Chapter 7 Without a Story to Tell #2
She held a stack of flyers in her hand. “I wanted to make sure you knew about our book signing. We have a celebrity that moved onto the street, a self-help writer named Bianca Briggs,” she elaborated. And then: “Do you know her book?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Did he look like he read self-help books? Could she not see that he was right in the middle of fighting the biggest war of his life?
“I’d love it if you and Alice came. She’s always been such a great supporter of the store. For what it’s worth, this book is life-changing.”
He might have run away from her, but she had a sweet and timid voice and held herself in such a way that made him think she might be fragile. And he knew fragile.
“Life-changing, huh?” he said, wishing no one in the world had to ever know what it was like to be fragile.
She nodded, then seemed to retreat into herself. In a moment of lunacy, he said, “Yeah, I’ll come.” He figured he could always bow out later. Anything to escape right now without hurting her feelings.
Moira looked like Harold had handed her a hundred bucks. “Really? It’s just . . . I don’t want to let Bianca down. And my boss, Sandy, she hates doing these things, and I want to prove to her that it’s worth it. I love having authors visit.”
Harold locked eyes with her and said the thing he wanted to say least. “I’ll definitely be there.”
If everything that Bianca had missed out on while laboring away in Austin could be captured in a moment, it was now, as she sat at a long table on Carol’s terrace, taking in one of the finest views in Europe, the ancient city lit up and shining, the two towers and the dome of San Petronio poking up from a sea of red terra-cotta roofs, the swollen earth of the Apennine hills surrounding them, the full moon lifting up over the horizon, dizzying in its grandeur.
And there at the table, twelve fascinating souls, people from all over the world—New Zealand, South Korea, Sweden, Canada, Germany, Egypt.
The simple act of sitting there listening to the dynamic conversation, which was mostly held in English, was enough to make Bianca cry—for so many reasons, so many emotions.
Longing to have lived their lives, recalling how she used to be one of them.
As the wine flowed and cigarettes burned, and as Carol’s husband brought out dishes that were so simple but had taken generations to perfect, they talked about the nasty corruption in Montenegro, and about their favorite beaches in Corfu, the best chiringuitos in Estepona, their day trips to Naples to taste a pizza on Via dei Tribunali, ski trips to Chamonix, their cheap jaunts to Ireland or Iceland on Ryanair.
They didn’t talk about work—certainly didn’t define themselves by it.
They talked about their adventures, about the things they’d seen and heard and felt.
These expats were open-minded soul searchers who wanted—no, needed—to see and live in different parts of the world so that they might understand it.
People who found joy in watching the sun set over new horizons, in meeting people so very different from themselves; wanderers who refused to be pulled into the trance of the unliving, refused to be shepherded into the flock of humans who were too afraid to take chances, too afraid to not fall into line.
Then there was Bianca, who’d missed a turn along the way and lost connection with her thirsty soul, and who had become exactly the person she’d promised herself—and Corrado—she wouldn’t be.
As these interesting creatures shared tales of their escapades, Bianca recalled her own wanderlust, when she’d first landed in Bologna with nothing but a big backpack, when she’d taken trips by train or plane with Carol or other friends to Copenhagen, Munich, Dublin, Nice, Madrid, Valencia.
Bunking up with strangers in youth hostels, making fast friends, messing around with boys from foreign lands, learning what it meant to have an open mind.
There wasn’t anything wrong with work, of course.
There were people at the table who led companies, either here in Bologna or abroad, but they hadn’t let their occupations consume them like she had.
To think she’d prided herself in Austin on being the hardest worker in the room, barely making time for vacations.
It was a sad fact that in the ten years since she’d left Bologna, she’d barely traveled at all, and when she did, it was more of a brief escape to Mexico or Hawaii, a chance to sit by the pool and finally read a book.
There was certainly no adventure to it, no craving of the unseen.
When these masters of life asked her about her own, she dismissed the question as best as she could, muttering how she’d left her practice in Austin and was trying to figure out her next step.
Though Carol bragged that Bianca had written a book, she dismissed that, too, certainly not telling them about the signing.
And don’t even get her started on Peggy Meh.
