An Aria in Venice: A Musical Interlude Novel (22 page)

An Aria in Venice

Adriana

We
save the last day of Simona’s good-bye trip—because now I know that’s exactly
what this has been all along—for the one moment I’ve been dreading just as much
as Luca … our trip to the tomb of Giuseppe Martuccio. I can easily understand
why the Venetian’s call San Macale the city of the dead, the place where Luca’s
father rests. A row of Italian Cypress trees grows along either side of the
walkway leading to the headstones at the far end of the area.

Simona
is completely opposite of the way she was last night. A part of me is grateful
she can be so positive given her situation, but the other half wants to stand
up and yell until my voice goes out. I wonder which side of me will win.

“This
part of Venice reminds me of the human frame, a living pathway moving toward
the tombs of old age,” Simona says, her face paler today than yesterday. My
heart aches; breaking for her. “Do the buildings not remind you of ships biding
the waves?” She has been this way during the whole ride to the cemetery, filled
with phrases and questions that don’t seem to make a lot of sense. Luca and I
exchange worried glances. It turns out the serum she needs is actually a pain
killer of some type. According to Rafe, the medicine doesn’t stop the cancer,
it only lessens the pain. I want to help. Mother could easily give me the money
for the medicine, but the Martuccios are a proud family. I don’t know how
they’d feel about using a Dostovsky’s assistance.

Luca
attempts to take my hand, his sad eyes filling me with so many conflicted
emotions that I have to look away. For some reason, he pulls his hand back
without touching me. Sure, I’m still a little angry with him, but for some
reason, his sadness makes me think of Mr. N. I’m losing my mind. Yep! How else
do you explain why I’m seeing visions of Mr. N’s face when I glance at Luca?
The guilty feelings are back, too. Why am I feeling that way? Nikolai made it
clear that I’m supposed to move on. I make an extra effort to purge from my
head and body any remaining notion that I need to be faithful to him. Ambition
is what drives him, not his feelings for me. Spending the time here in Venice
with Simona and Luca as we relived each moment in her honeymoon has given me a
new look on things, a way to see past the dark and dreary. I now have hope.

This
time, I reach out and grasp Luca’s hand. Sure, I’m angry, but I can’t be cruel.
Visiting his father’s grave is hard on him, too. In return, I get the most
gorgeous smile I think I’ve ever seen on any man. I can’t lie; seeing that big
grin warms my soul.

After
leaving the cemetery, we ride back to the Baglioni. Sitting on the water taxi,
Simona smiles to herself as though she’s caught up in a memory, a peaceful one,
joy radiating from her body that I absorb into my own. I glance up at Luca
before laying my head over on his shoulder. Our job here is almost done, and I
can’t help but to feel a hitch in my chest each time I think about returning to
my life back in Milan. As though he senses the conversation going on in my
mind, Luca laces his fingers with mine. We’re getting pretty good at this kind
of thing—speaking without words, understanding each other without a need to
explain.

That
night, after I get settled in bed, Luca comes to the room and stands at the
foot of my bed for so long I almost think he’s sleep walking. Sitting up, I
focus on his figure highlighted by the lights shining through our window.
“Forgive me. I can’t sleep. Fucking couch hurts my back.” I know what he’s
asking, but I’m not sure how I feel about lying so close to him right now. “I’m
sorry I woke you up. I’ll go back to my detention corner now.”

The
little stab of Luca humor finishes me. “Luca, wait. I kind of don’t want to
sleep by myself.” A long, silent moment passes.

“Are
you sure?”

“Yeah.”
I pull back the covers to ease his mind. Something’s definitely wrong here. Me,
the girl who was too shy to say the “p” word, suddenly finds herself comforting
the player whose vocabulary is filled with nothing but Italian variations of
the “f” word. He settles into the bed, careful to stay on his side, and I lie
back down on mine. A shiver runs through me and I’m not sure why.

“You
cold?” he asks.

“A
little bit.”

I
hear him rustling in the sheets as he scoots toward me, his warm body contours
mine, his arm pulling me close and holding me there. He buries his face in my
hair, sniffing it. “You smell and feel so good, little Maia.”

“Why
do you call me little Mary?” I can’t believe I’ve waited this long to ask.

“Because
like Mary you are a pure soul. Untainted by all the bad shit that has been
tossed your way. A magical ability,” he replies, yawning.

“Magical?”
I ask, thinking of his Harry Potter story again.

“Si.
Only a goddess in disguise can turn someone from a lost cause to a man with a
purpose the way you have done. You’re an angel. My angel.” His breathing evens
out before I get the chance to respond.

 As
he drifts off to sleep, I hear him say, “Promise you won’t leave me, too.” Even
though he says the words softly, I can still hear the pain in his voice.

Slowly,
I turn my head and body toward him. If he isn’t already asleep then he’s
probably close, so I don’t know if he can hear me when I say, “I promise.”

