The awkward silence that had fallen between the two was broken by the unmistakable screech of Elda’s voice. ‘Well, well! Look who we have here!È tornata la nostra Australiana!’ she announced, dumping her wicker basket of fresh bread and flowers on the table. Her accent was still thick, despite having left New York over thirty years ago. ‘So.’ She gave Stella a wink. ‘Have you slept with him yet?’ Her question was too direct and loud for Stella’s liking. Elda’s cheeky grin curled even the wrinkle lines by her eyes. ‘He’s got an incredible body, right? Did you notice that? He’s soburly. And he smells good too!’ She smacked her lips, readjusted her cropped grey hair, and eagerly awaited Stella’s reply.
God. How long’s this going to last?
‘I’ve already asked,’ Giulio interjected.
Elda assessed Stella from arm’s-length. ‘No, they haven’t done it yet. She doesn’t have that post-coital dewy glow—’
‘Enough! Please!’ Stella didn’t know which line of discussion to shut down first. Itallmade her uncomfortable.
Much to her relief, Stella was saved from both by the arrival of a customer. An anxiety-alleviating exhale drew her back to her stall. ‘Buongiorno!’ she said in her most friendly tone, trying to reset her facial expression.
‘Giorno,’ he politely replied.
Stella busied herself as the man absorbed her display of watercolour paintings. Methodically, he started at one side of the collection and took his time to observe each and every one. Unlike many of the street artists of Rome, Stella made it her duty to paint everythingbutthe tourist icons. While she did indeed love the breathtaking marvels that met her at every corner of this great city, she felt that the quieter, more obscure features of Rome were far more worthy of immortalisation.
‘Quanto costa quello?’ the customer asked, pointing to one Stella had just displayed.
‘Quarantacinque euro,’ she said, carefully unpinning it from the felt board.
She passed him the painting, which he held aloft, seemingly mesmerised by the little world before him: a night scene, depicting the external façade of a restaurant from which a golden light emanated. The bright light contrasted the grey of the cobblestones which bled to the border. Stella had painted two elderly men sat at a table outside the restaurant, one smoking, holding a glass of wine, while the other was engrossed in his meal. The brushstrokes were soft and the colours permeated into one another. Curly green vines climbed to the rooftop and by using drops of water, Stella had created the illusion of a cluster of stars in the inky sky.
The man traced the stars with his fingers, as if searching for something. During this pensive inspection, Stella had been making small talk with Elda and Giulio, but their laughter was broken as the man re-approached. Hearing their perfect English, he meekly asked, ‘Excuse me, but could you paint a moon in the sky?’
All three were taken aback by the question. Whose place was it to alter the work of an artist?
The nature of his question made Stella take greater notice of him. He was a sweet-faced man in his late-twenties, perhaps early-thirties. He had fine dark features and a soft jawline. So many Italian men, Stella had discussed one day at length with Marcella, had bold and distinctive facial features, be it an aquiline nose, or a shelf-like brow. No, this man had none of that. Stella looked into his friendly brown eyes and couldn’t help but smile.
‘Why a moon?’ Stella asked. Her tone was inquisitive. ‘I never thought to put a moon in the sky, come to think of it,’ she added. Through a pensive squint, she took the painting from him and reassessed her work. ‘Hmm. A moon?’
‘You see, I am looking specifically for moons. I know it’s a strange request, but we are about to open a new bar down on Via dei Giubbonari,and I was hoping to find some art or decorations—’
Stella suddenly remembered the slapstick comedy routine of the tradesmen. ‘Bar Luna e Lupa, you mean?’
‘Esatto!’
‘I passed by this morning as the men were hanging the sign. Well,tryingto hang the sign. You should do well there, it’s a great location. You will have lots of passing foot traffic.’ Stella noticed Giulio and Elda slink further away as the conversation progressed.
‘Yes, we are going to open on Monday, so you can understand why I need to finish decorating in a hurry.’
‘Of course! Yes.’ Stella turned her attention once again to the painting in her hand. She sat down on her compact fold out chair and made herself comfortable. Pulling an elastic from her wrist she gathered her hair – including the tiny wisps that tickled her eyelids – into a high messy bun.
Stella propped the little painting against her easel, studied it for a moment, then retrieved her tortoiseshell glasses from her satchel. Leaning forward, Stella rested her left elbow on her knee and her chin in the palm of her hand. She was in her element.
‘I think it needs to go here,’ she said, head cocked sideways. She gnawed on her bottom lip as she lightly sketched the outline of the full moon in pencil. ‘What do you think?’
Humbled by how accommodating she was, he said, ‘Sì. That will be perfect.’
Without thinking, as if commanded by a higher power, Stella said, ‘Consider the painting a gift. I would like you to have it on the house.’ As the words left her, she was surprised that her good-hearted nature had led her astray. An invisible vice clamped over her mouth, fearing she would continue on her do-gooder streak.
You idiot, Stella. Forty-five euros gone. Just like that. Poof!
The smiling man grabbed her arm, genuinely shocked by her warm gesture. ‘Ma, no!’His face was filled with sincerity and concern, which Stella found both endearing and amusing. ‘Grazie di cuore. But I cannot accept that. We all have expenses. Please. Here, take this.’ He withdrew a crisp fifty euro note from his wallet and passed it to her. ‘I insist. Please don’t offend me by not accepting it.’
As if in slow motion, the note hit her palm and the warmth of his skin resonated through the cotton fibres between them.
Relief trickled through her, but she made sure not to show it. ‘Grazie,’ she said and smiled back at him.
‘Prego.’
