Roman Crazy
Page 25
I’d scratched out a few drawings with Daisy, but I wasn’t thinking about what I was drawing; I’d just been doodling. Here, I was putting so much behind it my fingers froze around the pastel. Pressure was always something that I succumbed to too easily.
Along the square’s border I saw a group of people setting up easels, stools, and canvases, and my heart began racing and my fingers started twitching. They were clearly an organized class. Could I join them? Soon . . . baby steps.
Once they were arranged, they sat and began painting the landscape just beyond the square.
I was lost within moments, watching them work. My fingers gripped the pastel, and with one stroke down the page, I smiled. From there it wasn’t smooth sailing, but it was a start.
Before I realized it, I had lost thirty minutes. Shaking my head, I stood, stretching my limbs and knocking off the dust that had collected on my lap.
It wasn’t my finest work, but I was damn proud of it. The colors of the apples were captured, the farmer’s charming, weathered face and hands were rough, but I was cutting myself some slack. This was the first effort, but definitely not the last.
Tucking everything back into the bag, I wandered over to the group and eyed each canvas. They were good, but they all looked the same: a beautiful Roman landscape. The only varying details were how many flowers they used or the steadiness of their hands on the fine line details.
Except one. An older gentleman toward the end of the line hadn’t filled his landscape with the traditional reds, oranges, and yellows of Tuscany. He had painted the night sky. It was rich and haunting with the navy-gray base and stunning charcoal accents. The only swipe of brightness came from a building with a single lit window. Inside, a sultry-shaped silhouette gazed out over Rome.
I watched him finish it before he packed up his things and walked away, leaving the painting on the easel.
“Sir?” I called out after him.
One of the painters tapped me on the shoulder. “He comes every week,” she explained in broken English. “He always leave them.” She gently picked up the painting and held it out to me. “You take.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, watching the others pack up their things.
“Yes, enjoy. You come next week, yes?” she said, pointing to the pastel chalk dust on my clothing. She smiled, pushing the canvas toward me. “Next week.”
With a parting wave, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving me with the painting.
I carried it home, staring at it most of the way.
* * *
“ARE YOU SURE WE’RE NOT late? We’re not going to be stuck eating leftovers or just dessert, right?”
“As if that would be so bad. Have you had an Italian dessert? And I don’t mean those paltry knockoffs they serve in the States. Besides, I’m there once a week. Trust me.” Daisy laughed, handing me a small paper bag with bright red paper poking out of the top as we hurried down the street to dinner.
“What’s this?”
“Tools to make life easier,” she explained, pulling the paper out to reveal a tiny book of maps and a common phrases book. “I saw the one in your backpack. It’s a bit dated. This will help.”
“You didn’t have to do this!” I exclaimed, flipping through the translations for something good. “Grazie.”
“Well, I did it so that I felt better about you wandering around the city by yourself,” she began, slipping her purse across her body. “Unless Marcello plans on wandering with you—”
This was a notion that sunk its teeth in and didn’t let go. “I won’t rule it out. Is that awful of me? I know I’ll see him at your office, but . . . We could be friends.”
Daisy wrapped a thin, vibrantly colored scarf around her neck. “I’d think you were insane to not want to see and do him while you’re here, but friends works, too.”
It was my turn to laugh. We took one last corner, then arrived at our restaurant.
Dozens of people, including families, were waiting on the sidewalk outside the strip of restaurants, chatting among themselves.
I checked my watch. “It’s eight o’clock on a Tuesday, and these people are just starting dinner? What about getting ready for work and school the next day? My God, Daniel would be on the couch watching a game at this time.”
I sounded like a stick in the mud waiting for her AARP card to come in the mail.
“Have you heard from him?”
“If you call him sending me a text hearing from him,” I snipped, pulling out the phone to show her.
Avie, I need to know where you take my dry cleaning.
Daisy frowned and patted my hand. “Wine. We need wine.”
She knew the hostess, so we were whisked away within minutes, tucked away at one of the outdoor tables lit with small tea-light candles. I was beginning to realize my friend had this town wired. I’d checked out everyone else’s table on the way in, looking to see what people were eating, and I may have inadvertently moaned out loud.
When the server arrived, Daisy waved off the menus and asked, “Do you mind if I order for us?”
“Go ahead.” I was about three seconds away from sprinkling fresh Parmesan on the table and gnawing off a corner.
“Excellent. We’ll start with the bufala mozzarella with the warm plum tomatoes and basil pesto, and the baccalà croquettes. Then the black ink tagliolini with the shrimp and scallions, the oxtail ravioli, and after that we’ll split the veal and polenta with the summer truffles. Bene, grazie.”
