The unmistakable sound of roosters crowing wakes me just before six in the morning. I’d usually resent the sound of farm animals waking me at the crack of dawn, but I’m as fresh as a set of clean sheets this morning, having slept through the night without my usual nightmare.
‘Okay, so Italian breakfast—you have two choices here. Breakfast cookies or a Kinder Colazione bar,’ says Stella, tossing me a bar that resembles a sponge cake.
‘Any chance of something a little more savoury?’
‘You could try these,’ she says, handing me a packet of toast-like crackers called fette biscottate, which are so bland that I end up reaching for the jar of Nutella to make them more palatable.
‘Sweet it is,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders.
Stella fumbles around in a drawer and hands me a map of Florence. ‘You can get your bus ticket on board or from the local tabacchi in the piazza.’ She explains that the local tobacconist in Italy sells more than just cigarettes: stamps, postcards, lotto and bus tickets. When she offers to meet me for lunch during her break, I tell her not to worry. I have some other plans in mind.
There’s no point in venturing out yet, so I spend some time flicking between TV channels before I take a book out to the garden, losing myself amongst the pages of a previously untouched copy of Pema Chödrön’s When Things Fall Apart, which Sarah gave to me a week after I met her. Once the traffic begins to pick up on the main road, I prepare my portable sketchbox easel and tuck my pad of watercolour paper into my satchel. My mind wanders to the last attempts I made at painting after I had finished the chemotherapy. Before I received my diagnosis, a painting I’d been working on as part of my VCE art unit, The Floating Leaf, was one of forty-two pieces selected to be featured in the National Gallery of Victoria’s StArt Up: Top Arts exhibition. My painting, which explored the relationship between nature and our emotions, caught the eye of one of the gallery curators, who invited me to show her my future work for consideration in a forthcoming exhibition. Only, by then, I had become incapable of producing the usual artwork that inspired me. The style of my paintings had changed, from work that generally incorporated smooth lines and gentle brush strokes, to work that was monstrous: dark, heavy, sombre. It frightened me, and after several failed attempts at painting, I eventually stopped altogether.
I lock the door behind me and consider going back to return my art supplies, but I know that if I have any hope of getting Mia back I have to take this step. On the way to the bar, I scan the officina across the square for a glimpse of Luca.
The mere thought of him makes my cheeks flush. I haven’t felt emotion like this in so long, and the intensity of it reminds me that I’m alive and that it is possible to feel again. There’s no sign of Luca; however, I can see Paolo having a lively conversation on the phone complemented by elaborate hand gestures.
The smell of fresh croissants wafts from the bar full of locals, who stand against the counters waiting for their first shots of coffee for the day. Silvio greets me with a bubbly, ‘Buongiorno, Mia!’ as if we’re now the best of friends and it’s been a lifetime since we’ve last seen each other. A familiar body turns around to face me at the sound of my name. He grins. I melt.
Luca’s lips twist into an irresistible smile. ‘Ciao, bella Mia.’
So. Incredibly. Charming.
I’m holding my breath. His eyes are staring right through me, pinning me so intensely that I can’t look away.
‘Ciao,’ I reply quietly.
‘Caffè?’ he asks.
‘Uh, yes please.’
‘Silvio, un cappuccino per la signorina,’ He takes the liberty of ordering for me.
They don’t call it a romance language for nothing.
‘Grazie.’
‘You’re welcome. So, what are you up to today?’ he asks, glancing at the easel I’m carrying over my shoulder.
‘Well, I can hear the Piazza del Duomo, Santa Croce and Piazza della Repubblica all calling my name,’ I say, feeling proud about the amount of information I’ve retained from my handy pocket guide to Florence.
‘Wait, what about the Ponte Vecchio?’ he says.
‘The Ponte Vecchio?’ The name doesn’t ring any bells.
‘The Old Bridge. The famous Florentine Bridge! Over the Arno River,’ he says.
‘Oh, right … I’ll make sure I look for it.’
‘It’s only one of the most romantic spots in Florence,’ he adds casually. ‘I’ll have to take you there sometime.’ He pauses, waiting to see my reaction.
My words dissipate before I can speak them, my attention turning to the fluttering in my stomach. Luca and the word ‘romantic’ cause me to blush yet again.
‘You’re blushing, Australiana,’ he smirks.
I purse my lips together and shyly look away.
‘So you’re going to do some painting, too?’ he asks, pointing to my easel.
‘Uh. Yeah. I’m going to try.’
‘What do you paint?’
