Chapter Sixteen
Chiara said she wanted to get out of Arezzo that weekend and so we decided to take the train down to Castiglion del Lago, one of the biggest towns on the edges of Lake Trasimeno. The train journey wasn’t long, but the station was situated at the bottom of the hill with the towering, older buildings of the centre of the town looming in the distance. We made the walk up towards it, with the sun baking down on us. I had to stop to take off my sunglasses and wipe away the sweat that had started to drip into my eyes.
We climbed a steep set of steps and stood in front of the medieval structure that hosted the main streets. In front of us was a fountain, a more modern style than most I had seen in Tuscany, which sprayed water up in parallel directions, forming a sphere out of the deflected splashes in the centre. As we carried along the path that curved to the side of the town, the great blue surface of the lake became visible. It was enormous, more of an ocean than a lake, stretching round the back of the town and pushing against the hills that lined the horizon, shining and shimmering brightly in the sunlight. There was a forested island that stuck out in the middle and a thin and uneven line of sand that ran along at the bottom of the hill to our right. Now we had reached a certain height, the air cooled slightly and there was a light breeze that brushed across the water and rose up towards us.
“Beautiful, no?” said Chiara, as she wrapped her hand around my forearm.
“I’ll say.”
We didn’t go down to the water first, as inviting as it was, and instead we climbed some more steps that snaked around and up to the entrance to the town. When we reached the top, there was an open archway in front of us, the entrance to breach the giant walls that enveloped all the buildings inside. We walked through and the streets came into view, with the familiar dim hues of the tattered, old walls, specked with balconies, windows, verandas and umbrellas over seating areas outside bars and restaurants. It was far smaller than Arezzo and there was an obvious curve to the town, so you had to lean around the corner to see further down the street. As we walked, I noticed a number of little, walnut-brown birds, small enough to fit in my hand, that would hop along the cobbles, occasionally jumping up to on a table, even if there were diners sat at it. The locals didn’t seem to mind and I saw one man with stretched, weary skin reach out and try and stroke the tiny visiting creature.
We picked a bar to sit at based on how popular it was and took a seat at one of the outside tables. Chiara had worn a bright, red dress that suited her perfectly and she had tucked her sunglasses on the centre of her head, stylishly keeping her hair out of her face. It took moments where I sat across her like that, in a new setting, to remind me of how stunning she was. I smiled at her and blew her a kiss in the air.
The place proved to be a good choice. I had warm and crusty bruschetta served with a flavoured garlic butter and the tangiest, saltiest anchovies, washed down with chilled, sweet white wine. We took our time and ended up being the last table seated as we savoured the afternoon and each other’s company. Chiara waited a while to ask me one question in particular.
“Would you find it weird if I invited you to my parents’ house this week?”
I chuckled and took a sip of wine. “Why?”
“My mother told me to invite you over for dinner. It’s okay if you don’t want to of course. It’s just for Italian parents, they like to be involved, you know?”
“Of course I’ll come, if she’s invited me. Do you want me to?”
“Yeah, I do.” she said and she smiled as she looked away from me.
The wine had made me amenable and I had said yes to make Chiara happy, without actually considering the task I had just agreed to undertake. Immediately thoughts rushed into my mind and nerves began to form in my stomach.
“Oh god, you’re going to need to tell me what to do.”
She started giggling. “Relax, Tesoro. Their English isn’t very good so you won’t actually have to speak to them that much. And it’s okay, they’re quite laid-back for parents I think. Though… you should probably get them a gift?”
“A gift?”
“Yeah, not anything big. Just like a bottle of wine or something.”
I put my head in my hands and wiped my eyes, staring back at Chiara through the gaps in my fingers.
“Anything else?” I asked, fearfully.
“Well, just make sure you’re hungry. Not eating much is basically like spitting in their face.”
I sat back and breathed out. “Okay I can do that.”
She widened her eyes and looked tenderly at me. “It will be fine, I promise.”
We finished up our lunch and took a stroll through the rest of the town. I took Chiara’s hand, stopping to bring it to my lips on occasion. I just couldn’t resist touching her in some small way. There wasn’t much more to see, save for a castle tower at the edge, and so we circled back and got some gelato, before deciding to head closer to the lake.
The area at the bottom of the hill was sparser, with only a few seaside bars made up of makeshift gazebos lining the street closest to the water. And then there was a stretch of grass that ended in a beach club, where a few people had rented paddle boards and pedalos. The lake was about fifty or so metres back from the walkway by the grass, with a strange, striped assortment of different surfaces leading out to it. Patches of orangey, clay-like sand and then strips of wet, light green moss and lines of seaweed that had accumulated in trapped, shallow pools of water. The water itself looked even clearer at closer viewing and was a sparkling sapphire colour.
