I am in Florence on a warm October day. A gentle sun smiles on me and I lift my face in gratitude. It is so good to be alive. I am wearing jeans and a loose cotton top, with a silk scarf around my neck. It is my favourite one, the colour of soft orange and muted lemon. It falls languorously in front of me, swaying rhythmically as I walk, delicate as a feather. My hair is free, falling beyond my shoulders. I am free like my hair, my auburn hair, which is like the colour of the tiled roofs in this ancient city. I belong here. I am a Renaissance painting come alive, gliding along the cobbled streets of Florence.
But it is too busy. Gangs of tourists block my path like obstacles. I head towards the side streets, searching for serenity, but churches, museums, statues litter the way. And everywhere are tourists. I am not a tourist. The past does not interest me, or the future. It is the present I wish to inhabit.
Walking is tiring. I find a tiny restaurant tucked away behind a row of planted bushes, their dark green tentacles offering privacy. It looks full but there is a lone man sitting by the open door and opposite is an empty seat. I ask in broken Italian, “Excuse me, may I have this seat?”
“Please,” he says in perfect English, “be my guest.” I smile. It is good to hear such politeness. We fall into conversation, he and I, as naturally as with a friend. First we talk about the weather, Florence, the nuisance of tourists. We discuss the menu, agree on a shared bottle of wine and as he talks, I absorb every detail of his features, as a tourist would view a Botticelli in the Uffizi Gallery. Black hair, thick as glossy paint, it layers towards his neck, heavier than my scarf. His skin is olive brown, flawless. I like the shape of his face. It is long, angular. I watch his lips as he talks. Strong lips outlining perfect teeth. But it is his eyes, as warmly brown as autumn leaves, which I am drawn to the most. His direct look seems to sear through my layers of defence. I want to melt into his eyes, his beautiful, piercing eyes.
I know what Kay will say when I describe this man to her. “You see, your luck has changed.” The thought pleases me.
“What is your name?” he asks. I pause, unwilling to break the mood. I do not like my name. “Margaret,” I reply reluctantly, “but I prefer Maggie.”
His reply surprises me. “I shall call you Mar-gar-et. It is such a beautiful name. Mar-gar-et.” He gently savours each syllable. I am used to people saying my name quickly, tripping over the middle section carelessly, making it clipped, abrupt, ugly. But he makes music out of my name. I am a Spanish princess, a Russian ballerina, a beautiful countess. I am Mar-gar-et.
He tells me his name is Misha. I want to say that his name reminds me of the sea at sunset, but all I can say, in such a banal way that I feel immediately ridiculous, “That's not a very Italian name.”
“So, you think I’m Italian. I'm flattered.”
I look at him in surprise. “But of course.”
He laughs. It is a deep, joyful laugh. “I suppose since we are in Italy and my hair is dark, it's an easy assumption to make, but no, I am Croatian. I come from Sarajevo.”
So simply said. Sarajevo.
I have seen too many news items about the war there not to react, and instinctively I search his face for signs of a story. It is as if he can read my mind.
“Yes,” he says softly, “I was a soldier for a time when my country needed me.”
What can I see in his eyes? Pain? Loss? Anger? He looks away from me and I understand that he does not want to remember, that it is still too painful, and I respect that. “Do not look so sad,” he commands. “We who have lived through war and destruction have learnt to enjoy life while we can.”
“It is a good philosophy for us all,” I reply, and for a moment our eyes lock together. Green and brown merge in shared understanding. I am the first to look away. Yes, it is a good philosophy. I have learnt that the hard way.
I want to hold him in my arms, tell him that everything will be fine, kiss away the unshed tears, but I am too fragile. I have no right to offer the comfort that I myself need.
We eat spaghetti and drink Chianti and he talks about his career as an architect. I tell him about my work. He is interested and I feel the stirrings of the old enthusiasm although I have not worked for months. The time passes like gently falling snow. We are leaning closer towards each other, listening intently to what the other says. He smells like soft bracken and tender moss. We have coffee and I pray that this meal will never end.
