The American Lady(40)

They made a lovely couple, and the other day-trippers kept glancing at them. Franco had never enjoyed being the center of attention so much. Yes, look over here, all of you! he wanted to call to each and every one of them. Look here and be amazed! The most beautiful woman on God’s earth. But keep your distance, for she’s mine!

When darkness arrived and the thousands upon thousands of lights in Luna Park came on, tears welled up in Marie’s eyes. She leaned her head on Franco’s chest, inhaling the scent of his tobacco, and told him about Lauscha, about how the flames of the glassblowers’ lamps shone from the windows of their little homes every evening, like glowworms lighting up the dark. He heard a melancholy note in her voice and was jealous. What was it that made her sad? Was she thinking of someone back home? But then she kissed him and was his own beloved Marie again. He pulled her closer.

“There is a kind of magic that only comes from the place you call home. Back in Genoa we have a fireworks show in midsummer every year. It’s at least as big as the New Year’s show, and the fireworks are launched from ships anchored in the harbor. When thousands of new stars explode in the sky, the sea looks like something from a fairy tale. We have a wonderful view of the whole thing from our town house; you can see every star that falls.” Franco waved his hand at the sea that lay before them now, its water shining black in the twilight. How much bluer, how much clearer was the sea that lapped the shore at home.

Marie smiled. “That sounds beautiful. Tell me more.”

“When I was a little boy there was nothing I wanted more than to be big enough to stay up late and watch the fireworks launch. ‘Am I big enough this year?’ I would ask my mother every summer, to no avail. We have a family tradition of throwing a grand ball on that night—and she thought that a child would just get in the way. But my grandmother Graziella took pity on me. As she so often did!” He smiled at the memory. “She would always come into my room just before the fireworks launch to wake me up and then take me upstairs in secret to her own suite. We would stand together at the window and watch the stars shower down. Afterward she would take me back down to bed and give me a bonbon, then go back to the ball as though nothing had happened.”

“Your grandmother must have been a very good, kind woman,” Marie said.

“And she was clever as well!” Franco sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to know everything she did about wine. She only needed to glance at a vine in spring and she could tell you whether it would give a good harvest that fall. When I was very little, I thought that she could make the vines blossom just by touching them. Mamma mia, she had winemaking in her blood, that woman!”

Marie gave him a little dig in the ribs. “I could say the same about you. I’ve never met anyone who can talk about wine with such enthusiasm.”

“Am I boring you with my stories? If I am, you only have to tell me. I don’t want to . . .”

“Shhh!” She kissed him. “I love your stories. When I listen to you, it’s as though a whole new world opens up. And even though it’s a world that’s strange to me, I feel that I know it. The way that this . . . passion is passed down from one generation to the next—it’s the same in my family. With us it’s glassblowing, and with you it’s winemaking.” She laughed happily. “No wonder we get on so well!”

Franco joined in her laughter, but deep inside he felt a gnawing sense of unease. How he would have loved to share Marie’s certainty that the two of them had so much in common! Yet when she spoke, he felt once again how far he had drifted from his original dreams, however hard he pretended otherwise to her. He had begun to feel a deep yearning, a new hope that grew stronger with every day he spent with Marie. The two of them would be together, their love so strong that it could move mountains—he held tight to the thought, convinced that it would be his salvation.



Later that evening they sat in one of the many beachside restaurants, a plate of steaming mussels between them. Marie reached across the table and took Franco’s hand.

“Thank you for such a wonderful day! I . . . I feel as though I’m in some wonderland that’s far, far away from New York . . . and from the rest of the world. It’s just like a fairy tale . . .” She raised her hands helplessly. How could she put her happiness into words?

“I thought New York was wonderland enough for you,” he teased her.

“It is. But you have to admit it can be a fairly tiring city.” Marie took a piece of bread and threw it to a seagull, which pounced on it.