Читать книгу Dark Wine Waters - Frances Simone - Страница 13
ОглавлениеIt is difficult to know at what moment love begins; It is less difficult to know that it has begun.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A month later on a brisk, cloud-free day, Terry and I walked hand-in-hand through downtown Charleston, heading for his apartment. Our conversation turned to his junior year abroad in Copenhagen in 1970.
“I loved it,” he said. “My first time away from Texas, except for that trip to Oregon with my mother I told you about. I explored the breweries and drank huge amounts of free beer. My research project, so to speak. I chased after young women, without much success. Austin College had some connection with an international school there. Mainly we’d sit around and shoot the breeze in so-called seminars. We had plenty of time to travel. I bought a scooter and ran around with a classmate. Guy named Aubrey. We went to France, Italy, Sweden. Stayed in youth hostels and cheap hotels. I had very little money.”
“Wow! Europe. I’ve never been,” I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “One of my college friends was born in Italy. She used to visit relatives. My grandparents emigrated from Sicily.” The words were pouring out of me, from nervousness, or embarrassment, or some combination of both. “Don’t think anyone from the family still lives there. I’d love to go to Italy. Heck, I’d like to go almost anywhere, but especially Europe.” If my nervous rush of talk bothered him, he didn’t show it.
“I didn’t get to stay in Denmark for a full year like I planned,” he went on. “Everything ended when my scooter crashed. I broke my left leg.”
“Oh, how awful!”
He grimaced ruefully.
“When I tell you how, you have to promise you won’t laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“’Cause I was hit by a sausage truck.”
I cackled. He smiled and gently punched my shoulder.
“I asked you not to laugh.” But he was smiling. “Anyway, the doctor didn’t set my leg right. I stayed in Dallas for a while and then I hobbled around campus in a weird metal contraption.”
During the year that Terry had been scooting around Europe, I’d been immersed in motherhood: breastfeeding Matt at 2:00 a.m., changing diapers, and delighting in my baby boy’s milestones, his first smile, coo, babble, word, and step.
But Europe! Images danced through my mind. Elsa and Rick riding in a convertible through the French countryside in Casablanca. Princess Grace in her Monaco palace. Scott and Zelda cavorting with wealthy expatriates and artists on the Riviera. Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney hitching rides in Two for the Road.
Me? Hitching rides? Out of the question.
“Here I am thirty-four-years-old and I’ve never been to Europe.”
“Oh, you’ll get there someday.”
Terry told me that a friend from college, Diane, had spent a year in France, where she met her future husband, Jacques, while hitchhiking. After graduation she moved to Paris to marry. Back then most of us married right after graduation.
Instead of hitching rides through Europe, I’d married my high school sweetheart, Anthony, in 1964. High Mass at my parish church, St. Kevin’s, and a lavish reception at Leonard’s of Great Neck. We’d headed south to Gainesville, Florida, where he worked on a PhD in sociology and I returned to school for a master’s degree. Our son, Matt was born in 1970.
“So was Paris as romantic as in the movies?”
“Yeah, like An American in Paris. You remember that one?”
“Gene Kelly, dancing with Leslie Caron . . . in the fountain spray, from the Place de la Concorde . . . how could I forget?” Terry grinned at my enthusiasm, whether for Paris or for the film, I’ll never know. Encouraged, I went on, now in full spate.
“I’ve got an idea. Maybe we could go to Paris this summer and stay with your friends. It wouldn’t cost that much if they’d put us up. Anthony has Matt for six weeks this summer. And I’m teaching only one class the first semester. So I’m free for a whole month.” Terry’s brow furrowed comically, but I was barely getting started, and my ideas were flowing out in a torrent.
Back then, I free-floated in a mist of mania, a “go-for-it” mindset of magnificent possibilities—including a trip to Europe with my friend and lover. My wanderlust wasn’t new, but I hadn’t previously had the courage or opportunity to act on it. When I was seventeen, I’d begged my parents to send me away to college, but they wouldn’t hear of it. “Frances, where do you get these ideas?” they asked, genuinely puzzled by my desire to leave home. Back then young women in traditional Italian families didn’t leave home until they married. Period. No exceptions. So I lived at home and matriculated at City College. My father placated me by offering to pay half the cost of a car if I earned the other half. I worked part time at Lord & Taylor’s department store and saved my money. During my sophomore year, I saved enough to purchase half of a shiny, new, bright blue Mercury Comet. Not long after graduation, I married and headed south, eventually landing in Chapel Hill, a pleasant enough town. It had been nice. But it hadn’t been Paris.
