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.

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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.

Chapter Seven

I got on the train to Arezzo the next day. It was a relatively easy journey, my Florence apartment hadn’t been far from the station and I arrived in plenty of time to buy my ticket, work out the right platform and grab a coffee before I boarded. The train itself was beautifully air-conditioned, with comfy seats. The only thing that pissed me off was that there was specks of mud splattered all across the windows of my carriage which meant whilst I could still see out, it prevented me from enjoying the Tuscan countryside to the fullest extent.

Upon reaching Arezzo, I made my way up the hill from the station and found the apartment I would call home for the remainder of my trip. I took the key out of the lock-box next to the door and after battling with the lock for a few seconds, eventually found my way inside. My first glimpse prompted a response that had only occurred on a number of occasions previously.

It had occurred the first time I read The Catcher in the Rye. I finished the last page of the novel and sat unmoved for minutes afterwards, scared to fully close it for fear of somehow breaking the spell it had cast on me. It happened the first time I had taken a bite of an enchilada in my favourite Mexican restaurant, or the first time I had tasted a really good cheesecake, or in later years a vintage glass of wine. Or when my uncle had allowed me a glass of his rum liqueur. I could still recall the sweet, pungent sensation that had lingered in the back of my throat.

It occurred the first time I had met Laura Finney. In my first year of secondary school. I became aware of when she got up at the front of the class to deliver an assessed presentation to our French class. I was immediately struck by her juxtaposed modesty and confidence. She looked intimidated, frightened even, and I could see a small tear was hanging in the corner of her eye. And yet she delivered the speech perfectly, really enunciating every last syllable and nodding her head slightly as she did so, as if she was physically willing herself on. She had a clip at the parting of her hair and at one point in the presentation, her eyes found mine, just for a moment. On the word jouer. I watched her retake her seat at the window. I remember the flaps of the blind blew gently beside her as she leant against the wall.

So, this was the sensation that hit me as I entered my Arezzo apartment. Something resembling love at first sight. The place was lit only by the rays coming through the double-windows in the near-right corner. It was remarkably cool, even though I knew in advance that there was no air conditioning. This was due to the stone walls on the left-hand side, left bare and exposed by design. Their thickness must have been great enough as to block the heat from fully permeating from the outside.

Fabio, the owner, was an interior designer and so it made sense that in every little corner, in practically every available space, there was a randomly chosen object. For example, on the stone wall in the kitchen-come-living space, there was a large superhero poster, lifted straight from the pages of a comic-book. Also stuck on the walls were stickers, showing different cars and motorcycles. Above them were shelves that held everything from decanters to reed diffusers to framed photos of classic American advertisements for breakfast cereals.

There was a breakfast bar that separated the kitchen surfaces from the sofa and TV. It was situated in front of charcoal grey cupboards mounted on the back wall and more shelves, this time covered with little plant pots filled with lucky bamboo and cacti. And on top of the cupboards were a series of bottles, three different soft drinks and then three Heinekens. I had no idea if they still contained drink and didn’t want to test them, in fear of somehow ruining the carefully-assembled ambience of the space.

Better still was the large clock that hung above the sofa, sporting roman numerals in bold, black font and in its centre, an inscription that read: “University of Heidelberg.” That had been the university I had attended on my semester abroad and it only furthered my feeling that I was in a place that would very much feel like home.

Walking through the open doorway into the living room, the large double bed was positioned under a map of the world, painted directly onto the wall. There was a mirror next to me and then a clothes rack opposite it. Everything seemed perfectly positioned; there was a flow that extended from object to object. Next to the mirror was an alcove, that contained nothing but a tray of books, organised in a deliberately haphazard heap. There were also bizarre cubbyholes built into the walls, which you could open and see straight through. One even looked directly into the shower in the bathroom. It was even fit for a voyeur. A pervert’s paradise, as it were.

