The Last Promise

  The food wasn’t all Eliana had paid special attention to. She had painted her nails, taken a long bath with scented oils and carefully shaved her legs so they’d be smooth for him. She had also spent extra time on her hair, but she was now regretting all of it. With each minute he’d been late, her mood had deteriorated still more. By the time dinner was served, she did not even bother to light the candles at the table.

  She called him to dinner. A minute later he walked in, looked over the spread. “You shouldn’t have gone to this much trouble,” he said, acting magnanimous.

  Eliana looked up at him, bridling her temper. She picked her words carefully. “I wanted to do something special for you.”

  “You shouldn’t have troubled,” he repeated as he sat down.

  She watched him for a moment as he picked at his food. “Did you already eat?” she asked.

  “No. Well, just a snack. I had to get gas and I picked up a hamburger at the Autogrill.”

  She wanted to scream. Instead she just quietly sighed.

  “Where’s Alessio?”

  “He’s in bed.”

  Without comment, Maurizio cut a thin strip from his steak, raised it to his mouth.

  “He waited for you. You promised him you’d play soccer with him.”

  “I didn’t promise him. I told him if I was home in time.”

  “It’s the same thing to a child.”

  “They are not the same things. Someone should teach him that.”

  “I think you are.”

  For the rest of dinner the only sound coming from the table was the conflict of silverware against porcelain. Maurizio, not oblivious to her anger, complimented her cooking. His gesture was met with silence and he resigned himself to her sullen companionship.

  American women are crazy, he thought. She works all day to make me a meal then sulks through it.

  Eliana finished eating before him, put her dishes in the sink and then went upstairs to her studio. She picked up Maurizio’s coat from the back of the sofa as she passed by.

  As soon as she was out of the room, Maurizio pushed back from the table, took the bottle of wine and went into the living room to watch the soccer game. He shut the door and lit a cigarette. Because of Alessio’s asthma, Eliana had forbidden him to smoke in the house, a regulation he regularly flouted, as much on principle as desire. “A single man has no master,” his unmarried colleagues derided him. A woman shouldn’t be telling a man what to do in his own house. Still he limited his smoking to two rooms, the living room and the bedroom.

  In spite of Eliana’s silent treatment, he was content. He had eaten well. Twice, in fact. Drunk well. His team, Fiorentina, was playing well for a change. Eliana was sulking about something, but that was predictable, he thought. The reentry ritual was one they had been through a hundred times before. He had it down to a science. Eliana would sulk for a while; then she’d blow, inevitably launching into a tirade about how little time he spent at home or why he hadn’t bothered to call her. He would let her blow off steam; then he would remind her of how fortunate she was to be so well provided for and the sacrifices and loneliness his life on the road required. He might even throw in anecdotes of his business associates who made him look like husband of the year by comparison.

  Either way, Eliana didn’t have the stomach for conflict that he had. She would go off for a while then come back and be civil—be a good wife.

  Always the same foolishness, he thought. If she wants me home so much, why does she make it so damn miserable to come home?

  Still, the situation was manageable. And there was the upside. His wife was a good cook, she kept a good home and she was a good mother. There was a price for those things. Even Eden had snakes.

  At around midnight Maurizio shut off the television and went into their bedroom. Eliana had finished painting and come back downstairs to do the dishes more than an hour before and had still not spoken to him. Not a good omen, he thought. She was like a pressure cooker. The more time that went by, the more steam built up.

  He dropped his clothes on the floor at the side of the bed and climbed naked under the sheets. He lit another cigarette, stretched back in bed then called out for her.

  “Eliana. Come to bed, amore. It’s late.”

  No response. A moment later he tried again.

  “I’ve been away from my woman too long,” he said playfully. “Don’t make your man wait any longer.”

  A few minutes later Eliana walked into the room. She stopped at the foot of the bed, eyeing him fiercely. Her voice was low, simmering. “So tell me, Maurizio, was it lonely on the road?”

  “It is always lonely, amore.”

  “So you were all alone?”

  He looked at her carefully, trying to guess the intent of her question. “Certo.” Of course.

  “Then who do these belong to?” She dangled two diamond earrings in front of him. “They were in your coat pocket.”

  His eyes darted from the earrings to her. He laughed nervously. “Per te, amore. They’re for you. I thought they would look nice with your green dress. You know the one I gave you last summer from Venice. I was running late, I didn’t have time to have them wrapped.”

  “Really?” Eliana’s eyes flashed. She raised her other hand. “And the lipstick I found with them—that too was a gift for me, Maurizio? Maybe next time you should buy some that isn’t already used.”

  For a moment the two stared at each other; then Maurizio surrendered with a loud sigh. “Eliana, è così.”

  Eliana exploded. “No, it’s not just the way it is! It’s the way you are.” She flung the earrings and lipstick case against the wall. “I won’t do this anymore. I won’t. It’s over, Maurizio. It’s over between us.”

  “Amore, no,” he said calmly.

  “Don’t you dare call me that. Don’t you ever call me that again.”

  “We have a good life here, amore. Una dolce vita.”

