Ponte Scaligro
It was time. There would be people. Autumn in Verona was still a thick tourist season. And it was early, only eight p.m. although the sun had set two hours ago. But the lights were bright and spectacular, really, like supernovae splattering over a piecrust of M shaped merlons and embrasures all along the red brick parapet of the Castelvecchio Bridge.
Donielle Bicchieri was the curator for the Castel Vecchio Museo where a permanent collection of paintings by Bellini, Veronese, Mantegna and Pisanello hung in large ancient rooms amongst Romanesque and gothic sculptures, religious icons and 14th century frescos. She loved her job. After all, she basically ran ‘a castle’. She was 50 years old and never had children. She lived alone and was content with her quiet life and knowledge of Italian art. Alas, she was far from a spinster; she had a warm circle of friends and a tower of memories of lovers from the past. ‘How long has it been?’ She asked her self as she put on her coat and grabbed her handbag. ‘Ah, Giulio, three months ago.’ It didn’t last long, less than a year. Before that there was Matteo for seven years, then Battista, Roberto, Lodovico and Taddeo one right after the next. And in her twenties, the love of her life, Romeo, O’ Romeo… if she were to have had children it would have been with him. Yet they weren’t ready and wanted to wait but he died before the wait was done. He liked to drive fast and recklessly. He liked to do everything fast and recklessly except, to her pleasure, make love. They met on the bridge. As an art student she frequently visited the museum. He was riding a bicycle and completely knocked her down. She twisted her ankle. Her heart laughed remembering how sorry he was, “Mi dispiace, mi dispiace…” He had her sit on his bike, which he then pushed across the bridge and all the way down the Lungadige Congrande until they reached her home. The pain in her ankle was nothing compared to the joy she felt listening to his persistent apologies as they glided along the embankment with a summer breeze coming from the Adige River kissing their youth, and in less than a month they were one and moved to Rome. It was a wild time; her quiet life came after.
She didn’t fear ghosts. Italy is an old country and Verona is filled with them. The ghost of Romeo was everywhere and in her apartment, especially before the break of dawn she often woke sensing the presence of someone, a former tenet or a tenet long before that perhaps. It was the bridge itself, phantoms on the bridge that terrified her. When other people were there it was fine, they hid in the bricks, but there had been a few nights when she worked late and left the museum near midnight and had to cross the bridge alone. She shivered thinking about it, locked up her office, said goodnight to Nardo, the security guard, and instead of walking, although it was a beautiful, crisp October evening, took the bus the two kilometers to the Viale Gabriele D’Annuzio where she rented a handsome apartment right across from the Park Cesare Lombroso.
She poured a glass of Valpolicella and immersed herself in creating a designer plate of salad with arugula, chickpeas, red pepper and shavings of asiago cheese. Tomorrow was another day; a one o’clock tour group was coming in and a staff meeting scheduled for three. Her sleep that night was peaceful and easy. Sometimes, though not so much recently, Romeo would visit her dreams.
Donielle left the castle earlier than usual the next day to walk home. The air was mellow and God surprised her with a scenic sunset of dancing violet, pink and lemon colored orchids melting into the Adige River, enticing her to stop at a florist and buy herself a bouquet of assorted spray roses and then a wine shop for a bottle of Soave.
When she reached her apartment building just after dusk, she saw Giulio sitting on the front step with a bunch of red roses in his hand.
“What are you doing here?” she asked coldly.
“Donielle, I want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“These are for you,” he gave her the flowers, “Please let me in.”
She looked at him. His face was flushed; he’d been drinking. Still, those eyes, those lying, cheating, beautiful eyes… “No.”
“Baby, baby…”
“I’m not your baby. Go away Giulio, go home to her.”
“She’s gone. I swear. It was a terrible mistake. I’m so sorry. I love you. We should be together.”
“I disagree.” Donielle took her keys out of her handbag, opened the front door and slid by him, locking the door behind her.
He called out her name. It was embarrassing. He banged on the door. The first floor tenet, an old woman, came out into the foyer. “Cosa sta succedendo?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing Michellina, everything is fine, go back inside now.”
Giulio called out her name and banged on the heavy oak door once again,
“Mama Mia! Mama Mia!” The old lady threw her arms up to heaven.