Dumb.
Dumb.
Dumb.
Upon leaving, amid the nearly debilitating voices in her head, she told herself that it wasn’t too late, that she could still be one of them, that maybe she’d had to go the wrong way to finally make it here now.
Sandy slid the olive off the spear with her teeth as she took in the younger man sitting across from her.
What she saw worried her. Salvatore was handsome in the way creatives were, attire slightly off center, hair that had a mind of its own, and soulful eyes.
The problem was that those eyes could be too penetrating at times, like they were now.
They sat at a tall table in an old haunt of Bologna, a trattoria that had been around since Dante strolled these streets.
She had a sense that ghosts lived within these walls, sharing the tables and dance floor with the current patrons, returning to the place they’d liked most. Besides the fact she loved coming here, it was an easy place to remain anonymous, a long walk from Via Giulia and the bookstore.
The couple’s knees touched. Sandy’s heels made her feet uncomfortable, but damn, they looked good. His foot bounced to the sound of the bebop dancing out of speakers perched on a shelf otherwise reserved for liquor bottles. Unmatching chandeliers cast down a golden light.
Sandy glanced at herself in one of the many antique mirrors.
She wasn’t old enough to be his mother, thank God.
And being with a younger man somehow drew out her youth.
He’d never asked, but she’d indicated that she was in her forties, not her true fifties, and sometimes she actually believed the lie.
Salvatore was a jazz guitarist that she’d met at Cantina Bentivoglio, the best spot to listen to live jazz in town.
A few months ago, he’d slid a chair up to her table moments before his set and made easy conversation.
He’d asked her to stick around till he was done, and then he’d strapped on his archtop guitar and torn a hole in the fabric of the night with his magnificent talent.
She’d thought for a moment about playing hard to get, but he’d eyed her from the stage, and later, when he’d invited her back to his place, she’d taken his hand.
She’d started sleeping with younger men years ago.
They seemed to gravitate toward her, while at the same time, anyone her age and older somehow knew to keep their distance.
It was marvelous, as these younger fellows were far easier to deal with.
They weren’t looking for anything serious—at least, not most of them.
Salvatore had been living in Bologna a couple of years but performed across Europe in various jazz groups.
It was a joy waking in his place in the morning (she kept her apartment off-limits) and hearing him practice a tune in the other room.
He was especially perfect because he was on the road so much.
They could enjoy a passionate night together, rattling the walls, then break apart for a few weeks.
It worked well, because by the time he contacted her again, her fervorous craving for him had returned to boiling.
The only problem was that Sandy had detected a shift in his behavior.
He was texting her more from the road and seeking her out the moment he got back into town.
Now here they were, together for the first time in a couple of weeks, and he was looking at her differently, something past sexual craving.
She’d been around the block long enough to know what was going on.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked, wishing she hadn’t accepted his invitation. She sipped on her G&T and waited.
“So . . .”
Here it comes, she thought, readying herself for battle. They could as easily speak in Italian, but he liked to practice his English with her.
She set down her glass. “No, don’t do it.”
“Don’t do what?” Salvatore smirked, ignorant of the stop sign ahead.
“I don’t like how you’re looking at me,” Sandy said, feeling her attraction for him die.
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you want something.”
“I do. Naturally. I haven’t seen you in a while. I can barely sit here without wanting more.”
Wanting more. There it was.
He reached for her hand, and all she felt was a cold dead thing. “I know we drew boundaries, but I like you, Sandy. I want more from us. I want to see your place, see your bookstore. I almost came by the other day.”
She jerked her hand back. “Do not do that.”
“Perché no? What are you afraid of?” Frustration wrinkled his brow.
Sandy peeled open her hands. “I’m not looking for anything serious. Simple as that. I told you that from the beginning.”
“You can’t deny we have a very special relationship.”
Sandy shifted her feet. She hated when this happened. “Mi dispiace. Non cerco altro.” I’m not looking for anything more.
“What is that about? Why do you have to be a mystery?”
Sandy reached for her purse and counted out twenty euros, set them on the table.
“That’s pitiful, you know. Sad,” he said.