sculpture show. It was friendly in SoHo; everyone was hard at work. Companions on a shared journey of the soul.
Pioneers in the world of art. Dancers, writers, poets, painters, they congregated here at the southern tip of New York, locked between the dying filth and litter of Greenwich Village and the concrete and glass of Wall Street. This was a softer place. A world of friends.
The woman in the grocery store knew her welL "Ah signorina, com& sta?" "Bene grazie, e lei?"
"Cosi cosi. Un po' stanca. Che cosa vorebbe oggi?" And Kezia wandered amidst the delicious smells and chose salami, cheese, bread, onions, tomatoes. Fiorella approved of her selections. Here was a girl who knew how to buy. She knew the right salami, what to put in a sauce, how a good Bel Paese should feel. She was a nice girl. Her husband was probably Italian. But Fiorella never asked.
Kezia paid and left with the string bag full. She stopped next door to buy eggs, and down the street she went into the delicatessen for three boxes of chocolate cookies, the kind he liked best. On her way back, she strolled slowly through the ever-thickening groups on the street. The aroma of fresh bread and salami wafted around her head, the smell of marijuana hung close by, the heavy scent of espresso drifted out of the cafes, while a rich twilight sky stretched overhead. It was a beautiful September, still warm, but the air felt cleaner than it usually did, and there were pink lights in the sky, like one of Mark's early water-colors, rich in pastels. Pigeons cooed and waddled down the street, and bicycles leaned against buildings; here and there a child skipped rope.
"What'd you get?" Mark was lying on the floor, smoking a joint.
"What you ordered. Steak, lobster, caviar. The usual." She blew him a kiss and dropped the packages on the narrow kitchen table.
"Yeah? You bought steak?" He looked more disappointed than hopeful.
"No. But Fiorella says we don't eat enough salami. So I bought a ton of that."
"Good. She must be a trip." Before Kezia had come into his life, he had existed on navy beans and chocolate cookies. Fiorella was just another part of Kezia's mystery, one of her many gifts to him.
"She is a trip. A good trip."
"So are you. So are you." She stood in the kitchen doorway, her eyes alight, a twilight glow filling the room, and she looked back at Mark, sprawled on the floor.
"You know, once in a while I think I really love you, Marcus."
"Once in a while I think I love you too."
The look they shared said a multitude of things. There was no unpleasantness there, no pressure, no strain. No depth, but no hassles. There was merit inthat, for both of them.
"Want to go for a walk, Kezia?"
"La passeggiata."
He laughed softly at the word. She always called it that. "I haven't heard that since you went away."
"That's what it always is to me, down here. Uptown, people walk. They run. They go crazy. Here, they still know how to live. Like in Europe. Le passeggiate, the walks Italians take every evening at dusk, and at noon on Sundays, in funny little old towns where most of the women wear black and the men wear hats and white shirts, baggy suits and no ties. Proud farmers.'good people. They check out their scene, greet their friends. They do it right it's an institution to them. A ritual, a tradition, and I love it" She looked content as she said it.
"So let's go do it." He rose slowly to his feet stretched, and put an arm around her shoulders. "We can eat when we get back."
Kezia knew what that meant. Eleven, maybe twelve o'clock. First they would walk, and then they would run into friends and stop to chat on the street for a while. It would get dark and they would take refuge in someone's studio, so Mark could see the progress of a friend's latest work, and eventually the studio would grow crowded so they would all go to The Partridge for wine. And suddenly, hours later, they would be starving, and Kezia would be serving fettuccine for nine. There would
Pioneers in the world of art. Dancers, writers, poets, painters, they congregated here at the southern tip of New York, locked between the dying filth and litter of Greenwich Village and the concrete and glass of Wall Street. This was a softer place. A world of friends.
The woman in the grocery store knew her welL "Ah signorina, com& sta?" "Bene grazie, e lei?"
"Cosi cosi. Un po' stanca. Che cosa vorebbe oggi?" And Kezia wandered amidst the delicious smells and chose salami, cheese, bread, onions, tomatoes. Fiorella approved of her selections. Here was a girl who knew how to buy. She knew the right salami, what to put in a sauce, how a good Bel Paese should feel. She was a nice girl. Her husband was probably Italian. But Fiorella never asked.
Kezia paid and left with the string bag full. She stopped next door to buy eggs, and down the street she went into the delicatessen for three boxes of chocolate cookies, the kind he liked best. On her way back, she strolled slowly through the ever-thickening groups on the street. The aroma of fresh bread and salami wafted around her head, the smell of marijuana hung close by, the heavy scent of espresso drifted out of the cafes, while a rich twilight sky stretched overhead. It was a beautiful September, still warm, but the air felt cleaner than it usually did, and there were pink lights in the sky, like one of Mark's early water-colors, rich in pastels. Pigeons cooed and waddled down the street, and bicycles leaned against buildings; here and there a child skipped rope.
"What'd you get?" Mark was lying on the floor, smoking a joint.
"What you ordered. Steak, lobster, caviar. The usual." She blew him a kiss and dropped the packages on the narrow kitchen table.
"Yeah? You bought steak?" He looked more disappointed than hopeful.
"No. But Fiorella says we don't eat enough salami. So I bought a ton of that."
"Good. She must be a trip." Before Kezia had come into his life, he had existed on navy beans and chocolate cookies. Fiorella was just another part of Kezia's mystery, one of her many gifts to him.
"She is a trip. A good trip."
"So are you. So are you." She stood in the kitchen doorway, her eyes alight, a twilight glow filling the room, and she looked back at Mark, sprawled on the floor.
"You know, once in a while I think I really love you, Marcus."
"Once in a while I think I love you too."
The look they shared said a multitude of things. There was no unpleasantness there, no pressure, no strain. No depth, but no hassles. There was merit inthat, for both of them.
"Want to go for a walk, Kezia?"
"La passeggiata."
He laughed softly at the word. She always called it that. "I haven't heard that since you went away."
"That's what it always is to me, down here. Uptown, people walk. They run. They go crazy. Here, they still know how to live. Like in Europe. Le passeggiate, the walks Italians take every evening at dusk, and at noon on Sundays, in funny little old towns where most of the women wear black and the men wear hats and white shirts, baggy suits and no ties. Proud farmers.'good people. They check out their scene, greet their friends. They do it right it's an institution to them. A ritual, a tradition, and I love it" She looked content as she said it.
"So let's go do it." He rose slowly to his feet stretched, and put an arm around her shoulders. "We can eat when we get back."
Kezia knew what that meant. Eleven, maybe twelve o'clock. First they would walk, and then they would run into friends and stop to chat on the street for a while. It would get dark and they would take refuge in someone's studio, so Mark could see the progress of a friend's latest work, and eventually the studio would grow crowded so they would all go to The Partridge for wine. And suddenly, hours later, they would be starving, and Kezia would be serving fettuccine for nine. There would
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