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The Florentine Love Letter
by Phil Pisani
July 27, 2000
Dear Kathy Lynn,
I woke early this morning before sunrise and began
writing but it was ended quickly. The words didn't come. I looked
from my hotel room window down to Via Dei Cerchi where it ends at
Piazza Della Signoria hoping words would return. They didn't. I've
been sad for the past week and a depression has been growing. Sometimes
I write well in this state but lately nothing gets to the paper.
I began thinking of you and I became lost in the memory of your
beautiful face, your warm smile, your loving eyes. At this time
I noticed a sliver of sunlight touch upon the lower turret of the
palace's bell tower turning the gray stone a fiery orange. I watched
it move and grow in size lighting the morning and the buildings
of the square and it dawned on me what I was missing. Sunlight!
Warmth! You!
So please leave Detroit and join me here in this beautiful
city. Join me for a week or two or three or forever. We can have
such a grand time together in this city so full of life and rich
in art and magnificence. We can share each other and the city and
live simply and fully, writing, eating, drinking, and loving.
We can wake each morning from the small but comfortable
bed and have the service bring us hot espresso and crusty bread
toasted only lightly and served with melted butter and jellies made
from local fruits. A light morning breeze will blow into the window
and onto our faces and it will feel fresh and carry with it the
subtle aromas of fresh baked goods and the light sounds of the city
awakening.
I will continue with my espresso needing four or five
to really get me going and then we can sit down to write, near to
each but not too near where it would bring distraction. As we become
absorbed in our work I will have to take a quick look at you, to
see your lovely face at work with its serious concern about what's
going down on paper. You'll catch me sneaking the look as you always
do and you will smile out of the corner of your mouth; happy I'm
looking but not wanting me to know it. This one look will be enough
for me to continue with my own work, but I may need a few more quick
glances since we've been apart for so long. How I've missed your
smile: the one that comes from the heart and fills mine with lovely
warmth.
After a few hours when we've finished our morning's
writing we can read each other's work and comment on it and pretend
we're angry with each other for the remarks. Really we will know
that the suggestions are good and will make our art better.
Later we can stroll to the Mercato Nuovo, which is
not far from the hotel just past the Palazzo Vecchio. There are
fresh peaches from the hills sold here. We can bite into them and
taste the soft flesh and fresh juice, not caring if it drips onto
our clothes. We can rub the snout of the wild boar by Tacca and
make our wishes, hoping deeply they will come true. My wish will
be that you and I can stay in the city forever, together. Afterwards
we can continue towards the Duomo, smiling at the tourists and watching
their eyes as they take in the surroundings. I will have to stop
at the Baptistery like I always do; I cannot pass without marveling
at Ghiberti's bronze doors. Here I will sneak a kiss in front of
"the gates of paradise" because of the feeling that I
am just at its borders.
We can play-act in the Duomo, you as Beatrice and
I as Dante. I will circle, trying to get a clear view of your beautiful
face through the crowd, a view I can capture and savor and take
back to the palace where I can write about the torment of not being
with you. And you, as Beatrice, play the part of the unknowing beauty,
unaware of my love, my passion, and my anguish over not being able
to have you, to call you mine. What fun it would be to change history
and come to you from behind and circle your waist with my arms,
draw you to me, kiss you softly on your bare shoulder and whisper
softly into your ear that it's only a game. I'll hold you close,
feeling your auburn hair against my cheek and smelling the delicate
fragrance from your soft skin. I will say a small prayer, thanking
whoever is listening in the church for allowing you to be present
with me.
I know a trattoria not far from the Duomo, just off
via Ricasoli. I go there often and know the owner Ulcide and his
waiter Paulo who I drink with several nights of the week. Ulcide
is a robust fellow with red cheeks and a large body who does most
of the cooking with his wife Maria. Maria likes to make rabbit for
me with a light white wine and porcini sauce and a few sprigs of
rosemary. Its meat is soft and juicy and tastes right with the house
Chianti. You'd love it. But first we must eat a small plate of Paulo's
ziti con pomodori and afterwards a light salad from the fresh greens
of his garden in the country. We can sit out on the terrace located
in the back of the main room. It is shielded from the sun by trellised
vines of white grapes. All three of my friends will make a fuss
over you, Paulo especially since he has heard me speak of you always.