“What do you think of going to Europe? Is the idea too outrageous?” I asked.
Terry smiled but let go of my hand. He bit his upper lip.
“No offense, Frannie, but how do you know that we’ll even be dating next summer? It’s pretty far away. Besides, I probably can’t afford it. And I might not be able to get away from work.”
Undaunted, I plunged right off the high-dive. As if I were the trained lawyer, I laid out a reasoned argument. One, plane tickets were cheap; two, food was inexpensive (a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou); three, Terry’s friends in Paris would probably put us up, and if not, we could stay in hostels and pensiones. (Although this was the era of “Europe on Ten Dollars a Day,” the idea of backpacking, though it would have been even cheaper, wasn’t an option for me.)
“Frannie, I can’t imagine you staying in a hostel. Your idea of camping out is a room at the Holiday Inn.”
I pushed ahead.
“Well, at least think about it. If, for some reason—and I can’t imagine what that would be—we break up, or something comes up, then we cancel. People cancel all the time.”
Since I knew Terry loved to gamble, I pulled out the ace of spades.
“You know, after Paris we could drive south to Monte Carlo. Visit the palace. You could gamble at the casino. Try your hand at blackjack or roulette.”
He changed the subject.
“You thirsty? Want something to drink?”
Once at his apartment he drank beer, I drank Coke, and we made love for the rest of the afternoon.
Years later when we dug out photos from the trip, Terry said: “Remember that day we first talked about going to France? You came on pretty strong. Pushy New YAWK-er. And guess what? Turns out you are.” He grinned, raised a Bud, and saluted me. “You know I’m only kidding.”
“You’d better be.”
On July 20 of the year following our first meeting, Marlene and David were waving good-bye to Terry and me at the Kanawha County Airport. Terry and I were boarding a puddle jumper to Pittsburgh for a connecting flight on Icelandic Airlines. In Reykjavík my feet hit foreign soil for the first time. In terms of our relationship, however, it was as if we had crossed the Atlantic Ocean only to land on the shore of another sea; the Sea of Desire.
But as that day began, Terry and I trudged behind other weary passengers to the duty-free shop. I sifted through bins of hand-knitted sweaters, scarves, and gloves and purchased purple mittens for Matt and two cartons of Salem Menthols for myself, and Terry carried two bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label and Cuban cigars back to the plane.
Hours later, we arrived at the tiny airport in Luxembourg. Anticipating jet lag, I had booked us into what was, for us, an expensive downtown hotel. After surrendering our passports at the front desk, we followed a porter to an elegant room—high ceilings, enormous bed, ornate headboard, plush duvet, and heavy drapes in rich mauve. A chandelier glistened overhead. His-and-her bathrobes hung in the closet. This was no hostel. I untied the heavy drapes, pushed open the shutters and gaped at the pedestrians strolling in the park below. Terry ordered ice and poured himself a tall glass of whiskey.
“Terry, come look. It’s . . . charming, like I imagined.”
He reached around my waist with one arm, while with the other he raised his glass.
“Here’s to you, kid.”
We held hands and lingered at the window. I ran a bath, and, like every American encountering one for the first time, felt compelled to make a comment on the bidet.
Steam soaked the mirrors and the black-and-white tiles as we sank into a claw foot tub. Like children, we splashed, played footsie, and soaped each other’s backs.
“I can’t believe I’m here. I feel as if I’m in a movie,” I said.
“Not too shoddy,” he said as he raised another glass of Johnnie Walker. Wrapped in thick terrycloth robes, we tumbled onto the king-size bed and nestled beneath the thick duvet. We quickly shed our robes, and some time later, as I basked in the afterglow of lovemaking, Terry fixed another drink.
“You want one?”
“No, I’m fine. But I’d like some water. Do you think it’s okay to drink from the tap?”
The next morning, we slept late, skipped breakfast, and fondled one another in the shower.
“How about it?” Terry asked. As he pressed himself against me, it was apparent that he was definitely ready. But I demurred.
“Not if we want to check out on time.” I ventured coyly. Who was I kidding? I was as ready as he was.
So it was some time after checkout that we loaded our suitcases into a tiny aquamarine Renault and headed toward Paris.
“You drive,” I offered. “I’ll navigate.” I unfolded a map and Diane’s letter with directions to her apartment, located in the 20th Arrondissement on the eastern edge of the City of Light.
