Around the World in 80 Dates (14 page)

“I have always believed in another life, but, as I cleaned, I had a strange and powerful feeling that Elena—the young woman in the grave—was calling me to take care of her.

“So I did.

“And, little by little, in addition to the sense of compassion that compelled me to look after her grave, over the years another feeling for her developed: one of true love.”

Davide stopped talking and looked at me shyly. I realized that the entire time he had been telling his story, I had been holding my breath. I inhaled sharply and blinked hard. I couldn't believe what he was telling me, but I knew I had to say something or he'd close up.

“So you fell in love with Elena after you stumbled across her grave?” I clarified in a neutral tone. “Why were you in the graveyard in the first place?”

Davide explained he was there because he was in love with a real girl who sold flowers outside the cemetery. The feeling wasn't reciprocated, he admitted with a gentle shrug.

As Davide and Eleanor talked, I quickly read a translation of Davide's letter for the first time. When they finished talking, I showed Davide the translation. “In your letter—which is really beautiful—you say: ‘Her angelic face was covered in years of dust. I was moved and saddened by her image so I cleaned up her grave and bought some flowers.' ”

Had he ever bought flowers for Elena's grave from the flower seller as an excuse to talk to her? He said at first yes, but as he fell in love with Elena he'd forgotten all about the flower seller and stopped buying from her.

I asked how much he knew about Elena's background. Davide explained he'd visited the records office in City Hall and read up on her family, initially with the intention of contacting them to let them know how neglected the grave was. He found she'd been born on the same street as Juliet in the center of Verona. Her father was a trader; she had two brothers and one sister. All were dead now.

As Davide explained, I watched him closely. For the last eleven years he'd been in love with a girl who'd been dead for nearly eighty. Did that make him mad? He looked normal and sweet, but was this the sign of a lonely man or something more sinister?

But as easy as it would have been to dismiss his feelings out of hand and ridicule his situation, I didn't want to do that. It felt very important that I kept an open mind about what he was telling me. What if he really did love her? And what if loving her didn't make him mad or deluded but actually incredibly brave to recognize and honor his feelings?

Rather than making assumptions and judging him, I wanted to hear what he had to say. I asked what his friends and family thought of the situation. Also, “when you go to parties and people are there with their partners, don't you wish you had someone with you?”

Davide shook his head. “Although my family knows, I don't tell my friends as most wouldn't understand. I just say, ‘I'm alone, maybe I will find someone one day.' And anyway, when I go to parties, I don't mind that nobody ‘real' is there. I am quite happy.”

I asked what it was about Elena that made him happy. Davide considered the question for a moment, then said: “I feel a deep sense of joy and peace. Even though she can't speak, she communicates with me. I feel her presence; otherwise this wouldn't have gone on for so many years.”

He paused, then said simply, “I believe we all have a Soul Mate—just one—either in this life or the next. Sooner or later you meet: This is how I feel about Elena.”

I was moved by Davide's devotion, though I didn't agree with his Soul Mate theory. As I see it, when you are young, you go through a lot of fast-changing stages. As you get older, the stages change more slowly and you are in each for a progressively longer time. I believe there is a Soul Mate for each stage. If you are lucky, you find them. If you are luckier still, their stages coincide with yours and you stay and grow together. I suppose that's why I can be positive and believe there is a Soul Mate out there for me.

With luck, I will find him.

But what if you believed there was only ever going to be one Soul Mate for you, and you found them after they'd died? How incredibly strong or lonely would you have to be to be true to them anyway? Would you live like Davide and be true to your Soul Mate—no matter how hard—or would you just give up and settle for the easier option of a living mate?

I asked Davide how he knew she was The One.

Davide told me that, although he felt connected from the moment he first saw the grave, it was only little by little over the years that he realized how deeply involved he was with her. “She leads me,” he said simply. “She gives me signs.”

“What kinds of signs?” I asked.

“Like encouraging me to write to Juliet,” he said. “I am convinced she wanted me to tell the world about us. I wrote to Juliet about our relationship and the letter was awarded the prize. After the letter was published, a lot of my friends and colleagues saw it and congratulated me. I had done the right thing.”

I asked if he found loving Elena easy.

“No,” Davide replied gravely. “You must feel ready, otherwise it is impossible to live this life. But, if you have been lonely and suffered with that loneliness, you find love where you thought you never would.”

I didn't want to judge Davide or patronize him with my pity, but it sounded a hard life and I did feel sorry for him. I thought back to the Love Professor observing that when you've been single for a long time, after a while anything will do. I asked Davide if—having experienced such a deep love with Elena—he thought the experience would make him more receptive to loving someone living.

He shrugged; possibly, but that person would have to accept his huge love for Elena, otherwise it would not work. Part of his heart would always be devoted to Elena.

One of the things I loved about being in a relationship was coming home and relaxing together, chatting about our days, having someone to share moments and thoughts with. How did Davide and Elena's relationship work on a daily basis?

Davide explained that he led a normal life; he took fresh flowers to the grave often but not every day. Either way, he always felt connected and close to her. “I've always been very reserved, I don't have many friends. Every time I feel sad or down, I turn to her and she gives me comfort and love.”

I suddenly noticed a ring on Davide's left hand. “Oh, is that a wedding ring?” The question just popped out.

Davide smiled proudly and touched it gently with the fingers on his right hand. “Yes, with her name inside.”

I wasn't prepared for this and was deeply shocked. An involuntary groan escaped before I could stop it. I tried to turn it into a more appreciative noise: “Ooooh, did you have one made for her, too?”

