Francesca. A white rose.
Chapter one, in which Francesca first meets Lohan, receives a gift, and makes him a solemn promise.
The two men stand shoulder to shoulder, just outside the fenced restoration area, under the marble stair that gives access to the gothic Venetian loggia.
They make an odd couple. The handsome athlete in faded 501 jeans and black T-shirt has at least eight inches over the frail-looking old man in his three-piece vintage tailored suit.
The younger man is calmly speaking to his bespectacled companion, who listens intently. And at the end of the short speech he nods, convinced. Quite unusual for Architetto Marchini, an institution in our city, who never agrees with anybody, especially on the restoration of our architectural heritage. But he seems to have a soft spot for the American young scholar.
Suddenly, a sharp cry resounds as a big marble egg under restoration loses its stability, plunging towards the bald head of the architect. For a split second, contact between the two ellipsoids appears ineluctable, and albeit Architetto Marchini has in the past demonstrated his head to be – metaphorically – quite hard, it seems this time the challenge will be - physically - lost. But his younger friend reacts instantly. As he pivots clockwise, his right arm pushes the frail ancient man towards safety, while his big left hand catches the heavy marble egg, pulling it towards his chest, cushioning it with his own body and flexing her knees to absorb the impact like a goalkeeper blessed by super-human reflexes.
The restorer plunges herself down the stairs, white-faced, panting, her substantial bosom heaving fast. She is a forty-something pleasant woman in blue-jeans and plain T-shirt, black bandana bond in a romantic knot on her blonde hair. She also wears the white mask and medical coat restorers favor in our country –restoring ancient art is considered a quasi-medical activity. Flexing nonchalantly his powerful arm he gently offers her the medieval gift, as a ray of the afternoon sun reflected by the Gothic tinted glass illuminates his face for an instant.
And in that instant, truly, he seems to me equal to a God. Thick through the shoulders, narrow at the waist. Sculpted abdominal muscles showing through his stretched black t-shirt. Something subtly ancient in his high cheekbones, in his straight, arrogant nose, in his black eyes. Piercing eyes. Alpha-eyes.
In the act of giving, his biceps bulge slightly as his hands are lovingly caressing the ancient, polished marble. But I can feel them right here, cupping my tits, stirring my nipples, sweetly resonating down below.
The restorer cradles the heavy egg into her cupped hands, under her shapely, rather large breasts, with a slight effort. Grinning mischievously, he tells something to the woman. Her cheeks immediately reacquire their blush as she almost melts in response. And I feel an absurd pang of jealousy down there.
Smiling sweetly, he refocuses his attention to his older companion, slightly shaken by the events. He wraps a protective arm on his shoulders, and they start walking together towards the shaded portico towards a nearby osteria for an early aperitivo, scuffed Nikes and old-fashioned patent-leather shoes measuring in unison the sidewalk polished by the centuries.
A glass of blanc is considered the best remedy for anxiety here – as for any major or minor ailment.
He is now competently discussing the qualities of the Pinot Grigio with a young female sommelier, who happens to be my good friend Giulia. She usually resents her customers questioning wine qualities, but his open smile works his magic with her, as - I suspect – does with most women. So, Giulia is now sitting right in front of him, sweetly smiling, unconsciously displaying her gorgeous décolleté, getting closer to him, the promise of ‘more to come’ lingering in the air. Again, a pang of unexpected jealousy grows in my belly. Bitch!
An old leather-clad book and a classy brand-new laptop sitting side by side on the table, by his flute of white wine. Tellingly, besides the book there is an official-looking Academy folder, the kind they use for contracts, open.
I definitely need to have a look at that contract, so I start walking briskly towards the other side of the piazza, passing by his table, negotiating the cobblestones while balancing on high heels. And just as I casually glance towards the contract – Bingo! Her name is right there. But at that very moment my leather sole slides on the treacherous pietra piasentina – just washed by an overzealous waiter.
For an instant I feel suspended midair under the surprised gaze of the two men - and of my bitchy friend. Then gravity pushes me towards the round pebbles, ass first. I touch down reasonably softly, my legs up in the air, my thesis’ manuscript flying in the air along with one of my elegant shoes. And there I sit, undignified, looking at him from a lower vantage point. Yes, his chiseled jaw is adorned by a perfectly groomed beard. Just a stubble, a shade of metallic blue-black, emphasizing the small cleft parting his chin. The chin of a Hollywood actor, straight from the fabulous fifties.
Again he demonstrates his superior reflexes, jumping up and lending me a helping hand. I grab it gratefully, eager to exit the humiliating position, as my dear friend rolls her eyes, and Architetto Marchini gently shakes her head, smiling:
“Well, it seems today your help is required by several ladies, isn’t that so, Lohan?
The young American smiles back to his Italian friend, as he effortlessly sets me upright with a single crane-arm.
“Always a pleasure of course” he answers, as he gently retrieves my manuscript lying on the floor, and while handling it to me he reads the title, his eyes suddenly acquiring a new light:
“Oh! You are writing about Lucrezia della Torre’s interesting theory. Is this our thesis?
Remembering that the best answer to a question is another question, I smile sweetly and reply:
“Do you know her?”
He smiles back, his eyes cryptically sparkling
“Not yet, but...”
As he says so, a Pakistani old man sporting a white goatee offers his bunch of small flowers. I smile to my friend Hassan, his timing is always perfect. The young man slides two roses out, lending Hassan a five-euro note. With a flourish, she gives a flower to me, the other to Giulia.
A perfect gentleman. But my rose is white, hers is red.
I could kill for that red rose.
Thank you for the white rose, Mr. Bello Impossibile. In exchange, I can make you a promise.
You. Shall. Be. Mine.