The
next day, I don’t expect to find Simona standing at the door to our room when I
open it. Luca has gone out to try and find cinnamon bagels, the kind that is
covered in grain. I didn’t tell him that he’ll probably have to wait, something
I’ve learned he hates to do. In Milan, I order custom made bagels all the time
and being that we’re in Italy, everything takes longer because the Italians
don’t believe in cardboard recipes. Everything is made by hand, and that
includes the bagels.

“Simona?
What’s going on?” I ask, stretching my eyes to clear the sleep out of them.
She’s dressed in all black, complete with stretch leggings and shoes that look
a lot like ballet slippers. Her hair is secured in a bun and she’s wearing a
tank top. I narrow my eyes and a grin spreads across my face.

“Today,
we have a special mission. I am going to teach you one of my greatest moves,”
she says, smiling and clutching a gym bag.

“Luca’s
gone. I’m not sure when he’ll get back.”

“Oh,
send him a text. Tell him we are going out to play town. No men today. This is
a job for us girls,” she explains, winking, and I catch on right away.

“You
mean to say we’re going out to paint the town,” I correct, grinning. She shrugs
and waves off my correction, reminding me so much of her son with that action.

“And
... well, is it okay for you to do things like this? I mean ... I—”

“Adriana,
dear girl. I do not have both feet in the grave yet, only one.” Her grin makes
me smile, but I still feel uncomfortable agreeing to go out now that I know
about her illness. “Run along now. Grab something comfortable enough for
dancing.”

“Give
me ten minutes.”

It
doesn’t even take me five minutes to get dressed in a tank top and stretch
pants. I secure my bun, comb the hair out of my face, and grab the pointe shoes
I brought along. I also pack a pair of fuzzy beige leg warmers because I’ve
been suffering from ankle aches ever since I used the canal’s freezing water to
massage my feet a couple of nights ago. Today, Simona Martuccio plans to show
me the move that won her an accolade from one of the greatest ballet companies
in Italy. And I cannot wait.

“Just
because my sons are unstoppable forces of conflict doesn’t mean I can’t take my
favorite girl out today,” Simona says, beaming a smile as we head downstairs
and through the deserted lobby. I’m so ticked, no wait, I’m completely pissed
off at her sons for bringing their issues into her life during this time, that
I kind of don’t feel all that bad for leaving Luca behind.

We
sneak out in the early morning, two women at opposite ends of two lives that
promise completely different outcomes, and head toward a part of Italy that
I’ve never explored, the province of Trentino-Alto Adige. The driver, Marco, an
old friend of her husband, keeps his eyes on the road as we talk about Luca and
how she almost lost him to asthma.

“He
was always so small and sickly. Giuseppe and I devoted more time to making him
all better. His brothers mistook our one-sided attention as favoritism.”

That
they did. According to Luca, Giovanni and Rafe’s jealousy developed into
something close to abuse over time, but through all their conflict and
differences, Luca has never once spoken against his brothers in a negative way.

 I’ve
never been so excited about doing something with someone who has taken interest
in my career this way, other than Lis and Jojo. Over the past five days, Simona
has become the personification of the maternal love I once had, in a time
before my real mother turned into a vessel of ambition, steel, and coldness.

As
the landscape changes from cobbled streets filled with cars and buildings that
have clay tile rooftops, to rolling hills covered in green grasses that remind
me of the ones at Simona’s house in Tuscany, except for the mountains in the
distance, the excitement begins to expand inside my chest. We stop at a field
covered in bright green grass with a border surrounded by a strange flower with
a purple bloom. It’s gorgeous and makes me think we might find a yellow brick
road hidden amongst the greenery at any moment. Stepping out of the car, I’m
shocked to feel the firmness of the ground even though it’s covered in grass. I
remove my jacket and set my bag down, basking in the sun’s warmth. I perform my
warm up exercises while waiting for Marco to set everything up.

“There
you are,” Simona says, walking up to me and taking my hands in hers. She places
a pair of black ballet slippers with red lace attached to the heels in my
hands. They’re a size six, the same as me.

“These
belonged to my grandmother, a ballerina as beautiful as Aphrodite with fair
hair like Luca’s and eyes filled with love. She taught me all I know. She was
also the reason my mother hated me so … because my grandmother put all her
energy into being a top ballerina. Her children didn’t all approve. She was on
the road more often than not. Mama saw my acceptance into ballet as a betrayal,
like my grandmother, and never forgave me. They’re yours now.”

“Oh,
Simona. I can’t,” I say, panicking over the responsibility of taking a gift
that means so much to someone else.

“You
can. And you will. I have no daughter. And certainly my Luciano, Rafael, and
Giovanni will have no need of them anytime soon. Now, put them on so we can get
started on your lesson.”

“Thank
you. This is the best gift ever,” I say truthfully. Giggling as though we’re
two high school girls sharing a moment as we talk about our first boyfriends, I
sit down and slide the silky shoes on my feet. It’s like they were made for me.

“Now.
Time to teach you a lesson those green peace instructors at your company can’t
even begin to understand.
You have to let go of what is inside here,” Simona begins,
touching my forehead, “in order to fully embrace what’s inside here.” She
places a hand over her heart. I do the same.