April second, Stella. Tick-tock . . .
But then, those eyes . . .
Marcella calmly rose from her chair, pushed it under the table and walked over to her. Placing one hand on Stella’s shoulder, she used the other to catch Stella’s chin and meet her gaze. In a way that only Marcella knew how, she dissolved the distressed look that had appeared across Stella’s sweaty face. ‘You are going to have so much sex, and it’s going to befantastico.’
quattro
Surely not? They’re open?
Stella did a double-take then grinned upon reading theAPERTOsign pasted across Bar Luna e Lupa’s window that Monday morning.
As she approached, Marco was stepping out onto Via dei Giubbonari. ‘Ah,la mia artista!’ He greeted her with a bear hug and a smile that radiated from ear to ear. ‘Did you see? We areapertofor business!’
‘Yes, so I see. Well,auguri! You mustn’t have had much of a weekend?’
‘No. But I have had lots ofcaffé. So it’s all ok.’ Stella noticed his hands shaking as he guided her to the window. ‘Guarda!’
As he invited Stella to peer through the glass, she was astonished by the progress he had indeed made. The furnishings had been installed, and an entirely new counter ran along the right-hand side of the bar, which also now boasted a brand new coffee machine. Soft music hummed its way out the door, caught on the draught of passers-by.
‘Jazz?’ Stella asked.
‘Sì. It’s my favourite. My friends back home in Sicily say that jazz is old fashioned, but I don’t care. It makes me think of a time when life was simpler,no? It was all about the music and the company. An escape from the everyday.’ He dropped his head humbly. ‘I hope people will come to Bar Luna e Lupa to escape.’
Stella adored the sweet sentiment. ‘Well, I am very happy for you,’ she said.
‘Come in, come in. Let me show you everything.’
Despite the overwhelming smell of curing fresh paint, Stella was impressed by how it had all come together for Marco. What set Bar Luna e Lupa apart from the many other bars in Rome was its theme. Marco’s team had laid flooring in a divine pattern of rippling waves of stone, emulating Roman cobblestones. On the end of the new black service bar with polished silver trimmings sat a vintage-looking cash register, complete with an ornate brass handle to manually open the drawer. Nestled between the bar and the register was a small glass display cabinet, soon to hold the delicious treats that would pour from the kitchen. Catching a glimpse of herself in the counter-long mirror behind the service area, Stella was immediately drawn to the view above her. Painted a deep midnight blue, the bar’s ceiling and walls were dotted with tiny lights, flickering delicately at random.
Stella gasped at the sight. ‘Oh, Marco, it’s the night sky!’
She stood in awe, feeling as if she were among the clouds. The workmen had erected a series of heavy wooden beams in the four corners of the bar, giving the illusion of being on a rooftop terrace garden. Vines in heavy earthenware pots sat at the feet of the beams, in the hope that one day, their curvy tendrils might grow towards the ceiling.
Marco had chosen a collection of mismatched reclaimed wooden chairs, each marked and worn by users over the decades in their own special way. The tables were also of heavy wood, and varied in shape and size. In the centre of each tabletop, Marco had arranged for a round glazed tile in the shape of a full moon to be inlaid.
‘Ti piace?’ His eyes darted across Stella’s face, seeking her approval.
‘Like it? It’s incredible! I will definitely be coming here to escape.’
Marco pressed his hands to his heart and exhaled a long sigh. ‘Abbiamo fatto bene, allora?’
‘Troppo bene!’
They sat down together at one of the tables. Pivoting in her chair, Stella continued to take in the surroundings. As the jazz hummed along, Stella lost herself in the spirit of the space. Taking the painting that had brought them together from her satchel, she laid it on the table between them, ready to be displayed.
It was then that Stella remembered the blank, lonely wall that ran along the left-hand side of the bar, which now seemed more desperate than ever. Painted in dark blue, it stood out as the only non-engrossing feature of Bar Luna e Lupa. Seeing Marco sat across from her, so genuinely proud and relieved all at once, Stella began to feel a little guilty for having turned down his request for help. If shecouldhelp, shouldn’t she at least consider it?
Stella stood and made her way over to the wall. She ran her hands over its surface, taking in the expanse of blank canvas. The paint under her fingers still felt slightly tacky, foreign to her skin. Used to the moisture-siphoning card she usually worked with, this wall felt enormous and overwhelming. Yet something pulled her tighter and closer to it, drawing her in.
The deeply profound blue was so rich and thick. There was no transparency at all, nothing like the translucent layers of colour Stella was used to building. A light drop here, a swish of water there. Nothing was delicate about this kind of work. This paint covered everything. One could easily hide behind that blue. And that wall.
Anyone? What about a watercolourist?
‘Have you reconsidered my proposal?’
Even with her back to him, Stella could replicate his desperate expression in her mind. ‘Marco, I’m sor—’ she began, but he had slipped something into her right hand to silence her – a soft white paper napkin.
‘If you accept, I would like to pay you this.’
