Bella Fortuna (30 page)

Read Bella Fortuna Online

Authors: Rosanna Chiofalo

BOOK: Bella Fortuna
8.36Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
An image came to her of a young man walking along the cliff of a mountain and waving dismissively toward her as she apologized to him. Just as the face of the man came into view, Francesca's uncle said,
“Sera, son' io.”
Olivia gasped, placing her hand over her mouth. Only one person had ever called her by her middle name.
“Salvatore?”
And now it was Olivia's turn to look as if she'd seen a ghost. But in her case, she was really seeing a ghost—for she had believed this man had died so many years ago.
16
The Lion
I
'm having breakfast, or
la prima colazione,
at a bar not too far from St. Mark's Basilica. Unlike in America, bars in Italy are where patrons can get everything from a cup of
espresso
and pastries to cocktails and even
gelato
. I order an espresso-flavored
granita
topped with
panna
(whipped cream) and a French roll known as a brioche. Originated in Sicily but served throughout Italy,
granitas
are a cross between sorbet and Italian ice but with more of a crystallized texture. I'd fallen in love with
granitas
on my first trip to Sicily when I was ten years old. As a child, I'd marveled at the sweet breakfasts Italians had, which often consisted of either
granitas
or
biscotti.
Of course, Italians and Europeans eat such light breakfasts to save room for their heavier midday meals.
Breaking off another piece of brioche and dipping it into the heavenly
granita,
I have to pinch myself to believe I'm really here in Venice. The bar features arched porticos, giving patrons an unfettered view of the canal. A couple in a gondola that is making its way down the Grand Canal catches my attention. The man's arm is around the woman's shoulders. The man whispers into the woman's ear, and she smiles, looking up into his face. That's the invitation he's waiting for as he leans in to kiss her.
I look away as tears sting my eyes. That couple is supposed to be Michael and me. Though I had been in Venice for only a day, Michael keeps entering my thoughts. I try forcing myself to think of anything but Michael, but it's hopeless. What haunts me the most are the recurring nightmares I've had several times a week since we've broken up. In them, that horrible day when Michael ends our engagement replays itself. The dreams always end with me asking him over and over, Why?
I still grapple with his motives even though I try telling myself the “why” isn't important. It's not going to bring him back if I know fully what had made him change his mind. But the curiosity still gnaws at me. My intuition senses something isn't right. I'm convinced he hadn't completely leveled with me when he said he didn't think marriage was for him. In all the years that I've known Michael, even before we'd begun dating, he's repeatedly told me how he can't wait to have his own family and be a father someday. He's an only child and has always wished he had siblings. No, it's more than a case of cold feet. I'd bet my life on it.
Finishing the last of my
espresso,
I sigh deeply. That's enough of Michael. I'm not in Venice to dwell on why the love of my life has broken my heart. I signal to the waiter. If I hope to get ahead of the lines for the guided tours at the Basilica, I need to leave now. I sign my credit card receipt. Wherever I can, I use my credit card instead of euros so I won't have to convert my U.S. dollars as frequently. The waiter takes my receipt.
“Have a nice day, mees. You are from America, correct?”
All of the merchants and restaurant workers in Venice know English and speak it very well.
“How did you know I was American?”
I'm a little disappointed that he can tell. Whenever I've visited Sicily, people often told me that I looked like one of the natives since I didn't wear the trademark tourist clothes—Bermuda shorts and tennis shoes.
“I jus' know.”
The waiter looks to be around twenty.
“Dov'é posso comprare i francobolli?”
Now it's the waiter's turn to look surprised.
“A un chiosco dei giornali, signorina. É impossibile per non trovare uno.”
“Molto grazie.”
“Spero che non ha presa offesa?”
“No, no. You did not offend me.”
I smile to assure him.
“Where did you learn to speak Italian so well?”
“My parents are from Sicily.”
“I go to Sicilia almost every August.
É molta bella
.”
I nod my head in agreement.
“Buon giorno.”
I had only walked three feet when the waiter calls out to me.
“
Scusa, signorina