Finally, my favourite touch of all was located in one of the back corners of the bedroom, above a comfy-looking barrel armchair. It was a sign with a faded globe in the background and then at its front, just the words: “Not all those who wander are lost.” I laughed out loud when I noticed it and felt an intense giddiness wash over me. It was like the apartment was winking at me. As if the walls had perceived me, in the same moment I had first perceived them.

The location of the apartment was incredibly central. If I was to step out my front door, I’d step over the low-hanging chains that connected two bollards just outside. I’d head right and pass a small leather shop on the corner. If I were to take a left then, I’d have a short but steep trip up to the Piazza de Liberta. Where the town hall or municipo proudly stood. I could continue past it, crossing the road to climb the steps that protruded out from the cattedrale at the top of the hill. Beyond that was a beautiful circular park with the Monumento a Francesco Petrarcha in its centre, a large marble sculpture of various figures that looked as if they had merged together as one. The wear and tear on the sculpture only added to this feeling, as the marks on the marble gave it a distinctly liquid quality, as if the figures had gradually melted under the heat of the sun. To the left of the sculpture was a stunning view of the nearby hills and farms that lay on the outskirts of the city. And if I followed the park’s path all the way around, I would eventually arrive at the Fortezza Medicea, an imposing ancient ruin with a wide gate at its head, acting like the jaws of this great beast of a fortress.

If I were to take a right at the leather shop instead, I could either follow the hill down and come to the Basilica di San Francesco and perhaps stop for a glass of wine or a gelato under the watchful eye of the statue of Vittorio Fosambroni, an austere-looking figure that overlooked the adjacent piazza. Or I could take a quick left and follow the small street of Via Bicchieria which I knew roughly translated as ‘way of the glasses’, fitting for the stretch of restaurants that lined it. I would also pass a grand entrance to a theatre, of the ancient amphitheatre style. A welcome little snapshot of Arezzo’s Roman ancestry.

This route would lead me on to the Corso Italia, the longest and busiest street in the city, jam-packed with high-end retailers, cafes and restaurants. It was a strange juxtaposition of a street, seamlessly blending the ancient and the modern. I could still spot the odd mural or fresco on the weary limestone walls, but they would be tucked between women’s fashion stores and a video game shop. If I followed the long road all the way down, I’d eventually find a set of offices. And finally, the Piazza Guido Monaco, a roundabout with another sculpture as its midpoint, surrounded by pedestrians playing chicken with circling cars or flocks of pigeons, flapping and hopping their way across the grass.

The city’s main attraction lay just beyond the Corso Italia and was again only minutes from my front door: the Piazza Grande. It had been what I had most wanted to see in Arezzo, mostly due to my knowledge that it had featured in the Roberto Begnini film, Life is Beautiful. I was a shameless cinephile and would regularly visit somewhere if I knew it had some kind of cinematic heritage. It always seemed to me that it was life imitating art and not the other way around. As if the place existed in the film first and in reality second. And that by visiting, I had therefore ceased to exist in the present for the moment and had instead briefly stepped inside the sphere of the silver screen.

The Piazza was a wonderfully abstract place. It wasn’t actually much of a square at all but rather a sloping, lopsided oblong. It was steepest in the near side to me, with the squares of the courtyard tilting up as they ran along the side of the church and heritage museum. The museum had four matching front windows, all with large iron bars that bulged out of the frames, wider at the bottom so they looked like chequered metal water jugs. In true Tuscan style, it seemed that even the window bars required some kind of artistic expression.

At the back of the Piazza was the Vasari Logge, a tall, aqueduct-like structure that offered shade and shelter to the cafes and restaurants within. It was made up of a series of stone pillars that rose up to create arches, ensuring the piazza life could still be viewed and enjoyed. And then the rest was formed of a mishmash of old, stone buildings, all of different widths and heights, with cafes and tabaccherias at their entrances. They were adorned with flags of the region, vivid shields of differing colours, showing lions and eagles and wolves as their insignias. It was a square that I could just as easily imagine playing host to a coronation or a royal wedding as a public beheading. It belonged to a different age, an age of knights and scrolls and epic ballads. There was a deep, dusky well just in front of the arches of the Vasari Logge. Presumably where they used to dispose of the heads of the executed.

