Not that it would’ve done much good. He was simply reciting the lines to the play.
By the time Puck, the woodland sprite, came jaunting about the forest, she’d lost interest again, but she couldn’t stop thinking of Marcello. He was clearly the most talented of all the actors. His presence on the stage had dwarfed them all.
She struggled through the rest of the first half, only perking up every time Quince arrived on the stage. When the curtain fell, signaling intermission, she checked her phone. She had a missed call from Bea.
She ran outside and checked her voicemail. Sure enough, they’d arrived about twenty minutes ago. She called back. Just when she thought the phone was going to ring through to voicemail, Bea picked up. “I forgot you can’t text. I sent you a text,” she said with a sigh. “Where are you?”
“I’m at that play. It’s only intermission. I was thinking about staying at a hotel overnight but I haven’t really looked into—”
“Don’t worry about it. Enjoy the play. Lily and I found a place right next to the train station so we’re having a glass of wine. Just call us when you’re done and we’ll meet up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very! We’re on a patio in downtown Verona, sipping Italian wine on a beautiful summer’s day! Well, Lily is having a San Pellegrino, but you know. Things could be a lot worse.”
For a moment, Diana wondered if she should skip out and join them. It was the safer, more comfortable thing to do. She looked around at all the people, sipping their intermission drinks from the bar and chatting in Italian. It was probably foolish for her to come to this play when she was so lost by the whole thing. And for what? As much as she had convinced herself it was for the culture, for the once-in-a-lifetime experience of seeing a Shakespeare play in a Shakespearean town, part of her had also been hoping that that dashing actor would . . .
Would what, exactly? Call her onstage and profess his love for her?
No, maybe not that. But still, the whole Fall in love in Italy thing hung heavily in her mind. Maybe wanting it, being too desperate for it, would only make it impossible.
Still, she hadn’t gone on this trip to be safe. She’d gone to step out of her comfort zone. And that was what she was going to do.
“All right, darling, I’ll see you in a bit,” she said as the lights in the lobby dimmed, signaling the show was about to start. “I must go now.”
She flipped her phone closed and headed back to the front row, picking up the pace when she realized most of the theater was already back in their seats. As she got there, she noticed the two burly men that had sandwiched her in earlier. One of them had put his program on her seat.
Before she could get annoyed, though, she moved closer and realized that it wasn’t a program. It was a slip of white paper, origami-folded into the shape of a flower.
Squinting, she moved nearer and read the single word on the front. It said, Diana.
Her heart skipped a beat as she picked it up and looked around to see if anyone was watching her. She lifted the flaps, her hands trembling, and read:
Princess Diana,
You look so beautiful out there. Please meet me backstage after the show. I’ll be waiting for you.
Yours,
M.
CHAPTER NINE
He winked.
At the conclusion of the performance, when the actors came out, Marcello dashed on stage with the other actors, did his final bow, looked right at her, and winked.
Diana flushed and applauded as hard as she possibly could, her skin buzzing with the excitement of it all.
When the curtain went down and the applause began to die, Diana stepped into the aisle, realizing she couldn’t remember a single thing that had even happened during the second half of the play. A couple of times, she’d thought maybe she just dreamt the note, but then she’d find it in her clammy palm, its delicate folds and swaying script a reminder of the care its creator had put into it.
Marcello.
And then, he’d winked.
He wanted to meet her. To . . . start something.
Calm yourself, she said as she climbed the steps of the arena, fanning her face. After all, she’d gotten excited in Paris, only to find out the man wooing her was nothing but a cheating scumbag. She needed to temper her expectations. If all you get out of it is a signed program from a good actor, that will be enough.
But she couldn’t deny her heart wanted more.
Forcing away those thoughts, she went through the lobby and found the corridor leading backstage. There was a guard waiting there, an old man who didn’t look threatening at all, despite his official blue uniform. She smiled at him and showed him the letter from Marcello. He looked at it and said, “Marcello, eh?”
She nodded. It only said “M,” though. So what did that mean? Did Marcello often woo women to sit in the front row and ask them to visit him backstage? Was he a player? “How did you know?”
He grinned, and in a deep accent, said, “The folds. Marcello loves origami. He is a true artist with it.”
That sounded like a lie. Like he was fudging for a friend. “Oh. How nice,” she said, not certain if that was just the guard, covering for him. “The flower was very nice.”
The man pushed off his stool and hobbled to the side, letting her pass. He winked at her. “Downstairs. End of hall. Right.”
Too late to turn back now. Even if he is a player, you’re just going to get your program signed. That’s all.
“Thank you,” she said, gripping her program in her hands and stepping into the narrow hallway. Because the arena itself was centuries old, she felt as though she was venturing into a crypt. Though Diana wasn’t exactly tall, the ceiling was so low that she feared her head would scrape it, and the stone walls around her seemed to weep with rivulets of water. The smell was like moldy copper, and the corridor so dark that she had to brace herself against the wall several times so she wouldn’t trip on the uneven stone flooring. As she walked, up ahead, she heard the lively sound of conversation.
When she came to the first door, which was open and said Pietro Colombo, Direttore, she found an office, where two men were arguing in Italian. One, who she assumed was the director, Pietro, was holding a clipboard and wearing a headset. The taller of the two men was wearing the Oberon costume and looked pretty upset about something. They both stopped speaking and glared at her as she came forward, as if she’d interrupted them.
Then the large man muttered something under his breath and came lumbering toward her. The hall was so narrow that he had to slip sideways to go past her. As he did, he rapid-fired Italian at her and gestured down the hall, to where she’d come from.
“I’m sorry, I don’t . . .” Assuming the man was saying she wasn’t allowed back there, she pulled out the note from Marcello and held it up. “I was invited back here by one of your actors?”
He took one look at it and rolled his eyes in disgust, then muttered, “Marcello e le sue donne.” Before Diana could ask what that meant, he waved her off, then slammed the door.
She passed another room, where she saw several of the fairies from the play, enjoying drinks and chatting. They paid her no mind.
At the third one, she noticed the man who played Lysander, standing in front of his mirror, gesturing to Hermia. Oh, they were very good, Diana thought as Lysander, slim and built like a rod, took notice of her. Maybe they would sign her program, too?