"Grazie," I say. The word slips out lopsided. He takes the plastic menu from my hands and walks away.
I lean in and reach across our small table. "It's been a long day."
"Yes," Griff answers. "It has." The words clip sharply at their ends. His eyes never leave the phone he is holding.
It's funny, I think, studying his face, mapping the lines we've travelled together. I've never noticed how his mouth naturally curves down. I pull my hand back and pick up my tumbler.
"I'm happy we're here." My voice sounds cheerful. "It's long overdue."
He looks up, his eyes skimming over me, surveying the room. His gaze rests somewhere above my head.
"Anna was from Rome." He takes an olive from the angular dish on the table and pops it in his mouth.
Her name falls between us.
"Anna," he says again. His mouth pinches in frustration. "From university." He takes a sip of his wine and frowns.
I look down at my plate and adjust my fork neatly beside it.
"I wonder where she is now." His gaze slides between the well-dressed passers-by before landing on me. The corners of his mouth dip lower.
"I wonder," I offer, but I don't really mean it.
His phone rings, startling us both. He looks down at the screen. "It's work."
He mouths, sorry. But he's already talking, turning away, a half-formed smile carving his features.
My nails dig into the palm of my hand. Across the room, the waiter is chatting animatedly with the young couple—the man's arm wrapped around the woman's slim waist.
I draw back and pick up my glass. My chair shifts: a steel leg slips between the cobbled stones and the drink spills onto the table's clean linens. A bright orange stain.
We sleep until noon. I wake up suddenly, my heart racing. I'd been dreaming I was in my old studio—a windowless room heaving with half-finished paintings on wood panels and canvas, charcoals and fine brushes made of fox hair; the heavy smell of oil paint hanging in the air. I was struggling to breathe. Mold and mildew were growing on the walls, spreading over the canvas I was working on. The model sat on a stool in the center of the room, swathed in gold velvet. Her expression was weary and carved in stone. She looked like me.
I picked up a brush and it turned to ash in my hands, the dust sifting through my numb, useless fingers. I was wild, shaking; I had lost something.
I looked to the model for comfort, but she had vanished. In her place sat our two boys. Their small bodies stiff and uncomfortable, posed in matching suits—blue velvet with lace at the collar and cuffs, their round cheeks flushed from the heat and their indignation.
I couldn't breathe. I was feverish and nauseous, an artist who had forgotten how to paint.
Our hotel room is small—a bed, a chair, an antique dresser. I stretch my legs, my toes flexing, muscles tense from the dream. I pull the covers up, cool like silk on my bare skin. My heartbeat slows, but my head still aches from the wine.
My gaze drifts to Griff. His face is angled toward me on the pillow. He looks younger, relaxed—the lines softened by sleep. Echoes of the young man he was when we first met in an economics class designed for art students. He was the teacher's assistant, and I was struggling. "I can help you," he had said, his white teeth flashing. "Sometimes, I like to tutor students." His voice was soft, whispering of possibility. "But only the special ones." My cheeks burned.
"Buongiorno," I say now. My hand fluttering to my mouth, shielding my sour breath.
He cocks an eye open. I wrap myself with the sheet and sit up, placing my feet on the floor.
"How did you sleep?" I ask, glancing at him over my shoulder.
"I slept well. Long." His voice is thick.
The sound of ice tumbling into glassware drifts through the room. The lunch crowd is gathering in the piazza below.
"Me too," I say, taking short strides to the bathroom, the white sheet held tight, covering my chest and backside. I pull the bathroom door closed and lock it behind me. I stare at my reflection, pale and freckled under the fluorescent lights, thin strands of grey curling at my temple.
One second later and he's at the door.
"Are you going to be long?" He shakes the doorknob before knocking.
"Give me a minute,"
"Be quick, ok? I have to go."
I open the door. "You go first. It's ok."
"Thanks." He smiles. Our shoulders brush together as we pass through the door.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and wait. Then the shower turns on, and I hear him start to hum. I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on my breathing—deep breaths, slow and measured.
The air is sticky despite the whirl of the ceiling fan. I lie back on the bed and spread my arms. The breeze from the fan cools my skin.
"Breakfast in ten minutes?" he asks, opening the door. A towel hangs loose around his hips. "Any ideas of where to go?"
I consider his question. "How about the café overlooking the fountain?"
He looks at me, his head tilting to the side. "I'm not sure I know it." He picks up a comb and slides it through his tousled hair.
"Sure, you do. The one with the yellow chairs and tables? Where the coffee smells so good. We passed it last night on the way back from dinner."
"I know a place," he waves his hand. "They serve an American breakfast with eggs, bacon, pancakes—the works." He is already dressed. He ties a blue sweater around his shoulders.
