The Gilder (5 page)

Marina nodded, murmuring her interest, but most of her attention was on Sarah, who had the air of a benevolent queen surveying her kingdom, and she half expected a shower of flower petals to rain down on them from above. It was as if light seeped from Sarah’s pores, illuminating the air around her. Was this what people meant when they talked about a person’s aura? Marina walked beside her, a lady-in-waiting, entranced by the ease with which Sarah seemed to traverse her world. She wasn’t sure, but she judged Sarah to be about thirty and Thomas closing in on forty, and while she’d often been on friendly terms with older clients of her mother’s, she’d never had older friends of her own; she matched her stride to Sarah’s with a renewed sense of confidence and burgeoning sophistication.

“Watch out!” Sarah grabbed Marina’s arm, saving her from a mound of ripe dog droppings. Linking her arm through Marina’s, she said, “They don’t believe in curbing their dogs over here. You’ve got to train your senses to be on poop patrol at all times. It becomes an automatic-pilot thing after a while.”

Sarah felt more solid than she looked in her diaphanous dress, hair floating in all directions. While Marina had admired the elegant couplings of Italian women walking arm-in-arm, she found proximity to Sarah and her lavender-scented aura made her clumsy, and she was at a loss to match her step.

After a few twists and turns, they came into a square where rows of small kiosks with tin roofs were barely visible under mounds of junk: dented copper pots, rusted light fixtures, shabby furniture, and old toys. Sarah explained this was known as the flea market, and it was possible, if one dug deep enough, to find a rare treasure every now and then.

When Sarah released her arm, Marina felt both relieved and momentarily adrift.

“I found this here,” Sarah said, holding out her left hand.

On her ring finger, she wore a silver band with an oddly shaped blob overlaid on the top. Marina took Sarah’s hand and brought it up to her face. The blob was, in fact, a tiny crucifix so worn down as to be barely discernable. It was odd and slightly creepy.

Sarah withdrew her hand and held it at arm’s length, considering the ring. “It’s not a religious thing, but Thomas liked it and it was a perfect fit.”

“Is it your wedding band?”

Sarah turned and began to walk. “Thomas doesn’t believe in wedding rings. When we got married, he said we didn’t need rings to tell the world what was between us. But I like wearing this. It reminds me that I belong to him.”

Marina followed Sarah onto a busy street where they walked single file along the sidewalk, threading their way around shoppers carrying baskets or string bags bulging with fruits and vegetables. Sarah explained, over her shoulder, that there was a market nearby, not as large as the Central Market in San Lorenzo, but without the tacky souvenir stands. Marina’s mind was still on the strange ring. If it wasn’t a religious thing, why wear the image of Christ on your finger? And she couldn’t imagine Sarah “belonging” to anyone, Christ or Thomas.

“Almost there,” Sarah said as they approached a wide boulevard lush with flowering shrubs and passed under a stone archway that in medieval times had been one of the gates to the city.

On the other side of the boulevard, the streets were wider and the shops less elegant than in the historic center, but there seemed to be everything one might need for everyday life. Sarah pointed out a small department store, a supermarket, bakery, pharmacy, and greengrocer, as well as a clothing store with underwear and woolen tights in the window. Marina turned her head from side to side, trying to take it all in. In the middle of the third block, Sarah stopped suddenly and took hold of Marina’s arm.

“This is it.”

The façade of shops gave way to an arched tunnel through the building. “See?” Sarah pointed to a white enameled sign fixed to the wall, with the words in blue: Via Luna.

They followed the road, barely wide enough for a small car, through the tunnel and around behind the buildings where it came to a dead end at a high stucco wall. A young man leaning against the wall waved and called out a greeting when he saw them. Marina’s heart knocked in her chest as they walked the length of the street, but the sun on her face and the reassuring sounds of lunch preparations coming from open windows overhead served as a calming balm.

