Roman Crazy
Page 36

I’d been experimenting with different mediums, mostly colored pencils and pastels, but on a second visit to the art store I’d invested in a set of new acrylic paint and some great brushes. Not yet knowing what I was going to paint, or how good I’d be after such a long time, rather than investing in canvas I opted to go with some less-expensive cardboard. Some I’d purchased, some I’d scrounged from around the neighborhood. When you wanted to capture an idea, a concept, an anything, the bottom of a shoebox, once flattened, can be a great canvas.
I propped everything up on a cheap easel I’d also bought, tucked it into the corner of Daisy’s guest bedroom, and spent time every day just painting whatever came to mind. The light on the tiny patio, the trash cans on the corner I could just make out from my window, anything and everything to get my hands comfortable holding the brushes again.
Today I needed to get out of the apartment, away from thinking about whether or not Marcello would accept my apology, so I gathered up my supplies and headed out into the courtyard, determined to capture the exact color of those potato vines cascading down the balcony planters.
By ten I had captured the color.
By noon I had successfully layered the purples for the bougainvillea planted alongside the potato vines.
By two I had painted the planter itself along with the two on either side, the bricks below, the sky above, and was starting in on another round of trash cans when I began to think he wouldn’t call. Or text. Or email.
I brought my things inside, washed my hands, checked my phone one last time, then began to circle my laptop.
Should I? Should I not?
I had just sat down to email him when there was a knock at the front door.
Pulling off the apron, I held my breath, and my hope, in my chest. I opened the door, peeked around the corner, and let out a sigh when I saw him standing there.
“I was starting to think I wouldn’t see you for another nine years,” I said, stepping to the side so he could come in.
He stayed on the stoop, hands in his pockets. He looked every bit the boy I remembered, and the man I was beginning to know. Confident, handsome, and happy to see me?
“Am I interrupting?” he said, glancing at the colors splashed against my arms. “You have some”—he waved his hand near my cheek—“just there. Painting eh, melanzana?”
“What is that?” I asked, wondering what color was on my face. “Melons?”
He smiled, taking his thumb and smudging the still-wet paint from my cheek. “Viola, big, uh—purple vegetable.”
Then it dawned on me. The bougainvillea was purple. “You mean eggplant.”
Nodding, he rubbed his painted thumb between his hands. “Avery,” he began, but I stopped him by pulling him into the house.
“Can I say some things? First? Before you say anything.”
He thought a moment, then nodded.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you away,” I explained, choosing my next words carefully. “I wanted you to kiss me. At the bank. Below the bank. Whatever.”
I could feel the blush rising but I didn’t care. I needed to get this out and make sure he knew why I stopped him, why I had to stop him. His eyes were searching, piercing; they always could level me. I studied my hands instead. If I didn’t look right at him, I could say it. “I got spooked when it sounded like someone was coming. I kind of panicked, I guess.”
How there was skin left on my hands I will never know, the way I was wringing them. But I went on.
“I didn’t want you to kiss me, I mean I did, but not for the first time anyway, with people right around the corner. It’s been a long time since . . . well . . . since anyone looked at me the way that you did. At the bank.”
“Below the bank,” I heard him say, his voice full of teasing, but warmth, too. My eyes swung up to find him smiling at me.
“I thought you were embarrassed,” he said, glancing down to my lips.
“What? How could I possibly be embarrassed of you?”
He nodded and his mouth curled up in the tiniest of grins. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Hmm?” Was I forgiven? Again?
“You take off the apron, wash off the eggplant, and you and I? We take a walk.”
A walk. Yes. I could walk. I had a request, though. “I’ll go wherever you want, but I want you to do something for me.”
“What is this you ask?”
“Talk to me while we’re walking. Explain everything. Where we’re turning, how old something is. All of it. Left, right, north, south. Don’t leave out any details.”
* * *
DAISY AND MARCELLO had very different methods of showing me their city. Daisy’s was an adopted sense of pride, so she prattled on incessantly as if it were a travel show. She loved Rome’s beauty and history, but she explained everything in an academic way.
“Did you know that Rome has over three hundred fountains?” she’d said as she tossed a coin into one on the outer wall of a McDonald’s. It was one of those instances where I was contemplating the fusion of old and the new. “And something like nine hundred churches? That’s a lot of holy.”
“Maybe you should get a part-time job as a tour guide.” I’d been teasing her one night when we were walking past a guide with a lime-green flag and a trail of eager tourists. “I’m sure that tour group Dark Rome would take one look at your résumé and hire you in a second.”
Everything she told me was interesting, sure, but sometimes you just wanted to wander and lose yourself.