The Gilder (10 page)

CHAPTER 6

W
ith summer in full swing and tourists swarming the city, Marina found herself on the defensive, a denizen whose turf was under attack. It became “us” and “them,” with Marina now firmly in the “us” camp. She was glad at the end of the day to cross the boulevard and return to her neighborhood, where the invaders might wander only by chance.

Her workday was divided between the classroom and either her workroom or Sauro’s workshop, where he now allowed her to help him on his projects. The grandfather smiled and nodded in her direction but rarely spoke, while Sauro’s father occasionally gave her work his grudging stamp of approval.

She and Sarah continued to share the siesta hours, sometimes lazing on the banks of the Arno or, if it was cool enough, riding bikes in the Cascina Park. When the heat became too much, they retreated to Marina’s apartment, where Sarah might paint Marina’s toes or brush her hair. Marina was caught off guard the first time Sarah asked if she could brush her hair. She hadn’t had her hair brushed by anyone since her mother’s cursory strokes when she was young.

“Come on, you’ll love it.” Sarah sat down on the edge of the bed and pointed to the floor in front of her. “Go get your brush and sit here.”

Marina rarely said no to anything Sarah wanted to do, no matter how odd, like on the scorching day she insisted they strip to their underwear and lie on the stone floor of her living room in an effort to cool off. She retrieved her brush from the bathroom and sat on the floor between Sarah’s knees. A shiver ran down her spine as Sarah pulled her fingers slowly through her hair from her forehead to the base of her skull, scratching her scalp lightly with her nails. She repeated this motion twice more, and Marina couldn’t help but let out a little moan.

“Now, just breathe and relax. I’m going to try for a hundred strokes, just like Renaissance women, only their hair was three times as long as yours.” Sarah gave the hair a few long, firm strokes from the crown down to the tips, where it brushed Marina’s shoulders. “It’s beautiful hair, so silky. You should grow it.”

“Mmmm,” was all Marina had to say as she tipped her head to one side in anticipation of the next stroke.

The odd thing was that Sarah would never let her return the favor. Marina had offered to paint her toes and brush her hair, but Sarah had simply shaken her head and said, “I’m too ticklish.” She wasn’t sure how to take Sarah’s rebuff. Wasn’t she good enough? It made her feel a bit like a plaything, a doll that Sarah could do with what she wanted.

Most evenings, she joined Thomas and Sarah for dinner, usually at Anita’s, but on occasion, a languid night might take them to a restaurant upriver, where they would sit outside admiring the city, its lights multiplied on the still surface of the water. On one such night, they asked if she would look after their apartment while they spent the month of August in the country with Thomas’s agent, Stefano.

“One of the contessa’s cronies,” Sarah told her later. “Actually he’s not bad, and his wife’s a sweetheart and a fabulous cook. So I’ll be as fat as a pig when you see me in September.”

Marina was thrilled to finally be able to do something for Sarah and spent most of their last evening together reassuring the two of them that she would be all right on her own for the month. “I have so much to do, you wouldn’t believe it. Sauro has left two pieces for me to work on while he’s away. It took me a while to convince him that I wasn’t going on vacation. You’d think it was against the law not to take August off.”

“I think it is. You’ll see. The tourists will be the only ones left in the city,” said Thomas.

“That’s good, I’ll need them.”

He looked at her quizzically.

“I’m going to work for Sauro’s brother at his leather stall in Santa Croce.”

“What?” Sarah put down her fork. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It just happened today. The German girl he had ran off with the Spaniard who worked at the stall next to his.”

Thomas frowned. “If I’d known you needed work, I would have taken you on. I could use some help.”

“No, no. I don’t need work. I have enough money to keep me going for a while. This just came along, and I thought, what the hell. My gilding class will be over, Sauro’s away until September, and it’s something different.”

“Okay, but swear to me that you’ll help me out this fall.
And
do some modeling.”

Marina laughed and held up both hands, palms out. “Okay, okay, I promise.”

Sarah reached across the table and covered Marina’s hand with hers. In mock seriousness, she said, “And promise me that you won’t kill my plants.”