‘Mainly watercolour, sometimes oil. It’s been a while since I …’ My voice trails off, wishing I could take back the words.
He looks at me curiously, squinting as though he’s trying to work out the meaning behind what I’ve just said.
‘I took a bit of a break from painting, so things are a little dusty,’ I add, shrugging my shoulders.
‘Word is that Picasso once said that the purpose of art is to wash the dust of daily life off our souls.’
‘Really? He said that?’ I feel myself smiling at him. Somehow I’m not surprised he would know this.
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Well, I hope he was right,’ I murmur.
I finish my cappuccino and then he says, ‘Let me walk you to the bus stop.’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I say, amused by his tenacity. The bus stop is less than one hundred metres away and he knows it.
‘Let’s go,’ he says, winking. He places his hand on the small of my back as he guides me out of the busy bar, his touch sending warmth through my entire body.
We walk to the bus stop, and he warns me to be careful of pickpockets. He asks for my phone number, and when he’s recorded it in his phone, he sends me a text message so that I have his in case I get lost, and then he waits until my bus arrives. ‘Have a good day,’ he says softly, his lips brushing my cheek.
Gucci by Gucci Pour Homme. Heaven.
‘You, too …’ I reply, still thinking about how that just felt.
‘Don’t forget about tonight!’ he calls as I step onto the bus.
No chance.
I take a window seat and can’t help smiling. Luca occupies my thoughts for the entire trip into Florence as I daydream about what could be. And in the most bittersweet way, it scares me.
I disembark close to the Piazza del Duomo along with most of the other passengers. The square is swarming with tourists, locals riding bicycles and pristinely dressed traffic police strolling around in groups of three. Facing the huge Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, referred to by Italians as the duomo, I let out a gasp. I can’t believe I’m really here. I venture over to the octagonal Saint John’s Baptistery, which dates back to 1059. Its sophisticated Florentine Romanesque style is mesmerising, as are its three bronze doors, but I’m especially drawn to the ‘Gates of Paradise,’ as coined by Michelangelo. These doors on the east side of the baptistery particularly intrigue me. This masterpiece tells the story of Adam and Eve and took Ghiberti twenty plus years to finish. I spend the next hour or so studying every superb detail of the artwork in the church, pulling myself away only when I hear the mid-morning bells ringing from the adjacent Giotto’s Bell Tower.
As I head down Via dei Calzaiuoli, one of Florence’s most elegant and famous streets, I see rows of street sellers displaying imitation Prada bags alongside mass-produced prints of Raphael’s signature cherubs. They appear in almost every Florentine street, on calendars, postcards, diaries and posters. It disappoints me to think that these adorable male putti have been taken from the larger painting of the Sistine Madonna, without acknowledging the much bigger work of art they belong to.
The cobblestones take a little getting used to, even if I am wearing flat sandals. Through windows illuminated with artificial light, I admire Furla handbags, handcrafted shoes by Ferragamo, and the prettiest Austrian crystals in the Swarovski store. When I reach the end of the via I find what I’m looking for. There it is, the statue of David, and to his right the gallery of the Uffizi. I soak in the beauty of this magnificent replica of the original statue and take a seat on the cool stone steps, where I observe silently, trying to decide whether certain parts of his anatomy are in fact out of proportion. Carving from a single block of marble, a frustrated Michelangelo was unable to reproduce one of the muscles in David’s back due to an imperfection in the medium. Despite its flaw, this statue has been accepted for centuries as a symbol of perfect Renaissance art. Flawed yet still able to defeat Goliath. I’m tempted to visit the Uffizi Gallery, desperate to see Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus amongst numerous other paintings I adore, but the queue is already enormous. On either side of the Piazza degli Uffizi, painters dip their brushes into pigment and layer by layer bring their depictions of Florence and Tuscany to life. Scenes of fields amassed with sunflowers, stone farmhouses amidst bales of hay and winding country paths. A watercolour of an antique bridge catches my eye.
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Thank you, signorina. It’s the famous Ponte Vecchio, just around the corner,’ says the man. ‘You paint, too?’ he asks, nodding at my easel. He’s an old man, frail, possibly in his eighties, faultlessly dressed in a grey suit and tie with a white flat cap from which contrasting silver tufts of hair protrude. I can tell that in his youth he would have exuded a certain exuberance. His deep-blue eyes have a gentleness to them that intrigues me.
‘I thought I’d try to,’ I say.
‘Bene. Straight down there you’ll find the magnificent Arno. Turn right and you’ll see the Ponte Vecchio,’ he tells me in his Florentine accent.
