whether Return is about nostalgia.
Claire makes a face.
“Not exactly.”
“What then?”
She turns toward the photographs instead of me.
“I started it because I was interested in why people go back to places when there are newer, easier, prettier options.”
“And now?”
Claire takes a drink of water.
“Now I think the place is usually less important than I expected.”
A photographer I recognize from two events arrives late. He nods at me, lifts his camera, then sees my expression and lowers it.
When the discussion begins, I sit in the back row.
Claire is at the front with the gallery director and two other photographers. She talks about sequence, about working while moving, about people entering frames she originally thought should stay empty.
She does not mention Bellamare until someone asks about the crate.
She says, “It belongs to a place where five friends have been returning for fifteen years.”
She moves to the next question.
At nine twelve, people begin leaving.
At nine twenty, Claire is still answering questions.
At nine twenty-eight, the gallery director hugs her.
At nine thirty-one, Claire finds me beside the green door.
“You stayed.”
“Yes.”
“The whole thing.”
“Yes.”
“You sat in a folding chair for forty minutes.”
“It was structurally adequate.”
“That is almost a compliment.”
“I would not buy it.”
“The chair?”
“Yes.”
She laughs.
She glances past me toward the street.
“Where is your car?”
“I walked.”
“From Bellamare?”
“It is not far.”
“You were supposed to be in Naples.”
“I moved dinner.”
Her smile disappears.
“Matteo.”
“It was movable.”
“You said that dinner was scheduled weeks ago.”
“It was.”
“And the man was coming from Florence.”
I face her.
“You remember too much.”
“Do not steal my argument.”
“It was a dinner.”
“You moved it because of this.”
“Yes.”
“What did it cost?”
“Lunch tomorrow.”
“That is not what I mean.”
“I know.”
She folds her arms.
Her eyes narrow.
I answer before she can ask another question.
“I wanted to be here,” I say.
Claire goes quiet.
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to Naples tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Twelve thirty.”
“His hotel?”
“Yes.”
“So you lose most of tomorrow.”
“Most of the afternoon.”
“Matteo.”
“It was movable.”
“That is annoyingly inconvenient.”
“Yes.”
“You did not have to do that.”
“I know.”
Claire glances back through the gallery door.
The director is taking down two empty glasses. The photographs are still on the wall.
“Did you like them?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“No.”
Her head snaps toward me.
I point inside.
“The station bench should be earlier.”
Claire stares at me.
She starts laughing.
“You are unbelievable.”
“You asked.”
“I asked if you liked them.”
“I do.”
“That was almost romantic.”
“I can try again.”
“No. You’ll ruin it.”
She takes my hand.
We walk back toward Bellamare.
At my house, Claire takes off her shoes at the door.
She leaves them there.
I close the door behind us.
“You need food,” I say.
“I ate cheese at the gallery.”
“That was not dinner.”
“There were crackers.”
“That does not improve it.”
She turns.
“Do not cook.”
“I was not going to.”
“Good.”
“I learned.”
“Growth.”
I find bread, tomatoes, and the last of something Luca left in my refrigerator with no label.
Claire opens the container.
“What is that?”
“I do not know.”
“You’re going to eat unidentified food.”
“It came from Luca.”
“That is an excellent point.”
We eat standing at the kitchen counter.
Claire is still wearing the simple black dress from the gallery. One earring is missing.
It takes me six minutes to notice.
“You lost an earring.”
She touches one ear.
“Damn.”
“Gallery?”
“Probably.”
“Do you want to call?”
“Tomorrow.”
“It may be swept.”
“It cost twelve euros.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“It answers it exactly.”
She tears bread with her fingers and pushes half toward me.
I take it.
Her phone is facedown near the sink.
Mine is still in my pocket.
Claire eats one tomato, looks at me, then says, “Come here.”
I put down the bread.
“That was specific.”
“Do not make me regret it.”
I step between her knees where she is leaning against the counter.
Her hands go to my shirt.
The kiss is slow.
Her fingers open one button and stop.
I kiss the corner of her mouth.
“Bedroom?”
“Yes.”
We do not hurry.
Upstairs, Claire finds her hair tie on my nightstand and laughs.
“I thought I lost this.”
“You leave things everywhere.”
“You keep them.”
I meet her eyes.
She holds my gaze.
For once, neither of us makes a joke.