Words to Tie to Bricks (19 page)

S
EAN
C
ERONI

I
N
1960
S
F
LORENCE
,
IN A
café with green shutters, tucked away in a maze
of cobblestone, a man sat enjoying a coffee. His name was Samuel Broesman. He is one of our protagonists.

Samuel was not an interesting man. He was head of Cadillac’s Italian branch and was at that moment enjoying a break from a dull business meeting. He was just one more rich American among
the seemingly millions who plagued the city. He was 46 years of age and he looked well for his age, with a full head of dark, slick black hair and the odd wrinkle. He wore a plain gold ring on the
fourth finger of his left hand.

At this particular point in the endless sea of forgotten memories, Sam was sitting comfortably at a table outside the café, bathed in sun, drinking an espresso and smoking a cigarette. It
was a busy day in Florence; the summer had brought the usual floods of tourists to its narrow streets. Sam had escaped the crowds and cameras to this café in the back streets of the ancient
city centre. The only sounds were the occasional hum of a vespa in the distance and the soft cooing of pigeons flying above. It was in this silence that he heard her approaching – the
rhythmic sound of heels tapping against the cobblestone. Sam could not help but stare at her as she emerged from behind the street corner. She was pencil-thin with a lithe, boyish quality to her
body. She wore a baby blue velvet dress that ended very high on her thighs and chunky blue plastic boots. There was a small white (presumably faux) fur draped over her small shoulders. The icing on
the cake had to be the massive pair of sunglasses that dominated her face. The blue frames curved into the grooves of her cheekbones ending with cat-eye points at the corners. She had sharp but
delicate features and pale skin that distinguished her as foreign. Her hair was styled in a blonde pixie cut. She was the most beautiful woman Sam had ever seen. She is our second protagonist.

She went by the name of Cece. No one was sure of her origins but she sounded vaguely British with a somewhat aristocratic tone. She was one of those people who seemed to have always lived in
Florence, forever playing the role of the mysterious socialite. She earned her keep as some form of a call girl, with the occasional modelling job. She had always wanted to die alone.

Cece noticed him the moment she rounded the corner. It was hard not to. He was the striking type. With his dark eyes and expensive suit. He looked elegant as he sat there, cigarette in one hand,
coffee in the other, smoke gently drifting from his lips as he lifted his espresso cup. She hadn’t set out for coffee but she wanted to observe him a little more. She walked up to the counter
with a slight nuance of moxie in her steps. She noted that he was looking at her the entire time. She leaned against the counter, and in velvet tones said, ‘Espresso per piacere.’

‘Certo,’ was the waiter’s reply. She strolled out again and sank into a chair at a table directly next to Sam’s. When she removed her sunglasses, they revealed huge,
grey, doll-like eyes framed in thick eyeliner. She grasped a pack of cigarettes out of her bag with her long blue pointed nails and rested the pack on the table. She considered getting her lighter
but thought better of it.

‘Do you have a light?’ she asked Sam, presuming he was of English-speaking origin.

‘Naturally,’ he said in the tones of a man who smoked heavily. He produced a lighter from his inside pocket and leaned towards her.

Cece leaned in, cigarette between her lips, until the lighter was directly under the cigarette. With a flick of Sam’s thumb the flame burst into life and lit the cigarette. Cece and Sam
leaned back and the first hurdle to a human bond had been overcome.

‘You come here much?’ Sam said, looking up at her.

She gave him a wry smile as smoke swirled from her nostrils before she replied with a simple ‘No,’ her eyes boring into his soul. ‘I had a hunch the coffee would be
good,’ she said before emitting a throaty laugh.

‘So is it appropriate to ask your name yet?’ Sam asked before taking a last drag and putting down his cigarette.

‘Cece,’ she said softly as the waiter arrived with her espresso. She put out the cigarette and slid a slim finger inside the cup handle, her blue nail chinking against the depth.
‘You have endless eyes.’ Her voice was ethereal.

‘Well darling, the man you see around those eyes is called Sam.’

Cece giggled. ‘You remind me of a skeleton.’ She stared directly into his eyes. It was at this point that Cece normally made people uncomfortable, and before long they usually came
up with an excuse to leave, but Sam didn’t flinch. He returned her stare. They sat together in silence for a few minutes. Despite only knowing him for mere minutes, Cece never wanted to leave
his presence.

She broke the silence by saying, ‘Well Samuel darling, how about we leave now that we know simply everything about each other.’

‘But you haven’t paid.’ Sam looked at her, rather alarmed.

‘Exactly,’ she said, smiling as she got out of her seat.

Sam also rose and Cece darted off around the street corner without him. Sam rushed after her as fast as he could, terrified of losing her. After coughing and spluttering for a few blocks, he
found Cece standing at a street corner adjusting her makeup.