We drove in what we hoped was the right direction, but encountered road and street signs we couldn’t decipher. The feeling of disconnect due to the language barrier was something I hadn’t anticipated. Terry clutched the steering wheel and maneuvered the Renault through heavy traffic. Other tiny cars were parked bumper-to-bumper; many straddled the space between the curb and sidewalk, if there was a curb at all.
“You know, this is like driving in Manhattan during rush hour. Only the cars are smaller. And if New York drivers parked their cars on the sidewalk, the cops would tow them in a heartbeat,” I said.
I was fumbling with the map as we entered the city limits. Utterly lost and confused, I yelled,
“Lions at a gate! Diane wrote something about statues of lions at a gate as we enter the city.”
Terry hunched forward frantically and gripped the wheel.
“Frannie, this isn’t a safari.”
But somehow, there they were, lions! After many wrong turns, somehow we’d stumbled upon the right apartment building. We parked the car as Jacques, Diane’s husband, held open the wrought-iron gate. He was a gregarious giant with jet-black hair, friendly eyes, and the prominent nose of a de Gaulle or a Sarkozy.
“Ter-ree. Bienvenue, bienvenue. Come, come.” He helped carry our heavy luggage through a sunless courtyard and up three steep flights of stairs.
Diane opened the door to their tiny apartment and greeted us in her husky voice, “Come, come, so good to see you. Did you have any trouble finding us?” She and Terry hugged. A tall, bone-thin blonde with blue-green eyes and pale skin. Next to willowy Diane, I felt like a frump. As we crossed the threshold, I spied a bare mattress that covered the entire living room floor. Terry and I would sleep there, while Jacques and Diane squeezed into a daybed tucked into an alcove. This lack of privacy did not inhibit our lovemaking. When Jacques and Diane headed for work, Terry and I headed for the mattress. Some days, we spent as much time exploring one another as we did touring that magnificent city.
During our five-day stay, we lingered for hours at the small table set beside a window facing a courtyard, and drank wine that had been made by Jacques’s father, who lived in Sorède, a tiny village in the Pyrénées. Diane and Terry reminisced about college: oddball professors, old friends, silly pranks, bull sessions, and times when the beer flowed and pot perfumed the air with its sweet smoke. Jacques cooked extravagant omelets and served generous portions of crusty bread, croissants, pâté, cheese, and pastries. (He taught me to make authentic French dressing and mayonnaise.) I switched from Salems to Gauloises. Terry developed a taste for Courvoisier, and he and Jacques sampled the Cuban cigars Terry had purchased in Reykjavík.
Jacques spoke little English and my high school French was abysmal. I had mastered a few phrases like, “Ou puis-je charger des chèques de voyage? Terry memorized, “Avez-vous une bouteille de whisky?” He complained about warm beer and the lack of ice cubes in drinks. At a local café, Jacques roared when I wanted a Coke but ordered un coq (rooster). Diane toggled between French and English, speaking each with a faint Texas drawl.
The four of us squeezed into the Renault, and Jacques whisked through Paris traffic with the skill only a native can possess. We visited famous landmarks: Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and newly opened Pompidou Center built on the site of the Old Paris marketplace, Les Halles.
“It looks like a giant erector set,” Diane commented. “I hate it and so do most Parisians.”
Like countless lovers before us, Terry and I held hands as we strolled along the Seine.
“Not like the Kanawha back home,” I mused. “Much more romantic.” He purchased a pen-and-ink drawing of Notre Dame, which now hangs in the front hallway of my home. We purchased souvenirs for Matt, a six-inch replica of the Eiffel Tower, a tiny French flag, and a snow globe of Notre Dame. At Versailles, I snapped a picture of Terry standing in front of a palace window in soft light, looking down at a tourist guide. It’s one of my favorites. At the Sunday flea market, Jacques bargained with an African vendor for a cloisonné bracelet. I wear it still.
When Jacques wasn’t cooking, he’d whisk us to his favorite restaurants.
“Tonight, you are in for a treat. We made a reservation at Androuet’s, which specializes in cheese.”
Maneuvering around tables jammed together, busy waiters hoisted huge trays of cheese: mild, sharp, pungent, spicy, moldy, and creamy. Cheeses sculpted into cones, spheres, triangles, and pyramids. Jacques painstakingly selected an assortment and ordered a bottle of wine. At one point, Terry quipped, “Est-ce que la Velveeta?” Hours later, we emerged, bellies full, arteries clogged, and heads spinning from too many bottles of red wine.
