my body into an upright position. After finding the floor with my feet, I stood and shuffled toward the bathroom where a mist of steam was creeping from under the door, an invitation too tempting to resist. I pushed the door open. Lorenzo had his back to me and was leaning over the tub, a knife clutched in one hand. I almost let out a scream but exchanged it instead for a gasp. Only then did I realize he was using the knife to slice lemons into the hot water.
He straightened up, closed the knife, and slipped it into his trouser pocket. He edged passed me, our bodies inches away from touching.
“I took the l iberty of ordering our dinner to be delivered,” he said. “This is the season for anchovies.”
“Anchovies—I don’t know.”
“These are like none you may have tasted from a can. They are quite sensational when accompanied by the sharp contrast of capers and lemons plus a drizzle of olive oil.”
“You really should’ve been a chef, Lorenzo.”
“I think not, signorina. Cooking for others is not a prerequisite for appreciating ingredients of the finest quality.”
At that moment I saw Lorenzo in a much different lig ht, one far more approachable than the stuffy host he first presented himself as being. And when I finally found my voice, it was to say, “Please, call me Ellen.”
Chapter 11
Testa Dura
If only Giorgio had listened to me instead of his mama’s cellular whining from Vicenza. Testa dura, my mother would’ve called him. Hard head, a term she often used to describe me and my sis, more often me because El had a more malleable nature, one I refused to adapt, thank god. But we were in Italy now, having gone our separate ways, and what could I, a mere Americana , have known about the artistic temperament of an Italiano whose ego far surpassed the talent he took such pride in honing to perfection, at least in his estimation, which I was starting to doubt.
Although Giorgio didn’t live far from the Piazza della Signoria, he insisted on our taking a taxi to a side street near the pedestrian area of The Uffizi, just as he’d done on our return the day before. After I paid the driver, we walked the rest of the way, each step bringing Giorgio closer to that of his mime personae. Me, wearing a backless sundress guaranteed to draw my own admirers. A crowd had already gathered at the Ufizzi in anticipation of his afternoon performance, a welcoming plus. First thing Giorgio did was to make a big production out of handing me his cape. Next came the staging. He drew an imaginary line down a thirty-foot row of cobblestones. This became his tightrope and on either side of the tightrope, he walked off two more imaginary lines which he gestured for his audience to stand behind. I set his basket on the Gallery steps and stationed myself at the far end of one line, a perfect angle for viewing.
Slowly, ever s o slowly, Giorgio began easing his way across the tightrope, hands gripping the imaginary pole he used to support his every move, all the while mesmerizing the tourists into unspoken admiration. About half way across the line, Giorgio stopped and allowed the pole no one could see to slip from his hands. Arms overhead, he lifted one leg to a forty-five degree angle, held it motionless while the audience oohed and aahed. But whatever message he’d willed his brain to deliver, the stationary leg had failed to receive. Back and forth he wobbled and wavered, unable to convince his grounded leg to do what it had done so often in the past. Eventually, and to everyone’s horror, Firenze’s star performer came crashing down. He could’ve saved the day, made this awkward display appear to be part of the act, to which his audience would’ve responded with a collective sigh of relief followed by a round of applause. But did he? No. His fall came as such a surprise it couldn’t be considered graceful or comical but more on the order of pathetic.
How could the best mime in all of Firenze have
He straightened up, closed the knife, and slipped it into his trouser pocket. He edged passed me, our bodies inches away from touching.
“I took the l iberty of ordering our dinner to be delivered,” he said. “This is the season for anchovies.”
“Anchovies—I don’t know.”
“These are like none you may have tasted from a can. They are quite sensational when accompanied by the sharp contrast of capers and lemons plus a drizzle of olive oil.”
“You really should’ve been a chef, Lorenzo.”
“I think not, signorina. Cooking for others is not a prerequisite for appreciating ingredients of the finest quality.”
At that moment I saw Lorenzo in a much different lig ht, one far more approachable than the stuffy host he first presented himself as being. And when I finally found my voice, it was to say, “Please, call me Ellen.”
Chapter 11
Testa Dura
If only Giorgio had listened to me instead of his mama’s cellular whining from Vicenza. Testa dura, my mother would’ve called him. Hard head, a term she often used to describe me and my sis, more often me because El had a more malleable nature, one I refused to adapt, thank god. But we were in Italy now, having gone our separate ways, and what could I, a mere Americana , have known about the artistic temperament of an Italiano whose ego far surpassed the talent he took such pride in honing to perfection, at least in his estimation, which I was starting to doubt.
Although Giorgio didn’t live far from the Piazza della Signoria, he insisted on our taking a taxi to a side street near the pedestrian area of The Uffizi, just as he’d done on our return the day before. After I paid the driver, we walked the rest of the way, each step bringing Giorgio closer to that of his mime personae. Me, wearing a backless sundress guaranteed to draw my own admirers. A crowd had already gathered at the Ufizzi in anticipation of his afternoon performance, a welcoming plus. First thing Giorgio did was to make a big production out of handing me his cape. Next came the staging. He drew an imaginary line down a thirty-foot row of cobblestones. This became his tightrope and on either side of the tightrope, he walked off two more imaginary lines which he gestured for his audience to stand behind. I set his basket on the Gallery steps and stationed myself at the far end of one line, a perfect angle for viewing.
Slowly, ever s o slowly, Giorgio began easing his way across the tightrope, hands gripping the imaginary pole he used to support his every move, all the while mesmerizing the tourists into unspoken admiration. About half way across the line, Giorgio stopped and allowed the pole no one could see to slip from his hands. Arms overhead, he lifted one leg to a forty-five degree angle, held it motionless while the audience oohed and aahed. But whatever message he’d willed his brain to deliver, the stationary leg had failed to receive. Back and forth he wobbled and wavered, unable to convince his grounded leg to do what it had done so often in the past. Eventually, and to everyone’s horror, Firenze’s star performer came crashing down. He could’ve saved the day, made this awkward display appear to be part of the act, to which his audience would’ve responded with a collective sigh of relief followed by a round of applause. But did he? No. His fall came as such a surprise it couldn’t be considered graceful or comical but more on the order of pathetic.
How could the best mime in all of Firenze have
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