The medieval towers rose in the distance as the train clacked along the rolling hills. She'd been there so many times before, gaping at the frescoes in The Colegiata, climbing the tower of the Palazzo del Popolo and wandering through the open-air market on Saturday mornings. So many fondly-fr
She thought of her room. Always the same one on the second floor halfway down the hallway. And that view, a view so postcard-perfect it seemed as if were computer-generated. She imagined sitting in her chair on the small terrace, losing herself in the tableau and gazing down upon the town's sinuous wall and the Tuscan countryside beyond. Lost, in the past, she watched the leaves of the olive grove on the hillside sway, then squinted to focus on the gridded white crosses of the vineyards telescoping into the infinite distance.
It was always a week of utter relaxation, made even more comfortable over the years by her familiarity with the town and its people. But this visit, this visit would be so different. Her thoughts on the flight, during their days in Florence, and on the train ride this morning had not been of the soothing San Gimignano days of the past. No, she had thought both of the more distant past, especially of Saturday mornings, as well as the immediate future. And of the ritual to come. They'd waited for this for years. They'd talked about it and around it for months. And now it was only days away.
In the dusty window of the train she caught her reflection and noticed a rueful smile looking back at her. Her golden brown hair swirled in thick waves to her shoulders, as it had for decades with only the slightest changes.
She tried to imagine the person who would be looking back at her in that same window eight days from now. Then she abandoned the quest. It didn't matter. Well, it mattered. But not as much as the transformation, the metamorphosis, the sharing. With just a touch, she would become something different, the woman of her fantasies. She looked over at her companion and offered a flirting grin. She would share this moment with him, but ultimately it was hers and hers alone.
The ride to the hotel was always the least pleasant part of the trip and he didn't try to cut the tension with conversation. They rode in silence, each with their thoughts, their slightly separate scenarios playing on their minds' cinemas. But that was the fun, the edge to this week. She knew what, but she didn't know exactly how. Or when.
The staff at the hotel included many old friends and they settled into the room in time for a shower before a long dinner. After dinner, they strolled down Via San Giovanni and turned onto a side street, disappearing into the darkness and each other's arms for a long, lingering kiss. Their lovemaking had grown increasingly sensual, increasingly length over the weeks and tonight was no exception.
They awoke mid-morning on Sunday to the sun barging through the double floor-to-ceiling windows of their room. Sunday proved to be the model for the ritual they would follow over the next days. They had espresso and pastries in the little dining room downstairs, then began their walks through the city. They'd climbed the Torre Grossa, viewed the frescoes in Sala di Dante and examined every inch of Ghirlandaio's paintings on each visit. Now those landmarks merely served as reminders that there was a permanence to life, whether in the oils on a canvas, the pigments on a church wall or just the memories of each invididual. The sights were old friends, quilts she could wrap around her for warmth even as she thought of the cool breezes that soon would be breathing on newly explosed flesh.
Of course, this was Italy and there was always something new. On Tuesday, they'd wandered into a side chapel inside Sant'Agostino to find a relic holder she'd not seen on all those other trips. Through the faded, stained glass they couldn't make out its contents. He asked an attendant, who happened by and noticed them staring. "Oh, senora," he said, "it's a lock of hair from Saint Theresa."
Their walks on these days ended with a lazy lunch at one of the outdoor cafes. Then they'd retreat to the sanctuary of their room to read and to make love. He would run her a warm bath in the shimmering white claw-foot tub set in the middle of the black-tiled bathroom, a bathroom that by European standards was cathedral-sized. She would slip into the tub, alone with her sponge, the bubbles and the lingering glow of lovemaking. After he'd permitted her moments of solitude in the candlelight, he would enter naked to kneel behind her on the hard floor and massage her shoulders.
After a few minutes, he would begin stroking her hair, still dry on top, but matted and floating in the tub at the ends. He'd take the shower head, test the temperature of the water then guide her head gently back so the water would run away from her eyes. His strong hands seemed to know just the spots on her head she found the most sensual and his massaging shampoo day after day left her nipples hard and her body aching for more of his touch. After long minutes, he would rinse her hair gently, then hand her a towel. While he showered, she would pad into the room to find her outfit laid on the bed. The first day it was a simple cotton dress. The second day it was tights and an oversized jersey. Barefoot, she would grab her book and settle back in her chair on the terrace, the afternoon sun glinting off her hair, warming her pink cheeks.