The night before our departure, Jacques and Diane helped us plot our course through the Loire Valley toward the Mediterranean. Then we lifted the mattress from the floor and propped it against the wall. Jacques placed a recording of Georges Brassens on the turntable and we danced late into the night in that miniscule space.
Early the next morning, we lugged suitcases, bread, cheese, and homemade wine downstairs and packed everything into the Renault. Just before we left, I snapped a picture of Terry and Jacques standing arm-in-arm, sporting black berets in front of an iron gate. That black-and-white photo sits on the windowsill in my study today. Jacques and Diane waved goodbye.
“Bonne chance. Au revoir.”
Coming down from the exultant high of Paris, I sank into the passenger seat and closed my eyes. Terry leaned over and said, “Well, kid, now we can say that we’ll always have Paris.”
Yes. Just like Elsa and Rick (but without their troubles), Terry and I fell in love in Paris. Our romantic scenes could have been scripted for a French film. Many of them seemed lifted straight from the movies. Terry and I strolling along the Seine, holding hands, stopping to hug and kiss; sipping wine at an outdoor café in sun-sparkled light; snapping photos of one another in the gardens of Versailles; purchasing souvenirs at the flea market. Yes, indeed, whatever misfortunes occurred in the future (and who could imagine any misfortune occurring to such a couple as ourselves), we would always have Paris. Who wouldn’t be grateful for such memories?
As we made our way through the Loire Valley, I noted famous cathedrals and opulent châteaux, including Chartre, Chenonceau, and Chambord in my journal.
After several days of such ornate lavishness, Terry gave out.
“No offense, Frannie, but this Texas boy is about châteaued out.” The fact is that we were more interested in savoring the sensual delights of one another than in learning which Medici, Duke, Baron, or Pope had resided in which castle, château, or cathedral during which period of the early, middle, or late Renaissance. “What do you say we head back to the hotel and fool around?”
“I say that’s a terrific idea.”
At Néris-les-Bains we joined elegant elders, fresh from the mineral baths, as they promenaded in a central square. “Terry, look at that couple. So fragile. Like fine porcelain. Do you think that years from now we’ll stroll arm-in-arm like that?”
“At their age we’d be lucky to hobble on this terra firma.”
“Together?”
“Maybe so, Frannie, maybe so.”
Outside Aubenas, we picnicked on wine and cheese at a cemetery.
“Soulful spot; no pun intended,” Terry said.
We wandered among tombstones, trying to decipher names and dates that had been eroded by time.
“So how do you plan to dispose of your remains when, God forbid, the time comes?” I asked.
“Well, I know one thing; I don’t plan to become fodder for the worms. I want to be cremated. My Southern Baptist mom won’t cozy to the idea. Hopefully, she’ll never know. No matter. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”
“So what are your thoughts on an afterlife? Heaven? Purgatory? Karma? Sister Margaret Mary used to scare me to death about purgatory. And limbo. I could never understand that one.”
“Eternal life. That’s one of those many metaphysical mysteries. Like when the Dallas Cowboys have a lousy season.”
“Do you believe in soul mates?”
His amber eyes told me the answer as he brushed his hand against my check. A rush of pure pleasure shot through my body.
“What do you think?” he answered.
We arrived at Aix-en-Provence at lunchtime. “Golden,” I wrote in my journal. Light filtered through tree branches that lined Cours Mirabeau, reputed to be the most striking boulevard in Europe. At a crowded outdoor café, we savored omelets and crusty bread. Terry ordered a bottle of white wine. Between courses we held hands across the table.
When the waiter started to pour, I cupped my hand over the glass.
“Non?”
“Thanks. It’s too early in the day for me,” I said too loudly, as if by shouting I could make the waiter understand English.
“Terry, this place is beautiful. It’s my favorite so far.”
“Frannie, you’ve said that in about every town we’ve visited. I hear tell that those towns along the Med—eye—terrean aren’t too shoddy. Yachts, villas, the rich and famous; your cup of tea.”
When the waiter placed the bill on the table, Terry fumbled with a wad of francs and tipped over the wine bottle. I was momentarily startled, but I needn’t have been. It was empty. I remember thinking, That’s a great deal of wine to drink in such a short time.
The Riviera. This hedonist’s heaven pulsed with tourists and traffic. Villas spilled down sloping hillsides toward the sea, where yachts bobbed in the harbor. Clinging crimson bougainvillea draped itself around stone walls, and a parade of palm trees nodded gracefully under an azure sky. All of this was bathed in brilliant light. But the brightest light casts the deepest shadows, and that’s where I fancied Scott and Zelda lingered.