Arezzo had lived up to my expectations. It was just as cultured and surprising and stylish as I remembered. And with my trendy studio home right at the heart of it, I felt I had managed to be more than just a visitor. I had successfully sewn myself into the fabric of the place, if only for a few weeks. 

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Chapter Fourteen

During the time I had to myself whilst Chiara worked at the museum, I returned to my new hobby of finding random excursions in Arezzo and the surrounding areas. I had read in a guidebook mention of the Ponte Buriano, a famous bridge located a few miles out of the city, that was believed to have been painted by Da Vinci, in the background of the Mona Lisa

It was essentially just a bridge in the middle of the Tuscan countryside, with no real encouragement or incentive for tourists to visit, in the form of any direct public transport or car parks. This only appealed to me more, with the bridge becoming the object of a kind of spiritual pilgrimage that I wanted to undertake.

I made my way to a bus stop on the edge of Arezzo, wandering up and down the street a few times before deciding I had located the correct spot. Buses in Italy were imbued with the same vigilante spirit as the cars. In the sense that one never really seemed to arrive at the time advertised, often bore no relation to the expected number, whilst most tellingly, the drivers would not stop unless you were essentially already hanging halfway out the door.

By these standards, my bus journey was relatively straightforward and stress-free as I followed the route on my phone as we drove along the winding country roads, making sure I pressed the button and was standing ready at the door well in advance of my stop. The driver pulled over slightly to his right, on what appeared to be no more than a hard shoulder on the edge of the bridge. I muttered a “grazie” and hopped out.

My surroundings were, as I had expected, wholly bare and unremarkable. They were so unremarkable in fact that if I had successfully stumbled across the ‘nowhere’ I had sarcastically informed Ben that I was searching for. There were a series of signs to mark the bridge and a map of the nearby nature reserve that had faded beneath the moss that had grown over it. Opposite me was an ordinary street corner with no sign of commercial life, except for, of all things, a unisex hairdressers. There was a barn-like structure on the river bank, consisting of some half-finished stone walls and a patched-together-roof. A Da Vinci painting, this was not.

Most worryingly, I couldn’t actually see the bridge at all. I followed the road around the corner and came to a small tabaccheria that was boarded up. A fitting allegory for the whole place. If it hadn’t have been for some cycling teenagers, I might never have found what I had come looking for. They appeared over the road from me, riding down a dirt-track that I had disregarded as part of someone’s private property. Their appearance made me inspect the area more closely. The sight of a children’s play area of slides and swings was encouraging and then a public service sign of what you could and couldn’t do suggested that I was in fact allowed to be there. I continued on past the strange, deserted yard and was delighted to see a series of benches spaced out along the edge of the river and the famous arches of the Ponte Buriano finally within view.

It was completely empty, save for one man sat on a bench a few down from the one I selected as my own. I greeted him with my cheeriest “ciao” as I passed and he offered me a nod of acknowledgment. I took my seat and looked out to take in the scene unfolding in front of me.

The Arno was stretched wide between the two banks and the water lay perfectly still. Blossom had fallen from the overhanging trees and created a thin carpet that extended through two of the bridge’s arches on either side. Plants grew tall on each bank, reaching over my head height, with green and brown weeds tucked beneath them, rising from the level of the water. However, amidst all this untamed foliage, there were still touches of beauty, as specks of lavender had started to grow out at the top of the banks, granting drops of purple to the otherwise mossy green reefs.

And then there was the bridge. Still perfectly intact, and sturdy enough for waves of cars to pass over every few minutes. Made from a combination of different stones, ranging from sand-coloured to an almost silverish grey; with seemingly not one individual brick having fallen from it. Moss grew out of the pillars on either side, settling in wiry tufts on their tops, to give the illusion of stone pineapples. And then the arches. Short and wide, giving a big enough gap that it looked like the bridge had taken long, measured steps across the river.