“It’ll be okay. It’s an old boyfriend. Don’t worry, he’ll go away.”
“He’s drunk! He’s drunk!”
“He’ll go away. Go back inside, Michellina.”
Donielle gently guided the woman out of the foyer and climbed the stairs. She put the white roses in the blue Venetian vase atop a writing desk by the front window, overlooking the park, and poured herself a glass of wine. She could hear Giulio mumbling below as he walked off down the avenue.
A dozen long stemmed roses were strewn all over the front steps when she stepped out to go to work the next morning. She didn’t touch them; it would give Michellina a sinister thrill when she went out to do her shopping that afternoon. Tomorrow was Monday, the museum would be closed and she planned to spend the day tidying up her flat, reading, resting and possibly treating herself to a manicure and a film. The sky was densely overcast and there was a sharp chill in the air that made her eyes water as she walked along the embankment yet she refused to take a bus. Work was dull yet not unpleasant. Around noon the rain came, slapping the windows of her office and continued on throughout the day.
She was half way across the bridge under her umbrella just as the bells of Chiesa di San Lorenzo muffled through the pouring rain at six o’clock. No one was there. It was a wet, dark evening and it was Sunday. They came riding on the mist; bloodied medieval soldiers on terrifyingly large ghost horses charging over the cobblestones and thrashing past her with out stretched swords. She stopped still. They surrounded her. One of the riders slashed at her umbrella and it blew away. The rain was hard and for a moment she thought she’d been thrown into the raging green Adige River and was surely drowning. She closed her eyes.
“Signora! Signora!”
She opened her eyes and saw a man running up to her with an open umbrella. “Signora…”
The phantom riders were gone. He placed his umbrella over her.
“Grazi, Signore.”
“Ma certo. Mais bien sur. You were drowning!” The man sort of chuckled. His Italian was barely adequate but she was fluid in French.
“Come, I will walk you across the bridge.”
They came to the Lungadige Congrande just in time to catch a bus. She didn’t ask when he got on with her and sat down beside her. She was still in somewhat of a shock from the fierce apparitions. The streets were nearly flooding and deserted, even the bus was empty except for one other person and the driver.
“My name is Launcelot.” He said.
“Du Lac?” She quickly regained her senses.
He laughed, “No, Morel. Launcelot Julian Morel from Paris.”
“Donielle Bicchieri from Verona.”
They shook wet hands and remained silent as the bus rolled forward in the rain.
“Well,” Donielle stood as they came to her stop, “This is where I get off.”
Launcelot jumped to his feet, “Me too!”
The storm had subsided into a mere drizzle. The lights from the houses across the river were soft and the black sky had turned purple. She turned toward the park and he toward the Garibaldi Bridge but then spun to face her, “Wait!”
“Scusami?”
“I’m going to the old village to have dinner somewhere, will you join me? I don’t know a soul in this town and…”
Donielle looked at the French man, standing there before the Ponte Garibaldi in the smoky post-shower haze, leaning on his tall umbrella that doubled for a walking stick. He was younger than her, maybe in his early forties yet a few silver tassels were woven into his blondish brown wavy hair. She had noticed his blue eyes on the bus. They were fair, gratifying eyes. He was slender and of medium height, maybe around 5’ 10”, and now that she was actually seeing him, after the surrealism of ghosts in rain, she realized that he was a very attractive gentleman.
His invitation was perceptibly sincere, not like the many Italian men who blatantly hit on women every chance they get as if love were a game. She wanted to accept yet her hair was dripping in tangles and her face was probably not the most presentable after such an episode of weather. But, she thought, all that could be fixed in two minutes in a restroom; she had a hairbrush and make-up in her purse. And she suddenly felt for the guy, alone in Verona on a stormy Sunday with his insufficient Italian.
The drizzle changed into slow fat drops. Launcelot opened his umbrella, “Come on… or you will drown again!”
Donielle laughed and shrugged as she went to join him, “Okay. You’ve charmed me.”
“So you think I am charming?” He smiled and looked even younger, like a child.
“I know of a restaurant that’s very good. My friends own it but it’s a bit of a walk, about half a kilometer.”
“Let’s go!”
They crossed the bridge and strolled down Via Garibaldi then Via Rose into the Piazza Delle Erbe, the famous center of the original medieval town.