When I was fifteen, I’d discovered F. Scott Fitzgerald while browsing in the Queens County Public Library, Bayside Branch. Why I happened to grab a copy of Tender Is the Night is still a mystery. I’m certain the nuns at Bishop McDonald High School didn’t assign any of Fitzgerald’s novels, not even his classic, The Great Gatsby, which I read in college. I fell hard for Scott and Zelda and their friends, Gerald and Sara Murphy. I pictured them cavorting with the artistic crowd at the Villa America near Cannes. I cheered their extravagant life style and suffered their pain and heartbreak. Such sophistication, such drama, such tragedy. Nothing like that ever happened in Queens.
Terry and I settled in at the Hotel des Fleurs in Menton. “Terry, come look, what a view. I’ve changed my mind about my favorite place. This is it. Definitely. La mer, la mer, the sea, the sea.” And there we were, swimming in our own sea of desire for one another.
“Maybe you should wait for Italy before you decide. After all, it’s the motherland of your ancestors. You should feel right at home. Better yet, why not make it easy and pick your top ten. How about a drink?”
“No thanks. I’ll stick with mineral water. You know, with gas.”
Once again, we lingered in a steamy bath. Once again, he downed several tumblers of scotch. Once again, we made love. One evening, we strolled into the courtyard of an ancient church and held hands as the melody of one of the Brandenburg Concertos soared over the sea toward the stars. As we turned to leave, he offered his arm in a courtly gesture.
“Well Frannie, I do believe that living well is the best revenge.”
“It sure as hell is,” I replied.
The next morning, while visiting the Jean Cocteau wedding chapel in the Town Hall, Terry was silent. Was it fatigue? Was it too early in the morning? Did I say something wrong? Did the proximity to the nuptial chapel unnerve him? At the time, I didn’t recognize that he was hung over. And even if I had, I would have dismissed it.
So what if he drank too much last night? Everyone indulges on vacation. And in Europe, wine is water.
So began my denial and rationalizing, in hope and innocence.
Terry perked up as we ambled toward a crowded outdoor market loaded with fresh fish, cheese, meats, veggies, herbs, and flowers.
“Oh, my God. All of this fresh food. And the variety. It’s nothing like Kroger back home.”
“Frannie, I have to make a pit stop. You go ahead and I’ll meet you at that café across the street.”
Minutes later he reappeared with an enormous bouquet of fresh-cut flowers.
“Pour vous, mademoiselle.”
“Merci, mon amour.”
In subsequent years, Terry often brought me small gifts, especially after he drank too much. A big bar of Toblerone, a bottle of Chanel cologne, or a dozen yellow roses. One time, after days of stone silence, he outfoxed me with a bag of chestnuts.
But all of that was in the far future. I didn’t know then that this was a preemptive peace offering, prompted by his alcoholic’s sense of guilt. No, on that sun-filled day in an outdoor café in the south of France, I simply accepted it as a token of new love, and Terry and I glowed with desire like the snapdragons in my innocent bouquet.
I scrutinized the menu. “Ah, bouillabaisse. Fish stew. Let’s try it.”
When a waiter set a pot of broth and gigantic platter of fish before us, Terry gasped.
“No offense, but I can’t eat anything with dead eyes staring at me. This is definitely not my kettle of fish. No pun intended. Give me chicken-fried steak any day. You want another beer?”
That afternoon, he nursed several scotches as we rested before our planned adventure at the casino. He wobbled as he headed for the shower. However, it wasn’t long before, smelling of scented soap, he emerged refreshed, and dressed carefully in the new sports coat and red silk tie that I’d purchased before we left home. I sparkled in a black sheath covered with sequins.
“Smashing. Don’t you think? We look absolutely smashing,” he said. He bowed slightly and held out his arm. We glided out the hotel door like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers stepping onto the dance floor.
The casino was Old-World elegant: stately women with smooth, tanned skin wrapped in satin and chiffon, their diamond (or maybe they were rhinestone) necklaces shimmering, and their lacquered hair fashioned into elaborate twists or chignons. They were flanked by men in well-cut suits and tuxedos. I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover James Bond sipping a dry martini at the bar. The ornate salons glimmered under massive chandeliers. Although suitably dressed, I felt out of place. At the craps table I edged between gamblers who tossed fistfuls of multi-colored chips onto the, green felt. When we managed to secure a spot at the table, Terry tried to explain the combinations, the “Pass,” “Don’t Pass,” “Hardways,” “One Roll bets,” and the like, but the game was too fast for me. So I joined a pack of gamblers at the slot machines. Within minutes the machines had swallowed my meager stack of coins. Meanwhile, Terry checked out the private gaming room reserved for the rich and reckless.