And even on a uncharacteristically grey day for Tuscany, their reflective power was still on show. The bridge was perfectly mirrored below it, to the extent that the arches ceased to in fact be arches at all and were instead complete circles, separated only by the water level. It was two bridges in one. The reality a practical passing point for commuters in and out of the Arezzo area and beyond; its reverse image a reminder of its timeless, artistic credentials.

As I observed it, I noticed splashes and ripples, no bigger than the press of a finger, start to appear sporadically in the water. And I felt a drop a moisture briefly glaze the back of my neck. It had started to rain. Ever so gently, and not to an extent that would sour the experience. Instead, it just brought the landscape picture in my mind’s eye sparking into life. The river rippling and flickering like a dormant piano that had suddenly and spontaneously released a tune.

The man down from me left his bench and walked nonchalantly to reach his car, parked on the curb nearby. I watched him drive off and disappear round the corner, next to the raggedy old barn. I was fascinated by him. He had clearly come for no other purpose than to find some time for himself, with only the famous, old bridge for company. It was like he was visiting an old friend, able to silently speak and share with it secrets he could tell no-one else.

I think it must have been his actions that inspired me, but I began to have the urge to explore further into the countryside. To delve a little more into the wilderness. I looked at my location on my phone and saw what was around me. The nearest sign of civilisation was a town called Castiglion Fibochhi, which was about an hour’s walk away. I considered it for a few moments before I rose from the bench and headed away from the Ponte Buriano and off on a mini adventure.

I discovered fairly quickly into my journey that the path would mainly consist of walking on the sides of some busy roads. I figured my random expedition wouldn’t be as effective or enjoyable if I was killed en route and so I decided to get off at the nearest junction on the route and head off-piste. It was as I was walking along the meandering, narrow roads that I subsequently discovered, with rows of grape vines and sunflowers on either side of me and the dusky hills in the background, the feeling of freedom I had been craving. I unbuttoned my shirt and raised my arms in the air as I stared up at the sky, basking in my own glorious isolation.

I continued to stray further from the initial route by cutting down one of the gravel paths that dissected two of the vineyards. I had no idea if it was private land or if I was trespassing, but I didn’t care. There was not another soul that crossed paths with me for at least an hour, and I continued to tread along the dusty walkway, deeply embroiled in nothing but my own thoughts.

Eventually, I came to a tiny monument, that looked like a worn-down confessional with a small statue of an angel at its peak. Beside it was a graveyard, with a locked gate at its front, but with the graves still visible within. I peered in to read them. The writing had faded on the small, square tombstones but there were fresh flowers laid at the base of some of them. I supposed that there couldn’t have been more than twenty-five graves in the entire plot. It was the kind of graveyard you could surely only find by accident, as I had managed to do.

And it was there that I made a vow, spoken out loud to no-one. I would be buried in this plot. I would need to tell somebody, probably Seb, of my intentions in the time leading up to my death. Perhaps I would write him a letter, complete with instructions and some loose co-ordinates of where to find the graveyard. And I would set him the goal of burying me there, or at least overseeing the process of me being buried there. It seemed so perfect to me. The middle of nowhere, in a place you could only find by accident. My remains planted in Tuscan soil, with a flower brought there every few years by any who still remembered me. Maybe someone could pluck some of the lavender that lined the banks by the Ponte Buriano, thus copying and honouring the journey I had taken myself. The thought made me smile and I finished the rest of my walk in excellent spirits.

Chapter 1

For me, it was always going to be Tuscany.

I had only been once before, when I was a child. My parents had taken me when I was around ten or eleven I think, and we had stayed in a villa on the outskirts of the city of Arezzo, tucked in the easternmost sector of the region. I am an only child and thus family holidays were never an occasion I looked forward to, but rather an obligation I felt compelled to fulfil in my agreed role as dutiful son. More akin to the experience of a dentist’s appointment. Never entirely unpleasant, but equally never more than a date in the calendar to tick off every passing year.