“Ah, this I remember!” Launcelot said happily.
“So you’ve been to Verona before?”
“Twenty years ago on my honeymoon. My wife was into the whole Juliet thing.”
“You do know that although the house dates back to the 13th century and the name of Cappelleti, that the balcony was built in the 20th century.”
“Mais oui, but my wife wanted--”
Donielle sighed to herself, “Ah, you’re married.”
“I’m a widower Signora.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.’
“No, no… it’s been five years since she died. That’s why I came here, as a sort of… what? I don’t know; it seemed like the right thing to do in memory of Elaine.”
“Yes, it’s a very tender gesture.”
The rain stopped. They stood before the fountain in the square. Launcelot’s twinkling eyes grew solemn. “It’s a beautiful statue.”
“We call her Madonna Verona. The fountain was built in 1368 but the statue is Roman and dates back to 380 A.D.”
“You know much about your city!”
“I’m an art historian. I run the castle museum-- where we met.” She suddenly became shy, thinking her speech had sounded romantic.
“Well,” Launcelot moved on, regaining his merry persona, “So where is your friend’s place, I’m starving!”
“Close, this way.”
They passed the bell tower and she led him through a quick maze of elbow macaroni streets and finally the came to a set of warmly lit glass double doors beneath an arch of thick green ivy. The sign above it read 12 Apistole.
“Here we are.” She reached for the door but Launcelot chivalrously held it open for her.
It was a popular upscale place but because of the rain, few tables were occupied. The owner’s wife, Simonetta, approached Donielle directly, “Cara benvenuto! We haven’t seen you since Easter!”
The two women kissed and Donielle introduced the French man then asked, “Antonio is here?”
“Of course he is here, he lives here. Please, take whatever table you choose; I’ll have him bring you a bottle of wine, red? But you must have red on a night like this!”
Launcelot suggested they sit at a romantic table for two in the back of the establishment, away from the other customers. A waitress brought menus and soon Antonio was standing over them, telling Donielle his life story since Easter in rapid Italian while he un-corked a bottle. “Amorone della Valolicella Poltretti 2008, on the house! Yes, on the house, insisto, insisto!”
Donielle ordered asparagus soup with caramelized chard and oyster leaves for a starter and swordfish with capers, Jerusalem artichoke puree and ginger for an entrée. Launcelot was indeed hungry for he ordered all three courses; risotto with Amorone wine, snails in a creamy tarragon sauce and finally, goose liver scallop with Parmesan soup, fried egg and black truffle, and as they had finished the gratuitous bottle half way through the meal, he ordered a second bottle from a different label and a very good year at 120 euros.
He was a dermatologist and his twin daughters were presently studying medicine at the Université Paris Descartes. He did not say much more about his personal life or career except that he ‘refused to use Botox’ on his patients but would gladly give them a referral. Their conversation throughout dinner was zealous and convivial, each showing great interest in what the other was talking about even though they did not divulge into anything profound at all. Launcelot had a rather cerebral sense of humor that intrigued Donielle’s taste for the absurd in life and art. The food was superb, the wine smooth and the atmosphere of the frescoed cave-like, half empty restaurant on a wet autumn night seemed to isolate time in a capsule of Italian history as if each moment was much more significant than it possibly could be.
“Do you want a dessert?” Simonetta came to their table.
“Oh, you know I usually never…” Donielle shook her head, laughing coquettishly. Her friend was amused to see her so tipsy.
“This,” he pointed at the menu, “I must try this.”
“Coconut mousse with dark chocolate crumble, an excellent choice.” She winked at her friend, “I’ll bring two spoons.”
They shared it. It felt sexual. An intense magnetism was obvious to both of them and they were instantly aware of an almost violent desire.
The air was pure and fresh when they left 12 Apistole.
“Well,” Launcelot’s eyes were twinkling more than ever, “Do you know, I should get back to hotel… is there a taxi stand near here?”
“At the Arena, I’ll go with you and get one as well. I won’t walk home now.” They started down the Corticella San Marco and she added, “Where is your hotel?”
“I’m at the Palazzo Victoria.”
“In Via Adua? Why that’s a five minute walk from here, you don’t need to get a taxi.”