Thomas’s forecast was correct. As the summer heat increased, the citizens left, heading for cooler air at seaside resorts or country houses. For every one that left, two tourists arrived. The city became a different place, barely recognizable, and not one Marina would have stayed in had she arrived at the height of summer. She watched groups of foreigners led by flag-toting guides roam the streets around her stall like herds of cattle, taxis and city buses waiting patiently for them to move out of the way. But the tourists gave Marina a sense of belonging, as if the city were hers to protect, and rather than fend off the invaders, she welcomed them and did her best to guide and educate them. After making a sale of a leather bag, belt, or wallet, she’d asked her customers what they had seen, suggesting sights they might have missed. She wanted to share the city, her city, to have them love it as much as she did. She directed them to museums, churches, galleries, and to Vivoli, just around the corner, for “the best gelato in the world.”

The week following Thomas and Sarah’s departure, Marina let herself into their apartment with the key Sarah had given her. It was eerily quiet, the bright rugs and tapestry throw pillows not nearly as cheerful as when Sarah was there. She had the feeling that at any moment, Sarah would call to her from the bedroom, or she would turn around and find Thomas sitting on the couch reading the paper. She opened the terrace doors to the sun and busied herself watering the large pots of geraniums before coming inside to tend to the houseplants. Sarah had instructed her, with all seriousness, to talk to the plants so they knew they were loved, “just like children.” Marina thought it was silly, but she’d promised.

“Hello, Mr. Tree. Are you thirsty? Here, have a drink.” She felt like an idiot, but after the third or fourth plant, she found herself addressing a small African violet with some feeling. “Here you go, sweetie. Don’t worry, Sarah will be back soon.” By the time she was finished, she was sure the apartment felt friendlier.

Crossing back toward the kitchen with the watering can in hand, she noticed an ivy plant high up on the bookshelves. Finding a stool in the bedroom, she stood on tiptoe to reach the plant. “Here you go, honey, I almost missed you.” Next to the plant lay a large portfolio with the words
Sarah Drawings
written in faded script on the binding. Marina climbed down with the watering can, then back up to retrieve the folder. She carried it to the couch and laid it carefully on the coffee table.

The folder, marbleized cardboard with reinforced leather corners, was tied with black string and covered in a thick layer of dust. Marina undid the knot and turned back the cover. The first drawing was a charcoal rendering of a hand, palm upturned, fingers gently curved. It looked so real Marina imagined she could drop something into the palm, something delicate, a speckled robin’s egg or a dandelion head. She slid the drawing to the side and found more hands on the next few sheets of paper. The detail was remarkable, the folds along the joints, the crosshatching of lines on the skin, veins pushing up from within. It was as if she could see the blood pulsing through them. Then came drawings of two different models: a slim, small-breasted girl and an old man with a creased face. Sketches of their hands followed, his gnarled and laced with veins, hers plump and unlined.

The last few drawings were of Thomas. He knelt on a small padded mat in the center of a dais; a narrow wooden pole about the size of a broom handle rested horizontally on his shoulders, behind his neck. His arms were draped over it, the pole in the crook of his elbows, his forearms hanging down in front. His head was bowed. The muscles in his shoulders and thighs were accentuated by the pose, and his hands, pendent at the ends of his arms, presented themselves for the taking. There was only one drawing of his entire body, and Marina stared at it for quite a while. Looking at a picture of Thomas naked, she couldn’t decide how she felt exactly—voyeuristic, naughty, titillated? His genitalia were in shadow, but she never would have suspected that under his baggy jeans and sweaters lay a well-developed, finely muscled body. The remaining drawings were studies of his hands. Marina turned each one over carefully until she came to the end, then leaned back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. Why didn’t Sarah ever talk about her work? She had talent, and there was a definite intensity about the hand thing. Marina shook her head. Thomas had never mentioned it either. She sat for a moment longer wondering if she should leave the folder out on the table, so Sarah would know she had seen it, but then she closed the cover, tied the string, and returned it to its place on the bookcase.