  “What do you know of the life I have here? You are never here. You are always someplace else with some other woman while I stay and keep your house clean and your son alive. You know nothing of my life, Maurizio. Niente!”

  He looked away from her, yet his demeanor didn’t change. He was strong that way. “Where will you go?”

  “Home. I’m taking Alessio and going back to America.”

  Maurizio took a long drag from his cigarette, then looked up at her coolly. “No, you will not be taking my son to America.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “No, I will not permit it. You are not in America, Eliana. You cannot take Alessio without my consent. And without my consent you would have to prove to a judge that you could give your son a better life in America. Unless you have some buried treasure I do not know about, I do not think that is possible. What will you do? Be a waitress? Maybe a secretary? You have no skills. You have no money. You have no insurance. How will you pay for Alessio’s health care? Be reasonable, Eliana. A judge in Italy will decide for Alessio, not you. A judge will never allow you to take him.”

  Eliana just stared at him.

  “You know I am right, Eliana. You know there are many foreign women living in Italy because they cannot take their children back to America. You have told me about them yourself. So you make your choice. You divorce me and live in Italy alone and try to find a job, while someone else watches your son, or you go back to America alone. Or you stay with me and have a nice home in the countryside and take care of our son. But these are the only choices you have, because I will not allow you to take him from Italy. It is not in his best interest.”

  Eliana stood staring at him, as breathless as if she had just been slugged in the stomach. She could not answer him. He had her and they both knew it. Maurizio smiled at her sympathetically. “It’s not so bad, Eliana. I’m just doing what all men do. The problem is only with how you see things.” He ground his cigarette out in a glass dish near the bed. “You’ll get used to it, amore. Then you’ll be happy. Now be a good wife and come
to bed.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Amor, che al cor gentil ratto s’apprende.” Love is quickly caught in the gentle heart.

  —Dante

  Ross’s commute to work was less than fifteen minutes and could have been pulled from a travel book’s walking tour of Florence. He crossed the Arno at Ponte Vecchio, against the backdrop of the central landmark of Florence: the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, the Duomo, its roan dome rising above the city like a great matron. The Duomo was enigmatic to Ross, both majestic and peculiar in her green, rose and white marble, as unlikely as a gingerbread house built for God.

  The Uffizi was just on the other side of the bridge.

  The first tour Ross conducted concluded about two hours after it began. Francesca had followed along on his tour without interference, and afterward the two of them took coffee together to evaluate his presentation. She was pleased. She had only a few suggestions, minor ones, and pointed out his one mistake, attributing Fiorentino’s Musician Angel to Raffaello, which no one noticed but Francesca. “Don’t worry about it,” she said with a grin, adding in Italian, “These bus monkeys didn’t know their Donatello from their Bernini. You could have told them that Titian’s Venus of Urbino was a paint by numbers and they would have believed you.”

  In spite of Ross’s knowledge and love for the art, it was his interaction with the group that she was most pleased with. Twelve years in the business had taught her a peculiar truism: most tourists spend more time looking at the guide than the art.

  She gave him a hundred and twenty thousand lire in cash along with her cellular and home phone numbers and the time of his next tour. She had already booked him a tour for the next morning. Francesca was a shrewd marketer and had arrangements with most of the large hotels. She led more tours than any other guide in the city and still turned down nearly half her offers.

  They parted and Ross set out for his next task. After six months of sleeping in hotels and hostels, he was ready to settle down. He remembered passing a real estate office near the train station, and he headed off to find it, wandering slowly through the back streets toward the station. He stopped briefly at the open market at San Lorenzo, where he looked at leather-bound books and a sweater, but purchased nothing. Forty minutes later he found the agency.

  The office was small with two wooden desks. A young man was speaking on the phone behind one of them. A cigarette burned in his hand, its smoke rising in wisps, occasionally dissipated by an oscillating desk fan. His other hand held a pen, which he tapped rhythmically on the desk. Despite the summer heat, he wore a tweed jacket with a collared shirt beneath.

  As the door shut behind Ross, the man looked up and acknowledged him with a curt nod. Ross glanced around then walked to the side of the room, where handwritten apartment information was posted on the wall.

  Five minutes later the young man hung up the phone. “Buona sera. May I help you, sir?” He spoke in clear English.

  Ross turned around. “I’m looking for an apartment.”

  “Yes. Please sit down.”

  Ross sat in one of the small metal chairs in front of the desk.

  “You are looking for something in Florence?”

  “Outside the city a little. Perhaps in Chianti.”

  He took a short puff of the cigarette. “Yes, in Chianti. You are quite fortunate as there are now many places free.” He reached for a black binder on the desktop and opened it. “Chiocchio, Strada in Chianti, Impruneta. Greve. There are many. How many rooms will you require?”

  “It’s just for me. I would like something with a fire-place and a good view. Someplace interesting. Perhaps an old farmhouse or in a villa near a vineyard.”

  “In Chianti they are all near vineyards.” He stood from behind the desk. He was in actuality much taller than he had looked sitting down. He extinguished his cigarette in a glass ashtray, then extended his hand. “My name is Luigi Tommassi.”

  “My name is Ross. You speak good English.”

