‘The Italians have a verb to describe what we’re doing,’ Stella began, trying to keep her mind from wandering.
‘What are we doing, exactly?’
‘Wandering. Without purpose.Errare. Don’t you think that’s wonderful? Only in Italy could you ever need such a word. And really, where else would it be better used?’
Vincent glanced sideways and flashed her a cheeky smile. ‘How do you know so much about the Italian language,signorina?’
‘We spoke it at home. Well, regional dialect, actually. But I studied standardised Italian at school, and then later at university alongside my main degree. It’s always been part of my life. Like an old friend; always there.’
‘That’s a nice way of looking at it. My Italian’s just ok. It’s only good for buying me dinner and tricking women out of their phone numbers.’
‘Ugh, that’s disgusting!’ Stella erupted.
‘You’re so easy!’ he teased. ‘But really, my Italian’s average. My French is near fluent.’
‘Yes, tell me more about your Paris years.’
They arrived at an intersection. Despite the flashing red pedestrian signal, Stella started to cross the road.
‘Watch out, Stella! You can’t cross yet.’ Vincent grabbed her arm and pulled her safely back onto the sidewalk.
Stella turned to face him. ‘You’ll never last in Roma – or Italy, for that matter – if you keep that up! The cars don’t stop for a red light, so why should the pedestrians?’ She released herself from his grip with a single twist of the wrist then tottered across the street. ‘Daje!’she called back to him.
‘You know you can be fined back home for doing this.’ Vincent had made it halfway and stopped on the median strip.
‘Do you thinktheycare?’ Stella had to raise her voice, pointing to the lines of cars zooming past him. Noting his reluctance to walk, she called out a goading, ‘Ao!’
‘What does that mean?’ he returned, his eyes flicking between the cars.
‘In Rome, it can mean anything!’ She laughed. ‘Right now it means, move it!Datte ‘na mossa!’
Righting the equipment in his grip, Vincent stepped onto the road, making the most of the longer than average gap between two Smart cars. His crossing, which caused one of the cars to slow behind him, was met with the loud honk of a car horn, which roused a symphony of toots from other vehicles.
‘Honestly, I just don’t get Italians,’ was all that Vincent had to say on the matter, officially closing all potential discussion points relating to the street-crossing incident.
‘You’ll get used to it. C’mon, we’ve got about ten minutes still ahead of us. Now, Paris?’
‘Yes.’ He collected his thoughts. ‘I worked out of the Paris office for a huge international paper for just over seven years. I was the photo editor-in-chief for the sports division, and led a team of five photojournalists. I really liked the work. It was dynamic and exciting. Any sporting event across Europe, you name it, I covered it. Thankfully, I had a great boss who trusted me and let me call most of the shots. Pardon the pun. Having that support was really important for me, especially as I was establishing my professional portfolio.’ Vincent stopped at that point and looked out over the Tiber. ‘Anyway, some stuff happened, departments were rotated. It was this whole big thing. Basically, that was the end of my time in Paris.’
Stella sensed a change in him. He seemed to tighten up and withdraw into himself. ‘So, how did you end up in Rome?’
They met another red light, crossing carefully together in perfect unison.
‘I was with my girlfriend at the time, and it sort of just unravelled unexpectedly. I couldn’t really stay in Paris. Well, I could’ve, but I didn’t want to. After seven years in a place, you leave too many ghosts on street corners to be able to walk freely. The past always follows you.’
Stella stopped walking and faced him. ‘Do you want to talk about it? If you don’t, it’s ok. Honestly.’ She smiled kindly up at him, realising she had unconsciously taken his hand in support and given it a squeeze.
He looked down at their tangled fingers and said, ‘I can talk about it.’
They started walking again, but the pace slowed to a crawl.
‘Ok, but no pressure. It’s fine, really.’
Vincent seemed to relax a little as he continued, though his glance turned resolutely to the Tiber. ‘Céline. Also a journalist at the paper. I actually met her on my first day working there. I remember that first moment when I saw her. We were in a staff meeting, and I caught her rolling her eyes at a deadline schedule. Her beautiful face was so animated that I burst out laughing – in front of thirty of our colleagues, by the way – and it naturally prompted an apology afterwards. And then coffee. Followed by dinner. Well, we eventually started dating and it was all going well. We moved in together after about five months to save on rent, which is astronomical in Paris.’
‘Same here. Thank God for Giulio and Elda.’
‘Right? Well, things were great for the first few years. I stupidly thought that she wasthe one, you know? Stupid me couldn’t see the signs. We were often separated by assignments, sometimes for days or even weeks at a time.’