“Oh, I know Paris like my pocket but am completely lost in this…” he hesitated but continued, “this beautiful city of love. Well, if you tell me how to get there I’ll walk you to a taxi stop.”
“We can do both, I’ll lead the way to your hotel and take a taxi from there.”
“Bon!”
They headed back toward the river. The snug streets were slick and the dim lights in the windows of closed shops ironically made the dark alleys appear strange and eerie. He took her hand. The city was silent save her heels on the pavement. It seemed like ages before they reached the Via Adua yet it had literally only been five minutes. The illuminated entrance to the hotel in the near distance brought them both back to earth. It was destiny. It started to pour. They ran into the lobby, laughing at each other, at the night, the wine and rain tickling their limbs.
“Again!” Launcelot, his hand still locked to hers, led her to the elevator, “Please, you must come up to my room and dry yourself off. We can have another drink.”
She wanted to. She was pleased and wanted to please him so followed him without uttering a word.
His ‘room’ was actually a deluxe suite on the top floor. It was aesthetically decorated in stylish luxury. There was a small living room with a leather sofa and bar and a king size bed with a canopy was set at an angle before tall windows overlooking a garden courtyard. The furniture, antique mixed with modern, was arranged tastefully on the polished hardwood floors and the bathroom, which she asked to use the minute they entered the suite, was tiled in marble.
He had poured two glasses of wine at the bar when she came out. They sat on the sofa to drink.
“It’s a lovely room.” She offered.
“I like to travel in style.” He jokingly put on an air. They sipped the wine then he told her, “You are beautiful.”
She laughed.
“I mean it, not just physically but…”
Now she was bursting with laughter.
“What is funny? I’m trying to… I’m sincere, Donielle.”
She gathered her wits, “I know you are. So am I, I mean, I’m nervous, I like you too.”
“Then,” Launcelot bravely advanced, “I shall kiss you.”
The sun sent a glittery light through the windows of his suite the following morning. He had already sent for coffee and breakfast when she woke beside him for the second time that morning. The first time was at dawn in velvet light with the cooing of a dove outside his window. She half opened her eyes as he touched her, kissing her shoulder then smoothly entered her from behind. This time, the second time, she got on top. They put on the luxurious hotel robes and took le petite déjeuner out onto the balcony over looking the garden.
“I don’t have to work today.” She told him.
“Then relax, spend the day with me. I have no plans.” He buttered a piece of toast, “Yesterday I was feeling so lonely, I began questioning why I even came here on holiday, it was a rash decision and perhaps foolish.”
She peeled an orange. “Bread and oranges with a view. That is Italy and that’s why you came here.”
“Or maybe I came to meet you.”
She smiled, “Possibly.”
The marble bathroom had a big bowl shaped spa tub. They filled it up, took a bath, made love again and dressed for the day. The sun was warm but the October air was chilly and they spent a perfect autumn afternoon touring the arena, a few cathedrals and of course, even though she really didn’t want to enter the museum on her day off, gave him a private tour of the Castle Vecchio, proud to show off some of Verona’s most beloved works of art. Then suddenly, as Donielle was explaining to Launcelot how the painter Girolamo dai Libri was the one Veronese who applied the style of Mantegna, she began to wonder why he had been walking on the bridge toward the Museo after it was closed the night before. She stopped her speech and asked him.
“I told you, I didn’t know where I was going, just wandering.”
‘Of course, that makes sense.’ She told herself yet still found it curious.
They bought a small basket of fresh blackberries from the market in the Piazza Delle Erbe late afternoon and brought it back to his suite. He ordered champagne and they lounged on his grand bed eating the sweet berries and touching and again made love. He asked her to have dinner with him that evening. “Where ever you like, I invite you once again!”
“You’re…”
“What am I?”
“Delicious!” She kissed him, “But I want to go home and change my clothes. Can you meet me there in a few hours? It’s not far, you can walk there, here--” She drew him a little map, “Just follow the Lungadige Panvinio along the river and cross the bridge where we got off the bus yesterday.”
“Okay! It’s a plan.” He shouted with glee like a kid on Christmas morning.
She laughed, “Are you always so excited?”
“With you I am, you excite me.”