. Can I make any recommendations while you're here in Venice?”
“Are the tours of the Basilica San Marco good?”
“Yes, they're good, but if you can, try to take one of the Giro Artistico tours. They cost a little more, but the guide is one of the best art historians in Venice.”
“
Grazie
. I will take you up on your recommendation.”
“If you need anything else while you are in Venice, please feel free to come by and ask me. My name is Fausto.”
“Piacere, Fausto. Io mi chiamo Valentina. Arrivederci.”
“Arrivederci.”
I notice Fausto's eyes scanning me from head to toe—or rather undressing me. I guess my being a decade older doesn't faze him. As I leave the bar, I can still feel his eyes on me. I can't resist looking over my shoulder before I step outside. He's still standing where I left him, scrutinizing me intensely. He smiles and waves, unabashed that I've caught him checking me out.
I shake my head. Italian men.
Making a mental note of the name “Giro Artistico,” I quickly walk over to St. Mark's Basilica. With my passion for art history, I will have to take this tour and see if it lives up to Fausto's high praise.
Instead of the abundant sunshine I was greeted with upon landing in Venice yesterday, clouds keep rolling in as the morning goes by. But the overcast skies do not deter from Venice's beauty. The Basilica's enormous scale overwhelms me once again as I approach it. Looking at a map of the Basilica inside my guidebook, I locate where the presbytery is. Although it is nine a.m., one full hour before guided tours begin, there are already a dozen tourists ahead of me on line. I take my place behind a family of Swedish tourists and wait.
Today and tomorrow, I'll focus on the main landmarks on San Marco: the Basilica, Il Palazzo Ducale, Il Campanile. Depending on how much I cover of San Marco in the next couple of days, I'll then venture to the outlying islands in the lagoon. One island I cannot miss is Burano, known for its long lace-making tradition. I want to purchase lace to bring back home and use in sewing a few of our wedding gowns.
“Ciao, Stefano!”
“Com'é va, Stefano? Un' altra bella donna!”
“Stefano, non ti dimenticare a venire sta sera!”
“Si, si. Ciao! Ciao! Buon giorno.”
I strain my head to see who has caught so many people's attention. Perhaps it's an Italian celebrity?
“Stefano, ti bisogna aiuto oggi?”
I follow the voice of the little boy who's standing by the dockside. The boy is dressed shabbily with dirty, tattered jeans and a long-sleeved New York Yankees T-shirt that's two sizes too large on him. He wears a beat-up pair of black Converse sneakers. The Converse logo is blank, obviously a cheap knockoff.
“Ciao, Giuliano. Sempre mi bisogna aiuto. Compra me un giornale e una granita per te.”
The little boy's face lights up at the extra euros the celebrity gives him.
“Grazie.”
The celebrity helps out of the gondola the stunning redhead he's with. He takes her mahogany leather trench coat and holds it open for her as she eases herself into it. He pulls out her long penny-red hair, smooths it down, and then kisses her on both cheeks. She smiles as she wraps a silk Fendi scarf around her neck and hoists a black alligator-skin handbag over her shoulder. I can make out the large G on the bag's buckle, indicating it's a Gucci.
“Ci vederemo doppo. Va bene?”
The woman nods her head and glides away. Her movements are very lithe as if she's walking on water. Perhaps she's a dancer. She is taller than the celebrity by a good foot. Her heavy makeup and glamorous wardrobe also give her the appearance of a model or a television broadcaster on the Italian public TV network RAI. She carries herself as if she's the most beautiful woman in all of Italy. Heck, make that the universe.
The celebrity is making his way toward the Basilica. He's dressed smartly as well in a sand-colored linen suit with a pale blue button-down shirt that's open at the collar to reveal a tan that can rival that of a Bain de Soleil model. His hair is cut in many layers, and he wears it a little long. He carries off the Rick Springfield look—circa 1982—extremely well, though the style is dated. Flecks of gray lightly dust his chestnut-brown hair. Dark aviator sunglasses hide his eyes. His gait is brisk but easy. He exchanges a few words with the guard who stands at the Basilica's entrance. A gleam in the sky diverts my attention. I look up and see it's the gilded statue of the winged lion that stands over the Basilica's center arch. The winged lion has been a symbol of Venice dating back to the Republic's early days and can be seen on buildings everywhere throughout the city. I glance back down at the celebrity. His whole demeanor exudes confidence that demands to be noticed, much like one of the lions in Venice's architecture.
