Читать книгу The Errant Child - Ozzie Logozzo - Страница 11

Toronto, Canada

Pearson International Airport

The lead up to our Italy trip is exciting for Emily and the kids, but not for me. I am comfortable with our perennial holidays to the Caribbean and don’t see the value of crossing from contemporary to bygone days across the Atlantic Ocean to attend the wedding of a cousin I have not previously met.

Emily has traveled with her family to Italy before our marriage. She brags about the ragazzi italiani carini, cute Italian boys, she met. Her past story of a cousin trying to kiss her and feel her up was recounted more like a milestone achievement than with the disgust it deserved. I have not been back to Italy since my exile as a child.

My irritation upturns, swelled with the

booking, packing, driving and inevitable waiting at the airport. So many hours suffered at the shrine of boredom. Post security check through, Emily pleasures herself with airport shopping. She is always on the prowl for the latest fashion trends, looking for whatever is chic on the streets.

One tour of duty and she smells like a perfume sampling counter. The kids play with their electronics with the dedication and focus of famished creatures devouring food. While I sit here, at Gate 49, with all the travel trappings, silently sipping a cappuccino. I rubberneck between the check-in counter and my wife’s whereabouts. I am a regular business flyer but I have developed a total eclipse of interest in airports and flying. I must be developing a social conscience because I find ‘first class seating’ tasteless and offensive.

Today, we lumber our way to our economy seats near the front of the airplane. Well, my family does. I have to snake my way several rows farther into the womb. Without having paid for guaranteed seating, an uncalled-for rip-off according to Emily, adjacent accommodation is a gamble. She does not appear troubled by the lost bet but then, why would she? I suffer the consequences of her actions as I find a seat alone.

Removing my black, Intrepid leather shoulder bag, I plop myself in my assigned aisle seat. Luckily, the middle seat remains unoccupied except for a knapsack adorned with a Canadian flag emblem. I pay scant attention to the occupant next to the window. Airplane windows appealed to me back when I enjoyed snapping pictures

of beautiful moments: a vast mountain range, a concrete cityscape, and a dazzling sunset. I have photographed them and more enough times in the past.

My early curiosity extended to include why there is a hole in airplane windows. I think it is some failsafe method of preserving pressurization integrity: a hole to feed the air gap between the outer and inner acrylic panes. That is what I surmised when I cared. I am no longer curious or desire to substantiate my speculations. Routine traveling has blurred my right-brain impulses.

Passengers find takeoffs and landings fascinating. I prefer the interlude in between when I can resort to reading and writing.

“I’m snooping…are you a bigamist?”

A soft voice that seems to sing rather than masticate words startles me. A beautiful, young woman boldly gazes. Like a portrait, her body is leaning forward, her head slightly tilted. Still, her large dark eyes, eyebrows raised, follow every nervous shuffle I make.

I stammer. “Excuse me?”

“I asked whether you are a bigamist. I see you have two wedding bands. A gold one on your left hand and a silver one on your right hand.”

My stareretreatsfrom thewoman’s long curly eyelashes and thick glossy brown hair and captures her entirely. I feel like I am falling backwards. She is long-limbed, dark-skinned, slim and athletic. I imagine that in a bikini she unquestionably turns heads. Her tenacity raises doubts.

“Are you an investigative journalist?” I like

my ability to land on my feet. I react quickly and excel under pressure.

The woman laughs exposing a wide-eyed captivating smile with pearl white teeth.

“Not quite. I am an arts professor from York University. I am researching a bit of art history and thought that taking a sabbatical and going back to Italy would be best for combining work with pleasure. My home base is going to be the American University of Rome but Italy is going to be my classroom.”

Again, with that smile. It is captivating. I stare in silence as she continues.

“I am not looking forward to sleeping eight hours in these cramped quarters. Thankfully, we are blessed with an empty seat that we can share.”

Pretending a professorial air, she navigates herself back on course.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

I am starting to unwind. My left-brain logic revs up.

“No, I’m not a bigamist. The gold ring represents the first 24 years of my marriage. The silver ring symbolizes the 25th. I’m going to Italy to attend a relative’s wedding and, in part, to celebrate my 25th wedding anniversary.”

“Without your wife?” the woman teases.

I had not noticed Aphrodite in the airport terminal or when I first sat down. She had been resting in the window seat, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, protecting her from the overhead air vents. That much I had detected. There was no other reason to open the aperture of

my mind any bit more.