Donielle took a taxi home, showered, changed into her sexiest dress of a deep blue hue like the Madonna robes in a Bellini painting, applied her make-up to give her a natural, luminous look, accenting her dark eyes and long lashes. She let down her long black, wavy hair and was pleased with herself. She felt more excited than she had been because of a man for a long while and it surprised to think that perhaps she was falling in love.
The bell rang and she let him up.
He looked around, “Your home looks like the place where you work.”
It was a compliment for her fat was filled with a fine collection works of art that she was very prod of. She offered him a glass of wine.
“So, where am I taking you to dine tonight my dear?”
“Ristorante Il Desco.”
“And do you know the owner?”
“No, but they have two Michelin stars, a nice collection of modern art on the walls, blue crystal wine glasses and I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Then we go!”
She grabbed her white wool coat, “Your enthusiasm never ceases to delight me, my dear.”
“Why, my dear, you make me enthusiastic.”
The night was cold but they loved the walk back into the old center of town where Il Desco was located, by the way, in a Renaissance Palace. Donielle chose something simple; prawns ravioli with sweet and sour vegetables but Launcelot ordered two courses: veal tongue and octopus salad with white turnip in a light green sauce and mostada for a starter, and black cod, porcini mushrooms, olive oil and lemon thyme emulsion for his entrée, and was thrilled to see that there was an extensive selection of French wines in the cellar and ordered two bottles, consecutively, of Pouilly Fuse Cuvée Hors Classic, 2010 at 105 euros each.
“It’s delicious.” He said even before they were served anything, not even the wine.
“We haven’t tasted a thing yet.” Donielle laughed.
“All of it, this place, this city, this night, you… delicious.”
“So, do you feel easier about your decision to visit Verona?”
“Best decision I ever made in my life!”
The wine came, they cheered and smiled and ate and drank and turned every moment into a jewel like magicians.
He invited her back to his hotel. She accepted. The sex was twice as passionate and exciting as the night before and in the morning she couldn’t leave him so for the first time in nine years, called the museum to with an excuse as to why she would not be at work.
Launcelot came out of the shower just as she was putting down her phone. “Did you tell them you were sick?”
“No.” Donielle, still naked in the bed, turned over on to back and threw her arms up in the air, “I told them I was in love!”
He laughed, “Yes, in Italy, I suppose one can get away with that.”
She shook her head, “Not usually, but I can get away with it.”
He took her hand and pulled her up, “Then come on, let’s go!”
“Where?”
“Anywhere… as long as we’re together.”
It was another crisp, bright autumn day and the light was perfect for the countryside. They went back to her place so she could change into jeans and a sweater then rented a car and went north to drive around the beautiful Lake Garda. The little villages were enchanting with their grapefruit and honey colored villas and azure harbors where dainty sailboats slept in the golden high noon light. The scent of rosemary and lavender filled the air. The lake itself was so truly azure blue that the sky must have been jealous and as they came closer to the Austrian border, Olympian snow capped Alps reigned in the distance. They stopped every now and then to take short hikes and take in the scenery and around 3 p.m., reached the top of the lake and went in to the Riviera Garda for a late lunch at one of the many pleasant restaurants with green awnings where tables were set on a deck over looking the water. They leisurely ate Alpine trout and fresh salad and drank a bottle of the local Lugana Spumante. Afterward they explored the village, stopped in a few shops to mistily browse merchandise that either could care less about, then strolled arm in arm back to the car.
“Do you want me to drive?” Donielle asked, “You’ve been driving all day.”
“I’m fine.” He opened the car door, “Are we going all the way around the lake?”
“We can, it will take a few hours, and then another back to Verona…” She sat in the passengers seat.
He started the car, “So let’s stay the night somewhere, a B&B, or a 12th century castle!”
“I actually know of a place that is both.” She laughed, “You don’t stop, do you?”
“Stop what? It’s fun, no?”
“It’s a blast but I…” She stopped, “Yes, let’s do it!” She took her phone from her purse and sighed as she dialed.
“That’s right, you’re work, we don’t have to- I’ll drive back to Verona.”
“No, I don’t want to sit in the car all night. Let’s stay, really, I want to. The museum won’t miss me. And certainly all those centuries old paintings won’t miss me!”