“How many people are joining us for dinner?” I laughed, breaking off a hunk of warm, crusty bread.
Along the square’s border I saw a group of people setting up easels, stools, and canvases, and my heart began racing and my fingers started twitching. They were clearly an organized class. Could I join them? Soon . . . baby steps.
Once they were arranged, they sat and began painting the landscape just beyond the square.
I was lost within moments, watching them work. My fingers gripped the pastel, and with one stroke down the page, I smiled. From there it wasn’t smooth sailing, but it was a start.
Before I realized it, I had lost thirty minutes. Shaking my head, I stood, stretching my limbs and knocking off the dust that had collected on my lap.
It wasn’t my finest work, but I was damn proud of it. The colors of the apples were captured, the farmer’s charming, weathered face and hands were rough, but I was cutting myself some slack. This was the first effort, but definitely not the last.
Tucking everything back into the bag, I wandered over to the group and eyed each canvas. They were good, but they all looked the same: a beautiful Roman landscape. The only varying details were how many flowers they used or the steadiness of their hands on the fine line details.
Except one. An older gentleman toward the end of the line hadn’t filled his landscape with the traditional reds, oranges, and yellows of Tuscany. He had painted the night sky. It was rich and haunting with the navy-gray base and stunning charcoal accents. The only swipe of brightness came from a building with a single lit window. Inside, a sultry-shaped silhouette gazed out over Rome.
I watched him finish it before he packed up his things and walked away, leaving the painting on the easel.
“Sir?” I called out after him.
One of the painters tapped me on the shoulder. “He comes every week,” she explained in broken English. “He always leave them.” She gently picked up the painting and held it out to me. “You take.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, watching the others pack up their things.
“Yes, enjoy. You come next week, yes?” she said, pointing to the pastel chalk dust on my clothing. She smiled, pushing the canvas toward me. “Next week.”
With a parting wave, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving me with the painting.
I carried it home, staring at it most of the way.
* * *
“ARE YOU SURE WE’RE NOT late? We’re not going to be stuck eating leftovers or just dessert, right?”
“As if that would be so bad. Have you had an Italian dessert? And I don’t mean those paltry knockoffs they serve in the States. Besides, I’m there once a week. Trust me.” Daisy laughed, handing me a small paper bag with bright red paper poking out of the top as we hurried down the street to dinner.
“What’s this?”
“Tools to make life easier,” she explained, pulling the paper out to reveal a tiny book of maps and a common phrases book. “I saw the one in your backpack. It’s a bit dated. This will help.”
“You didn’t have to do this!” I exclaimed, flipping through the translations for something good. “Grazie.”
“Well, I did it so that I felt better about you wandering around the city by yourself,” she began, slipping her purse across her body. “Unless Marcello plans on wandering with you—”
This was a notion that sunk its teeth in and didn’t let go. “I won’t rule it out. Is that awful of me? I know I’ll see him at your office, but . . . We could be friends.”
Daisy wrapped a thin, vibrantly colored scarf around her neck. “I’d think you were insane to not want to see and do him while you’re here, but friends works, too.”
It was my turn to laugh. We took one last corner, then arrived at our restaurant.
Dozens of people, including families, were waiting on the sidewalk outside the strip of restaurants, chatting among themselves.
I checked my watch. “It’s eight o’clock on a Tuesday, and these people are just starting dinner? What about getting ready for work and school the next day? My God, Daniel would be on the couch watching a game at this time.”
I sounded like a stick in the mud waiting for her AARP card to come in the mail.
“Have you heard from him?”
“If you call him sending me a text hearing from him,” I snipped, pulling out the phone to show her.
Avie, I need to know where you take my dry cleaning.
Daisy frowned and patted my hand. “Wine. We need wine.”
She knew the hostess, so we were whisked away within minutes, tucked away at one of the outdoor tables lit with small tea-light candles. I was beginning to realize my friend had this town wired. I’d checked out everyone else’s table on the way in, looking to see what people were eating, and I may have inadvertently moaned out loud.
When the server arrived, Daisy waved off the menus and asked, “Do you mind if I order for us?”
“Go ahead.” I was about three seconds away from sprinkling fresh Parmesan on the table and gnawing off a corner.
“Excellent. We’ll start with the bufala mozzarella with the warm plum tomatoes and basil pesto, and the baccalà croquettes. Then the black ink tagliolini with the shrimp and scallions, the oxtail ravioli, and after that we’ll split the veal and polenta with the summer truffles. Bene, grazie.”
“How many people are joining us for dinner?” I laughed, breaking off a hunk of warm, crusty bread.
