Tentatively, Stella opened the napkin and the sight of the digits – all those hope-filled, rent-paying digits – pulled her spine long and taught with optimism.
‘I’m going to need a bigger brush.’
Stella never made it to the market. After an excited call to Marcella to fill her in on the turn of events, Stella decided to spend the day on foot, walking the streets of Rome.
The order of the day? Inspiration.
Stella could justify taking on the mural work for Marco as it would help pay her rent which, in turn, sustained her longer-term plans. Did she need the distraction by way of time and effort? Of course not, and she was acutely aware of the fact. But Stella’s tender, caring heart had affixed itself to Marco there in the bar that morning. He was bright and hopeful, and clearly worked hard to achieve his dreams. Perhaps some of that defiant, headstrong passion might just rub off on her.
With a sketchbook in hand and her favourite graphite pencil tucked behind her right ear, she went in search of ideas for Bar Luna e Lupa’s mural. She stopped here and there, scribbled down ideas, noted some small details, though after a short while, she felt completely overwhelmed by the task, her previous enthusiasm waning.
Several frustrated hours later, Stella conceded defeat and stopped on Via del Corso to catch her breath, now drowning in regret.
Just think of the money.
Collapsing on the front steps of San Giacomo in Augusta, Stella sighed, gaining the attention of an elderly nun standing by the doorway. Realising that her huff had startled the nun, Stella apologised then continued to lament her less than impressive doodling.
‘Artista?’ the nun asked, noting the sketchbook resting open in Stella’s lap.
Stella wanted to reply with a comment about feeling more like a failure than an artist, but instead meekly responded, ‘Sì.’
Reading the worry across Stella’s face, the nun joined her on the front steps. Carefully easing herself down beside Stella, she straightened the pleats in her long black tunic before reaching for the sketchbook. She surveyed the scribbles and lines, assessing each graphite grey element. She tutted to herself. ‘Posso?’ she asked, indicating to Stella’s pencil.
‘Sì. Certo!’ Stella was more than happy to pass the creative burden along and didn’t hesitate in turning to a fresh page. ‘Prego.’
The nun, beautifully fragile with short grey hair and long smile lines, took a deep breath and put pencil to paper. Her hand, deformed by decades of aggressive rheumatoid arthritis, moved with slow deft motions.
Mesmerised, Stella watched as the nun withdrew a very familiar figure from deep within the nothingness of the white paper. She shaded and defined until she was happy with the final result. Holding the sketchbook at arm’s-length, she was pleased with what looked back at her. ‘Finito,’ she announced, passing the work back to Stella.
In the middle of the page sat a perfectly crafted she-wolf, the most iconic symbol of Rome.
The nun tapped her chest by way of introduction. ‘Alina.Etu?’
‘Mi chiamoStella.’
‘Ah, Stella,piacere,’ she said. Then, with a withered finger, she tapped the she-wolf. ‘Mamma Roma.’ She made the sign of the cross with her right hand and blew a kiss to the sky. ‘Destino.’
A she-wolf.La lupa romana.Just like the bar. . .
Exhaling, Stella smiled kindly, taking in the wisdom that simmered behind Alina’s eyes. Placing her hands over Alina’s, she gave them a little squeeze in appreciation. ‘GrazieAlina.’
‘Artista.’ Alina beamed proudly, patting her chest again. Opening her palms, Alina showed Stella how the pads of her fingers were stained from a lifetime of sketching.
Examining her own hands, Stella knew they would eventually meet the same fate. Turning to show Alina the state of her own fingernails, Stella found Alina’s outreached hand, offering her a small prayer card.
‘Per me?’ she asked, accepting the gift.
‘Che Dio ti benedica,’ Alina said in a humble low voice. ‘L’ispirazione ti troverà. Prima o poi.’
Stella didn’t know if God, or any of the deities, would indeed bless her or her work. But she found comfort in the conviction with which Alina assured her of the arrival of inspiration.
Notif, but rather,when.
Suddenly, the breeze picked up and changed direction down Via del Corso, gently ruffling the pages of Stella’s sketchbook as it fluttered on by. Alina placed a kind and reassuring hand on Stella’s arm and bid her farewell, leaving Stella alone on the steps.
Stella took in the charming scene depicted on the small card.
On one side was the painted image of an angelic-faced female saint. The background, a bright deep blue sky, was decorated with rippling gold waves that radiated from the saint’s crown of light. Just behind the figure, lush green rolling hills led to the outline of a township. The profiles of homes and buildings, all in gold-leaf detailing, lined up neatly side by side. The painting was credited to artist Guglielmo Giraldi.
