‘Guten morgen,liebling!’ Anna smiles, her face and apron daubedwith flour.
‘Kaffee?’ she says, picking up the coffee pot, a knowing, maternal look in her great, grey eyes.
I clamber onto the kitchen stool, wrap my hands around the warm, comforting mug, and watch in fascination as she rolls and stretches dough over the expanse of her kitchen table.
‘MyMuttiused to say a goodApfelstrudelpastry should be so thin that you can read a newspaperthrough it,’ she says, wiping her hands and producing a letter from the cluttered dresser.
I instantly recognise the yellow, Florentine envelope and the spidery handwriting. Francesco is a man of contradiction: someone who has his finger on the pulse of politics, literature, world music, films, fashion, and sport, yet still writes letters and refuses to be lured by social media or fast food.Texting is as far as he’s prepared to venture into the push-of-a-button, click-of-a-mouse, ping-of-a-microwave, selfie world. I think of him as my Mediterranean Mr Darcy – minus the disagreeableness.
* * *
‘What are you doing Sunday evening?’ asks Mags one night in the dressing room.
‘Hmm, let me see now … nothing,’ I reply, plucking awhitehair from my left eyebrow. ‘Gotcha!’
‘Good, because we, my darling, are going to the opera.’
‘Opera? Blimey, isn’t it awfully expensive?’
‘I don’t consider four euros expensive, do you?’
‘Four euros! You’re kidding me.’
‘You don’t have dodgy knees, do you?’
‘What?’
‘Varicose veins?’
‘Nope.’
‘Suffer from vertigo?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Good. Then you won’t mind standing up in the gods for three hours.’
‘Three hours?’
‘That’s nothing. Olly and I sawTristan and Isoldelast Sunday. Four hours thirty. But it’s worth it, believe me. Oh, and dress up. Everyone in Vienna dresses up for the opera – and bring a scarf to mark your place on the lean rail.’
‘What, like reserving your sunbed with a beach towel?’ I say, screwing up my nose.
‘Now, Emily, darling, don’t be a snob. And wear comfyshoes.’
* * *
Sunday: waiting for Mags
I am having yet another pinch-me moment: I am standing before the majestic opera house, devouring aWienerwurst(the Rolls Royce of hotdogs), two tickets forToscain my pocket. Life doesn’t get much better than this.
As I wipe the ketchup from around my mouth, a mature, well-dressed couple scurry past, hand in hand, laughing. Her scarf fallsto the ground. He runs back, picks it up, places it around her neck, and kisses her lightly on the forehead. I sense the tenderness of this moment and feel a spike of envy.
Let me rephrase the above statement: life would be perfect if Francesco were here. I don’t mean I miss him in a needy, hurting way, because I’m different to the woman I was before: the one who had to be in a relationshipat any price in order to feel whole. No, the reason I think about him so much is because I miss his friendship, and the fact that he actuallyenhancesmy life.
Looking back, I realise that since I was sixteen, I’ve always had a boyfriend in tow. These relationships would usually end in dramatic circumstances, but then it would only be a matter of weeks until I found myself swallowed up bythe next one. I now know it takes time to find a quality relationship with someone you aretrulycompatible with, and while we all have to compromise, moulding yourself into what your partner wants you to be is not the right way. No, I hardly dare admit it, but at last, here’s a man who asks nothing of me – except perhaps to work harder at my Italian, but then only becauseI wantto learn. HowI love to wrap my tongue around its rich, beautiful, passionate sounds; they make me feel alive, sensual and joyous.
Whilst I don’tneedFrancesco as some sort of passport to happiness, I can’t think of anyone better to share those special, pinch-me moments with. It’s as simple as that.
