I came down, crouched, breathing heavy, and even with the breeze, perspiration coated my skin. My bare back wallowed in the cooling effects of the night.
My eyes opened to six eyes staring back at me: Brando’s, Maggie Beautiful’s, and Aberto’s. Maggie Beautiful and Aberto started to clap. In a smooth move, I came up and bowed.
Brando stood to the back, watching as Maggie Beautiful and Aberto came to embrace me, going on about how spectacular the dance was. Even better than the live performances on the ballet stage, Aberto said. I thanked them, and then embraced them again when Maggie Beautiful exclaimed, “There’s going to be a wedding. Mine! Be my best girl?”
She probably meant matron of honor, but with Maggie Beautiful, it was hard to tell. Sometimes it was better to roll with her wild tide—agree now and then ask questions later.
I couldn’t look away from Brando, though, who had begun to summon me with his eyes. In the bright orange glow of the lantern light, they seemed glazed over, almost iridescent. I narrowed my eyes but kept any comment that came to mind to myself.
It wasn’t until Maggie Beautiful and her fiancé left us alone that I allowed myself to believe what I saw: Brando’s eyes were glossy with emotion.
“Is it Maggie Beautiful and Aberto?” I whispered. “Are you upset?”
He took a step forward, one step closer to being out on the terrace, and leaned against the doorframe. He began to recite an article that was written about me, verbatim, emphasizing certain remarks he must have agreed with. “‘Scarlett Rose Fausti stands worlds apart from the current generation of ballerinas, just as her grandmother, Maja Resnik, had. She is shorter, softer, and in general, less athletic. Even for all this, she is even more magical. Her intricate movements, every inflection of her arms, every tilt of her head, flows as though her bones are made of silk. She defies what the mind wants to believe and gives the eye what it craves to see. Her silhouette is perfect.
“‘I was graced with the opportunity, or I should say honor, to watch her grandmother dance, close to the end of her career, and the softness she possessed, the charismatic way she had to compel the eye and all of your attention, has stayed with me till today. I never thought another would take away from the memory of that evening at the ballet. Until I saw her protégé, Scarlett Rose Fausti, take the stage.
“‘It was as though one legend continued another, an everlasting bond between one set of feet to another. Where one stopped, another began, perhaps even more commanding in their movements. Scarlett Rose Fausti’s lines, just as her grandmothers, are not extreme, especially in comparison to the ones we see today, but are still awe-worthy. Her arms perfectly curve and flow, her every movement a wonder, beautifully executed. Her speed and strength are obvious, even with the most difficult and trying choreography. Her feet are fierce weapons that attack the stage with such grace that the comparison becomes an oxymoron. She defies the logic that grace does not equal strength.
“‘Her strength sometimes hides behind her softness, but her grace cannot be denied under any circumstance. She breathes it.
“‘Just as her grandmother was, she is a spectacular actress. In Romeo and Juliet, her range spanned from tender to heartbroken lover, and everything in-between. In Swan Lake, the innocent turns into the vixen with a flawlessness that can only be described as water turned into wine.
“‘I left the ballet as I had done years before, awe-struck and mesmerized.’”
“What’s going on with you?” I barely got out. The article was flattering, but not all that moving. However, the fact that he had memorized the article because it meant something tohimmeant more than the article itself. That was all dancing ever was—what I could do. Fleeting. He was unwavering, solid, forever.
“Watching you dance does things to me,” he said, not hiding behind his emotions. “You wonder why I get so fucking angry at your use of words. It’s because I’m so damn proud that you’re mine, Scarlett Rose Fausti. I don’t want anyone, not even strangers, to think that anyone but me gets to love you. Or has touched you. It’s that much of an honor.” He balled his fist and touched his heart. “An honor that’s all mine,mia moglie.”
Watching you does things to me too, I wanted to say. Instead, I opened and closed my arms, not really knowing how to respond. He shocked me so damn much with his words, when he wasn’t locking them in the cage he hid from me.
Thank youseemed lame in light of the passion he had put into the speech. It gave me an in to something else though. “Is that your way of apologizing for the mood swing earlier?”
His mouth twitched and he stood straight, coming for me. I let him. Being in his arms, my fists finally unclenched, my heartbeat evened to match his, and my body sighed, the noise floating from my mouth. A hit of his love made the world seem like the perfect place to be. Wherever he stood became my home.
Putting his mouth close to my ear, he whispered, “I forgive you.”
I threw back my head and laughed, swaying in his arms. He picked me up some, feet not touching the ground, and carted me toward the ledge of the balcony.
“Youforgiveme?”
“I do. My pride took a nice ass beating.”
I sighed again, this time out of exasperation. He lifted me higher, set my bottom on the ledge, and turned me to face Positano, legs dangling over the balcony.
Lights glittered up the mountainside; close stars in a touchable sky. The sea made that wonderful shushing noise, and I almost couldn’t wait for bed, so I could fall asleep to the musical intonation of it.
His fingertips glided underneath my hair, over the expanse of my back, completely open to him and the air, my dress coming to a close around my waist. His fingers caressed further up, along my side, along the strip of cloth that covered my breast but left some of the side exposed. His mouth rested on my shoulder, warm and soft. His touch offered me what his mouth struggled to.
“I accept your apology,” I whispered in Italian. The translation came out asI accept your excuse.
He laughed quietly; his breath smelled of whiskey. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’m thankful that you do. I know you have pride too.”
“Not so much as to need an apology or to expect one,” I said lightly. “You have your issues. I have mine. I do things to you. You do things to me. But isn’t that marriage? Give and take? Fault and forgiveness? Love and war? Tears and laughter?”
“Fucking and making love.”
“That too.” I grinned, and he wrapped his arms around my waist, squeezing until I gasped. “Though you are getting a bit like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” I barely got out.