We took a seat on a bench and stared out, admiring the gorgeous view. There were small waves that formed at the closest part of the lake, gently swaying and rising up before evening out again. And there was a large, rough-looking rock that sat like an anchor, a great slab of granite that had been dropped a few feet from the shore.
Chiara pointed out at it and asked “Do you want to go and walk out to that?”
I shook my head and replied. “Maybe in a bit. You can go though, if you want to.”
She left me with her bag and belongings and clambered down the rocks to the patchy lead-up to the water. I watched her, carefully at first, in case she slipped, but then I eased into a relaxed, amorous state instead. She looked back at me a few times and I would raise my arm and wave at her. When she reached the water, she allowed the remains of the first waves to wash over her feet, before she started to wade out further, the water gradually rising towards her thighs.
It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. She looked so happy and carefree as she meandered outwards, running her fingers on the surface of the water. The sun would occasionally catch the shine of the back of her hair or the glint in her sunglasses and beam back at me. Her dress against the water made her look like a rose in a sweeping field of delphiniums. I thought then that I would be satisfied if I could watch her forever. Happy with the knowledge that something so elegant had once been mine.
And that thought transformed seamlessly into others. Of the impending meeting with her parents, of our time together overall, and of how endlessly happy and free she made me feel. I began to think of the fact that one of the final days I had in Arezzo could be the last time I ever saw her, and that seemed an impossibility to me. A fact that I couldn’t accept.
And I started to imagine what our lives would be like together, if it was to extend beyond our brief, summertime fling. I saw a house up in the hills that surrounded Arezzo, with a long driveway that tested the gears of any car that attempted to traverse it. With roof tiles made out of terracotta and clean limestone walls and a garden that grew large bushes of different colours, with olive trees and seeds tangled in the grass. With a patio that led into a pool, with a table and chairs that was sheltered under the shade of a porch. Where I could sit and watch as the little birds visited and stood pecking at the water. And I imagined Chiara coming out of the back of the house, with a jug of fresh lemonade or juice. Sitting next to me as we enjoyed the peace and solitude of our home, looking out as our garden was kissed by the light of the Tuscan sun.
I began to think more pragmatically about how I could make it happen. Perhaps I would need to return to England for a while, make sure that I worked out all the necessary visas and other admin that was required. Study Italian so that I could return fluent. Chiara could finish her studies, but I’d visit her in Bologna every chance I got. And then maybe I could get a job teaching English. I quite liked the sound of that. And gradually save up until we had enough to buy the place out in the hills, where I could finally escape to my Tuscan retreat and see out the rest of my life in true happiness. And most pertinently of all, I would never, ever have to be a Junior Purchasing Officer. I thought back to what Seb had said during our call. Was this what I really wanted?
Chiara’s voice called out to me to break me from my slumber. I looked out and could see that she was now almost half-covered by the water. Her hand was in the air and she was gesturing me towards her. She looked so joyful, her perfect smile amplified by the sunlight. It called out to me like a beacon. I smiled and chuckled, getting to my feet and carrying the bag down the rocks and on to the sand.
The surface squelched and disintegrated under my feet, with the consistency being closer to mud and it took me a moment to adjust and take lighter steps. I walked out as far as I could in my shoes and with the belongings, setting them down on a slightly raised island of sand about halfway between Chiara and the path. I took my socks and shoes off and then I headed into the water, stepping through the hairy patches of seaweed. To my surprise and immediate delight, the shallower parts of the lake were as warm as bath water and the sensation as my feet were first submerged sent a pleasant shiver up my body.
I waded out to Chiara, the expression on my face giving away my reaction.
“It’s so warm, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s heaven.”
“It really is.” I replied as I looked up at the sky and took a moment to enjoy the dual warmth that was hitting both halves of my body.
We stood there for a while, allowing the waves to gently roll over our legs. To our left, there were smatterings of people also swimming, but no more than twenty. I couldn’t believe it. It was such a pleasurable experience that I wouldn’t have been surprised if the whole town had emptied into the water.
“I wish I had brought my swimming trunks.” I said to Chiara.
She smiled knowingly at me. “If you want to swim, we can.”
I was surprised. “What, in our clothes?”
She laughed. “Well, are you wearing underwear?”