“I leave tomorrow,” he says quietly. “Back to Sarajavo. Please spend today with me.”
I look away, confused, examine a painting on a nearby wall. It is an amateurish attempt to reproduce the San Lorenzo Church opposite. But temptation to be reckless surges through me. I know that I should graciously decline. He is, after all, a stranger.
“Please,” he says again. “The day will be lost otherwise.” His eyes are intense. It is not passion, although the physical electricity between us is tangible. Is it pleading? Desperation?
My instincts have always served me well, I tell myself. “That would be lovely,” I reply, and his face softens into a smile which makes me want to sing for joy.
We walk together past the San Lorenzo Church and then onto the impressive Duomo Cathedral and into the Piazza Della Republica. I do not mind the tourists now.
They part as we approach. They think we are lovers. He tells me about the architecture of the medieval buildings. I am having my own intimate, personal history lesson. We head down towards the Piazza Della Signora, arms gently touching from time to time. We admire the replica statue of Michelangelo's David. There is strength and beauty in the pose but it hurts me to see such perfection in a naked body. Always, I am aware of Misha’s presence, the way he moves, the scent of his denim shirt and corduroy trousers. His shoes are the same colour as his eyes. I reach to just below his shoulders, my hair occasionally floating against his arm. Sometimes the bare flesh of hands meet.
We cross the Ponte Vecchio Bridge, ignoring the jewellery shops and dodging the Japanese tourists taking photographs, and stroll towards the Boboli Gardens of the Pitti Palace. Misha tells me that Florence is known as the ‘city of stone’ and that these gardens are the only tranquil space to escape the crowds, the noise, the heat of the buildings.
My soul cries out for the green of nature, the shade of trees, but there is safety amongst the throngs of people. I am about to enter this hidden place with a man who does not know the secret in my heart and I feel frightened. His strong body is beside me, his hand guiding me up the narrow stone steps.
The gardens are too formal for my liking. I prefer a random abundance of wild flowers, but the view of the city is irresistibly impressive and the shade provides relief from an October sun that does not acknowledge that summer is over. We ignore the notice that tells us to keep off the grass - this is Italy after all - and we settle down under a sycamore tree. My fate, whatever that will be, is sealed.
At length Misha speaks. “This is not my kind of city. I prefer open spaces, the sea, a quieter pace, but now I'm glad I came to Florence.” I do not ask about why he came, or his past, or his family. I think we each have a secret. Perhaps, like me, he cannot utter the words that still give so much pain.
We lie down on the dry grass and look up at the sky in-between the kaleidoscopic shapes of leaves. It brings back magical memories of a childhood of laughter and innocence.
“When I was a young girl on holiday at the seaside,” I say, “my brother and I would lie spread-eagled on the beach and daydream about our futures. He wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted, of course, to be a glamorous film star or a famous singer. It was freeing just to feel sand on bare legs and arms, to feel the warmth of sun on our faces. It always seemed to be sunny during the summer in England when I was young.”
Misha laughs. “So it is true what they say about you English. You are always talking about the weather. That’s one of the first things you said to me: “Wow! Isn’t the weather great for October!” ”
I shake him gently on his shoulder as a mild reproof of his teasing and he takes hold of my hand. My heart skips a beat. Can he tell, just by holding my hand, the effect that his touch has on me? But I tense up. I want so much for him to touch me tenderly, passionately, longingly, and yet it is impossible. Tears sting my eyes. The dream is about to be broken. “Misha,” I say in a whisper, “there is something I must tell you.”
