Part I
1
Brando
The sound of music called to me. A melody sweet enough to remind me of the tone of my wife's voice. It was too far out for me to distinguish specifics, but I could still hear it. Whether she called to me or not, I was always drawn to her. Her essence was a romantic tune itself; her body was the vessel in which it traveled and reacted to the notes weaving around her.
The tinkle of a piano. A string from a violin or harp. A slow, pulsating beat from a drum. A floating note from a saxophone. No matter the song or the melody, she was able to turn herself into art just by movement alone.
Looking out of my office window, I could see the stone barn on our property in Tuscany. The heat of August seemed to surround it in waves. It was a mirage, a trick of the mind. Men surrounded it, too, breaking the waves every so often with their tireless strides, keeping safe what was most important to me.
My wife and daughter.
Flashes of pink twirled in front of the window like a fast-moving butterfly. Blink and it’s gone.
Refusing to resist the pull, I left my brothers in the office to fend for themselves, knowing exactly where I was headed. They did too.
Heat swarmed me as soon as my feet left the cool interior of the villa. Sweat beaded on my forehead and ran in rivers down my face, stinging my eyes. Using the back of my hand, I wiped a stream of it away, nodding to a few guards that I passed on my walk to the stone barn.
August was relentless. The sun bore down as hot as lava, turning the dirt beneath my boots to ash. Even the air felt suffocating. Not humid, but somehow still full of steam that stole the breath.
Nino stood closest to the door, his back turned. His feet came off the ground when I tapped him on the shoulder. He screeched an Italian profanity as he whirled, finger pointed, ready to take apart the man who had caught him unaware.
Tears streaked down his cheeks. Tracks were visible between the crusted salt from the hot day and the embers that burned underneath his tan skin from the strength of the sun. He had been crying while he watched her dance.
Not all men would, but those who appreciated art couldn’t help themselves. Which also meant that if I snuck up on him, someone else could’ve as well. His inattention could’ve gotten him killed. Then an opening would’ve been available to the men we were trying to keep out. A valve that led straight to the vulnerable beating of my heart.
Nino uttered fast apologies, his Italian coming out at rapid speed. I held a hand up. Told him to take a break and have some cool water.
He blinked a few times, then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and retreated. Before he got too far, I heard him give an order to another man to stand guard at the door.
That close, the music was loud enough to distinguish words and instruments. A frisson of excitement made goosebumps rise on my skin, caused every hair to stand erect and my heart to drum faster and deeper in my chest. A real sense of expectation met me. An anxious, aching need to be close, but to watch without her seeing.
If she was as lost as I expected her to be to the dance, I doubted her noticing was going to be an issue. When the music took hold and she gave herself over to the ecstasy of it, she turned into a creature separate from herself. I’d once heard someone say that she was a muse to the music. I had always thought that she and the music were a muse to the moment—a timeless art that would disappear, except for the moment in time when a heart knew it would never be the same.
She became a searing brand to memory, an experience to never forget.
Or a tattoo, depending on the person.
Proof of her place in my life was inked all over my skin. And even then, it went much, much deeper. Down to the marrow of my bone.
The song that played sounded familiar, but if I’d heard it before, it was years ago. Not one to usually pay much attention to lyrics, I almost didn’t this time. But for whatever reason, as I stood in the shadows and watched her dance for our daughter, the entire experience hit me as hard as the heat. I knew the words. The beat. I anticipated her next move as though she were an extension of my body.
Because she was.
It must have been a day for tears. Lines of them streamed down my wife’s cheeks in a steady flow, as quickly as beads of sweat ran down mine. Just as I ignored them, so did she. She couldn’t feel a thing; in that moment, she wasn’t herself. She was simply an unexplainable being who didn’t seem to have a spine or the mass that created a human.
Our daughter sat her chunky bottom on the wooden floor, out of her mother’s way. At almost a year old, she was eager to explore the world and push her limits. She rarely kept still for anything or anyone for long periods of time.
Except for food. And this.
Mia’s hair was thick, brushed to the side, and in the glare of the hot sun, it was a strong brown, reminding me of roasted chestnuts and complimenting the soft almond hue of her skin. Moss-green eyes lifted up, transfixed by her mother, who had cast a spell on her with all that fancy moving.
My daughter’s profile was clear to me.
Her cheeks were still robust. Her lips were a pretty pink with a slight pout. She had endless rolls but was as flexible as a little monkey. Her lashes were long and raven, and every so often she’d blink at her mother, close her mouth, and then melt once again into the moment. Her innocent doe eyes were hypnotized. But only when the music was slower, softer.
When it was something more upbeat, she lifted herself with the lowered barre I had put in for her, moving up and down on wobbly legs, attempting to shake her little booty to the fast music. She would laugh and laugh, making us laugh with her.
