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.