The Florentine Bridge Read online

  The Florentine Bridge

  Vanessa Carnevale

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  Vanessa Carnevale is an author and freelance writer based in Melbourne, Australia, where she lives with her husband and two children. In her early twenties, Vanessa spent several years living in Florence, Italy, where she met her husband and discovered a love of travel and la dolce vita. She now considers Italy her second home. The Florentine Bridge is her first novel.

  You can connect with Vanessa at www.vanessacarnevale.com

  Per gli amori della mia vita, Fabio,

  Christian, and Alessia

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  The wheels of suitcases graze waxed floors while I sit with a lapful of pencil shavings, drowning in a sea of crumpled paper balls bearing the lines of failed strokes. I’m wondering whether I’ll ever be able to do this again.

  For inspiration, I try to focus on all the things I should be thinking of when embarking on a trip to Italy: crowded piazzas and street artists, the taste of a ripe tomato. Art museums, fading frescoes, crumbling walls begging for restoration, and the comforting aroma of freshly brewed espresso. I think of all the ways I might be able to translate these things onto paper, but it isn’t happening. Not how I need it to.

  My stomach tightens. My pencil lead breaks. And then I hear my name being called.

  ‘Mia Moretti, this is your final boarding call for flight seven-one-seven. Please make your way to gate twenty-six.’

  All the doubts I have about heading on this journey evaporate as I slide my pencil between my teeth, haul my backpack over my shoulder and grab my sketchbook. I briefly pause in front of a departure board and gaze upwards at the letters and numbers flashing at me, reminding myself that life’s meant to be sweeter in Italy.

  Breathless, I reach the boarding gate. ‘I’m not too late, am I?’ I say, thrusting my boarding card towards the attendant.

  Her scarlet-coloured lips smile tightly as she runs my pass to freedom through her machine. ‘You’re just in time. Have a pleasant flight, Ms Moretti.’

  Wedged between a Japanese businessman and a woman with a restless child, I read seventy pages of my Tuscan guidebook, too many pages of my Italian-English dictionary, and the first few chapters of a self-help book on how to achieve happiness through gratitude, which I tuck away in my seat pocket before drifting off to sleep.

  When I wake, the little girl is sitting beside me. She reaches for my sketchbook, looks up at me and smiles. I take my pencil and hand it to her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says her mother, snatching the sketchbook from her daughter’s grasp.

  ‘Oh, I really don’t mind,’ I reply. I unlock the girl’s tray table and watch her draw, uninhibited by judgement, unafraid of what she might see on the page.

  Making a blank piece of paper come to life used to be effortless for me. I could close one eye, open myself up and capture one small moment in time: an expression of delight, a carpet of leaves the shade of pumpkin and ruby under an almost bare scarlet oak tree, a parched landscape full of cracks thirsty for a drop of rain. I could do all of this before.

  ‘Your turn!’ says the girl, waving the blunt pencil at me. She has reached the last blank sheet of paper. I take the pencil and draw what turns out to be a cringeworthy sketch of a girl sitting on a suitcase, elbows on her knees, face resting on her hands. She’s bathed in dappled light that’s struggling to burst through the trees on the overgrown path she sits on.

  ‘She looks sad,’ says the girl, looking to me for an explanation of my drawing.

  ‘She’s looking for the light,’ I tell her.

  She wrinkles her forehead and giggles. I can’t help smiling back. We land in Rome twelve hours later.

  After having my passport stamped by a surly customs officer, I manage to catch the right train headed to Termini station and then on to Florence, after which I tug my luggage along the platform and line up outside for a cab. I should know the address off by heart by now because I’ve looked at it so many times, but I pull the worn-out piece of paper from the pocket of my jeans anyway.

  ‘Via Monteluna fourteen, Impruneta,’ I tell the driver. ‘Do you know where that is?’

  ‘Of course.’ He tosses a cigarette butt on the ground and extinguishes it with the twist of his foot.