The Castle/ Bed & Breakfast Inn was just past the picturesque village of Limone Sul Garda where they had to stop, walk along the harbor and have a drink at a café on the water. As it was autumn and a weekday, when they registered at the B&B, the grandest room, which of course Launcelot demanded, was available. It was in the castle tower, or rather was the tower, and had a gorgeous view of the now deep blue lake in the milky twilight through a large stone arched window. The ceiling was high and supported by heavy black wooden beams and the white stucco walls were decorated with medieval tapestries. The bed had an embroidered canopy and the bath was all marble and mirrors.
“You just won’t settle for less, will you?” Donielle turned from the window and flopped on the bed.
Launcelot looked at her more seriously than he ever had yet, “It’s for you. Not for me, for you.”
“Come here.”
They made love. Afterwards he asked her, “Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“I think I’m going to go downstairs and get some things, some wine and cheese, you sure you don’t want anything?”
“I’m impartial. I’m just happy right now.”
“Me too.” He kissed her, dressed and left the room.
She didn’t expect it. She’d forgotten in her bliss but there they were, every where, hissing and wandering, coming out of the stones, lost souls, so many, filling up the room, taking up every molecule of air. She couldn’t breathe. She closed her eyes and hid under the covers but they were there too, in the bed, twisting around her, on top of her, seducing her like incubi. For twenty minutes she suffered then they vanished in a flash when Launcelot came back into the room.
“You okay?” He watched her sit up in the bed, pale and shaking.
“I’m fine, why?”
“You look like you saw a ghost!”
“I’m just tired. Did you get wine?”
He retrieved a fine bottle of Bandolino from a cute basket he set down on the bedside table, then a cake of goat cheese and warm country bread. Donielle was revived and they talked, laughed, listened, felt, breathed, cared, caressed and kissed on into the night with the dark lake sighing like a lullaby to the mountains and the bay trees and the lemon trees outside.
He dropped her off at the museum the next day around 1:00.
“I’ll only work until five,” She told him, “I just need to make sure things are all tidied up.”
“I leave tomorrow night.” He said.
“I know. I wish…”
“I’ll keep the car and pick you up at your place, around seven?”
“Yes, perfect.” She kissed him and got out of the car.
When he arrived at her apartment, a drunken man was storming down the stairs mumbling obscenities, amongst which he thought he heard the name Donielle.
“Everything okay?” He asked when she let him in.
“Of course, why?”
“You look like you saw a ghost again.”
She laughed, “No, just my ex-boyfriend Giulio!”
“Good or bad?”
“Bad, very bad, but never mind him.” She hugged and kissed him, “I’ve been waiting all day to see you.”
“Me too. You look beautiful.”
She wore a silky black dress that flattered her figure and her hair was done up in a stylish twist. “Actually, there is an art auction tonight at the Palazzo Forti that I really should make an appearance at. We don’t have to stay long, just sit in for the a few lots.”
“Sounds good to me. I love auctions.”
She grabbed her coat and bag, “I should have imagined that you do!” As they walked out of her building she continued, “The artist is Fausto Pirandello, 1899-1975. Am amazing painter, his work is a kind of neo-cubism realism/ expressionist tonalism consisting of abstract figuration, I think, rather comparable to Egon Schiele, especially the nudes…”
“Please, please, you’ve lost me, but I’m sure they are good and if I like something, I buy it.”
Alas, Donielle was not shocked when Launcelot purchased one of Pirandello’s paintings from 1948 of a naked reclining woman, her legs bent up and open, her buttocks proportionally large to her lopsided breasts and her face turning away upon an elongated neck. It was beautiful, absolutely beautiful and cost him 39,000 euros.
“It will look good in my Paris loft,” he explained, “next to my Braque.”
“You own a Georges Braque?”
He nodded, “And a Picasso.”
“You’re kidding! Which one?”
“An unimportant, unfinished one. A naked woman and a guitar.”
“An the Braque?”
“A pure abstract in grays and blues.”
She was amazed and so said, “You’re amazing.”
“No, I’m simply rich my dear.” He opened the car door for her, “Now, where do we go for fine dining?”
She threw her hands in the air, “The Casa Perbellini of course!”
“Of course, let’s go!”
They both grew melancholy toward the end of the meal and it wasn’t because of the two bottles of Brunello di Montelcino 2004 Collecini, nor his breast of guinea fowl with masala, lentil puree, morels and sorrel foam or her sea bass with chive goat cheese, zucchini and a hint of licorice, but because it would be their last night together, his plane left at six p.m. the following day.