Davide nodded and explained that in Italy, after a certain period of time has elapsed, it's legal for people to dig up family coffins and rebury the remains inside a smaller casket. Davide had dug up and reburied Elena last year. Inside the new casket, alongside her remains, he had placed his wedding ring to her, his name engraved inside.

“Right…” It took me a moment to collect my thoughts. “So, when you put the ring in with Elena's remains, was that your wedding as well as her reburial?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “By then our relationship had been going for ten years. I was sure of how I felt and wanted to give her a sign of my love, a symbol.”

“Davide, did you invite anybody else along to the wedding or was it just the pair of you?” I asked evenly.

“My mother came. She knows all about Elena and is fond of her.”

Davide went on to explain that his mother was at first extremely uncomfortable about the situation with Elena, but “when she saw how happy Elena made me, she accepted and grew to care for her, too.” Initially after the reburial, they felt bad “for disturbing her sleep,” but now they were happy: She was no longer neglected and was being taken proper care of.

As Eleanor translated, Davide reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and tenderly removed a small black and white photograph. It was Elena. He looked at the picture fondly, before holding it out proudly for me to inspect. It was a copy of the original photograph on her gravestone. A young girl stared shyly out. She looked polite and neat, her hair bobbed short, her face heart-shaped and pretty.

I felt incredibly moved that Davide was showing me the picture, but also unbelievably awkward. I knew I needed to say something complimentary about it, but, honestly, it felt more like I was being shown an old family photograph of someone's grandmother than the “wallet shot” of someone's wife.

“She looks very fun-loving and open,” I said after the briefest pause. Were people “fun-loving” back in 1927? I didn't want to say the wrong thing and offend Davide, but he seemed fine, obviously happy to be able to include her in the conversation: “Her sweet eyes look beyond time and life; I fell in love with her look.”

“She looks lovely, thank you,” I said, handing back the photo. I caught sight of my watch: It was time to go.

“What are your plans for the future?” I asked, as we all got to our feet. Davide said he just hoped for a good life, to find a good job.

“But if you are asking about my heart, I am happy now, fulfilled. And even though people don't understand and even if I meet someone else, Elena will always be a great part of my life. I feel happy with that.”

So I wished Davide and Elena luck and we all said good-bye. Eleanor drove me back to my hotel. Lost in our own thoughts, neither of us spoke much.

 

In the alleys off Via Cappello, in the shadow of Juliet Capulet's house, pairs of Italian teenagers fall in love. Heads close, they talk and laugh quietly, locked in a private world of mutual desire, delighting in each other's company. Randomly, conversation gives way to urgent kissing, moped helmet dangling from one hand, cell phone from the other.

Out on the main street, cumbersome knots of American and Japanese tourists mill by, oblivious to the teenagers. They are making their way to the structure symbolizing the only kind of Italian teen-love that interests and moves them: Juliet's balcony.

In Verona everyone seemed wrapped up in their own desire. In a city famous for lovers who would rather die than compromise their feelings, maybe this was appropriate. Davide's story had saddened and perplexed me, though: Even if he was happy, I felt troubled for him.

Unable to distract myself by shopping (all the clothes were either too small, too expensive, or too white), I felt preoccupied and restless. I didn't want time on my hands with three gelaterias right outside my hotel (
BRITISH TOURIST DEAD FROM FREAK ICE-CREAM OVERDOSE
), so I rang Eleanor and we went out and got really drunk instead. It was great.

 

There was a courtyard around Juliet's beautiful fourteenth-century house. Over the years, the courtyard walls had accumulated such a collection of graffiti that people now wrote their love poems on wads of chewing gum that coated every inch of wall, like rubbery, multicolored tiles.

Under the balcony was a bronze statue of Juliet. Folklore had declared it lucky (though possibly not for her) to touch Juliet's right breast. The statue of the fourteen-year-old girl—breast corroded a pale orange by the acid sweat of a million would-be Romeos—looked on stoically, as a hundred stamping and baying tourists took turns being photographed groping her. Like the audience of
Blind Date
transported back in time, with each squeeze the crowd roared its approval.

I watched with a huge hangover, knowing that in about ten minutes, I was going to have to put on a velvet gown and dress up as Juliet.

Despite my misgivings, Eleanor took me into the house and persuaded me to go into the utility closet and change into the dress. It was a heavy red velvet floor-length outfit, laced up the front, cinched round the waist with a jeweled belt, and topped off with a red spongy headdress.

As I emerged, the crowd spotted me immediately. They poured in from the courtyard, pushing inside to get a better look, roaring replaced by quiet, rapt expectation.
The first person who tries to rub my breast will quickly discover they are anything but lucky,
I thought grimly.

Actually, as the dress trailed across the floor, I felt my spirits (and hangover) lift. I immediately understood the attraction of dressing like this, so voluminous and red that I could have spent my whole life living off croissants, gelati, and pizza, and nobody would have been any the wiser.

Then “Romeo”
(Date #22)
arrived. Sporting a deep-red velvet tunic, green tights, and a codpiece that made me instinctively avert my eyes, he was a hyperactive mid-thirties Italian called Solimano. He looked vaguely consumptive and a foot too short but had a mischievous smile. Solimano marched across the courtyard into the hallway and through the parting crowd, like Moses on a mission. Stopping directly in front of me, Solimano sank down onto one knee, snatched my hand, and kissed it passionately.

To my astonishment and the delight of the crowd, he declared: “I am here, your Romeo. Now we will be together forever.” He finished with a flourish, then, jumping to his feet, vaulted out the window, onto the balcony. “Come now, my Juliet,” he commanded. “Come to the balcony, so I may speak of my love for you.”