Occasionally, Jocelyn and Felicity came by the leather stall to invite Marina to parties, which she never attended, but when their boyfriends rented a house in the country, Marina relented and accepted an invitation to a weekend house party. The heat was getting to her and she was lonely. Jocelyn arranged a ride for Marina with a few of the Persian students. “You can have your pick. We’ve already got our guys. Reza and Parvis are really cute and sweet, but Amir has the best bod, and he’s a great dancer.” When Marina said that she’d just as soon take the bus, Jocelyn told her she had already made the arrangements for her to be picked up on Friday at noon. Marina did not relish the thought of a long drive with three guys she didn’t know, and contemplated not answering the door when they came, but in the end, the appeal of escaping the city for a couple of days won out.

The three young men who appeared at her door were not only perfect gentlemen, fighting over who would carry her bag, but handsome as well. Parvis turned out to be tall and thin, with long curly hair and a mustache. Amir was not quite as tall, but was more muscular and had large brown eyes fringed with thick lashes. Reza, the slightest of the three, was clearly the one in charge, the one with the car. Marina ended up in the back of the tiny Fiat with Parvis, who took great pains not to jostle against her as they flew down the Autostrada in the shimmering midday heat. Amir spoke English well, talking easily with her from the front seat. He told her about the design project he was working on for the completion of his architecture degree, and about returning to Iran to take care of his elderly parents when he was finished.

By the time they bumped to a stop in front of the ramshackle farmhouse, Marina’s reservations had drained away—she was ready to let loose and have some fun. As she squeezed herself from the car, Felicity and Jocelyn, in short shorts and bikini tops and pink with sunburn, burst from the front door. They kissed and hugged everyone, then ushered Marina into the house.

The cool, dark interior was a welcome relief from the white heat outside.

“It’s been so bloody hot,” said Jocelyn, “we keep the shutters closed most of the time, only opening them at night. Even then, it’s stifling.” The girls led Marina up the stone staircase to her room at the end of the hall. “This is Amir’s room,” said Felicity, “but he’s giving it to you for the weekend. He’ll share with Parvis. Take a minute to freshen up. Then come down for drinks.”

In the dusky, shuttered light, Marina made out a beamed ceiling draped with cobwebs and a double bed that appeared to be freshly made up. She put down her bag, picked up a thin towel from the end of the bed, and made her way to the bathroom, where she splashed cold water on her face. Her eyes seemed bluer than normal against her flushed cheeks. She ran wet fingers through her hair and spoke sternly to her image in the mirror: “Have fun!”

Downstairs, she found Felicity in the kitchen mixing a large pot of sangria, orange slices floating on the surface like tiny life rafts.

“Here, help me ladle this out.” Felicity directed her to some glasses set out on the table. “Everyone is out on the terrace.”

It was still hot, but bearable, under the shade of a large tree, where Jocelyn introduced Marina to Mohamed and Henry. A flurry of clinking glasses followed and someone produced a fat cigarette laced with hashish. When it reached her, Marina took a drag, not anticipating its strength. Once she finished coughing and wiping her eyes, Amir said, “It is strong, no?”

“No shit,” gasped Marina, taking a sip of wine.

There was a great deal of laughter, followed by chatter between the men in Farsi. After a while, Jocelyn leaned over and said to Marina, “I know it seems rude for them to carry on like this, but we’ve gotten used to it. If we get bored, we interrupt and make them speak English.”

Marina shrugged. She was happy just floating in a haze of wine and hashish.

After a while, someone suggested a swim before supper. They made their way down a narrow path, through the heady scent of honeysuckle, to a small lake. It was almost dark and the air had cooled to lukewarm. The men stripped off their clothes and ran splashing into the water, calling for the women to follow. Marina didn’t hesitate, the combination of dusk and drugs having stripped her of any self-consciousness. The water, warm and silky, was like slipping into a perfectly fitted garment. Sleek. Caressing. Marina couldn’t remember ever feeling anything so wonderful. Amir swam over to her. At some point, it seemed to have been decided that she was his to pursue. She giggled to herself, wondering if they had drawn straws or played some Persian betting game. Whatever the case, she was glad that Amir had come out on top.

“Allow me to show you something,” he said, instructing her to lie on her back as he slipped his arm under her shoulder blades, the other behind her thighs just below her buttocks. “Now relax. I support you,” he said.