  “Yes, well, I went to school in San Diego for three semesters. Do you speak Italian?”

  “A little,” Ross said, though more as a matter of courtesy than truth. His Italian was as good as the man’s English.

  “How long of a lease do you wish to make?”

  “I plan to live here indefinitely, but I might decide to change apartments after I know the city better. A one-year lease would be good.”

  “That is not a problem. When would you be available to see something?”

  “I’m living in a hotel right now, so the sooner the better. I could go today.”

  “Yes, well, I only have my scooter today and I will need to make some arrangement. But I am free tomorrow. If you like, I could get my car and we could see a few places.”

  “Tomorrow would be fine.”

  “I must talk to the people with the apartments, of course, but early afternoon would probably be the best time.”

  “How about three o’clock?”

  Luigi looked at a calendar on the wall. “Alle tre, yes, three o’clock would be good. Do you have a phone number where you can be called?”

  “Yes.” Ross wrote down the number and handed it to him. “That’s my cellular.” The agent looked at the number then slipped it into his front pocket.

  “I will only call if something comes up. Otherwise we can plan to meet here at three tomorrow. I will have a car to drive. Va bene?”

  Ross stood. “Va bene. Grazie.”

  “A domani.” See you tomorrow.

  The next morning Francesca was nearly twenty minutes late for the tour, and Ross, sensing the group’s growing impatience, started without her, which simultaneously pleased and concerned her. When she caught up with him, she took him aside. “Don’t forget you are an abusivo,” she warned. “Some of the other guides will want to turn you in to the commune. If you are stopped, you must tell them you are only helping me and I am in the toilet or getting a coffee.”

  “That’s how it works, huh?”

  “Yes. Many are very jealous of me.”

  Even before he finished the tour, Francesca had arranged for another—an American group from an active Dayton retirement center. He thought that he could fit the group in before his afternoon appointment, but found that they moved from exhibit to exhibit almost as if in slow motion. By the time they reached the second corridor, they were spending more time looking for places to rest than at art, so he abbreviated the last half of the tour.

  Still, it was past three when Ross ran from the Uffizi, hailed a cab and arrived at the real estate office. It was another sweltering day and the front of his shirt was stained with perspiration. He wiped his forehead with a Kleenex as he walked in.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Luigi appeared relieved to see him. “It is no problem. I was only afraid you might not come. I have made us four appointments for today. Our first appointment is one in the country with a beautiful view, about twelve kilometers from downtown. It is a very small community near Greve in Chianti. There are many vineyards, you said you like vineyards.”

  Ross nodded.

  “There is an apartment a little closer to town in Grassina. It would be maybe a fifteen-minute ride by motorino to the center of town. There is also a villa near Impruneta that I have not seen but it sounds interesting. Afterwards, if you are not too tired, there is another place we might go and see. It’s on the other side of Florence in Fiesole. It is a little bit further drive but it is very beautiful in Fiesole. I haven’t seen the apartment myself but my partner says it is magnificent.” He took his jacket from the back of his chair. “Shall we go?”

  Ross followed Luigi out to his car: a small, navy-blue Punto double-parked in front of the agency, with its hazard lights flashing.

  Their first stop was in Chiocchio, a Chianti township about a half-hour drive from Florence. The road to the community was nicknamed la strada del vino (the street of wine), as for many kilometers both sides of the road were flanked by large, well-cared-f
or vineyards.

  The rental property was a hundred-year-old summer cottage up a gravel drive lined with cypress trees and terra-cotta figurines. It had a large front porch that looked out onto a valley of vineyards and farmhouses and a small fishing lake, Lago Chiocchio. Next to the home was a limonaia, where lemon trees grew in terra-cotta pots for the winter.

  There were no homes nearby and this bothered Ross. He wanted his privacy but not solitary confinement. In addition, the home was larger than he needed, with an expansive family room and three bedrooms. The owner was a barrel-chested man with a thick Florentine accent, who offered them Chianti wine until they relented and took a glass.

  After touring the house, they walked around the side patio and Luigi pulled Ross aside. “I asked the owner if they had ever rented it for winter. He said they have not. The house is heated with gasolio—how do you say in English?”

  “Diesel fuel.”

  “Yes, diesel fuel is not efficient. This was built for a summerhouse, I think. I think it would be very expensive to heat in winter. And you would still be cold.”

  Ross looked across the yard. The place was beautiful but not right for him. “Let’s keep looking,” he said.

  Their second stop was closer to Florence, in a compact, busy township called Grassina. The rental property was new and clean, but its decor was modern European and lacked the rustic Italian feel Ross was looking for.

  Their third stop was a villa near the Chianti township of Impruneta. It was in the countryside, away from the main thoroughfare and difficult to find. Luigi kept a hand-drawn map on his lap which he frequently consulted as he plied the wooded back roads, stopping, backtracking, then launching out again, each time asserting with certainty that he knew exactly where it was. He made several wrong turns before the road emerged from a forest into a large orchard of dusty olive trees. A posted, hand-lettered sign read “Villa Rendola, 1000 metri.” Luigi said, “That is the name of the place.”