Chapter Eight
Niilo
Roman’s jaw dropped when he saw the exterior of St. Peter’s Basilica, and has yet to fully climb back into neutral position. He keeps mutely shaking his head, and giving me a grin that saysholy shit, can you believe this?I grin back, because it is rather hard to believe that places like this exist in the world.
“I can’t wait to see the Sistine Chapel,” he says as we join the throngs of people heading inside the Vatican Museum. I’m wearing a full-sized shirt today, not looking to be banned from entering by showing off my navel. Roman looks particularly delicious in dark wash jeans, and a black T-shirt.
“It’s…well, indescribable, really. Are you familiar withThe School of Athens?”
“The painting?” he asks, putting his hand gently on my upper back and angling his body to block anyone from cutting us off as we walk inside.
“Mm. By Raphael. It’s my favorite.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” he enthuses, looking positively ecstatic about the prospect.
The Gallery of Maps ends up being a surprise favorite, so we linger there as Roman does his best to inspect every inch.We argue good-naturedly about our preferences, and crane our necks looking at the ceiling, because every inch of the Vatican is its own work of art. The Raphael Rooms are a less surprising favorite, and Roman is suitably enamored withThe School of Athens. I have no good reason for it being my favorite, other than the amorphous and unknowable longing I feel when I look at it. We stand and gaze at the piece, tourists walking through the room with barely a pause, parting around us like a river.
“Raphael painted himself in,” I whisper, feeling the need to maintain the sanctity of the room. As it did the first time I saw it, the art makes me feel as though it deserves my respect.
“Where?” Roman replies, voice equally as low, as though he’s picking up on the same energy I am.
I point out Raphael’s narrow face, next to Ptolemy, and Roman shakes his head in awe.
“Painted himself right in there with Plato and Aristotle,” he comments, sounding reverential. “Bold move.”
“Isn’t it grand?” I agree, feeling proud of the long-dead painter.Good for you, I think, gazing up at his face, frozen in time and forever celebrated. I slide my hand into Roman’s and give him a little tug. “Come on.”
The Sistine Chapel is perfectly quiet as we enter, per the observed silence of the room. Roman’s soft gasp feels loud in the cavernous space, but only because he’s so close to me. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, fingers brushing but no longer holding hands, and gaze at what might be the most impressive work of art ever created.
I’m not Catholic, or particularly religious in any sense, but the frescoes transcend even that. Tears prick my eyes as I tip my head back, and look at the famous ceiling for the second time in my life. The room feels heavy with awe and something akin to melancholy. Fifty-one decades separate us from Michealangelo, but it feels as though you might see him—standing on hisscaffolding, neck craned as he paints the ceiling—if one were to simply squint hard enough.
“Well,” Roman says, the moment we exit. He doesn’t continue, apparently at a loss for words, but rubs his chest as though feeling an ache. I wait for that hand to drop before reaching for it. I understand the sentiment. It’s hard to describe the magnificence of that room; hard to imagine it when you’ve only visited through photographs or the television.
“I know,” I agree, and he sends me a grateful smile.
“I wish you could take pictures, but at the same time…” He pauses, taking a deep inhale and shaking his head. “Sometimes it’s nice to just stand there, you know? To justbe.”
I beam at him. “Yes, exactly. Flash photography is dangerous to art, so while I understand the practical reason to ban it…I wonder if it’s not, at least partly, to maintain the sanctity of that room.”
“I’ve been to a lot of art galleries and museums,” Roman comments as we walk toward the basilica. “And I like art—I like learning the history, and finding out obscure facts, you know? But that was the first time where Ifeltit.”
He hooks a thumb back over his shoulder to indicate the museum. His other hand moves to my mid back, body angled to keep people from jostling me. I look up at him, amused. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it, the protective instinct just coming naturally. It’s nice, I suppose, if a little strange. I take care of myself, always have, and I’ve never needed anyone to swoop in and save me. I don’t want someone to look at me and automatically assume, because of my stature and the way I present myself, that I’m small and weak; that I need defending.
But the hand on my back is gentle. It’s not a guiding touch, but a loving one—awe’re in this togethertouch. And boy, do I wish we were.
Biting the inside of my cheek as we walk through St. Peter’s Basilica, I do my best to pretend the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach is born of hunger and not yearning. I can’t imagine this ends any other way than watching Roman board a flight back to Seattle, leaving me to continue a journey that I can already tell will be drab without him. I thought I was enjoying myself during my travel year. I thought I was having the best time of my life. I was wrong.
A single week with Roman has outweighed all the rest, and while that’s a good thing now, with a handful of days left to enjoy, it’s going to be a decidedly bad thing when he’s gone. Sadly, I glance up at Roman, happily snapping pictures on his cellphone. Oh yes, nothing will be the same when he’s gone.
Feeling the weight of my gaze on his face, his eyes drop to mine. The smile slips behind his beard, so I gather myself and fix one into place on my own face. I won’t ruin his trip by emotionally bombing him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks anyway.
“Nothing. Just a little hungry.” It’s truthful enough, while also being something of a lie. Roman leans into the truth, and doesn’t press for more. We take the obligatory selfies in the basilica, and if he holds me a little closer, or squeezes a little tighter than necessary, I simply take it as yet another gift this trip has given me.
After Rome, we tool around southern Italy, visiting Pompeii, Naples, Matera, and spending three heavenly days on the Amalfi Coast. We take a break from the go-go-go days of travel, trying to hit everything we can and cross items off his list. Instead, we book a room in Positano—just as tiny as our haven in Rome—and simply enjoy our time together.
We laze around on beach loungers, an umbrella protecting us from the coastal sun, and relax. We spend hours ambling up the streets and back down again, surrounded by the colorfulbuildings and the smell of citrus. Purple wisteria drips down from the pergolas that crisscross above us, filling the air with its distinct lilac and honeysuckle scent. I take Roman to a lemon farm, and almost laugh myself to tears when he tries Limoncello and his face scrunches up like a caricature of someone tasting sour for the first time. We shop and eat and spend every minute of the days and nights together.