When he had dried and dressed, he would join her on the terrace, comb in hand. And then he would spend what seemed like eternity gently unraveling every tangle in her mane. With his insistent rhythm, the raking of the teeth over her scalp became yet another relaxing and arousing massage. She would close her eyes and lean into their bite, savoring it, feeling the coolness of her wet hair upon her shoulders, on her ears, sometimes on her cheeks as he swished strands forward with the comb baton.
He stepped back that first day, smiled and leaned against the rail. And then he spoke for the first time since he'd started shampooing her hair more than an hour earlier.
"When I look on you a moment, then I can speak no more, but my tongue falls silent and at once a delicate flame courses beneath my skin, and with my eyes I see nothing, and my ears hum and a cold sweat bathes me, and a trembling seizes me all over" he said.
Other days, the verses changed. "You are," he said one afternoon, "an eloquent mannequin."
"Ah, what is more blessed than to put cares away," he quipped on another day. The quotes always provided a disjointed, surreal touch to each afternoon on the terrace. Sort of like popping a quarter into a jukebox expecting Bruce Springsteen or Van Morrison and getting Billie Holiday or Sibelius instead.
Those days, though, established a ritual. They also were a sort of celebration of the past, a way of both appreciating the woman she had been and preparing her for the woman she would become.
They followed their terrace sessions with an early evening walk and dinner. Like waiters in most Italian cities, waiters in San Gimignano expected diners to occupy a table for the evening. So their meals were unhurried. They'd share a bottle of wine and talk well into the night about books, nature, their past trips. And occasionally, he'd dart in with a remark about this trip to the barbershop or that great haircut he'd seen recently. She was hypersensitive and he knew it. So talk of Hemingway made her think of the couple in "The Garden of Eden" and the woman's trip to a barbershop. An aside about the latest Star Trek movie immediately brought a picture of Persis into her consciousness. And his crack that they'd finally mastered this sojourn made her shiver with anticipation as she thought back to an amateur story she'd read online years ago called "Master Barber."
Wednesday proved to be an unusually sunny day with gentle breezes. At lunch, they had a couple of glasses of Vernaccia and a panini, alive with the taste of fresh basil and ripe tomatoes. They reached the room earlier in the afternoon than usual and instead of letting her dive into her novel, he started nuzzling her nape, lifting her mane and swishing it on her cheek. Their lovemaking was slow, as if they needed to explore every inch, every possibility this time. And then he seemed to take extra time in the bathroom, shampooing, massaging, applying the rich, thick conditioner. The outfit on the bed was a short, gray jersey dress, something he hadn't picked before. She liked the way it felt against her skin and decided to slip into it without a bra, though her nipples showed when she caught herself in the room's full-length mirror.
Soon, she was out on the terrace, leaning back in her chair and he was raking the finest and last of a series of combs through her hair. Over the days, she'd grown even more sensitive to his touch and her bare toes curled on the warm tiles of the terrace as he finished. A little breeze caught a drop of water on the nape behind one ear, creating a quick, spasmic chill.
"Time," he said, "for thoughts and pleasures to transform us."
Cryptic, indecipherable, perhaps a bit foolish in its pretensions she let the comment pass. And he filled the awkward void with an odd suggestion. "It's Wednesday," he said, "let's reward ourselves. I'm going to have some wine brought up."
"Room service? Here?" she questioned.
"Sure," he said, chuckling. "This is Italy. You can have anything brought to your room. As long as you pay enough."
He walked inside. The sun emerged from behind a cloud to warm her. She could hear him on the phone.
"Just a few minutes. I've ordered a Chianti Reserva," he said, returning.
She heard the knock, but it didn't register. She was still lost in the reverie of the afternoon's comb-out. Voices from inside. The words indistinguishable. A door closed. Minutes later he appeared on the terrace, bottle and two glasses in hand. He poured and handed one glass to her.
"To adventure," he said. "Cheers."
They sipped. Then she noticed him motioning towards inside the room. A barrel-chested man with thick, black hair and a bushy mustache appeared in the terrace doorway behind her. He was wearing a starched white smock and carrying a small black bag.
THE COMPLETE STORY CAN BE READ ON OUR HAIR AND STORIES PAGE.
No comments:
Post a Comment