were melting into the bed sheets. She was lost in visions of Ivano’s angelic eyes, his beautifully sculpted body, and his skilled hands caressing the strings of the mandolin. The music was playing in her ears, note after note after note, as if she had known that tune all her life. It was inside her, flowing along the blood in her veins. She was brimming with Ivano’s images, with his smell, with his sounds. She stood up a half hour later to take a ream of white of paper and three pieces of charcoal out of a drawer. Over the two hours that followed she did nothing other than draw Ivano: his mouth, eyes, brow, hair, hands, nose, and of course his mandolin. To Caterina, the instrument was part of Ivano’s body. The way he had played it, so naturally, so fluidly, it had seemed an extension of his arms—and of his heart. She stopped sketching only around dinner time, when Lavinia came to her room to fetch her. By then, she had filled twenty-three sheets.
The following morning, in the twilight, when everyone was still asleep, Lavinia snuck out of the palazzina and headed downhill at a speedy gait. She arrived at the bakery at six, when Piazza della Nunziata was quiet and its sidewalks deserted. The front door of the bakery was locked, but a light was on inside, so Lavinia kept knocking until Corrado, Ivano’s father, came to the door, saying, “We open in half an hour. Come back later.”
“I don’t want bread,” Lavinia explained. “I’m here to see the mandolin player regarding a private matter. Is he here?”
Corrado let her in. “He’s baking,” he said, pointing to a half-open door. “Go ahead.”
Gingerly, Lavinia walked into a room that was darker and much warmer than the storefront and smelled strongly of butter and baked dough. A bulky table and two chairs occupied the center of the room; shelves storing loaves lined the left wall; and on the right wall two large wood ovens were at work. Next to the ovens, Ivano was buttering a large baking pan. “Good morning,” Lavinia said.
He started at the sound of a woman’s voice. “You are the blonde lady’s friend!” he exclaimed, staring at the unexpected visitor.
“I’m her chaperone, not her friend,” Lavinia specified. In a few words she explained the reason for her visit.
When Ivano heard that the blonde girl wanted to see him again, his surprise grew even stronger. He had flirted with her without imagining even for a moment that such a beautiful, elegant young woman, clearly out of his reach, would give his flirtation more than a superficial thought. As Lavinia went on explaining that the appointment was set for Sunday at four in the afternoon in the gardens of San Nicolo’, he felt a pang in his belly and his breath became quick in his throat. Lavinia noticed his emotion.
“Don’t get too excited, young man. I’ll be there, watching you like a hawk.”
He nodded, “Of course.”
“Is this a yes?” Lavinia asked.
“It is,” he babbled. “Four o’clock. San Nicolo’.”
“What’s your first name?” Lavinia asked as she headed for the door.
“Ivano,” he replied. “What’s hers? And her family name?”
“Her name is Caterina, and for the time being it’s all you need to know.”
On Sunday, following Lavinia’s instructions, Ivano waited for Caterina in the most secluded section of the gardens. He had brought his mandolin along. The instrument had a calming, soothing effect on him, and it had been that way ever since he had held it in his hands as a child. He squeezed it as he wondered if the meeting had been prompted by an attraction the young lady had for him or it was the pastime of a bored upper-class girl with nothing better to do on a tedious January Sunday. Despite the comfort of the mandolin, his hands were shaking with doubt and fear of being deceived.
Caterina arrived shortly, followed at close distance by Lavinia. She walked up to him in small steps, slowing her gait as she approached. A few inches from him, she opened her face in the sweetest smile. Looking into her glittering green eyes, at the glossy blonde hair dancing on her shoulders, at the fullness of the heart-shaped lips, and at the watery grace of her gestures, Ivano understood in an instant that he was in love. He took her hand, thin and shaky, and felt a flow of heat enter his flesh and spread inside his bones. She blushed at his