“Actually, my wife is four rows up, with my two kids, in the middle seats.” I recall that four is an unlucky number in some cultures. I drop my train of thought fearing Aphrodite might think me a superstitious simpleton.

“She doesn’t believe in paying for reserved seating so here I lie.”

“Well aren’t you the lucky one.”

Aphrodite makes me smile. This level of flirtation is friendly and flattering: a harmless banter that circles a cerebral core. There are no ulterior motives.

She is about to say something more but is interrupted by the airline attendant bellowing predictable pre-flight greetings and pre-flight procedures on the loud speaker that everyone, but neophytes, ignores.

Ignoring the cacophony from the sound system, Aphrodite leans toward me. I smell eucalyptus leaves. She whispers. “My name is Ali. What’s that you’re reading?” Her hot breath is paralyzing, hypnotic. My thoughts go into standby but rally with her green-light grin.

“Ali, short for Alice?”

“No, short for Allegra. I Anglicized it. It means cheerful and lively.”

Ali’s heightened intonation of the last few words draws Emily’s attention. Are those associated feelings of guilt flushing Emily’s face?

“I have been doing research on my hometown of Tarquinia, an ancient Etruscan City. This book, written by Robert Leighton, is part of an

archaeological history series charting the history of ancient sites.”

“Yes, I know it well. It contains only nine pages with references to D.H. Lawrence. The author could have improved his publication immensely by espousing more of Lawrence’s literary contributions and less detailing of medieval scholarship. I think poets surpass historians in helping us understand art treasures.”

What a delightful person. She transcends small talk masterfully with interests in writing, history, art and life. It beats chatter about clothing, footwear, designers and celebrities.

“My name is Renzo: not short, long, or American.”

“One who wears a laurel wreath. You possess a noble, exalted name. However, your other book looks like a guide on witchcraft. Are you a sorcerer, horned deity, high priest of magic?” jokes Ali.

I am charmed by the woman’s intelligence and free-spiritedness. Female assertiveness is beauty in motion.

“In my readings, I have discovered a connection between my town’s Etruscan history, art and symbols and Italian paganism which historians have interpreted as witchcraft. The most notable symbol is that of two-winged horses.”

“Now I’m intrigued,” says Ali. “I have read about the art and archaeology of Tarquinia. Did you know that D. H. Lawrence considered Etruscan art a ‘religion of life’? I can only imagine Lawrence’s carnal view of Etruscan life, love, sexuality and marriage. First, I’m visiting my extended family

in southern Calabria but then my northern trek includes a visitation to the Museo Nazionale in old Corneto, today called Tarquinia.”

I am dumbfounded. This woman is striking in body and mind: a lethal combination repugnant to many men. She excites me. I want to know more about her.

“Speaking of marriage, here comes your wife to check up on you. She looks upset.”

Ali pulls opens her blanket, covers her frame and cuddles against the fuselage of the plane as if verging on slumber.

Emily, eyes wandering, probes.

“Everything all right here? I don’t want you to worry about me and our kids, Renzo.”

Her stress on my name is unequivocal. “Nevertheless, it’s a long flight and I’m

certain they’ll sleep through the night. Renzo, don’t forget to take your acid-reflux medication before you snooze off. You need to get lots of sleep. You know how tired and grumpy you can be. You would not want your hard-nosed side surfacing, would you? Goodnight dear. I’ll wake you just before we land.”

Emily, smug and self-satisfied, walks away. I am denied the benefit of a reply.

I feel dishonored. Depreciated. Flattened. Ali smiles at me with empathy and asks,

“Did you know that for protection, pagans brewed a mixture of Angelica, fennel, and rosemary in one of their cauldrons?”

I remain mute, lost in Ali’s therapeutic remedy.

Losing her smile, as if clutching a deeper

thought, she adds, “I guess you need potions and spells when deception rather than truth governs relationships.”

I am stunned. I look at Ali with awe. She appears to have read my feelings. Am I that readable? She seems to possess the power to render what’s broken, unbroken. Dare I share the details of my unfaithful marriage? I remain tongue-tied.

“By the way Renzo, with sleight of hand, I placed my university business card between the pages of your book. Goodnight.”

Ali slides a sleeping mask over her eyes and curls into a ball under her blanket. Her insight and openness are a balm to my spirit. Will I have the opportunity and time to get to know her better?