Chapter 24 I’ll Never Be Here Again
I’ll Never Be Here Again
There are days that define a man. Days when he must step onto the battlefield, axe raised, and fight for his life. Fight for love.
Today was that day for Aroldo Gibler.
Harold was now dead, and in his place stood a man who knew exactly what he wanted, a man who’d broken through the walls that had been holding him back.
He’d dressed exactly as John Cusack, which had taken more effort than he’d thought.
The dark gray sweatpants, The Clash T-shirt, and the trench coat had come from .
The white high-tops, he’d found at a vintage clothing shop.
And he’d settled for a JBL Bluetooth speaker that was far too modern for a scene reenactment, but it would have to do. At least, it could get super loud.
To his left walked the opera singer, otherwise known as Vittorio Spina.
The man had appeared dressed in a black tux with a white bow tie, à la Pavarotti.
What was left of Harold thought it was a bit much, but Aroldo had seen the brilliance in the formality and had eagerly clapped, saying, “Bravo, signore!”
Spina had bowed. Actually bowed, right there on the cobblestones of Via Giulia.
They’d not rehearsed, as the mission wasn’t exactly complicated, but they’d worked it out as they walked to Renzo’s apartment. The earlier clouds had cleared, and the sun shot harshly down over the city. Thank God for the porticoes.
“Can I ask you something?” Aroldo said. “Who do you have lunch with every day? I see you leave at the exact time. I’m just curious.”
“My wife,” Spina said in his resonant tone.
“I didn’t realize you were married.” Only then did he glance over at the gold ring resting on a chubby finger. “I’ve never seen her.”
A long quiet.
As they crossed the street, Vittorio said, “She passed two years ago, but I still take a table at our favorite place and pour a glass of wine for her.”
A wave of chills ran over Aroldo. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine.”
Vittorio touched his heart. “This is why you must love with all of yourself, ragazzo. I like this that you’re doing. I’m happy to be a part.”
“Thank you,” Aroldo said. “I hope it will—no—I know it will work.”
In an admittedly stalker fashion, he’d figured out Alice’s new schedule and knew that she’d be home any minute. And Renzo typically didn’t show up till six, which gave him a perfect window of forty-five minutes to resurrect his dying love from the ashes of unrighted wrongs.
When they reached the square and saw the people gathered at tables and around the fountain who would soon bear witness, Aroldo started to shake. Or was it Harold?
He quietly invited Harold to take a hike, then glanced up at the balcony and pointed. “That’s theirs.”
A fresh wave of chills hit him again. Every hope of living a full life rested on this moment. “Leave burn marks,” he said to himself. “Leave burn marks.”
Shaking the last of Harold away, Aroldo glanced around again, then nodded at the sharply dressed Spina, who looked like he was ready to take the stage at Carnegie Hall.
Aroldo fished the phone from his pocket, connected it to the speaker, and pressed play. Out came the beginnings of Peter Gabriel’s song, “In Your Eyes,” first the synthesizer, then the silky drum rhythm. It wasn’t loud enough, so he turned it up. And he turned it up again.
People started turning their heads.
Hey Duo, how about this for burn marks?
Aroldo cranked the volume and then raised the JBL boom box over his head. Timing it with Peter Gabriel, Spina stepped forward, opened his mouth, and let loose an extraordinary vocal, perfectly capturing Gabriel’s lyrics, his voice easily topping the volume of the speaker.
Within seconds, people had pulled out phones and were snapping shots and capturing videos. Aroldo stood tall and proud, a man—no, a warrior—here to reclaim love.
Spina sang louder, rattling light posts, shaking the bloody walls of the city around him with his vibrato, pumping Aroldo’s chest with so much voracious ferocity that he thought he might soon levitate off the ground.
Beside him, the opera singer gave everything he had, like he was calling upon the eternal love of his deceased wife.
Aroldo watched the balcony and windows, hoping for movement.
Tiny, puny little Harold crept back in, and he heard his dad’s voice in his head.
You unoriginal dipshit, Harold. Do you know how many times people have recreated this stupid scene?
Hell, you’re probably not the first buffoon to pull it on Alice!
She’s probably not even in the building!
“Stop it,” Aroldo whispered. Or maybe shouted.
Mid-note, Vittorio stopped and looked over.
“No, not you,” Arold said, dismissing his interruption with a wave of the hand. “I’m sorry. Please continue.”