They went back to the Palazzo Victoria and made love tenderly, then aggressively, then tenderly again and did not fall asleep until 3:00 in the morning. Two hours later her mobile phone rang. Donielle let it ring and slipped back into sleep. It rang again at six a.m. and then seven. She picked it up and saw that it was the museum.
“Hello?” She whispered.
She was shocked by what her secretary told her. She looked at Launcelot, sleeping deeply, peacefully, and quietly got out of bed, dressed and left him a note in French that read:
Darling, there’s an emergency at the museum. I’ll call for you at the hotel in a few hours or meet me at castle Vecchio if you like. I love you. I’m madly in love with you!
-Donielle
Policemen were everywhere, outside the castle searching the grounds and that cursed bridge or holding back reporters who it appeared, had been waiting for her to show up. She turned her face from their cameras and refused to answer questions. Alda, her secretary, ran up to her as she entered the place, and related the story tersely and tensely and had to repeat it several times until Donielle understood. Poor Nardo! They tied him to a chair and held a gun on him until they escaped. Seventeen! How many thieves were there? No one knew. They took seventeen paintings? She was aghast, ‘My Rubens, my Pisanello, my Caroto, Tintoretto, Mantegna… my Mantegna!’
“What about the security cameras, the entire alarm system?”
“Supposedly, they cut it off.” Alda broke down and cried. Donielle’s eyes welled up too. An inspector, a giant of a woman with a face like one of those alien Easter Island statues, approached and rather brutally grabbed Donielle’s arm and pulled her into her own office and shut the door on Alda and the twenty more cops who were clumsily poking and prodding all over the museum and recklessly moving the paintings and sculptures about.
“Can you please tell them to be more careful?” Donielle asked the inspector, who went by her last name, Colombo, just like that American detective on the television.
“Do you want to catch the thieves or don’t you?”
“Of course I do. I want my paintings back. They’re worth a fortune, they’re priceless!” She suddenly felt very hot and took off her coat to reveal the black silk dress she’d put on the evening before.
“Long night?” Colombo scowled at her.
She sat down and said nothing.
“Listen, I can see you’re a bit shook up but I have to ask you some questions.” And Colombo proceeded to question her every move for the past week as well as her entire existence since the day she was born.
Donielle was exhausted. Alda made coffee. The questioning lasted two hours and finally they let her go home, taking the back exit by way of the bridge to avoid the reporters. The minute she got home she called the Palazzo Victoria but the desk clerk said that Signore Morel did not answer his phone. It was 10 a.m. She made more coffee, showered, changed into black slacks and a red blouse and tried the hotel again. A different desk clerk answered.
“He what?”
“He checked out.”
“When?”
“Early, let me see here, it says 8 a.m.”
“But that’s impossible, he was sleeping and his plane… oh, okay, thank you.”
She tried to remain rational. Maybe he heard about the robbery on the news and dashed off to the museum… but why check out of his room if his plane wasn’t leaving for ten more hours? Of course the police wouldn’t let him enter the Castle in such a commotion, so he went to a café and was waiting for her to return to her apartment where he was probably on his way right now. But still, why check out of his room? Why didn’t he have a mobile phone? She never saw him use one and if he did have one, why hadn’t they exchanged numbers? A million questions tormented her brain and her nerves, quivering with caffeine, would not let her rest. She put on her coat, grabbed her bag and left her house. She walked into the old center and wandered through the streets not knowing where she was going, only that she was looking for him. She walked for hours until she felt as if she would collapse. Luckily had circled back to the Piazza della Erbe and headed toward 12 Apistole. As she turned on to the Corticella San Marco she began to run, thinking that he had gone there to meet her, at the place where they first had dinner, how romantic! Yes, she thought, he is there!
Simonetta quickly came up to her as she entered in a state close to hysteria. The restaurant was crowded with the first dinner crowd.
“Donielle, we heard the news… but my god you look terrible!”
Simonetta took her into the kitchen and gave her a glass of water.
“Do you have anything stronger?”
Antonio came up from the cellar with a bottle of wine and his wife grabbed it from his hand and uncorked it.
“What are you doing?” He protested.
“Go get another one, I need this one.”