"It will be filled with tourists." My voice falls flat.
"We're tourists." His words are sharp.
I heed the warning. "Ten minutes? Can you give me twenty?"
"Be quick about it, though." His voice is light. "I'm hungry."
We walk through the city. Our shoulders knock together as we navigate the narrow streets.
Griff pulls ahead of me. "I don't remember it being so far." The tension rises with each syllable.
I glance at him. His shirt is rumpled, his sweater now damp and knotted at his waist. "It shouldn't be too much longer. Do you remember what side of the street it is on?"
"No," he almost spits. "I don't."
A scooter zips past, followed by a car, forcing our bodies tight against the urine-stained walls.
"I hate this city," he curses beside me. His face is red, sweat beading on his forehead. "Never again."
He pulls at his collar, clawing at the blue silk of his tie.
("It's Italian," he once smirked from our townhome in Toronto. "Don't make a big deal. It's my money.")
"It is warm today." My voice is like plastic. "It's unusual for November." My feet are bloated from the heat—the straps of my shoes, edging deep into my skin. I bump into a young man dancing on the sidewalk, wearing oversized headphones, handing out something that looks like a postcard. "I'm sorry," I smile and take a card from him. American Breakfast served here. I glance over at the tourists gathered on the patio. "Is this the place?
"It must be good. Look at the crowd." Griff holds open the door.
My jaw begins to ache.
We meet our tour by the arch, a small ragtag group crowded around a tall attractive woman.
"My name is Anna." Her name lilts out in broken English; charming and provocative.
"Anna?" Griff asks, pulsing with energy. "Great name." He winks at me. "We know an Anna from Rome."
She glances at him, brown eyes flashing under dark thick lashes. She then turns her attention back to the group. She holds up a pole. "If you get lost, remember to look for the red flag."
I can't take my eyes off her; she is effortless in spaghetti straps and lemon-yellow chiffon.
"All around us," Anna gestures, arms outstretched, elegant fingers conducting, "are statues and monuments honouring the eminent men of our city."
"I feel it," Griff inhales deeply, pushing his shoulders back. He smiles at her, and this time, she smiles back. She runs a hand through her long brown hair.
"Do you?"
"I feel their presence." His voice is light, even flirty. "It's something, isn't it?" His eyes lock on hers.
I cough, choking on the dust kicked up by the crowd.
"Allergies." I smile, too wide, my teeth exposed.
I glance at Griff. He's watching Anna.
I look away, my gaze running the slope of the hill and resting on the tourists crowded at the top, silhouetted like ants under the umbrella trees. The sky is lit gold, bathing the silt and stone in a golden light.
"That is something," I marvel—shaking my head at the ancient ruins scraping a gilded sky.
We stop next in front of a temple. "The Vestal Virgins," Anna waves to a row of statues. "The priestesses of Vesta—the virgin goddess of home and hearth."
"Were they powerful?" I ask, and she cocks her head, considering me. I don't mean it to sound like a challenge.
"The virgins? Very." Her stance widens. "They were the most revered of all the women in Rome—they were the keepers of the city's eternal flame."
I nod, clasping my hands and lacing my fingers tight—fighting the urge to place my palms flat against the smooth, cool, stillness of the marble.
"What would happen if the flame went out?" Griff's brown eyes glint in the afternoon sun.
"Death, of course." Anna's demeanour changes, her hand now rests languidly on her hip. "And if a virgin's chastity was questioned," she looks at me, her red lips twitch into a fleeting smile, "they would bury her alive."
"What about her lover?" The words slide out of Griff's mouth, slow and deliberate.
"They were beaten to death." She draws up to full height and holds his eye. "If they were found."
"If they were found," he echoes, before looking away.
"All this hype." Griff wipes at his mouth with his napkin, gesturing at the crowd of people. "It's just a fountain."
We're sitting on the stairs, tourists amongst tourists. Gelato in our hands, a brief stop before our next tour.
"It's not what I was expecting," I say, warily.
"Things seldom are." Our eyes meet before he turns away.
"Griff?" I start, "I..." my voice trails off. I look away, my eyes drawn back to the fountain—spellbound.
In truth, it's more than I was expecting. It's what I'd hoped for. I watch, my breath caught in my throat, as a well-dressed couple embrace for a photograph. A trio of white-haired women tip back their heads in laughter and throw coins over their shoulders. Twin boys in matching blue jackets run up to the edge of the pool. Their eyes are bright, and dark chocolate rings their mouths. I think of our boys, and how they might scramble up and over the travertine. Delight speeding through their wild limbs.
"It's beautiful," I say, but the roar of the crowd swallows my words.
We abandon the tour at the foot of the Gallery's grand staircase.
