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She fixed me with a curious stare. “You are hungry.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered it anyway. “A little.”
“You look like a starving goat.”
“What does a starving goat look like?’
“Exactly like you. Like you could eat another goat.”
“A goat would eat another goat or I would eat a goat?”
“You need food. You’ll need me to take you to dinner, then?”
“No. No. I can go on my own. But if you have some place to recommend that would be great.”
She ignored me and rose. “I will take you. Give me a minute.” It was way longer than a minute when she finally returned, now clad in a canary-yellow blouse and jeans that appeared spray-painted onto her ass.
Giusy walked with a dark ebony cane even though I could see no sign of a limp. She said hello to everyone we passed in town as we strolled to the restaurant.
“This is Sara. She’s the American,” she introduced me. Not she’s American, but the American, as if everyone in the village was already talking about me.
Every couple of meters she stooped to pet one of the stray cats that had formed a kind of parade behind us. “The cats keep the souls of the dead,” she remarked to me with a deadpan glare. “Be kind to them.”
We wove through labyrinthian alleys and archways so low they touched the top of my head. The difference in the town after siesta was striking. Even the stone walls vibrated with a newly awakened energy. A trio of little girls chased after us with sparkly fairy wands as we emerged into a raucous square filled with tables and chairs, each of them crowded with smartly dressed people eating and drinking. Every door and window overlooking the piazza was flung open. Waiters in crisp white shirts and black ties scurried around with trays of orange cocktails and maroon wine.
“This can’t be real,” I murmured.
“It isn’t,” Giusy scoffed. “They set it all up because they knew you were coming. Ha! Come.”
In the middle of the piazza a large fountain gurgled around a statue of a woman holding a child. Giusy flicked a coin into it and then leapt up to walk around its edge, holding her cane horizontally for balance. Suddenly I was surrounded by a pack of beautiful teenagers dancing to ABBA’s “Waterloo” on a portable speaker, singing all the wrong words. A boy, no older than thirteen or fourteen, grabbed my hand and twirled me into the melee. I nearly bumped into an older man, sketching at an easel. He had a finely trimmed beard that matched the fuzz of white hair on the top of his head. His immaculate cream-colored suit was impressive given how dusty everything else was on the mountain.
“Ciao, ciao.” He looked up at me as I steadied myself. Giusy leapt down from the fountain and kissed both of his cheeks. They rambled in dialect while I stood there stupidly. When he squinted at me, I swore his smile contained a hint of recognition before he leaned over to hug me. Everyone in this town was certainly touchy-feely. I accepted it with stiff arms, since I’m not usually that affectionate with strangers, but I also didn’t want to be rude. Once I was out of his grasp, he grabbed a chair from a neighboring table and placed it in front of his easel. He was older than I had initially thought and his movements were jerky and slow. He gestured for me to sit. I shot Giusy a questioning glance.
“He wants to sketch you. He says it should only take a minute.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I have enough cash on me to pay him anything. I probably only have a credit card,” I said, hoping to get out of it.
Giusy tutted and shook her head, pushed me toward the chair. “He doesn’t want your money. Just your face.”
So I sat.
“I’m Sara.” I extended my hand, but the man was busy sketching.
“He’s Nicolo,” Giusy replied for him.
I can never sit still, and I had no idea what to do with my hands. I folded them in my lap, but within seconds they flew up to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and then to scratch my nose. I picked at a zit on my chin and then got mad at myself for picking at my face and clasped my hands together so I would stop. Eyes were on me from all over the square. I could feel them on my skin like mosquitoes landing with the lightest touch and staying much longer than welcome. The audience didn’t bother Nicolo in the least. He focused on the paper in front of him, eyes flicking up only occasionally to glance at me as though he already knew the contours of my face and simply needed a quick reminder.
I met his gaze the next time he looked up and smiled. He gave a slight shake of his head, so I frowned, trying to take direction. This made him laugh, so I did too, and then he began to sketch so furiously I worried the exertion might give him a stroke.
It took maybe five minutes from start to finish, though it felt longer. When he was done he beckoned me to the other side of the easel. I stood, walked to him, and gasped.
I never looked like that when I saw myself in the mirror. The vision he saw was glorious. My skin was smooth, my eyes were bright. I looked happy and alive. I desperately wanted to be the woman in the drawing.
“Lo adoro,” I whispered. I love it.
He ducked his head in a small bow and mumbled. The syllables sounded almost like Serafina, but I knew that was impossible. He grabbed a phone from his pocket and took several pictures of the portrait before handing the piece of paper to me.
“Grazie,” I said.