However, even given those undesirable circumstances, I still found myself completely enthralled by Tuscany. It was a place that encouraged you to lift your head and take in every little detail around you. The soft yellow hue of the ancient walls, the uneven cobbles of the streets, the grandeur of the churches, the beauty of the statues and the dark green lushness of the distant hills. It felt removed from anything I had known before. And everywhere that I visited subsequently could never quite live up to it either.

My abiding memory of that hallowed holiday is a specific one. I had been allowed to wander alone by my parents, a common practise borne out of their simultaneously relaxed and distant parenting style. I had found my way into a kind of park, though these details remain blurred, that ultimately led on to a long, straight promenade made up of a gravel path. And this is where the picture turns crystal clear. To the left was the beginning of one of those iconic hills, with a steep bank slanting upwards, filled with wild plants and bushes. To the right was the view. Vast and glorious. A sun-kissed scene of fields and vineyards, with smatterings of houses, all marked by the bent clay tiles on the rusty, red roofs. In the distance was the first curve of a lake, emerging from another hill and perching on the line of the horizon, like a silver platter on a dining table.

This stunning scenery would flicker in and out of view, between the branches of tall cypress trees that lined either side of the path. Their trunks were thin but they then expanded into bristling bouquets of leaves at their tips, allowing the path to be almost entirely sheltered in shade. It stretched on far beyond my eye and I hadn’t dared to follow it to its end, for fear of being unable to return to my parents in time. Instead, I just stood and admired. It felt to me then that I had disappeared briefly into another world. That I had wandered off the map. That, if for just one moment, I had managed to get lost in time.

Chapter 2

Around thirteen years later, I took a seat at the entrance to Gate Twenty-Three at London City Airport, dragging my suitcase close to my side. I was one of the first passengers to have arrived at the gate, but I squirmed against the back of the chair to try and get as comfortable as possible, knowing it would still be some time before I got on the plane.

I studied the face of the suited airline employee who stood behind the monitor, a few feet in front of the closed door leading down to the apron. I tried to gauge from his manner any clues as to the state of the flight. The airport, and perhaps the entire world, was still stumbling their way back into the light after being trapped under the darkness of a pandemic. It felt, at that moment anyway, that we had made it through the main, seismic tremors of the earthquake but were still suffering the occasional aftershock. The rational part of my mind urged me to therefore look upon the man with sympathy, but its counterpart was trying to hold him personally responsible for my own inconvenience.

The events leading up to me taking that seat at the airport terminal were both recent and relevant. It had been less than two weeks earlier that I had received an email through from Bastille Limited, a premium procurement organisation based in London. It referenced an attached document, a contract of employment set to commence on the 10^th August. With my name, in bold, at the top and a space for my signature at the bottom. An official, legal confirmation of what had long since been agreed. That I was to join the company as a ‘Junior Purchasing Assistant.’

In fact, the event was so mundane that it elicited no reaction at all from me at first. I opened the document, printed it and began to flick through the various pages, only reading every other word. I could have been a sophisticated form of an android, programmed to scan and then mark the contract with my signature, as long as it passed successfully through my processing system. It was only when I reached the “Duties” section, that the ghost in the machine roared to life.

“Unless prevented by incapacity, the Employee shall devote the whole of his/her time, attention and abilities to the business of the company.” I stopped reading, retreated my eyes to the start of the sentence and read it again. Pausing to read the same sentence twice can nearly always serve to change its meaning, and such was the case. No longer was I reading a commonplace confirmation of the next progression in my professional life, but a warrant. I ceased to be myself, a sentient, complex human being and had instead become: “The Employee.” Serving no other purpose than to devote the whole of my limited time to “the business of the company.” And in that one instance, I was no longer an ambitious young man who had secured a promising first graduate role, but a lamb, meekly surrendering themselves to their own slaughter.

I became aware that I was sweating and I felt trembles rung along the skin of my arms and legs. I didn’t even to attempt to break myself from the trance that had overcome me. I just stayed staring blankly at the words on the page. Eventually, I was able to finish reading the rest of the contract. Taking out a black, ballpoint pen, I hesitantly scribbled in the necessary section of the final page.