My curiosity has gotten the better of me, and I want to know if he's a famous Italian star. Maybe I can ask the guard who he is. Unlike Aldo, I'm usually not taken with celebrities, but then again, I've never come this close to one.
Turning my attention back toward the line, I'm surprised to discover that there are only four people in front of me. Distracted by the Italian celebrity, I haven't noticed the line moving. Once at the front, I purchase my ticket. As I walk toward the Basilica's entrance, I overhear the ticket seller tell the person behind me that she has just sold the last ticket for the ten a.m. Giro Artistico tour, but there are still plenty of tickets for the other tour that's also being held at this hour. I'm relieved I've managed to snag the last ticket.
There is just a small group of twelve tourists waiting for the tour to commence. I'm surprised that the tour has sold out. Maybe the guide likes to keep the tours small. I knot my cashmere pashmina. In Italy, visitors are not allowed to enter churches in shorts or bare shoulders. I had forgotten this rule when I'd left my hotel the previous day in my halter dress, but luckily, I had a silk scarf in my purse that I was able to use to wrap around my shoulders when I made my impromptu visit to the Basilica. Today, I'm wearing a white, A-line linen skirt that skims slightly above my knees. Underneath my pashmina, I'm wearing a sapphire-blue strapless lace top, which will be perfect for all the outdoor walking I'm planning on doing this afternoon. Already it's quite warm outside, and I can just imagine how hot and humid it'll feel once the afternoon hours arrive. My violet pashmina complements perfectly my white strappy leather sandals that are adorned with purple and blue jewels.
It's quite cool from the air conditioner in the enormous Basilica. A chill suddenly runs down the back of my neck. My hair is up in a loose chignon, but I decide to let it down. Pulling out the pins that hold my chignon in place, I flip my head over and shake out my hair to give it some body. When I flip my head up, sweeping my tousled mane back, I'm greeted by the most gorgeous pair of green eyes.
It's the celebrity!
He's staring at me just as intently, if not more, as the waiter at the restaurant had where I'd had breakfast this morning. I swallow hard and lick my lips. The celebrity's eyes dart right to my lips.
Oh, why did I lick my lips? I can feel my face warming up. But there's also another sensation happening. Little waves flutter through my stomach, and soon the heat I'm feeling in my face is slowly enveloping the rest of my body. The celebrity's emerald eyes seem to read my thoughts as his gaze slowly, very slowly, travels down the length of my body and rests on my bare legs.
I can't take this intense scrutiny anymore. I pretend not to notice him and turn around, feigning interest in one of the gilded frescoes in the domes above me, when it suddenly hits me that I'm giving him a full view of my backside. Oh God, help me! And right here, in church. This man must think I'm a hussy or, as my mother would put it, a
puttana
.
Casually, I turn back around, making certain I avoid his eyes. I cross my arms and ask one of the tourists standing near me, “So, do you think the tour will start soon?”
Hopefully, he'll get turned off hearing that I'm nothing more than a cheesy American tourist.
“We're about to begin. Hello, everyone. My name is Stefano Lambrusca.”
To my astonishment the celebrity is not a celebrity but our tour guide. I can't help but look in his direction. He's smiling cordially at our group, but when he notices me looking at him, his smile deepens.
“As you no doubt have noticed, this is a small group, and that's how I like to keep my tours so that everyone can have the opportunity to ask as many questions as he or she likes and to present a more . . .
ehhh . . . Com'é se dice?
” He pauses, searching for the right word. “A more intimate setting.”

Other books

Contact by Laurisa Reyes
Lady of Devices by Shelley Adina
The Girl He Needs by Kristi Rose
Girl Three by Tracy March
The Staircase by Ann Rinaldi
Seeking Asylum by Mallory Kane
The History of Great Things by Elizabeth Crane