Marcello was only slightly taller than the two women, very thin, and possibly the most beautiful man Marina had ever seen. His skin was flawless, the color of honey. His lustrous chestnut hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Dark eyes regarded her through lashes so thick they created a heavy line, as if drawn by an eye pencil. He wore tight jeans tucked into soft leather boots, and his fitted white shirt pressed against hard nipples. For the second time that day, she felt large and clumsy in her heavy boots and chunky sweater. Marina glanced at his crotch, at the same faded spot she’d noticed on so many young Florentine men. It was hard not to notice the contrast of dark denim to light, as if they rubbed themselves day in and day out. Sarah made the introductions as Marina shook Marcello’s hand, which lay limply in hers, as if waiting to be kissed. He smiled at her, then said something to Sarah, motioning toward a doorway.

Marina took a deep breath and followed them into a small kitchen, whitewashed with light from the open door. Against one wall, a tiny stove with four gas burners and an oven looked like something she had played with as a child. Next to it stood its twin, a pint-sized refrigerator. A deep enameled sink and draining board hung on the wall under a window that looked out into the alley, while a Formica-topped table and two chairs filled the remaining floor space. She followed Sarah and Marcello through a doorway into a windowless room lit solely by light filtering in from the kitchen in the front and a room at the back. Where were the French doors, the high ceilings, the expansive terrace?

Sarah was talking. “This is perfect. You could have a sitting room/bedroom here, and set up a workroom in the back.”

The back room looked out onto a garden, its tall window guarded from the outside by an ornate grill. Marcello gestured toward the window as he said something to Sarah.

Sarah turned to Marina. “Marcello is apologizing that you can’t use the garden, there’s no access from here. It belongs to the apartment next door.”

Marina cast a regretful glance into the shady garden and forced a smile. “That’s okay, it’s enough to have the light.”

“It’s perfect for a workroom. Good light, ventilation.” Sarah looked at Marina. “Don’t you think?”

“I guess so ...”

“I know, it’s not very big, but let’s go see how much his parents want for it.”

Sarah and Marcello chatted away as Marina followed them back to the main street and down the block, where they entered a butcher shop. A taller, heavier version of Marcello wore a bloodstained apron and stood behind a glass case filled with organs glistening reddish black under fluorescent lights. He had salt-and-pepper hair and brown eyes that drooped down at the corners, a sad comment on an otherwise happy face. Marcello greeted him with a quiet, “Ciao,
Papà,
” then without waiting for a reply, slipped behind the counter and through a doorway hung with wooden beads. As soon as Marcello’s father finished with his customer, he turned to Sarah with a jovial greeting and a wink for Marina. His eyes sparkled for that moment, but went flat when Marcello returned. The woman who followed Marcello from behind the curtain might have been his twin sister, with the same silky hair and smooth skin, but Sarah introduced her as his mother, Antonella. She was dressed in a slim tweed skirt, silk blouse, and tall, high-heeled boots. She and Sarah had a quick conversation while Marcello fidgeted at his mother’s side. Marina was trying not to look at the carcasses strung up along the wall when Marcello’s father began to mutter and then to shout, throwing his arms up as if talking to heaven, then holding them out beseechingly. Antonella waved him off as if he was saying something of little consequence, something they already knew, something they had heard a thousand times. Marcello responded loudly, jutting out his chin, but did not move from his mother’s side. Sarah and Antonella finished their conversation in hushed tones while Marcello’s father muttered from behind the counter until another customer entered, transforming him back into the jolly butcher.

Once they were back on the street and had said good-bye to Marcello, who sped off on a shiny red Vespa, Marina turned to Sarah. “What was that all about?”

Sarah grinned. “The loud part was about Marcello’s father not approving of his son’s lifestyle, and the quiet part was about getting you the apartment.”

“What do you mean, his lifestyle?”

Sarah hooked her arm through Marina’s. “I’ll tell you another time. Right now, let’s find Thomas and celebrate!”