He looked at her and Donielle with a blank expression.
“Come on, go!” Simonetta yelled at him, “Go back into the cellar old man, customers are waiting!”
Donielle drank and told her friend every thing that had happened between herself and Launcelot since the moment she met him.
“It doesn’t seem real.” Simonetta frowned.
“Tell me about it. It’s like a fairy tale.”
“Yes, but… what was he like when you took him to the museum on the day it was closed?”
“What do you mean? He liked the art.”
“No, I mean, how do you get in when it’s closed? Do you have a key?”
“I have lot’s of keys. First of all there’s a key pad, I punch in the numbers, Nardo looks through the security camera and lets me use my key card and then in the foyer I punch in more numbers to unlock the alarm and…”
Simonetta was nodding her head, still frowning.
“No! What are you thinking? It’s impossible. A man named Launcelot, Launcelot! A man from Paris meets me on the castle bridge in the rain and courts me on purpose to steal my paintings? No, it’s crazy. He’s filthy rich, why does he need priceless works of art? I mean, Jesus! He’s a dermatologist!”
“You shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Donielle.’
“And you’re insane Simonetta!” Donielle felt insane herself, she was drunk from the wine, the busy restaurant seemed surreal and for some reason the image of Giulio’s strewn roses on her doorstep penetrated her brain. She stood, “I have to go home now.”
“Sit back down, Antonio will take you.” And she stopped her husband as he came up from the cellar once again and told him to do so.
Donielle slept for twelve hours then went to work.
Four months passed by. Her life returned to its simple, quiet trajectory yet she did not forget Launcelot. In the first month after the robbery she spent countless hours searching for him on the Internet but could not remember his last name. It began with “M” or was it “N”? Little good did that do her. She looked up every dermatologist in Paris and then most of France with empty results. She called the Piazza Victoria several times inquiring after information but they had none, save that he left a generous tip for housekeeping. Giulio appeared on her doorstep with roses again and she let him inside out of desperation mixed with fear and exhaustion and slept with him. That was two months ago and of course, afterwards he also disappeared. Then one triumphant Tuesday afternoon in February an agent from Europol called the museum to inform her that the stolen paintings had been found in the basement of some art gallery in the Ukraine! And, the agent added, they were on their way back to Castle Vecchio, “as we speak.”
A great cloud lifted from Donielle’s brain, not so much from the relief that her dear Mantegna was coming home but of the absurdity that Launcelot would store stolen paintings in some dodgy basement in the Ukraine. Why had she ever suspected him? He met her, loved her and then…? She sighed, perhaps the beautiful man died!
In March she met a man named Amando. They began to date, made love and started a comfortable, casual relationship. He was handsome and a talented painter yet she didn’t feel connected to him the way she had to Launcelot. The sex was good but there was no romance and her heart did not ache. At the end of that month she received (at the museum) a hand written letter from Paris:
My dear Donielle,
Forgive my absence and please, forgive my mysterious departure with out saying good-bye. My life has been a tragedy since that morning when I woke alone in the Palazzo Victoria and read your note. I planned to meet you at the museum but immediately I received a phone call from France. My daughter Laure had been in a car accident and was in critical condition in the hospital. I rushed back as fast as possible. I was devastated. She has been in a comma for the past 5 months. Her twin sister Irene and I have been… it’s been very difficult. I refused to take her off of life support- my own daughter! Alas, a miracle. She came out of it just last week and it looks as if she is going to be just fine now. We are so thankful!
Again, I apologize for not having contacted you earlier but in lieu of the situation, I hope you can understand. I have thought of you often, memories of our little trip around the lake, of your laughter and kisses and the streets of Verona are what kept me alive during this past horror. I do finally feel alive now; just writing to you makes me feel alive!
I do hope you are well. Maybe once we are back to normal over here, I can come to Italy and see you again.
p.s. I read about the stolen paintings- crazy! The Ukraine? Well, glad they’ve been recovered.
Love,
Launcelot.
Donielle wept. She sat at her desk looking out at the menacing Castle bridge in the rain and sobbed like she never had in her 50 years of life. Then she looked at the envelope and noted the return address and the name on the little sticker in the corner. It read, L. Julian Morel, M.D., 14 Rue François Millet, Paris, France 75016.
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