I follow the man’s directions. The bridge is dreamier and more captivating than Luca could have described. Rows of quaint jewellery stores are lined up on either side, one after the other. As I stroll along the gentle rise of cobblestones, I feel as though I’ve stepped into a different time and place in history. After taking in some of the details, I return to a quiet spot on the bank of the Arno and set up my easel. I spend some time studying the bridge’s contrasting hues of yellow and sunbaked orange, its three lower arches and the rectangular and square mismatch of windows, most of which are fitted with rust and dark-green wooden shutters. I carefully take out a sheet of paper, realising in this instant that I’m not so different from it. For a painter, the paper is an integral part of the work itself. White paper lends itself to the brightest images, and longevity is dependent on it being acid-free. My sick body was everything except white, bright and acid-free; however, today I am a clean sheet of paper, ready for a new picture, for a new story to be brought to life.
After such a long break from painting, my brush feels unnatural in my hands, so for several minutes I stand, simply playing around with it, running my thumb over the soft tuft. Then I close my eyes, sliding my dry brush over the paper, letting the rhythm come back to me. I centre myself with my breath, knowing that opening myself up to this fearful experience means that I’m upholding my end of the bargain in my quest to find myself again. I wet my brush and begin painting. My brushstrokes sweep across the paper, and in my mind the soft sounds of ‘shh, shh’ repeat themselves, as if I’m lulling a baby to sleep, though in reality I’m willing the voice of self-doubt to quiet.
I slip into a meditative state; even though I can hear the French, German and English chatter of tourists around me, inside I am still. There are two lovers standing in the middle of the bridge, locked together in an embrace, watching the river flow. They come to life on my sheet, a snapshot of their love captured forever. Taking my time, I add more colour: browns, yellows, burnt oranges, and then finally a bright, clear sky blue that promises no chance of showers. It’s early afternoon by the time I finish. I take a step back to assess the picture I’ve created. My hands cup my mouth as I marvel at my work. It’s anything but dark and sombre. It’s a direct reflection of the love and beauty I witnessed today. An enormous sense of relief settles in my heart, lifting away months of doubt.
I pack up my gear, my heart bursting with a giant thankyou to the universe for second chances and for the small part of myself that I rediscovered today. On the way back to the bus stop, I pass the painter near the Uffizi again. Most of the paintings that were on his stand this morning are no longer there, having been sold to eager tourists, keen to bring home a slice of Florence in watercolour.
He nods, recognising me. ‘How did you do, signorina?’ he asks with a gentleness that matches his facial expression.
‘I’m Mia, by the way,’ I say, extending my hand.
‘Giovanni Fiorelli,’ he says, reaching out a hand mottled with age spots.
‘Lovely to meet you, Signor Fiorelli.’
‘So, your painting. Was it all you’d hoped for?’
I nod thoughtfully. ‘Yes … I think it was.’
‘Bene,’ he says as he slowly turns back to his work. I stand there, watching as Signor Fiorelli brings to life a bustling piazza of tourists with meticulous, confident brushstrokes. The central focus of his painting is the statue of David, but then I see a woman appearing. She’s sitting at the cafe on the periphery of the piazza, reading a book. Although it’s subtle, the attention of the painting is actually focused on her.
‘Your work really is beautiful.’
‘A lifetime of love,’ he says casually, not lifting his gaze.
I slip away unnoticed, elated with how my first afternoon in Florence has unfolded. Inside I feel invigorated, as though something dormant has been stirred to life; on the outside, however, I’m exhausted. I nod off to sleep on the bus ride home and am woken by the sound of my phone ringing.
‘Pronto! I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. How’s your day been?’ Luca asks, his deep voice as smooth as honey. It feels as though we’ve known each other for a lifetime rather than the mere twenty-four hours since we met.
‘I’m about to get off the bus. Lucky you called, because if you didn’t I probably would have ended up back where I started. I fell asleep.’
He laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh and it makes me feel all kinds of happy.
‘See you soon, painter girl,’ he says, before the line goes silent.
Back at the villa, I find a note from Stella telling me she’s working late tonight because she has to catch up on a heap of visa applications at the consulate.
It’s a warm night so I opt for a dress and sandals. I try several updos before deciding on a low chignon with a side-swept front. I play around with the pillow of hair until it’s as perfect as I can get it. Deciding not to go overboard with makeup, I fumble through my beauty case for some lip gloss and mascara. I don’t have time to find my perfume because the toot of the scooter tells me he’s already here.