“He didn’t know he was writing about Shakespeare’s famous lovers because Shakespeare didn’t write the play until 1596. So we visited the Capulet House and relived the romance.”
“ButRomeo and Julietwasn’t a romance.” I didn’t know if I was just in a mood to bicker or whether I was doing anything to delay going back inside the ballroom, where any question might mess things up for us. “It was a tragedy about two teenagers having a three-day affair that left six people dead, including both Romeo and Juliet.”
“Indeed, some stories appear to be a romance, but they are not.” Nicolai frowned a little, troubled. “At least, if Shakespeare wrote them.”
“Luckily, Shakespeare isn’t writing our story,” I teased him.
In the soft side-light, I could see him blink and smile. “The jury’s still out on that one, I suppose.”
“But, how we met—” I didn’t want to get it wrong. We were going back inside the cotillion soon. If someone asked, I couldn’t stumble when I answered.
“The Capulet House is in the middle of Verona, on one of the main streets in the old town. There’s an arch, and you enter the courtyard. I had ditched my security, as one does.”
“As one does,” I echoed.
“It was early morning. The museum wasn’t actually open yet, but the docents will allow you in early if you add a little gift to the ticket price. I paid one off and wandered into the nearly empty courtyard, looking around. The stone walls were cold, sucking in what little warmth there was in the early morning.”
That was a lot of detail. “You’re really good at making things up.”
“That part might have the ring of truth. But in our story, you were standing on the Juliet balcony, but you didn’t have to bribe the museum guides. You were so beautiful and excited to see thehouse that they let you in early to experience it on your own, before the milling crowds made it noisy.”
“Oh,right.I’m so pretty that they let me in without paying.That’sunlikely.”
“Docents love it when people are genuinely interested in their museum. I spoke with one gentleman for three hours at the Castelvecchio Museum about the damage the Nazis had inflicted on the castle on their way out and its restoration after the war. I’ve emailed him with questions a few times since, and I getessaysback, I assure you. So, yes, the docents would definitely have let a pretty, enthusiastic young woman inside to experience Juliet’s House before opening hours.”
“Okay, so we were in the Capulet House,” I said.
“It’s built from a creamy terra cotta stone, a typical medieval tower house. Wooden staircases spiral through the floors. Most of the rooms are furnished with typical furnishings or with movie set props from particularly important versions.”
“Oh, that’s cool.”
“The balcony is on the, in American terms, second floor, so it was not too far above the ground. No one was around but us. Our eyes met, and I looked into the deepness of your eyes and was entranced.”
That was awfully fanciful with only two glasses of champagne in me. Nicolai had had one flute of champagne and a glass of red with supper, but that was all. “Now look at who’s spinning fairytales.”
“Oh, but it was just me standing in the courtyard, and you acted out the rest of Juliet’s soliloquy for me, reaching over the stone wall in the quiet, cool morning to ask why I, of all the men in the world, why I had to be the heir of your family’s enemy and the villain of your story.”
“O Romeo, O Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo,” I recited.
“It was beautiful.” He looked down at me. “It still is.”
“That sounds just like something an overly dramatic theater major would do,” I admitted. I was secondhand embarrassed at myself, even though I hadn’t actually done that.
“But I was enchanted. I called back, even though it wasn’t exactly the next line, ‘O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious as this night.’ Not quite the quote, but I was close.”
My mouth was hanging open, and I laughed, delighted. “That is one of Romeo’s lines, though. That’s really good.”
He was still holding my hand out like we were waltzing, but he was smiling down at me. “And that’s how we met, my bright angel, and you’ve been my angel ever since.”
“That’s, uh, that’s awfully on the nose.”
“Maybe so, but it fits. I ran up the stairs, zig-zagging back and forth, to find you.”
“And I waited for you,” I offered.
“Yes, and so we talked about Shakespeare andRomeo and Julietfor hours as the tourists streamed around us, chattering their nothingness, butwetalked. For lunch, we walked up the Piazza Delle Erbe, a square with cafes and merchant stands, to a lovely, tiny art museum with a restaurant in the courtyard. There’s a beautiful spiral staircase in the center of the museum—white marble, cast-iron filigree railings—but the restaurant in the courtyard below is the undiscovered gem. I took you to lunch down there, and we ate pasta in the cool shade and talked for yet more hours.”
It sounded so wonderful that I longed for it to have happened.
