‘But there’s something really majestic about it. I don’t know if it’s the sheer volume of the work, or the finer details . . . I’ve tried so hard to sum up its importance, but I fail every time. I wish I could express in words the physical impact it has on you when you see it; not just the first time, but every time, because it always does something to you.’
‘I know. You should feel my heart racing.’ Marcella’s hands were firmly planted on her chest, feeling the pounding slowly subside as she moved around the room. ‘Look at these littleuccellini!’ She pointed to a small group of birds gathered by a bush.
‘This work has been studied and analysed to death over the years. Specialists have classified and identified all the various elements: birds, plants, trees, shrubs, fruit . . . It’s as much of an anthropological wonder as it is an artistic gem.’
‘Well, I think it’s amazing. Thank you for sharing this with me, Stella. I have walked past this palazzo so many times – I can’t even think how many – and never thought to come inside.’
‘Ah, well, now you know what’s here.Paradiso.’
Stella continued to talk, pointing out particular shrubs and plants on the opposite side of the room, adding to the white noise accumulating in Marcella’s mind. ‘I can’t wait to bring Vincent here. I think he’ll love it.’ She began taking photos of the intricate details of a tree bough bursting with orange and red fruits.
‘I hope he will,’ Marcella said.
The sky had significantly darkened and puddles had formed in the place of missing cobblestones. Each reflected the continued monotonous warning: leaden rain clouds above, heavy with another imminent downpour.
It was noticeably cooler outside the museum, goading them to fasten their jackets and tighten their scarves. Initially, Marcella had suggested they stop in at a littlepasticceriaa block behind Via Nazionalefor afternoon tea.Catching a few drops of rain on her face, Stella suggested otherwise. ‘Take the bus home instead?’
Before Marcella could reply, a loud clap of thunder rolled overhead, causing a few nearby pedestrians to flinch. A young man on amotorinoswerved sharply, narrowly avoiding the curb as he zoomed past them, equally thrown by Mother Nature’s cry.
Moments later, they were comfortably within the warm confines of the H, pulling away from Piazza dei Cinquecento. Busier than usual, it was obvious that many others had the same idea.
Italians, much like the cats of Rome, despise the rain.
Stella’s phone buzzed. ‘A message from Vincent:Pietro wants to work out of the office tonight. Won’t be coming over. The hierarchy isn’t happy with the suite of images. Don’t wait up. V.’ Stella’s bottom lip rose as her brow furrowed. ‘Damn it. That’s the second weekend in a row. How important can this stuff possibly be, that they’ll work their staff into the ground?’
With flustered reddening cheeks, Stella’s gaze turned to the rain that was beating down on the bus, leaving long water paths down the window. Her finger traced the drops as they collided with others, forming larger ones, before cascading to their demise. ‘Maybe I’ll just work on the mural tonight. I’ll ask Marco if he’ll be around.’ She sighed and opened a new text.
Sensing Stella tighten by her side, Marcella’s stomach churned. It wasn’t just seeing Stella so disappointed that upset her, it was the realisation that Stella stood to be hurt in the process. And Stella had already endured enough of that for a lifetime.
Patting Stella’s knee reassuringly, Marcella tried to console her. ‘You know the saying, “When life gives you lemons . . .”?’
‘Make lemonade?’
‘No. You say, “fuck the lemons” and open a bottle ofvino.’
diciassette
It turned out that Marco wouldn’t be around that Saturday night, but his offer of an evening paint at Bar Luna e Lupa that Sunday was enough to persuade Stella out from under her doona, away from her laptop, and out of the empty apartment. Stella stood on Via dei Giubbonari for a moment, watching Marco through the front window. He was sat at one of the tables in the middle of the bar, and by the downward curve of his neck and hunched shoulders, she surmised he was lost in a book.
Part of her didn’t want to disturb him. He had little downtime, constantly busy with customers and orders. It suddenly felt as if she were imposing to be there to spend time on the mural. It had been Marco, however, to encourage her company for the evening.
Stella stepped closer to the window as a group of rowdy soccer fans made their way along the street’s curves, headed for themetropolitanawith the Stadio Olimpico in sight. Having returned their hearty cries of ‘Daje, Roma,daje!’, she gave in and stepped onto the stoop, gently tapping on the glass pane of the front door.
Marco turned and smiled, waving her in.
‘Disturbo?’ she asked through an apprehensive wince.
‘No, Stella.Mai!’ He accepted her warm hug and cheek kisses. ‘Something to eat? Drink?’
While she wasn’t hungry, she was cold. ‘Come here,’ she said, pressing the backs of her hands against his cheeks. ‘I’ll take anything warm to fix these.’
‘Uffa!’ he exclaimed, catching them between his own. ‘No, no. Leave it with me.’
‘Closed early today?’
‘Sì, it was quiet. The rain.’
‘Days of it now.’ She sighed.
