Falling for Italy (14 page)

“Well, I suppose appreciating beautiful things came to me through my genes and education,” he replied smiling fondly, probably at long gone family memories. “You can’t live in Florence and not develop a taste for fine art, not to admire a sculpture, a painting, a piece of brilliantly executed architecture. Tomorrow we’ll start with a tour of the city. I’ll take you to see the most beautiful streets, shops, and museums. I know all the museums here like I know the palm of my hand. We—Linda and I—practically grew up in them.”

“Now I see how your sister came by her passion for sculpture. Haven’t you got any inclinations toward this kind of hobby?”

“I used to try my hand at painting, but after I started the company I didn’t have much time for hobbies. I’m gratified to admire what has already been created by the geniuses in our history, which is another thing we can be proud to say, it’s known worldwide. Another rumor is that the most beautiful women in the world are Italian women, but I tend to disagree,” he added, a meaningful smile crossing his lips.

“Well, I’m sure you had your share of them,” she teased weakly, attempting to ignore the unpleasant feeling that tightened her heart at the thought.

He put his wine on the edge of the tub and moved toward her.

“At this moment, I can’t remember ever meeting a woman until I first saw you, Sonia,” he said, taking her glass and placing it next to his own.

Then he supported his arms on each side of her shoulders on the brink of the tub, bringing his body close to hers.

“You are the only one I’ve ever loved. You are the one who will become my wife. That should make you secure in my absolute love and devotion for you.”

She looked down for a moment, and then lifted her gaze to meet his. She stroked his cheek lovingly, studying his every feature. His face never failed to fascinate her, the beauty and elegance of it.

“I know that, my love. It’s just that… Sometimes it’s hard to take it all in. Our relationship started and evolved so fast, so strong that sometimes I think it’s a dream. I didn’t have much happiness in my life and
never
anything like this. Like you. It’s still a wonder to me that you love me, and that I love you,” she finished, thinking she wasn’t quite able to really express what she felt.

He bent his face very close to hers and said in a firm tone, “Well, you better believe it. Because the moment you said you wanted to marry me, you sealed our fates, Sonia. For better or worse, you belong to me now, as I do to you.”

His mouth descended on hers, possessive and reassuring, demanding and offering. His hands caressed every inch of her body, intuiting when she wanted them tender and when she wanted them rough. He kissed her throat, knowing that was one of the most erogenous places of her body. She became intoxicated with the pleasure of his touch, and he sensed it.

He dug his hands into her hips and lifted her higher, until her breasts emerged from the water. His lips and tongue meandered down, over the subtle curves and sensitive peaks, making her moan loudly. She ran her hands over his hard body, still marveling that this splendid monument of masculinity was hers.

She supported herself against the tub’s side, gripping its edge, then she encircled his waist with her legs and held on tight, as he pushed up and high, filling and fulfilling every fantasy she’d ever had. His potent, fluid motions combined with the dizzying swirl of the water made her head spin, while her body tightened and jerked around his in an explosion of satisfied desire. Her unfocused gaze locked on to his, and she felt his own jolt of release, as strong as a powerful volcano eruption that shakes the Earth, flooding it with hot lava.

Breathless, he half-collapsed over her, replete. Even though his words were barely a whisper, she heard them clearly and the truth in them stamped forever into her heart.

“I love you, Sonia. I love you more than my life.”

Chapter Eleven

Giovanni kept his promise, and then some. Although he’d wanted to take Sonia to see as much of the city as possible in a single day, he knew that was a long-term mission. So he decided to take her first to see the historical center of the city.

Dressed in black thick jackets, jeans and comfortable boots, they left his BMW in a secure parking lot and walked from there, letting themselves blend in the motley cosmopolitan crowds. The day was beautiful, perfect for promenade and sightseeing. The sun shone over the rooftops of modern buildings and old villas with balconies where colorful clothes fluttered in the wind. They passed by monuments, statues, fountains and he told her what he knew about each one, trying to make the history lesson fun rather than boring.

Their first stop was
Santa Maria Del Fiore
, known by everyone as
The Duomo
. Although he knew the building very well, as always, he was enveloped by wonder and pride gazing up at the most imposing cathedral in the world, its colorful decorated walls glimmering under the Tuscan winter sun.

Sonia was enraptured by everything she saw, taking dozens of pictures, complaining now and again her neck was getting stiff from looking up. A permanent smile seemed imprinted on her beautiful face and her cheeks were rosy. They strolled through the
Piazza Del Duomo
, their fingers—gloved in black leather—inseparably tangled.

They bought some cannoli and sat on a bench where they could see Giotto’s magnificent
Campanile
. Dozens of fat pigeons scattered around them and Sonia threw them nearly all of her food before she realized they were taking advantage.