When he sees you he will tell you that I did not do your beauty
justice for you are the most beautiful American who has ever entered
the trattoria. I will have to shoo him away or he might comment
on your beauty all day long and we would never be served.
After finishing lunch and the wine and saying our
thanks we will hurry back to the hotel. The sun is hot at this time
of day and the city begins to bake. Everything closes for a few
hours so the best retreat is the hotel room that is cooled from
the shade of the surrounding buildings and it's masonry walls. The
high ceilings and the closed windows with the wooden shudders keep
all the coolness inside.
I think we would lie on the bed together and look
into each other's eyes first and I would lightly touch you to see
if it is all but a dream, but knowing it is not. Then I would take
you into my arms and kiss you, lightly just letting our lips touch,
and then harder with more passion and love until we both begin to
taste each other everywhere. Our love would have us holding each
other so tight for fear one of us might go away, unleashing our
passion, loving each other, hard, deep, furiously completely, entwined
like so many of the sculptures of the city...until we fall back,
tired just enough for a small rest in each others' arms.
Later, as the city reawakens and the streets have
cooled a bit we could walk south over the Ponte Vecchio, my favorite
bridge, and linger along the shops selling shiny gold and sparkling
jewelry. We will wish some of it were ours but know that we do not
really need it because we have each other. I will enjoy looking
into the murky brown waters of the Arno running fast when the rain
is recent and then looking back to city consuming its old world
splendor with its red tiled roofs atop brown and white masonry crafted
hundreds of years ago. Then we will kiss again but only lightly,
like the breeze blowing across the water.
On the other side of the river we can meander through
Giardino di Boboli and drink in the fragrance and the coolness of
the cypress and pines. We can wish at the elegant fountains and
laugh and giggle at silly Dwarf Mongante's nude fat body sitting
on the tortoise as it spills water into a basin. The roses and lilies
are in bloom now and carry with them delicate fresh scents that
remind me of you whenever I walk past.
Not far from the gardens I know a place for dinner
that serves Florentine beef on a large carving board and the house
Chianti and grappa is the best of the area, better than the famous
named brands. I'm certain the shrewd Italians take the cream from
the barrels for their own use and bottle the rest, selling it at
a very dear price as their best wine and grappa for the unwary tourist.
The owner will sing opera, usually an aria from La Boheme as we
eat and drink and sneak kisses. It's a small osteria down spirally
brick stairs that goes into a grotto setting with walls lined with
bottles of wine and cheeses hanging from the rafters. To get there
we can walk along the river and watch the beautiful Florentines
pass with their elegant dresses of silk and light cottons and soft
leather shoes, as they strut their slim bodies and dark smooth faces
as if both the men and the women are on catwalks exhibiting their
remarkable charm and beauty. We can pretend to be them, but we don't
fit in. We can pretend to be tourists and watch them look down to
us, but I'd rather just be lovers and not have to pretend anything
at all.
After dinner we can have a few more drinks, but at
this time of the evening we'll take them outside where the air has
cooled and the stars look down upon us. There's usually music in
the Piazza near the hotel, and if we're lucky, and I know we would
be, the soft sounds of violins will drift to our table and mingle
with the freshness and softness of your hair as you rest your head
lightly on my shoulder. The magic of the music and the stars and
the city would guide us like some invisible light back to our room.
We would undress and lie on the bed and finish the night as perfectly
as we had lived the day.
So please come my love, come and join me in this grand
city. Pour your sunshine into my day, light my heart with your smile,
sooth my ears with your voice.
Fly to Milan and take the Rapido to Florence where
I'll meet you at the station. As I know you are nearing me it will
erase my sadness and replace it with the joy of seeing you soon
and hopefully always.
I love you,
Johnny
Phil Pisani's stories have appeared in The Small Spiral Notebook
http://www.smallspiralnotebook.com;
and Flush Fiction magazine http://flushfiction.tripod.com/.
He recently completed his first novel, MAGGIE'S WARS and is represented
by NY Creative Management.
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