Vittorio jumped right back in, and Aroldo raised the volume on the boom box even louder, praying to his God and all gods that his strawberry love would appear and realize that she was nothing without him.
A shadow, movement.
The balcony door cracked open. Out into the warm air, four floors above the square, came his destiny, a T-shirt and shorts and a red mess of hair.
Her mouth fell open, and Aroldo’s heart swelled with love.
There was no place for Harold here.
Aroldo, this is yours.
Your win.
The sight of her gave Spina extra steam, and he wrang every bit of soul from the song. Aroldo simply stared up with loving eyes, stretching his arms higher, the speaker a lightning rod that would guide them back together.
She came to the railing and watched, her mouth still open.
And he thought he saw a smile, a flicker of one. He said to himself, “She’ll be mine by nightfall.”
Harold, no, Aroldo let the song play through, knowing his love was filling every one of her cells, reconstructing her.
After the last note, she called down to him, “Harold, I can’t believe you.”
He stepped forward and opened his arms like a gladiator in the Colosseum ready to accept his prize from the empress. “I love you, Alice. With all of me. And I don’t want to be friends. I want all of you, and I want to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you.”
Aroldo had forgotten about the crowd till he heard an audible gasp. He looked around and discovered at least fifty people staring at him, watching the scene. Cameras out. Some women holding their hearts. He’d be all over the socials.
Alice held up a finger. “I’ll be right down.”
Yes.
Yes, fucking yes! He’d done it. Here she came. Aroldo wrapped his arms around Spina and gave him a tight squeeze.
“What a victory, amici miei. Grazie!”
Spina put his hands on Aroldo’s cheeks. “Love her like it’s your last day. Every day.”
“Si, signore. Lo farò.” I will.
When she appeared down below, everyone clapped, and Aroldo rose to the occasion, waved as if he were one of the royals, and took a grand bow. When he came back up, he watched his love come to him, the angel of his life floating his way.
What a hell of an idea it had been.
Leave fucking burn marks! That was the way!
God bless Ione Skye and John Cusack and the whole idea. Forget that it had been overdone. Never once had it been reenacted with an opera man.
That’s when he saw it, the flash on her finger.
A blade found its mark in his stomach. He had to fight not to fold over as he searched her face for an explanation.
“Harold,” she said, shuffling over in slippers, “I’m so sorry I gave you the wrong impression, but I love Renzo. We’re getting married.”
The fifty spectators let out gasps. Cameras clicked louder.
She looked up toward her balcony. Renzo stood there in boxer briefs, nothing else. He wore a shit-eating smirk and raised his middle finger.
And there, in the square, Aroldo died.
During their stay in Salò, Bianca and George hiked up to take in a mesmerizing view of the massive Lake Garda, which had been carved out by glaciers during the last Ice Age and was hugged by the Alps on the northern side.
On the way back down to their place in town, they chatted with a couple from Germany who were on a three-month tour of Europe.
They’d just come from an island off the coast of Naples called Ischia. Bianca had never been.
As the couple professed their love for the island, Bianca and George both said almost simultaneously, “I guess we’re going there next.”
After a two-day train ride, including a stop in Florence for a night, they’d taken a taxi to a ferry and were now standing on a bus that circumnavigated Ischia.
They were headed to Sant’Angelo, a place supposedly a bit quieter.
You always knew you found something special when people gave the recommendation, followed by, “Just don’t tell anyone.
” They’d heard that a few times since leaving Lake Garda.
They’d been gone almost a week now, and aside from a few bumps, they were both in good spirits.
Bianca was still in shock, actually. Italy was speaking to her father, waking him up and giving him a renewed sense of life, and she was experiencing the same herself.
How strange that they’d gone through it together.
But how beautiful too.
Though she was absolutely blown away by the beauty of the island so far, palm trees mixing with vineyards and olive groves, all climbing up mountains that rose from a turquoise sea, the current situation was difficult.
She’d always been victim to motion sickness, but this bout was the worst she’d ever known.
Clearly, George was going through the same thing.
They’d boarded the crowded bus at the port; not a single seat was available so they’d both stood, trying to hold on to their luggage with one hand and their life with the other.
The streets couldn’t have been any tighter.
Motorcyclists and scooters snuck through tiny gaps in the flow of traffic, as the bus traversed hills with constant jolts and hesitantly descended into small towns packed with jaywalkers.