* * *
The next morning we collect our bikes and head for my favouriteKaffeehaus.
I am in dire need of caffeine after a fitful few hours’ sleep. I dreamed that Francesco and I were cycling through the sun-baked, back streets of Jeddah. He started to pedal really fast, and hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep up. I called out for him to slow down, but he would only turnhis head and laugh mockingly. I kept catching glimpses of him, but then he’d disappear again. I woke up, pillow on the floor, heart pounding, sheet wound tightly around my legs.)
‘Kaffee und Kipferln?’ says the waiter, taking a crisp, white tea towel from his long apron and flicking it across the table.
‘Natürlich. Zweimal, bitte. Oh my God, Francesco, before you leave, you have got totasteKipferlnpastries – they are the best things EVER. Once you’ve tasted one of these …’
‘You are like we Italians,’ says Francesco propping his chin in his hand and grinning roguishly. ‘A good fork, no?’
‘Sorry? A good what?’
‘Buona forchetta– crazy for food – passionate about food.’
‘Oh, yes, Francesco, I’m a very good fork,’ I reply, feeling a hot flush coming on.
Fuelledby coffee and pastries, we head south, towards another favourite place of mine, Belvedere Palace, which houses the world’s largest Gustav Klimt collection. Now, I’m no art expert, but you can’t be in Vienna and not notice the unmistakable metallic gold ink postcards, posters, key-rings, and tea towels for sale in everyTabak, every gift shop, on every street corner. This makes Klimt sound liketasteless kitsch, but to stand here, before the real thing is … well, I defy anyone not to be bowled over by the glittering, sensual beauty of his paintings.
‘Mamma mia!’ exclaims Francesco (told you) as we enter the gallery.
This is the sort of modern art I like: not poncy, hurl-paint-at-a-canvas or nail-in-a-brick art, but simple, beautiful paintings I can understand and admire withouthaving to think up some pretentious, symbolic, la-di-da nonsense as to what the artist is expressing through his work.
‘For me, this is true, uncomplicated love,’ says Francesco, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he studies the painting entitled The Kiss. ‘See the way the man protect the woman with his arm? And the woman, she feel safe with him. The love between them is equal. In many loveaffairs, there is imbalance, you understand?’
‘Absolutely, Francesco, I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Look here, how she has one hand around his neck, the other on his hand,’ he continues. ‘This is no a casual relationship; this is about lasting love – there is passion, of course, but this love is about friendship, respect, trust – the kind of love maybe you find once in your life – twotimes, if you are very lucky.’
My gaze travels the length and breadth of him: his intense, gleaming eyes devouring every detail of the painting, his thin laughter lines creasing up, his strong hands emphasising every word – sorry guys, but when it comes to speaking the language of love (without sounding corny), nobody does it better than the Italians.
‘Like Mimi and Rodolfo,’ he continues.
‘Like Posh and Becks,’ I quip.
Francesco looks me at blankly. ‘Chi?’
Why must I always do that? Spoil magical moments by saying something flippant?
Ravenous once more (how nice to be with a man who doesn’t calorie-count on my behalf), and with one eye on the clock, we leave Belvedere and head for the tranquillity of the Volksgarten, via the hotdog stand by the gates. As I’m a regularand speak English to the owner (he’s a devout Anglophile), he always slaps two Wurst in my roll for the price of one.
‘Good afternoon, Fraulein,’ he says, switching off the radio.
‘Good afternoon, Tobias,’ I reply. ‘This is Francesco, my Italian teacher.’
They shake hands. ‘She is a good student,signor?’
‘Eh, no’ bad,’ says Francesco, turning to me with a smirk.
‘If I didnot have a wife, I will marry her,’ says Tobias, scooping up four sausages with his tongs.
‘Would marry her, Tobias. The future conditional is I would marry her,’ I say with mock scorn.
‘I would marry her,’ he repeats, handing over my chubby hotdog. ‘And you,signor, would you marry her?’
‘Allora…’ replies Francesco, ‘if …’
‘End of today’s lesson,’ I say quickly, darting Tobiasa warning glare as I hand over my five-euro note. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. You owe me an extra Wurst, mate.’
