Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

They shook hands and Nathan met Padre Esposito outside. The monk drove him back to San Damiano where they met Nick in the garden.

“So how did it go, Nate?”

“She was acting somewhat strange but still looking beautiful.”

“Give her some time to get used to you. That’s all you can do.”

“I don’t know, Nick, but I’m going to keep trying until…” Nathan looked at his feet.

“You must have patience, young man,” Padre Esposito added. “Remember! Pazienza , pazienza , pazienza. Keep chanting that to yourself.”

“Easy enough for the both of you to say.”

Nathan locked himself in his old cell of the monastery and refused to come out despite the repeated efforts of Nick and the friar. He felt as if his brain were about to erupt into one of its old seizures. He opened the window, knelt on a wooden chair, resting his right cheek on the cold stone, staring out at black hills and hoping the sensation would pass soon.

Nick, already disillusioned by Nathan’s experience, wondered why they had bothered to make the voyage. He hiked up to the town and went to the best restaurant he could find. He ate a four-course meal by himself, savoring the smell of the food before each bite, trying to transport his body to a gastronomically safe haven. The halo effect lasted until he stepped into the monastery and acknowledged that one of things he hated most in the world was to dine by himself, recalling how Caterina first identified him to be American and not Italian, as he read and ate at the same time. Nick decided, since it was his buddy who got him in this predicament in the first place, he was prepared to break the door down and drag Nathan with him for their next meal.

In the morning, Fra’ Ginepro slipped a note under Nathan’s door. He read Dr. Russo’s message, dressed and made it down to the dining room. He dunked a plain cornetto into his coffee, finishing both the pastry and coffee within minutes and hinted to Nick what his mission was. Padre Esposito was already waiting at the front door and the two of them took off in the Cinque Cento .

Rachele, wearing a pale yellow dress, was running her hand through the basin of the garden fountain when Nathan came into the circle. She didn’t turn around but asked: “Nathan?”

“Yes, Nathan.”

“Come closer. The dove left one of his feathers from yesterday’s visit.” She held it up to the light and turned around. She placed it into Nathan’s hand and then sat in her chair. “ Prego , sit down. You look like a butler, standing there.”

Nathan relished her attempt at humor but remembered to stay calma . Anything could happen, he realized, so he sat and chattered about the beauty of the Umbrian landscape and how he should do some sketches. She was paying more attention to him than his discourse, or at least that’s how he viewed it. It was as if Rachele were the first woman he had ever spoken to and that he had reverted to his awkward youth. Every word he uttered made him feel foolish. He gritted his teeth to block out his dark thoughts and hoped she was sweeping hers away.

The turtledove returned to the same spot and Rachele clapped.

“Persistent, nosey guy, wouldn’t you say, Rachele?”

“Our little friend, nonetheless. St. Francis used to talk to the birds, and yet no one accused him of being crazy.”

“You’re right! It’s a term that gets thrown about all the time, like curse words that have become common modifiers to every event that happens.”

“You remind me of a professore from my university.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“ Si, si . He was very handsome, very intellectual.” Nathan’s cheeks flushed red. “I have gotten a reaction out of you.” She laughed flippantly.

Nathan realized that he was acting more formal than Rachele, who was a young woman filled with all kinds of emotions that had been caged up like a canary for so long. During periods of silence, it seemed they transcended their positions in the garden. As he moved from one free association to the next, it hit Nathan like one of Dr. Russo’s epiphanies—his feelings for Rachele were not about saving her, that would best be left for il dottore or the sisters. He loved her as a unique woman—the way she looked, her delicate spirit, and in some crazy way, that she was a female doppelganger for himself. Lost in thought, he imagined someone was talking to him until he realized Rachele had just repeated something to him.

“Nathan! I’m glad you have come…” She rubbed the silk sash of her dress. “But my feelings still get jumbled.”

“Nothing about you is jumbled for me.” Sitting here for the second time, all his memories of them during the war flooded his mind. He had to remind himself how fragile Rachele was, just as Caterina had warned. He sat on the stone bench, more aware of its hard surface than what he should say next. Maybe she read his mind. It was funny that Rachele was content to sit near him without any words in this secluded garden. He thought it was about time he screwed up a little mut, after everything he had been through in Italy, show a little courage.

“I’ll never leave you. Unless you insist I go home.”

“What?”

“I promise to come here every day till things change.”

“Too many words.” She whispered: “I don’t understand. Non capisco. Ich verstehe nicht !”

Nathan got up and dropped on his knees, holding her hands. “I love you! Ti amo. Ich libe dich.”

She kissed his cheek and rose up. “I have to go now. Dr. Russo will be looking for me.” She spun around and moved towards the French doors of the villa , while he stood there confounded. Rachele turned and pulled a postcard out of the pocket of her dress and extended it to him as he got closer. “Make sure you give this to Nick.”

Nathan stuffed it into his shirt without looking at it. “Can I see you again, Rachele?”

“Tomorrow, Nathan.”

As Nathan waited outside the villa for Padre Esposito, he prioritized his future plans—find a studio apartment in Gubbio, buy a Vespa and get an Italian tutor. He swore that he would wait forever, if he had to. He could hear the exhaust from the Cinque Cento approaching, and the lyrics of “It Had to Be You” from one of his 78s came to mind, which he hummed as he moved towards the car.

Late in the evening Nick took Nathan to the same trattoria , happy he wouldn’t be dining alone. The owner of the family-run place welcomed them and they sat at a table with a view of the hills.

“Wait till you bite into the first morsel of food. Paradiso ,” Nick boasted while he twisted his index finger into the right cheek, as if to say: ‘It’s very good— buonissimo !’

“I can smell the truffles from the kitchen.”

They ploughed through all the courses and two bottles of Orvieto Classico, ending with grappa from Bassano. They clinked glasses, bellowed “Cent’anni” and drank it down.

“Dottor Russo advised me to watch for the signs in her appearance, the way she holds onto things, the expression in her eyes.”

“I gotta hand it to you. I don’t think I would have the patience.”

“It’s our survival, Nick. I don’t have to tell you our world has changed.”

“That’s for sure. You know, while we were eating, I noticed how you spoke about Rachele. It’s like you’re singing a melody from Irving Berlin, the Gershwin brothers and Cole Porter all rolled into one. I envy you, buddy.”

“I’ve got something for you Nick.” Nathan handed him a postcard.