There I stood, camera in one hand, a tote bag hanging from my shoulder, looking like a proper gypsy, wondering what the hell I was doing. Then I spotted a street that Brando and I had explored, thinking of our secret tryst, blushing at the memory, my cheeks as hot as the Mediterranean sun.
Though I had taken plenty of pictures before, I took plenty more.
Every so often a melody of sadness would play over me at the thought of not having my own wall to hang my favorite shots on. Or displayed on a beautiful piece of furniture. Like the one of Brando and me that a little Italian boy had taken of us.
Brando had been kissing my cheek, and my eyes were closed, my face scrunched up at his playfulness. I had the boy take another because I was sure that one wouldn't have been right. The one we posed for ended up going in our box.
Stopping in front of the little market where Brando had insisted that we grab a bite to eat, my stomach grumbled. I tended to usually ignore it, but I didn't want to.
I wanted to give in.
The most peculiar thing happened last time. The man behind the counter had been busy with a string of costumers, all putting in orders for their pecorino cheese and other picnic items.
Pienza was famous for their pecorino cheese, thanks to special milk made by the sheep in Val d’Orcia. The first week in September of every year, the village held a festival to celebrate.
In between scooping out olives and pasta, the man behind the counter called for Brando.
“Signore Fausti! Here is your special order!” he almost sang, bringing the wrapped parcel above his head.
Brando and I had looked at each other.
“Did you—”
“What is he—”
Our words collided at the same time. We both shook our heads afterward.
Neither of us made to move toward the man. His hand held out the package, but his eyes were on the other costumers.
“You commin’ to gettit or what?” he said a bit harsher. “Your special order is ready!”
Brando took the package, but when he went to explain to the man that he had the wrong Signore Fausti, he said, “Okay, okay, see you next week!” He shooed us out with a few rapid Italian hand gestures.
On the way out, I had caught the man's eye. He winked at me playfully, but the mischief in his smile made me wonder...
The Italian man did the same to me today, apparently remembering me. He handed me another package, which happened to be the same as last time. Aged to perfection pecorino cheese, a bottle of good Chianti, and six abate fetel pears.
I researched them when we returned home. They were known as an “Italian Fruit,” longer and oddly shaped compared to a regular pear, with a beautiful medley of light yellow and green skin. The white flesh was crisp and left a honeyed taste in the mouth.
Then I remembered why they had tasted like nostalgia. These were the same pears the Italian men in expensive suits brought to Maja over the years. They were always a special delivery.Consegna speciale.
Looking forward to eating them again, I took my lunch onVia del Bacio,which held the most picturesque views. As I ate, I found myself pondering. As I usually did when searching for answers, I looked up at the cerulean blue sky. In a blink, I was overcome by its vastness. In a rush that left me breathless, I felt minuscule in this big world, and much more lost.
I needed something…a weight, an anchor, no, perhaps a foundation. More than that, an indescribable urge to give something to Brando, to makesomethingfor him, overwhelmed me.Could a somewhat newly married woman get nesting syndrome?I wondered. Packing up my lunch in a hurry, sticking the leftovers in my tote bag, I hurried off to a small pottery shop in the village. The door was open, inviting in buyers and fresh air.
One of the things I loved most about Italy was its ability to be warm without being stifling. I found that the Italians found balance among all things. In France everything matched or had to enhance. Here, even the dishes were mismatched, but harmonious all the same—appreciation was for the food more so than what it was served in. Not that they didn't appreciate beauty, but more that they appreciated what was below the surface of it.
I bought half of the store by the time I was done.
Strange.I had never done that before.
The man asked where I would like the things delivered, or if I wanted to take them home with me. I couldn't answer. We still had wedding gifts packed in boxes back in France and at our house on Snow in Natchitoches. I took his card and told him I'd be in touch.
Lowering my Ray-Bans, I stepped out of the shop feeling lighter, but not yet satisfied. A hand slipped around my waist, yanking my side against hers.
She beamed at me, offering me a cup of gelato. “The best in Italia. Homemade. Do not be bashful. Try it.”
Rosaria Caffi’s grip was strong, keeping our hips pressed together as she licked on her treat. She smelled of an expensive perfume, and she was decked out in head-to-toe white Armani, with enough gold to make you squint at her without sufficient glasses.