I nodded and finally got what she was suggesting. I stood for a moment, considering as I looked back at the path full of people. And then back at Chiara, who held her arm slightly to her sides as if waiting for me to decide.
“Okay, yeah. Let’s do it.”
We returned to where I had placed the bags and stripped down to our underwear, placing our clothes in a hastily-assembled pile on top. And then I took her hand and we ran out into the water once more, Chiara screaming and laughing with excitement. After a few metres, the surface level dipped and we had to break into a paddle, kicking our feet to stay afloat.
I turned and Chiara jumped towards me, wrapping her legs around my waist and her arms around the back of my neck. My hands instinctively reached out to hold her bum. She kissed me intensely on the lips and I could taste the fragrant, seaweed-like water. I held her to me for a while after that and the two of us bobbed in the sumptuous warmth of the lake, looking up at the old buildings of the town in front of us. I thought about it for a few moments, before I decided that it may have been the happiest moment of my entire life.
Chapter Seventeen
Every first weekend of the month in Arezzo, there was a historic and renowned Antiques Fair. It had been one of the city’s major attractions for over fifty years and was therefore something I felt obligated to see. Chiara and I headed out early on Sunday morning to the Piazza Grande where the centre of the fair was located.
The scene that greeted us was bustling, chaotic and compelling. The stalls were constructed under small, square tents and covered the entire courtyard of the Piazza, but in a convoluted manner that seemed to have no recognisable pattern. It was impossible to decipher where one stall ended and another began, nor which items belonged to which vendor. There were large items of furniture, such as wardrobes or sofas or full-length mirrors, left isolated in the spaces between stalls and piles of large collections of objects, ranging from delicately-designed table lamps to huge green bottles that looked like they hadn’t been properly cleaned in a generation. And as we walked through and glimpsed in to the tents at the wares laid out on long tables covered with white cloths, we could see all manner of object. Jewellery and ceramics and books and records and vases and paintings and ornate kitchen tiles and small, wooden figures and even a collection of creepy-looking knitted dolls. Enough to fill an entire house, or a castle even.
We wove our way through and headed for the Vasari Logge to sit down and have a coffee. Even there though, where the stretch of restaurants was located, the stalls remained. In fact the restaurants had compromised their own outside seating to accommodate the stalls setting up beneath the famous stone arches. It was the same as the Giostra del Saracino; in Tuscany, tradition came first and everything else had to make sure they could fit in around the edges of it.
We still managed to grab a table, nearest to the back wall and we ordered coffee and watched the scene unfold. I had learnt to love people-watching in Italy, every interaction told a story, one that I had to unravel myself. Our waitress shouted across us at an elderly man heading into the nearest door and he shouted back. It appeared to be an argument at first but they were both soon laughing and joking with each-other, like old friends. I think it was to do with the inherent nature and spirit of the language. In Italian, everything sounded simultaneously angry and affectionate. A disagreement turned into a cuddle. A telling-off became a shared joke. An argument could transform seamlessly into a declaration of love.
“Do you want to buy anything from the fair?” asked Chiara.
“I don’t know, maybe? I haven’t got anything in mind that I want, but I’m happy to just see what we can find.”
“Maybe you should buy something that reminds you of me.” she said, teasing me. “For when you get back to England.”
The suggestion made my heart sink a little. I hadn’t yet told her of my thoughts about staying in Italy, of prolonging our courtship further than had initially been promised. I wanted to make sure it was the right moment, and in amongst the shouts of the vendors at the nearby market stalls, I decided to wait. It wasn’t that I was fearing a rejection of sorts, it was more a case of handling the conversation delicately enough as to manage expectations going forward.
Instead, I opted to pass on a message from Seb. “I had a call with my friend back in England the other day and I was telling him about you. He said to say hello for him.”
“Oh what did you tell him about me?” said Chiara, a flirtatious look in her eye. “And you can tell him I say hello back, what’s his name?”
“Seb.” I replied. “And oh you know the normal stuff. What you look like, how we met, how good a shag you are…”
She swatted at my arm playfully and let out a trademark exaggerated gasp, which delighted and aroused me.
“Stupid boy.” she said tutting. “How was Seb anyway?”
“Not great.” I said, lowering my voice to signal the change in tone. “When we were growing up, he was always the one out of the two of us who had it together, you know? Like I remember everyone at school and even my parents all thought he was going to do really well. He was just that kind of guy. But he seemed really unsure of himself when I spoke to him, like he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing?”