The following morning, Marina woke to a dark sky and torrential rain. Seeing no reason to get up, she burrowed under the covers. She had slept fitfully, dreaming of cavernous rooms with murky corners, windows that opened onto brick walls, and staircases that led nowhere. Was she really going to set up house and make a life here? She thought back to the apartment she’d rented with two girlfriends during her last year at NYU, and the sublet with a different set of friends this past year. There had always been someone around, someone to share in the cooking and shopping, or to call the landlord if problems arose. But alone? She lay very still, taking shallow breaths under a blanket of panic, until Sarah’s voice came back to her.
They will let you take the apartment on a monthly basis to start, but at some point you’ll have to decide whether you’re staying, and then they’ll want you to sign a year’s lease.
When Marina had hesitated, Sarah said,
You have nothing to lose. It’s a steal, and so much cheaper than staying in the
pensione.
This way, you’ll be set with an apartment if you decide to stay.

Marina relaxed as she thought about setting up a workspace in the back room and cooking at the tiny stove with the kitchen door open onto the sunny alley. When she woke again, the rain was still coming down, but her mood had lifted enough to prompt a step toward permanence—she would buy an umbrella, not a travel-sized one, but a big black one, the kind that was kept next to the front door.

She made her way to the department store in the Piazza della Repubblica, only to find the umbrella selection thoroughly picked over. The only type left had pictures of the
David
on them, and while she was tempted for a moment by the thought of a naked man protecting her from the elements, she didn’t want to end up looking like a pathetic tourist. Besides, the rain had stopped; the umbrella could wait. Now it was time to call home with the good news.

Marina departed the central post office after waiting thirty minutes for an international phone booth for a ten-minute conversation that seemed to take only seconds. Her parents had been suitably enthusiastic about the apartment, encouraging her to get settled before her Italian class started the following week, and had made vague promises about coming to visit in the fall. She stared down at the water-stained tips of her boots as she made her way to Sarah’s, dodging dripping overhangs and the spray from careless drivers. Did her parents really have that much faith in her? Shouldn’t they be worried about her making a life so far from home? But neither of them had ever been that sort of parent, had they? If they had perfect faith in her, then so would she.

She found Sarah at her desk going over a list of things that still needed to be done before Thomas’s show opened that weekend, and was disappointed when she said she was too busy to help her make the final arrangements for taking the apartment.

“You’ll be fine,” Sarah assured her. “I’ll call Antonella and let her know. All you have to do is go to the shop with a month’s rent and she’ll give you the key.” Sarah kissed Marina on both cheeks and pushed an invitation into her hand. “Seven o’clock, Saturday. See you then.”

Two days later, Marina managed the negotiation for the key by handing Antonella a stack of lire and smiling and nodding at everything she said. She might well have been saying, “You look like a big fat cow in that baggy sweater,” as Marina bobbed her head in agreement. Her husband was busy behind the counter, but he gave her a wave between customers. Marina left the shop with the key in her hand, feeling a little more secure—even though they could not understand each other, at least someone she knew, and who knew her, was just around the corner.

The sun was just beginning its slide up over the rooftops as Marina entered Via Luna for the second time. In another hour, it would tumble into the little street, evaporating the puddles she now skirted. When she reached the end of the alley, she noticed, for the first time, a white tile with a blue number twenty-eight just to the left of the door. She stared at it, key in hand, and wondered if she could get her money back. It had only been a few minutes. The money wouldn’t be in the bank yet. She would say she’d changed her mind. It wasn’t too late to apply for graduate school in the fall, and she could live at home for a while, then find an apartment with friends. In two years, she’d be teaching art history and maybe a woodcarving class in some cushy prep school in New England. She looked back down the street for a moment, then inserted the key, and stepped inside.

CHAPTER 3

F
rom the middle of the crowded room, Marina let the vibrations of language and gesture wash over her. The opening had been in full swing when she arrived. Thomas and Sarah were occupied, she as hostess, he as man of the hour, so Marina managed to slip in unnoticed. This gave her time to look at the show and take in the crowd. There was a familiar feel to the gathering: the warm crush of people, animated conversation, sharp light reflected off white walls, so much like the openings she had grown up attending. As a toddler, she’d been carried to the openings held at her mother’s gallery, there as the token child, at first darling, then precocious. As an adolescent, when she’d just as soon have stayed home watching
Gilligan’s Island
or
The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
, coercion was needed to get her to an opening, but as she matured and her interest in art grew, she attended them eagerly.