  ‘First time to Italy?’ he asks in a thick Italian accent as he heaves my suitcase into the boot. He’s wearing a pair of shorts and leather sandals, and I decide that he looks like a Mario, or a Giovanni, or maybe even a Giuseppe with his olive skin and thick brown moustache.

  ‘Uh, yes, can you tell?’ I ask, gazing out the window in an attempt to soak in every intricate detail of the landscape. Not even the smell of stale cigarette smoke can bother me right now.

  I grab my phone and send a brief text to Mum and Dad, who are no doubt out of their minds with worry. I’ve arrived. Safe and sound. Within thirty seconds my phone is inundated with a barrage of texts and questions, to which I reply, I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll call you once I get a local SIM card, before switching off my phone.

  The cab driver, who actually turns out to be a Salvatore, turns on the radio. I recognise Dean Martin singing ‘Arrivederci Roma’, but I struggle to follow the conversational Italian. We take the Firenze Impruneta exit from the A1 Autostrada and now I can see signs towards the town I will call my home for however long it takes to find myself again.

  Motorised scooters weave in and out of the traffic around us with stealth and precision. It’s unsettling yet rather fascinating watching the organised chaos that is at work on these Italian roads.

  ‘Impruneta. Right up there, signorina.’ Salvatore is pointing to show me.

  I shift to the middle of the back seat and lean forward for a better view of the quintessential cypress trees smattered over the rolling hills, symbolic of the Tuscan landscape. We pass a terracotta workshop with an aging sign fixed to the wall. Mariucci Terrecotte. Impruneta, a small hilltop town on the outskirts of Florence, is famous for not much else other than the best terracotta in the country. I might have a fierce passion for art, but I can’t say I’m that interested in pottery, even if it is resistant to cracking at temperatures below zero.

  Salvatore slows down as we make our way through a narrow one-way street, where the balconies of the apartments are laced with colour from the flowers that occupy their pots. Women are hanging out their washing in the June mid-morning sun and I can’t help smiling when I notice water dripping onto an unsuspecting passer-by below. The man looks up and snaps to life, yelling and gesticulating as the woman on her balcony defends herself just as fiercely. Irritated, she grabs a metal watering can and with one hand on hip she sloshes the water down on him.

  As we approach the main piazza, I notice an elderly couple walking up the steep hill, taking care with each step. He’s carrying a loaf of bread in one arm, and her arm is intertwined through his other one. If he falls, she’ll follow. I let out a
sigh as my shoulders lean back into the leather seat behind me. He’s wearing a checked shirt and suspenders. She’s wearing a loose-fitting floral dress and a scarf around her head, and I wonder why a couple might go to such trouble to dress this way for a trip to the local panificio for a simple loaf of bread.

  Of course I know the answer. This is Italy. Land of style.

  We slow down, taking a right-hand turn onto an unpaved road. Salvatore winds down the car window for me, and I struggle to hide my excitement. ‘Is this really it?’ I exclaim, shifting towards the window.

  ‘This is it, signorina,’ says Salvatore, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror.

  The road leads up to a villa rendered a pale yellow with ivy covering the northern side of the home. Something catches my eye in one of the upstairs windows. The green plantation shutters are open, revealing a woman waving at the car from the balcony. I assume it must be Stella, my new housemate. She’s wearing a red dress with a white scarf tied around her neck, looking impeccable.

  ‘Benvenuta! Welcome to Florence, Mia!’ she calls, as the car comes to a stop.

  She disappears from the window while I get out of the cab. A minute later, she bursts through the wooden front door and locks me in a tight embrace. Stepping back, she kisses me on both cheeks. I’m not sure whether to move right or left or just stay still, but I’m pretty sure my awkwardness has gone unnoticed. She thanks Salvatore for me after I pay him and helps roll my suitcase up the path towards my new home.

  ‘Is this all you brought with you?’ she asks.

  ‘That’s it,’ I reply.