“That happens all the time though. It’s the people who look like they are going to fly through life who often end up getting lost along the way.” said Chiara.
I smiled at her and she looked at me with confusion.
“That was good.” I said. “You should write that down.”
“Oh shut up.” she said, laughing.
“Now say it in Italian.” I said, licking my lips exaggeratedly, and she hit me again.
“I wonder what he makes of you.” she said after a pause.
“Who? Seb?”
“Yes. If like you say, he was always the one who had it together. And now you’re an actor. I wonder if he feels like you’ve overtaken him.”
I looked down instinctively and started fiddling with an empty sugar wrapper. I had almost forgotten the lie that I had told her on our first date. The fact that Seb had now been brought into it made it feel all the worse. I realised that if I did want to stay in Italy with Chiara and live in the beautiful, remote house up in the hills, I might have to let her know at some point that I wasn’t an actor. It might be tough to keep the deceit going in the long-term.
“Oh, yeah, Chiara…” I started.
“My parents think it’s very impressive that you’re an actor.” she said, cutting across me. “I think that may be part of the reason they invited you actually.”
I stopped myself from going further, deciding I could keep the lie going a bit for a bit longer, just to keep on the sweet side of her parents, for the first meeting at least. I was aware that all I was doing was kicking the can down the road, but I was nervous enough about the meeting as it was. Having to explain I was a liar, probably in a language I could barely speak, was not going to help.
I smiled absently at her and said. “Shall we go and have a proper look at the market?”
We took a slow lap around the Piazza, taking a last look at the various collections that were on display there. And then we headed down the Corso Italia where the stalls continued, stretching right down the street on both sides. I loved the apparent incidental nature of it all. None of the sellers ever seemed that bothered, or even interested, as tourists browsed through the items on their tables, often attending to something else in the meantime. I even saw that at one stall that was located directly outside another restaurant, the vendor was reclined in a wooden chair, eating a plate of spaghetti that had been brought to him by one of the waiters. He muttered away to people as they passed by, in between mouthfuls of tomatoey sauce.
I brought one thing on the first stretch, a map of Tuscany that looked like it should have been on the first page of a fantasy novel, complete with oversized drawings of castles and other landmarks, and with the colour being a deep, bloody red, even though I personally imagined Tuscany to be perpetually in a state of olive green. We also popped into a bottega so that I could pick up a bottle of wine to bring when meeting Chiara’s parents. Chiara offered me guidance as to their taste, whilst I deliberately over-estimated the right price and brought a bottle I would have deemed far too expensive if buying for myself.
We turned the corner at the roundabout with the imposing statue of Guido Monaco in its centre and headed back up towards the Basilica di San Francesco. The stalls were less frequent now and I had stopped paying as much attention, my mind starting to think about what I could do to Chiara upon returning to the apartment. However, something caught my eye as we had made it halfway up the street and I nudged Chiara to stop and look at the stall.
“Look at that.” I said, pointing at my discovery.
It was the Chimera. Technically not the Chimera, but a scaled-down likeness of it, small enough to be held in the palm of my hand. It looked to be made out of bronze, like the original, and it had clearly been designed to copy the exact stance, with only some fading around the expression of the three heads giving it away as an imitation. It was amongst a number of other miniature bronze figurines and it took Chiara a second to work out which one I was pointing out.
“Oh the Chimera. Cute. Do you want it?”
“Well, I was just thinking, we would probably never have spoken properly if it hadn’t have been for the Chimera.” I said, wrapping my arm around her.
“Aw, that’s so sweet.” she said, kissing my cheek.
She turned to the vendor and asked him how much for the figure. I understood their initial interaction, but as soon as he had mentioned the price, she reacted like she had been insulted and launched into a long and rapid speech, hands flapping around wildly. I had no idea what she was saying, but the man seemed to gesture to her to calm down and muttered a different price. She said that it was fifteen euros and I handed the notes over to him.
He wrapped the little Chimera up in a thin felt paper for us and handed it to me, giving me a look that seemed halfway between jealousy and pity. As we walked away, I spoke quietly in Chiara’s ear.
“What did you say to him? He changed the price right?”
Chiara slipped her hand in mine. “I just told him what you had told me, Tesoro. Italians are always weak when it comes to love stories.”
I murmured and nodded back, wondering if Italians really were so susceptible to a romantic motive, or simply susceptible to angry, beautiful young women. I clutched my new possession closely in my other hand, feeling satisfied that I now owned a symbol of the city I had called my home as well as the fiery girl who had successfully negotiated for it.
George F Brown 