“God, look at how beautiful they are,” she exclaimed, a delighted smile lighting her features.

“Yeah, they sense you’re new around here. Look at those tourists.” He pointed out a group of young people who were feeding another flock of pigeons. “Those opportunists are so fat they can barely walk, not to mention fly,” he added amused, referring to the birds.

She laughed, brushing her hair away from her face. The wind was just a tad stronger than a breeze, but pleasant nonetheless.

“It’s so much warmer here than in England,” she said, throwing her last piece of pastry to a white pigeon that was staring at her motionless. It got into action immediately, grabbing the offering before the crust could hit the ground, and then flew away to enjoy its bounty in peace.

He got to his feet and stretched a hand to pull her up.

“Yes, it is. It’s not like this all winter though. We’ll have our share of snow.”

“I hope we’ll have snow for Christmas,” she said, nuzzling into him. “Where are we going now?”

“I want to show you
The Battistero di San Giovanni
.”

“San Giovanni? Does that mean Saint Giovanni?”

He chuckled.

“Yeah. Giovanni Battista is the Italian name for Saint John the Baptist.”

“Really?” she asked amazed, turning her head to look at him. “I didn’t know that. So, your name is the equivalent of John?”

“John in English, Jean in French and probably some hundreds of others. John the Baptist is the patron saint of Firenze. My mother was named after him and she, in turn, named me after him too.”

“Looks like you were born under a saintly star,” she remarked jokingly as they walked to the baptistery.

The building was one of his favorites, not only because of its aspect, but also because of the history it carried.

“This is one of the oldest buildings in Firenze,” he told Sonia while they went around to admire the bronze doors, artistically sculpted in relief. “These east doors were dubbed by Michelangelo
The Gates of Paradise
,” he informed his lover, as she studied the building with unabashed admiration. “One of my favorite poets, Dante Alighieri, was baptized here.”

She turned to him, eyes wide.

“Dante? You never told me you liked Dante.”

He was surprised.

“You like him too? I didn’t know that.”

She sent him a sly smile, tongue in cheek, studying her short nails.

“Well, we never seem to get around to discussing poetry. But maybe we should.”

He smiled back, caught in the charming glint of her eyes.

“Maybe we should. Now let me take you to
Ponte Vecchio
. I want to do some shopping. We have to fill out that closet, don’t we?”

Hours later, loaded with bags and packages, they decided to make a last detour on their way to the parking lot where they had left the car. They’d spent a small fortune on clothes, jewelry and trinkets Sonia wanted to sprinkle around the house—to give it even more character, she’d said.

Wandering aimlessly, they found themselves in a deserted area streaked with narrow streets, paved with stone worn out by time and corseted between old tall walls. Above them, the sky seemed only a gray captive strip. The light had faded considerably, making everything look darker. The different tones matched the old gothic architecture, creating an engraving-like picture.

Giovanni looked up at a rounded little balcony, where a pretty woman with a gipsy look was putting out her freshly washed clothes, hanging them on a rope. The wind brought a vague scent of lilac and gardenias. Sonia felt it too and she breathed deeply, looking up.

“I love these balconies! I can’t wait to do the laundry so I can hang out clothes at home,” she said smiling dreamily as she walked beside him, her steps reflecting a pleasant fatigue.

They’d walked all day long, with only a short stop at a
trattoria
, where they’d eaten tasty, inexpensive food in a rustic traditional ambient. Sonia had loved it so much she wanted to order some for dinner, but he’d managed to convince her Lucia had certainly prepared something delicious for them.

Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed the row of paintings displayed on one side of the street, just on the edge of the pavement, their frames supported against the stone wall. Sonia saw them first and approached to look at them closely. He followed, crouching to study the canvas. Without exception, they all wore time’s print. And even if they didn’t have illustrious signatures, they had an undeniable compositional balance and an impeccable technique of execution specific to late Renaissance.

Absorbed by them, Sonia didn’t appear to have noticed the door of what looked like an antiquarian’s shop. It stood ajar, seemingly open to the fascination of past centuries, attracting one’s gaze to the mysterious interior. In the warm glow coming from inside, Giovanni thought he could distinguish objects, books and artifacts.

He glanced up to check for a shop sign, but there was no trace of one. Just then, Sonia lifted her head and, seeing the half-open door, glanced at him.

“Shall we go in here too?” she asked, her voice full of excitement and hope, the fatigue of the day seeming to have been forgotten.

He smiled at her fondly and indulgently. She was like a child, he thought, facing the changes in her life with simple joy. How different she felt now from the cynical, skeptical woman he’d known only a few weeks before. She trusted him completely and she had literally put her life in his hands. Her trust, her love, that absolute faith she had in him meant more than anything.