  Just me, a suitcase, 2018 euros and a whole lot of invisible baggage.

  ‘Welcome to Villa Belladonna!’ she says, gesturing for me to walk through the arched doorway.

  The tension in my shoulders vanishes as I enter my new home, Stella’s warm welcome immediately putting me at ease. As my new housemate steps me through the ground floor of the villa, I’m thankful that she doesn’t seem like a complete psycho, given that we met online. I take a few moments to familiarise myself with the villa’s rustic architectural embellishments. The voluminous living area lets in an abundance of natural light and opens out to an impressive outdoor loggia. Two potted lemon trees are positioned on each side of the bi-fold door that gives way to a heavenly backdrop of a small olive grove and undulating hills. Stella points out the laundry, main bathroom and kitchen, and then continues down the hallway.

  ‘You coming?’ she asks, glancing back at me.

  ‘Oh yeah, sure. Just taking it all in,’ I reply. ‘Is this original?’ I gasp, when I notice half of the ceiling covered in what remains of an original fresco.

  Stella looks at me strangely. ‘Oh, that. Seventeenth century, I imagine,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders. Stella’s delicate facial features intrigue me. Freckles are dotted over her face and she has the most striking green eyes I’ve ever seen. Her auburn-coloured hair is certainly not typical of a girl with Italian heritage. Long curly tresses fall perfectly down her shoulders. She’s wearing red lipstick and she reminds me of an actress from a 1960s movie. Only three years older than me, she exudes an air of confidence that I have yet to grasp for myself. Unlike me, Stella had little choice in coming to Florence. Her parents practically forced her to come and learn Italian here when she was younger. Much to her parents’ despair, she loved living in Italy so much that she decided to stay, and from what I can tell, she has no plans to move back to New York anytime soon.

  ‘This is your room, Mia,’ she says, pushing open a door, revealing my spacious new bedroom and all of its Tuscan charm: cinnamon-coloured walls, terracotta tiles and a wooden beam ceiling. ‘I hope you like it.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I say, glancing around the room. A small desk with a tiny lamp and a rickety wooden chair sit in the corner of the room. I’m particularly drawn to the three paintings on the wall, all oil, mounted in gold wooden frames. One shows a beautiful young woman in a field of sunflowers; the second features two lovers on a vintage bike riding down a steep hill, hair blowing in the wind; the third is of the same couple sitting on a rustic swing entwined in each other’s arms.

  ‘I’ll leave you to unpack and freshen up and then I’ll show you upstairs. I’m going to start preparing lunch soon,’ she says.

  The door clicks shut behind her. I want to leap onto my four-poster double bed and shriek with exhilaration, but I tone it down in case Stella can hear me. Not that I think she’d care.

  ‘I hope you’re hungry, ’cause I’m making pasta all’arrabbiata!’ she calls out from down the hallway.

  ‘Perfect,’ I murmur, as I push open the shutters. My bedroom window overlooks the front garden, where the most sumptuous view of the town centre of Impruneta lies before me, inviting me to explore its intricacies. It fascinates me how in Italy, the expansive countryside will always belong to its very own town centre, no matter how small. I admire the vintage swing in the garden. Two thick ropes are flung over the branch of an oak tree, attached to a weatherworn plank of wood, the mint-green paint peeling. It’s the same swing from the oil painting.

  I retreat from the window and flick open the lock on my suitcase, letting the contents spill out over the bed, but I decide to delay my unpacking. Instead, I return to my open window, where I allow the invigorating breeze to penetrate my soul for what feels like hours. I feel like I’ve arrived somewhere I should be.

  Actually, I know I have.