Not signing had never been an option. Even with my anxiety-induced epiphany, I had come too far to quit on the final hurdle. A tenancy signed on a flat in London, which had involved a sizable loan taken from my parents. An announcement on the family group chats of my appointment. A budget drawn up, completely dependent on my agreed monthly salary. I would work for Bastille Limited. I would be their latest “Junior Purchasing Assistant.” That was to be my life. My sentence even. Commencing the 10^th August.

Instead, my thoughts turned to the month I had before that date. I had gotten to know myself well enough that I now recognised and understood my reactions to issues and stressors. And I was undeniably, and proudly, an advocate of flight over fight. It had first surfaced in my attempts to randomly board a directionless train after a fierce argument with my mother. It had continued through my pathetic fleeing from a drunken altercation outside a nightclub whilst at university. And now in the face of full-time employment, I wanted to get as far away as possible from anything resembling that impending reality.

I considered my finances. I could certainly afford a holiday. I had worked a part-time job at a supermarket throughout university and I had never been a prolific spender. This meant I had acquired a small but significant surplus. A surplus whose existence was based purely on being there should I ever need it. And I never had.

Locations drifted in and out of my mind, like I was playing myself a personal holiday slideshow. Greece, Spain, Canada, Bali. And then the memory returned to me once more. I was swept back to the long, shadowed promenade. And the path between the cypress trees.

I booked the entire holiday that day. Flights in and out of Florence. A few nights stay in an apartment in the central Santa Maria Novella district. And then down to Arezzo. To stay for the rest of the month. Partly because it was cheaper to stay there than somewhere more renowned. Partly because I wanted to desperately try and reclaim what I had discovered there in my youth.

It had only occurred to me afterwards that my impulsive escape had essentially turned into a twenty-first-century adaptation of a “Grand Tour.” A cultural tour of Europe, to accompany and perhaps complete my education, both as a scholar and a man. This only increased my appetite for the trip. I was a shameless lover of the Romantics and anything that connected me in some way to the likes of Byron or Shelley served as only further justification.

I had decided on only one suitcase to accompany me, with a smaller rucksack inside to be used as required on excursions. My packing list was not an extensive one and consisted of the following items: Ten t-shirts (ranging in colour from navy to grey); two pairs of shorts (one smart pair, one comfortable); as many pairs of pants and socks as I had available; a phone charger and an adapter borrowed from my father; a toiletry bag consisting of little more than toothpaste, shower gel and hair wax; two easy-iron shirts for an occasion on which I might need to impress; my passport; a bottle of sun cream and two books: Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes, part guidebook to the area of Tuscany I was visiting, part spiritual companion to my “grand tour” and finally, Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, because I couldn’t bear to be without it. Everywhere I had been after first purchasing the book, Holden Caulfield had joined me.

Similarly minimalist was the list of people whom I informed of my plans. My parents seemed surprised at the timing but were otherwise as neutral and unconcerned as ever. The only other person offered the privilege was my oldest and closest friend, Seb. He had moved away for work himself in the last year and so I couldn’t inform him in person, but we exchanged a series of messages. He didn’t question the decision in the slightest, which was exactly why he was who I chose to tell, and after wishing me well and expressing excitement at me telling him about it on my return, he signed off with the closing quip: “Just make sure you actually come back…”

The airline guy made his announcement. We could finally start to board the plane. The now-full seating area began to empty and filter through the doors, series of passports and boarding passes held out for inspection. I offered my politest, fakest smile as I passed by. Once I had found and taken my seat on the plane itself, I hid myself behind the guise of my earphones and swivelled my head to stare absently out the window, long before the plane began to move. My thoughts briefly returned to the contract. To Bastille Limited. To being “The Employee.” I dismissed them. That could wait. My Grand Tour, my Tuscan retreat, my greatest escape even, was about to commence.