‘What was that?’ Sam asked as he sidled up to her, scrunching his face in the effort to breathe.

‘Well, I don’t want to end up in jail again, do I?’

Sam wondered what he was getting himself into.

‘So where shall we go, dearest?’ Cece said as she applied a final layer of lipstick and snapped her mirror shut.

‘What exactly did you have in mind?’

‘Let’s just do something Florentine,’ she said as she grabbed his hand and led him down the cobblestones.

The pair walked side by side, fingers tangled.

‘Why are we doing this?’ Sam said as they walked through the streets, hands linked, without any direction.

‘Because we are in love,’ was Cece’s simple answer.

Sam wondered why he wasn’t disconcerted by the statement. It just seemed right. They continued in a comfortable silence.

‘Buy me ice cream,’ Cece said suddenly, in an unusually soft manner for a demand, dragging Sam into an ice cream parlour packed with tourists. Cece pushed ahead of the crowds
ignoring the queues and annoying many. She pressed against the counter and looked at the vast tubs of coloured creams.

‘Which one you like?’ the man behind the counter said in stilted English.

‘Blue,’ she said tapping her nail against the glass.

‘What colour cone?’

‘Mmmm ... I don’t know. SAM!’ she shouted across the shop. Sam emerged from the corner of the shop and pushed through the increasingly annoyed tourists to get to Cece.
‘Sam, darling, which colour cone do you think would suit blue?’

Sam shook his head, guessing she simply wanted an ice cream to match her ensemble. ‘White, I think.’

The man behind the counter didn’t bother waiting to see whether Cece agreed or not, which was only sensible considering the entire room was fuming and wished them dead.

‘2000 lire,’ he said as he shoved the ice cream in Cece’s direction.

Sam quickly threw him a note and rushed after Cece, who had already left; he found her outside experimentally licking the blue ice cream.

‘This ice cream tastes like plastic,’ Cece said as she scrunched her mouth up to her nose.

‘Well it was expensive, so enjoy it for my sake,’ Sam said, putting his arm around her.

They continued on into the streets. As strange as it sounded, Sam enjoyed the feeling of being obnoxious; it made him feel iconic.

They soon arrived at Piazza della Signoria. Cece wandered over to the fountain with the enormous statue of Neptune. She gazed into the water, a constellation of copper coins
reflected in her eyes. She dumped her blue ice cream into the quivering water and ran off quickly, giggling as she went.

She sat on a bench where Sam had already settled down. She began feeding pieces of the white cone to the pigeons. The stupid birds leapt upon the white flecks, battling each other off to win
what seemed to be the most precious thing in the world. She loved birds. She always felt sorry for the pigeons; they were never treated with compassion in Florence. It showed how people only seemed
to care for beautiful things. She gazed at the buildings around the square, tall and foreboding, surrounding her, closing in on her and the pigeons.

Cece leapt up from the bench and said to Sam, rushed, ‘We have to leave now.’

‘What do you mean? What’s wrong? Where do you want to go now?’ Sam asked, getting up from the bench.

‘How far is it to the airport?’ she said as she grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the square, displacing flocks of pigeons in the process.

‘What? The airport! What happened?’ Sam said as she dragged him down the steep steps.

‘Let’s go away and never come back, that’s all,’ she said as she let go of his hand, rushed to the road and hailed a taxi.

Sam hurried down the steps to meet her. She hopped into the taxi, leaving the door open for Sam, and leaned in toward the driver and said, ‘Aeroporto.’

Sam fell rather gracelessly into the taxi, out of breath. Cece put her head on his shoulder.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Sam said as he lit a cigarette.

‘Yes,’ Cece said, staring into space, thinking about everything and nothing.

She clutched his hand. They sat in silence, enjoying the intense feeling of bliss. Cece looked out the window; the city was getting thinner and thinner. There were more trees now.

She closed her eyes and smelled the smoke drifting around the cab.

C
ONOR
K
ELLEHER

Fog was thick last night.

The grass was wet and boggy.

Just an accident.

I’m so sorry, Ma’am.

He was a good boy, Alfie.

Didn’t deserve that.

Now, don’t blame yourself.

No one’s to blame here, Miss Black.

He was a young lad.

He knew the place well.

The chances were so slim, aye?

No, Ma’am, not his fault.

But not yours, neither.

Now look; there are always fights

‘tween mothers and sons.

Just dealt a bad hand,

That’s all. Just terrible luck.

Now look, Ma’am, now look,

You did not kill him.

Not your son, Miss Black, not you.

A mistake, mark me.

He walked by the cliffs.

The fog was thick, it was wet ...

He fell, Ma’am, he fell.

Okay? Not your fault.

An awful turn of events.

We’ll all mourn with you.

Sorry, what was that?

A note? Never mind that, Ma’am.

Never you mind that.