Softly, so softly, he lifts a finger to his lips. “Shush,” he murmurs, “I know.” He strokes my cheek. It is such a gentle touch. Then he runs his fingers through my hair as if he’s touching velvet, and he leans towards me and we kiss, long and slow and with such tenderness that we are trembling. His lips and tongue taste of spaghetti and Chianti and kindness. I close my eyes and enjoy the flavours. Mind and body relax and shyly I lean into denim shirt, corduroy trousers, firm body. We lie in each other's arms and I almost feel complete.
Later, a cooling breeze floats off the river and we make our way out. He wraps his arm protectively around my shoulder. I do not mind. I am not embarrassed. I am enjoying the moment. Yesterday is not important, tomorrow is too far away. Today is everything.
I return to my hotel, shower, change clothes. This time I do not try to hide my body. I have chosen a short, lacy black dress, no sleeves, a dress that tells the world that I am a woman. No scarf this evening. I scoop my hair up, spray a delicate perfume over my exposed neck. I pick up my black pashmeena and drape it over my back and arms.
Misha is waiting for me in the foyer. Again, I am overwhelmed by his beauty, his smile, his body. He is wearing denim jeans and a crisp white shirt. I take a mental photograph of how he looks this evening so I can keep it in my own private gallery hidden away in my mind.
“You look beautiful,” Misha says and he bends down and lightly kisses me on the cheek. A shiver of ecstasy runs down my spine and I feel light-headed. I reach up to his cheek and softly caress it with my fingertips. His skin is pleasing to the touch. I feel free with this man whom I do not know. I am freer than I have ever been. He is teaching me how to show love with a touch, a smile, a sense of closeness. I wonder how I was ever satisfied, before, with anything less.
We dine at a little trattoria in one of the back streets. All around us, in this atmosphere of romance, are lovers. But Misha and I cannot be lovers tonight. Perhaps sometime in the future we will be so. But for now we are guiding each other through the darkness of troubled souls.
Afterwards, he returns me to my hotel and we stand outside the entrance and gaze up at the glorious stars in the clear sky, more precious than diamonds. The intoxicating smell of a foreign city envelops us. Finally, I ask, “How did you know what I tried so hard to hide from you?”
Misha takes his time before replying. “I knew some-one who had the same problem. But she wasn’t as lucky as you. She did not survive.”
He looks at me with those gentle brown eyes. I see a touch of tears. “People are damaged in many ways,” he murmurs. “You learn to find the person within. That is what’s important.”
A car passes but we continue to consider one another carefully. I have never felt such communication, such intensity, such depth of feeling from another human being. The world has stopped and we are the only ones alive. Have I never understood nor experienced the power of silence before?
I would like to stay like this forever. Tears trickle down my cheeks like shaken dew. He leans down and kisses me on the lips, a long, hard kiss with passion and longing, then he gives me his handkerchief. It is made of fine linen and I dab carefully but I can see, as I attempt to give it back to him, that there is writing on it: a phone number. My future.
“My lovely, sensitive Mar-gar-et,” he breathes, this man who has captivated my pounding heart. “When you are ready, come and visit me in Sarajevo. I will show you my country, which is undergoing its own Renaissance. You will love it, I’m sure.” And with that, he turns around and walks back down the street, his footsteps echoing between the tall buildings. I watch him until he disappears from sight. I am trembling with cold, and longing, and sadness, and joy.
Back in my room, I undress slowly in front of the mirror. I have not had the courage to do this since the operation. Naked, I drink in every part of my body greedily, like a man deprived of water finding a well in the desert. I slowly touch this body which I had learnt to hate. Face, hair, neck, arms and hands, feet and legs, my stomach, my left breast and then the place where once I had a right breast. There is flatness where there should be soft, luxurious skin.
I am like Queen Boadicea, and I laugh at the idea. I am a modern-day warrior, triumphant after the battle. I am not afraid any more. I have been given a second chance. I am alive! It is so good to be alive. I dance round the room naked and collapse onto the bed, laughing and crying at the same time. What did Misha call it? Renaissance?
Yes, I am Renaissance Woman!
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