  TWO

  Peeling myself away from the bedroom window, I dig through my suitcase to find my toiletries so I can take a quick shower. I can hear Stella in the kitchen, singing as she prepares lunch. After spending more than twenty hours in the air, the hot shower feels good. I throw on whatever clothes I find at the top of my suitcase and gently dry my hair, taking care not to damage my new extensions, which are perfectly matched to my post-cancer, painstakingly slow-to-grow new locks. I wonder whether I’d blend in as a Florentine girl if I had the accent and style down pat. I decide that my chestnut-brown hair and chocolate-brown eyes look Italian enough, but my pale skin needs some work. Too many months locked between the confines of four walls have rendered my skin a pasty shade of beige. Too many months that I should have spent getting on with my life, learning to live again.

  A brick arched doorway leads to the rustic kitchen, where I join Stella. She’s stirring a pot of pasta sauce that smells delicious.

  ‘Let me show you upstairs,’ she says, leaving the pasta sauce bubbling away. A curve of steps leads us to an airy living area dry painted in semolina yellow, with a charming brick fireplace and wine red-coloured sofas. Stella points out her bedroom and the spare bedroom, and then nudges open a wooden double door, revealing a room that clearly used to be an art studio. Rows of glass jars, paintbrushes still in them, sit on a windowsill. Beams of golden sunlight burst through the slits in the shutters, and I stagger my way through the thick cobwebs to rub a patch of dust away from the window, big enough so I can see through it.

  ‘Who did this house belong to?’ I ask, making out the town centre through the cypress trees partially blocking my view.

  ‘My great uncle. He still owns it. He used to live here with my Zia Amelia. She passed away three years ago. He was left heartbroken and moved out the day after her funeral. It’s been empty since then. I moved in about a month before we spoke about you coming. That’s why I was advertising for a housemate,’ she explains.

  I notice the wooden trestles and sheets spotted with paint that must have once been white but are now a creamy yellow. ‘Was she an artist?’

  ‘No, he is, or was—he stopped painting when she got sick.’

  The studio is stuffy and hot, yet at the familiarity of Stella’s words, the hairs on my arms prick up, sending an icy chill through my body. It’s then that I make the connection between the lovers depicted in the paintings in my bedroom and the original lovers of this home.

  ‘You mentioned you turned down a spot at art school?’ says Stella.

&n
bsp; ‘Uh, yeah, well, deferred really,’ I say, desperately hoping she doesn’t recognise the uneven tone of my voice.

  ‘You’re welcome to use the studio any time.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks,’ I say, wishing I could tell her the truth.

  We return to the kitchen, and I admit to Stella that I’m not hungry, but she insists I eat. ‘Mangiare!’ she commands in a thick Italian accent, winking at me. ‘You can’t not eat in Italy!’

  ‘Okay, okay!’ I laugh.

  Outside, Stella has set the table with a yellow checked tablecloth and a bottle of red wine. I admire the round bottle, contemplating whether there’s a purpose behind the straw basket it’s wrapped in. She has set four places, so I assume we must be expecting company. I’m somewhat uncomfortable with the fuss Stella has gone to in preparing lunch. There’s fresh mozzarella cheese and tomatoes sprinkled with basil, drizzled with olive oil. Alongside that is a plate of rockmelon and fresh prosciutto, and two bottles of mineral water—one sparkling and one still. In between them is an empty basket waiting to be filled with fresh bread. I pick up one of the green bottles: Ferrarelle. Italy’s No.1 Sparkling Water. My Italian is decent enough for me to understand the fascinating health benefits that are described on the label. I raise my eyebrows, amused at how this naturally sparkling water has the potential to slow down the aging process. If I’m lucky enough to age gracefully without cancer ravaging my body again, I’ll be happy.

  ‘I need to go out to buy some bread and pick up Paolo,’ says Stella, before darting inside to grab her keys.

  ‘Paolo?’

  ‘Mio ragazzo. My boyfriend,’ she says. ‘His cousin Luca will be here soon, too. He’ll let himself in. He’s practically part of the furniture.’

  ‘Okay.’ I nod, trying to mask my lack of enthusiasm. I’ve spent so long keeping to myself that I’m not sure I’m ready for mingling.

  ‘Don’t worry, he speaks English,’ she adds, sensing my hesitation.