He must have stared at her for a very long moment, for she waved her hand in front of his face.

“Hey, are you still here,
amore
?”

“I’m here,
principessa
. Let’s go inside,” he urged, gesticulating with his hands full of bags.

The shop smelled of candles and old things. A soft light hovered over the objects on display. In fact, it looked more like a museum, with display cases and wooden shelves on which were arranged dozens of things. Statuettes, books, coins, engraved pots and vases, lamps, candlesticks, and even jewelry. Beside all these, small exquisite pieces of elegant furniture were scattered around in a charming disarray.

He looked around for someone who could attend them. After a quick survey of the large room, he spotted an old man in a corner, dozing in a chair. Giovanni sat their bags near the door and signaled Sonia to do the same. Then he left her to browse through the merchandise and headed with unheard steps toward the man.

He seemed older than Chronos, this avuncular-looking character. Modestly dressed, his eyes closed and back supported against the warm wall, next to a stove, he was probably pondering unknown memories, wrapped by time in an ambiguous haze of nostalgia.

Giovanni’s steps faltered. He was hesitant about disturbing the man’s reverie, but suddenly the latter spoke in Italian without opening his eyes.

“So, you finally came… My father, my grandfather and so many others before them have waited for you. And now you are here.”

Stunned, Giovanni looked at him sharply, thinking the old man was either dreaming, or had taken them for somebody else. As though reading his thoughts, the bizarre character spoke again, his voice pleasant and strong.

“Don’t worry, lad. I am not crazy. At least, not crazier than those who believe themselves sane. Don’t try to understand now. You will later, in time.”

Opening light brown eyes, he looked at Sonia, who was coming toward them watching him inquisitively.

“She doesn’t understand what I’m saying, does she?”

“No,
signore
,” Giovanni replied. Before he could question the man, he spoke again, this time in flawless English.

“Once upon a time I studied at Padova. Please, feel free to look around. And perhaps you will even buy something from a humble old Italian’s antique shop,” he added smiling warmly, his eyes gleaming good-humoredly.

Giovanni’s gaze lingered on the man’s face thoughtfully. There was something too odd about this whole encounter.

“Thank you, sir! You have lovely things here.”

So saying, Sonia grabbed his hand and dragged him to browse through the room. It was indeed an impressive collection. The first thing that really caught his attention was an archaic-looking illustrated album with Botticelli’s paintings and detailed biography. Since he’d always admired the paintings of this particular artist, Giovanni took a shopping basket weaved from graceful twigs and put the album in it. Sonia immediately added an ornate candlestick. Judging by its weight and sheen, it appeared to be made from pure silver.

“Isn’t it fabulous?” she said animatedly as he studied the object.

“It is, indeed,
cara
. Nice discovery,” he congratulated her smiling.

“Thanks. What did the old man say to you?” she asked in a whisper, then frowned after he quickly translated the initial word exchange.

“Do you think he’s mistaken us for somebody else?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek meditatively.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Maybe he is just…you know, senile.”

“Maybe. He doesn’t look senile,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Go on, choose what you like and let’s get out of here. I have a peculiar feeling about this place.”

After a quick survey, Sonia added a few more trinkets to the basket and they headed toward the counter, behind which sat the antiquarian, reading something. He lifted his gaze to them and got to his feet, displaying a minuscule frame. He arranged their purchases into two paper bags and told them the amount. After taking out his wallet, Giovanni counted the money and gave it to the man.

Then, driven by an unknown impulse, he asked, “Do you…have anything else to recommend us?”

His gaze met the old Italian’s and, for a split second, something clicked into place—a sort of connection he couldn’t have explained even to himself.

The man smiled with what could only be approval. He bent slowly under the weight of his years and took out a box from a drawer under the counter. It was made from ornate wood, looking downright archaic.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He opened the box. From it, he revealed a silver chain, at the end of which hung an amulet. It looked like a heavy big coin, round, its edge outlined in relief. In its middle, a blood-red ruby reflected the light from several angles, framed by a lacy-looking silver setting.

Giovanni heard Sonia inhale sharply as she reached out to touch it.

“It’s stunning!” she whispered reverentially. “May I?”

“Of course, my dear. This is yours now.”

The old antiquarian walked around the counter. He stood on his tiptoes and, with an air of respect, he put the silver chain around Sonia’s neck. She lifted the amulet, cupping it in her palm. It fit perfectly.

Giovanni bent his head as she handed him the pendant to study. The piece was indeed exquisite and quite heavy, as he’d anticipated. The ruby was the size of his thumbnail, its clear perfection and flawless cut were a proof of impeccable and no doubt expensive craftsmanship.

He turned it over, discovering a small, partially faded inscription on the back. He read aloud.

“
Lasciate ogni speranza—
”