It’s a bit gamy for me, but the sweetness and tenderness of it are surprising. I swallow.
“Ti piace?” he asks.
I nod. “Squisito. Grazie. But I’m actually not here for meat.”
His face falls again and I realize I’m not getting out of this shop without buying some sausages.
“I’m actually looking for a painting,” I quickly add before he breaks out the meat cleaver and makes me try something else.
“The museum is just up Via Frederico.” He points out the window and to the left.
“Professor Massini—James—sent me. It is a painting by Annette Barrett,” I say.
His eyes narrow as he leans across the counter to study me more closely.
“You know Anna?” he asks.
Anna. I’d only heard her called that once when I was very young.
“Certo,” he says suddenly. “Gli occhi. Your eyes are hers.” He’s hurrying around the counter, removing his apron as he goes. “You are her sister? Cousin?”
“Daughter. Ava,” I hold out my hand to shake. He takes off his gloves and throws them in a little bin, then puts both hands on my shoulders, ignoring my hand.
“How is she?” he asks, kissing each of my cheeks.
Oh God. Here we go again. I shake my head and look down at my shoes.
“She died almost six years ago,” I say to the tile, too scared to look up and find this man’s exuberance sucked out by me.
His big rough hand moves from my shoulder and tips up my chin.
“Sincere condoglianze,” he whispers. “Anna was una forza—she swept you away.”
His eyes are filled. Or my eyes are filled and everything looks wet.
I nod and blink hard.
“Come. I will show you,” he says, patting my cheek.
He hurries away and I nearly sprint to keep up. He is leading me out of the meat maze up a tiled staircase and into what must behis office but looks more like the study of a fifteenth-century scholar. Everything is mahogany and carved, the wall-to-wall shelves filled with books. Old books bound in leather and cloth.
And there in the center of it all, against the far wall across from his insanely large desk, is my mother’s painting.
I step forward, hand extended like I’m running my fingers along those brushstrokes. It would be like touching her incredibly soft hand again.
“Amazing, no?” he says behind me.
All I can do is nod. My tongue has swollen to the size of a small balloon.
The painting is unlike anything I’ve seen her do, not in style, but in subject. Most of my mother’s work is landscape, a few that I have in storage are of me when I was young, but otherwise she stayed away from portraits and focused on scenery. But this, this is all human through and through.
The man in the painting is so obviously the man who stands behind me, the smile, the round face, the soulful joy in his eyes. But he’s young, leaner, rich deep brown where there is now gray. And he’s lying on the floor with his dog. Staring down at the mangy creature like he holds the stars in his paws.
“We were students together all’università,” he says. His voice low, as if anything louder might wake the sleeping dog in the painting. “She was studying art restoration and I was studying veterinary science.” He chuckles, acknowledging the irony of his career choice. I feel him step beside me, his eyes also on the painting, but his mind with her. Just like mine.
“We met at the market while I was helping my father—this was all his,” he says pointing downward to the shop below. “She came up to me from behind the booth, asking for scraps for some stray dog on campus. And we were instant—”
He claps his hands together and I look toward him. Lovers? Did my mother love this man?