"Raphael, Donatello, Bocelli, Brunelleschi." Griff runs his finger down the list. "Who are we here to see?"
"Gentileschi."
"There he is." He shakes the map for emphasis. "Second floor."
"She." My voice cracks. "There she is."
"Well," he glances at me, "she is on the second floor."
"Women," I snipe, my ears pounding, "are artists too."
"I know." His lips pull tight. "I thought I married one." He doesn't miss a beat.
Heat rushes my cheeks, and I angle my face away.
Griff points to the wall, a sign. Caravaggio and Artemisia.
Artemisia. Her name settles against my tongue.
We walk into a room—extravagant frames on dark scarlet walls. My breath catches in my throat. "I wrote my thesis on her," I whisper. "On Artemisia. She painted women. I mean..." I pause, struggling to find the words. "She painted their lives."
"She was the first woman to study at the Academy of Arts," Griff says, thumbing the guide. "L'Accademia delle Arti del Disegno." He draws out each word with an exaggerated accent. "Isn't that where you wanted to study?" He slaps the guide against his thigh.
"That was the dream," I say, my eyes widening. "I'm surprised you remember."
He shrugs half-heartedly and looks up, skimming over me and squinting at a painting on the wall. "It's a little violent for my taste." He folds his arms across his chest.
I track his gaze with my own—Artemisia's Judith. My eyes fix on the grotesque angle of Holofernes' head—severed by Judith's bloody sword. I linger, studying her unflinching gaze, the strength of her wrists, her hands. Their blood-stained limbs knotted together, forever in battle. Perspective, light, and brushstroke; a masterpiece.
There's a shift. Something inside me realigns.
Griff grabs hold of my hand as we walk into the next gallery, an old monastery in the centre of the city. His eyes slip over the cloister and the arched colonnade, coming to rest on the lunettes in the vaulting.
"You don't paint anymore."
A statement, not a question. My cheeks burn. I blink back tears, blurring the stretched canvas in my mind—splattered with dried peas and strained apricots, stained by tiny fingerprints. I scratch at my temple with the hand he was just holding. "It's hard. The boys..."
He doesn't answer. We step into a painted cell with high ceilings and expansive stone walls. Crumbling plaster revealing yet more frescoes of yet more men.
I look away. A potted lime tree sits in the room's corner. To its left, a small painting hangs on the wall. A portrait of a girl, Santa Caterina d'Alessandria. Beside her hangs another—a twin set of youth and beauty. Griff follows me. For once.
"I think," he says, his voice detached, "she lost her head." He steps back, his eyes narrowing as he studies her haunted face. His own face still red from the heat.
My chest tightens. I want to look at him, but I don't. I chew my lip instead. "Didn't they all?"
"No," he shakes his head with authority. "Some got burned at the stake."
"St. Caterina," I say, quiet and still, "was killed by a spiked wheel."
"God," he frowns. "That's a gruesome way to go," He looks down at the guide in his hands and starts to read. "It says here, she was sentenced to death—"
"When she refused to marry the emperor." My voice sounds distant. "She chose her faith instead."
"Imagine," he says, the words slipping out loosely. "Imagine believing that strongly in something."
My feet ache.
"She's pretty." His features re-arranging in self-satisfaction.
"Is she?" My eyes flick to him, but I fix on her instead. "She looks sad." My teeth dig a little deeper into my lip. "Hopeless."
"She's a saint, for God's sake. Isn't that the draw?"
I linger, blinking at her portrait. Her down-turned gaze, a veil like gauze floating ethereal around her pale face, a wheel of daggers clasped in her hands. A small, gold-leafed frame in a sparse, cold room.
Marry me.
"Did she have a choice?" The words drift between us.
Or die.
He doesn't answer. He's moved on to the next portrait.
My blood roils. Is she pretty too? Cheeks burning, tears pricking my eyes.
"That's Mary Magdalene," he tilts his head. "A saint? I'm confused." He looks at me. "Wasn't she a prostitute?"
I open my mouth to answer, but I have nothing to say.
"Let's go." His voice fills the space. "I've had enough for one day."
I remain silent for a moment, still. I linger on the portrait of St. Caterina.
He grasps my hand and tugs me outside. "Come on. Dinner? Do you have any suggestions?"
There's graffiti on the brick wall outside—a portrait of a woman. Intricately drawn in two-halves—she is Vitruvian, one half all bone and muscle, the other draped in silks. I glance at him, studying the angle of his face and the downward curve of his lips. Our eyes meet, and this time I hold his gaze before looking away.
I look down, my hand still tucked in his. My grip tightens, and I feel the strength of my hands and my wrists. Our fingers knotted together, my nails digging into his palm.
"Actually," I say, "I do."