Saving for months before the trip, Terry had squirreled away several hundred dollars, a minimal stake intended to allow him to cavort with the high rollers in the salons privés. He went off to try his luck at Twenty-One and tapped out in less than an hour.
“You lost it all? I’m sorry. I know how much you were looking forward to this.”
“No big deal. Never wager more than you can afford to lose, Frannie. That’s my motto. Besides I have a few francs left. Let’s find a bar and get a few drinks.”
If only his drinking had been conducted like his gambling. He knew when to stop gambling, and he did. If he budgeted five hundred dollars for one evening, he quit when he lost his stake. Most times he won or broke even, especially when he played poker.
“It’s not solely about the money,” he insisted. “I like to be ahead because I can stretch it out. It’s more about having fun and trying to beat the odds.”
“Fat chance of that,” I replied.
Several weeks after we returned to Charleston, I received a postcard in a familiar handwriting—Terry’s—from Bellagio, Italy. The inscription read: “This is paradise. Aren’t we having a good time? Love, T.”
We almost hadn’t ended up at Bellagio. From Menton we’d driven along the coast to San Remo where terraced fields of roses, carnations, and camellias filled the hillsides. Our bliss, however, was temporarily punctured in Genoa. I don’t recall exactly what happened. Perhaps I made some remark about his drinking, but I do remember how we sat at opposite ends of an empty city tour bus, pouting like three-year-olds.
Later that day, we declared a truce as we packed the Renault and headed toward Lake Como.
“Frannie, it’s been a long day. I’m tired. Why don’t we stop in Como and spend the night?”
“I want to get to Bellagio today. I read a description in the AAA guide. It’s the town on the peninsula that divides the two sides of Lake Como. Outstanding hotels and restaurants. Plenty to see. So what do you think?”
“I think you already made up your mind. How long will it take to get there?”
“The guidebook says about twenty-seven kilometers. What’s that in miles? I always get confused.”
“It’s about fifteen. But no telling how long it’ll take on these roads. They’re like back home. And you aren’t a very good navigator.”
“I’ll do the best I can. It’ll be worth it. You’ll see.” I hoped that my enthusiasm for the town would rub off on Terry, and that the AAA guide wasn’t exaggerating.
As the Renault chugged up a narrow, winding road with hazardous switchbacks, Terry looked straight ahead and gripped the steering wheel. We almost wrecked when an Italian driver in a red sports car blew his horn to signal a blind curve a second before the car shot through a hairpin turn.
“Basta. Italian drivers. Goddamn. Unbelievable.”
Later that afternoon, our driving nerves were soothed, as we settled into an elegant room at the Hotel Florence where we were mesmerized by our view of the lakefront. All reluctance and annoyance forgotten and swallowed up in the view from our windows.
Our guidebook recommended visits to the Basilica of San Giacomo, the gardens of the Serbelloni Villa, the chapel at Villa Melzi, and other “must see” sites. We wound up and down steep stone steps past iron balconies festooned with clay pots of red geraniums or laundry drying under the hot sun. At the many shops tucked below apartments, we admired fine silks and Venetian glass jewelry. I purchased a tee shirt for Matt and silk scarves for Terry’s mother and aunt.
We drank wine at a café on the lake and sampled food cooked in heaven: lake trout, perch, fluffy risotto, and ripe white peaches. Our lovemaking became another delicious taste to savor, and savor it, we did.
Like the excursion boats slowly crisscrossing the surface of the lake, we floated in a perfect dream. In my journal I wrote: “I’m totally happy.”
So was the composer Franz Liszt. In 1837, while cavorting with the Countess d’Agoult, he wrote, “When you write the story of two happy lovers, set them on the shores of Lake Como. I know of no other spot more obviously blessed by heaven.”
Bellagio soared to the top of my “most favorite” list. Numero uno to this day. Years later, on my fiftieth birthday, Terry surprised me with a savings passbook marked “Italy.” He recorded the sum of $400 in the top column. My birthday card read: “This is a down payment for a return trip to Bellagio. Love, Terry.”
“I figure if we put away a hundred or so each month, we can swing a return trip in about a year. That’s if you can control your spending. Can you manage to limit your shopping for clothes and household doodads?” Terry asked.
“Of course. For a return trip to paradise, I’ll try hard.”
But I continued to spend.
He continued to drink.
