Seven
Grace
Using the back roads, it only takes just over half an hour of biking before we see the old city of Lucca rising before us like a massive fortress, just the tops of the buildings showing beyond the towering walls.
“See those walls,” Claudio says, pointing to the brick ramparts. “They have been there since 1650. That’s where we’ll be biking.”
“Up there?” I ask incredulously. They have to be at least thirty feet high.
“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of room.”
We cross a busy intersection and then head down a gravel path that takes us to an arched gate. I can see glimpses of ochre buildings and narrow cobblestone streets full of people and restaurants, but we’re heading up a path now to the top of the wall.
“And the linden trees are in full bloom right now,” Claudio says as we reach the top and find ourselves on a wide path lined with benches and trees, people biking or pushing strollers past us. “They have the best smell in the world.”
I’m not sure what linden trees smell like. The trees here on the wall look like old chestnut trees, but the view is stupendous, looking over the grass fields just outside the city, and then into the bustling, colorful streets of Lucca on the other side.
We bike around on top of the wall with ease, and when Claudio motions to a set of trees as we’re about to ride under them, I’m hit with a strong blast of their perfume. This must be linden, a mix of honey and lemon that sinks right into me. He wasn’t kidding when he said it was the best smell in the world. Somehow I know that in years to come, if I ever smell linden blossoms again, I’ll be brought right back to this moment.
There are plenty of things to look at along the way, and I sheepishly stop every few minutes to take a picture with my phone, but neither Claudio or Vanni seem to mind. There’s a lush botanical garden, ruins of bastions, and sprawling palazzos, in addition to all the towers and churches.
It seems we’re about halfway around the city when Claudio slows and asks if Vanni and I would like to get something to eat.
I’m starving at this point (I’m still not used to these late lunches), so we walk our bikes down a path that leads into the city and lock our bikes up against a pole, while Claudio leads us into an open square.
Now this is the Italy I missed out on when I was sick in Rome, the Italy everyone is always talking about. There’s a large circular square (I get that it’s an oxymoron) with street musicians in the middle and restaurants sprawling out on all sides. It’s so much hotter down here where this isn’t any breeze or shade from the trees, and I immediately feel sweat prickling at my hairline.
“This way,” Claudio says, and to my relief he leads me to the first restaurant we see. My legs feel like jelly from biking and now the sweat is causing my dress to stick to my back, the heat making my head feel dull.
We plunk down at a table at the edge of the piazza and Claudio quickly signals the waiter.
“A bottle of pinot grigio?” Claudio asks me.
I mean, I’m not used to splitting a bottle of wine at lunch but I definitely could get used to it.
I nod shyly while Vanni puts in an order of mineral water. Sometimes I wonder if that’s just Vanni’s mature personality or Claudio’s parenting because most ten-year-old kids I’ve seen would be clamoring for some sort of sugary soda. When I was young my diet consisted of Irn-Bru that I’d sneak behind my parents’ back.
I look over the menu while we wait for the wine, my attention stolen by the violin player in the plaza playing along to Metallica that comes from a portable vinyl player. He’s wearing a plague mask, which somehow suits the music.
“He’s good,” Claudio says appreciatively. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ten Euro bill and hands it to Vanni. His son takes it and then runs out to the musician and stands by him, watching him play, totally into it.
“What’s he doing?” I ask.
“He likes to contribute,” Claudio says. “I think he feels it’s his contribution to the arts, even though it’s my money.”
I flash him a warm smile. “That’s nice.” I pause. “He’s a really good kid.”
“He is. I can’t say I take all the credit.”
“What do you mean?”
He sucks on his lower lip for a moment and stares across the square. “I do what I can, but I know I could be a better father. How he turned out this way, I don’t know. His mind works in ways that mine never did, even now. Physics? Layers of the universe? No, I just know what’s right in front of me. I have trouble understanding that enough as it is.”
“You’re selling yourself short again.”
His lips twitch as he fixes his eyes on me. “Making art and raising a child are two very different things. Vanni is a great kid, but I know I could do more for him. It’s my art that makes it difficult. You said that you are often straddling two worlds, and it’s the same for me. When I’m working … it’s all I can think about. I turn into a very moody bastard, so just watch out.”
I let out a soft laugh. “I’m sure being a single parent doesn’t help either.” I want to ask why he has custody of Vanni and Jana doesn’t, since usually the child goes off with the mother by default, but it feels inappropriate considering the circumstances and I don’t know Claudio well enough yet to get so personal.
“No, it doesn’t,” he says. Then he sets his palms flat on the table. “So, have you had a look at the menu?”
Ah. So Claudio doesn’t want to talk about the single dad life. Fair enough.
I pick up the menu and decide on fried eggplant and goat cheese before Claudio makes me order a pasta dish as well. Apparently in Italy, pasta is more of an appetizer than the main dish since the portions tend to be small, which bodes well for me, since that means I can have pasta and more yummy stuff. I settle on one with pancetta.
Eventually Vanni tires of the musician and triumphantly places the bill inside the man’s case before running back to us.
The wine is good, the food is great, the heat becoming something of an afterthought as the afternoon wears on. When we’re eventually done (I’m noticing Italians love to linger over their meals), we get our bikes and start riding them through the city.
For me, this is a wee more challenging since the path on the walls was wide and cool. The streets here are busy, narrow and hot, and full of restaurants and people. We wind our way past several churches and towers that Claudio points out to me, and I know my history professor father is shuddering right now because I don’t know the names of any of them, then finally we come to a stop outside a bookstore.
Here’s the thing about me and bookstores. I used to love them, as you would imagine. My mother used to own one in Ullapool when I was young. My father actually bought it for her after I was born, which I always thought was very sweet and romantic.
That was until they divorced and he left her with nothing, gave his new family all his time, attention and money, and my mother was forced to sell her store to make ends meet for us.
But that’s not actually why they make my anxiety go up.
It’s that my books can be found in those stores.