Insieme

Below a canopy of umbrella pines and orange trees two people perched on a ledge of sunlit marble. Both intermittently took advantage of the view offered by the Aventine, glancing just for a moment at the lapping Tiber River and the domes beyond before returning to their respective materials, he a newspaper and she a schoolgirl’s notebook, only once catching the glance of the other.

Between them groups of sightseers posed for pictures, smiling long into the cameras of their friends before turning to admire the cityscape that had inspired them to climb the cobbled hill. As the lunch hour approached, the groups drifted away, leaving the two strangers alone on either end of the balcony.

After taking one last look at the scene stretched before her, the girl slid her journal into a worn canvas bag at her side with a well-practiced gesture. More than a decade younger than the man sitting opposite, when she rose from the ledge and turned to walk away long black braids swayed behind her.

She settled herself once again on a shadowed bench beside the path that dissected the little park, and withdrew the notebook to properly take in the sound of the fountain. When the bells of Saint Sabina told the hour she finished her contemplation of whether the water that trickled down from the fountain’s weary spout had traveled atop the arches of the ancients to reach her. When she got up to leave, she noticed indistinctly that her former sitting companion had also found his way to the back of the park.

Down the hill, she thought of nothing but the red flowers that grew between the walls of brick and the orange curves of the modern Roman home. Along the River Tiber, its green algae washing slowly against its stiff banks, she kicked the leaves, unable to resist the smile that seemed to envelop her at the sound of their familiar crunch.

“Abiteremmo insieme?”

He waited for an answer as he matched her stride, the well-groomed Italian from the park above, giving her a moment to take in his unexpected presence and the closeness of him in his pressed white shirt and fitted jeans.

She turned her head to look into his face, and gave her standard answer, “Non parlo Italiano” with an apologetic smile. He looked her twice over, taking in her brown dress and flip-flops. “English then. Shall we walk together?” The comprehension in her eyes needed no spoken confirmation.

Unarmed of any reasonable excuse and bound within the confines of her native language, she answered, “Sure.”

“Sure,” the wheels turned in his head as he tried to remember the meaning of such an ugly word. “Va bene. Where are you going?” He purposefully asked the question lightly.

“Campo de’ Fiori,” she said. Glancing up, she saw a smile cross his lips. “Ah, Campo de’ Fiori. That’s quite a walk.”

She laughed smally. “And you, where are you going?”

“Wherever you are,” he replied, and, hearing the boldness of his answer ring in his own ears, he hastily followed with the other question he needed to speak. “What is your name?”

“Brianna,” she responded, pronouncing the a’s as an American, short and long. “Brianna,” he repeated, she thought, as if to correct her, rolling the rrrrrr indefinitely and looking very pleased with the sound of it. “Brrrriaanna. Very nice.”

“What is your name?”

“Giorgio,” he said and paused, waiting for her to own his name as he had hers, but Brianna did not attempt to repronounce.

Walking side by side, the two covered the eastern ends of the Ponte Palantino, Fabrico, and Garibaldi in polite conversation interspersed with the laughter she designed to dismiss Giorgio’s more complicated questions. When he grew frustrated with Brianna’s insistence on holding her words behind her teeth, he playfully provoked her. “Come now Brianna, surprise me.” She answered short and sweet, forcing him to let his questions die away.

At the end of the Vai dei Giubbonari, enveloped in the hustle and bustle of the fruit vendors, they arrived at Campo de’ Fiori. She walked him past the looming statue that centered the square, thinking rapidly where best to leave him. When she could see the face of Giordano Bruno, she planted her feet with finality on the squares of stone worn smooth by the thousands who had crossed there b before either knew how to stand.

“You have arrived.” He stated it without question.

“I have.” Unsure how to end this last half hour of her life, she extended her hand and shook the one that met it with determined cordiality, rooting the smile to her face.

“I will see you around here again.” She heard the politeness in his voice, but could not ignore the stress on the word – I will. Its eeriness followed her as she walked across the square and persisted as she stepped though the heavy wooden door that separated her apartment building from the space where Giorgio stood watching.