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Flora looked up at the painting one last time, then back at Johnny. She smiled. ‘Perfect timing.’
* * *
They walked slowly through the quiet streets of the Dorsoduro, with its tiny, unexpected squares and houses that seemed to hint at having seen better days. The occasional washing line crossed the narrower alleys from one house to another, high above their heads. The quiet canals here were charming, lined with houses of pale yellow, faded red and orange, empty window boxes clinging to the sides of the buildings below dark green shuttered windows. An old wooden barge loaded with fruit and vegetables sat beside one of the bridges, the easy conversation of the locals with the sellers on the barge reaching Flora and Johnny’s ears as they crossed.
They passed windows of mask shops and jewellery shops, their shiny displays a challenge to the eye with so much detail to take in all at once. Standing aside to let people pass, Flora noticed there were more locals than tourists in this part of town.
A wine shop caught her eye on the other side of the canal, a scalloped-edge green awning hanging over faded gold letters spelling its name. ‘How about we forget coffee and go straight to a Spritz?’
Johnny looked at his watch. ‘Well, it is after eleven.’
They crossed the small bridge and walked into the cantina, where bottles of wine jostled for position in the window and on shelves on either side of the entrance. Inside the shop, bottles sat all the way from the tiled floor to the wooden-beamed ceiling, and on the right-hand side there was a long glass-fronted counter lined with small plates piled with cicchetti. Crostini, their precariously piled toppings held in place by toothpicks, tempted Johnny over for a closer look. Figs and parmesan, salmon and mascarpone, tuna and leeks, whipped salted cod and plump prawns flecked with paprika – the choice was seemingly endless. Cherry tomatoes were skewered on sticks alongside chunks of creamy mozzarella the size of golf balls, and pieces of Gorgonzola were topped with slices of pear and drizzled with thick, glossy balsamic vinegar.
Flora had gone straight to the wine shelves, drawn by the display of bottles. Each one bore a handwritten price tag on the neck, the selection of local Soave, Valpolicella and Amarone unlike anything she’d ever seen. She moved on to the Chiantis and Super Tuscans before coming to the big-ticket Barolo and Barbaresco wines. She stared in wonder. Seeing some of the names of places and winemakers she’d studied writ large on wine labels was thrilling, despite the price tags putting them quite some way out of her reach.
Two men stood behind the counter, the younger one with his back turned as he cranked the coffee machine while the older loaded up small plates with yet more freshly made cicchetti from a silver tray. Johnny ordered a plate of assorted ones to try, along with two Spritzes.
‘This is a wonderful place you have here.’ Johnny smiled at the man putting his selection on a paper plate, gesturing to the shop.
‘Thank you.’ The man nodded, placing the plate on the counter followed by two paper cups, now filled with bright, effervescent liquid, ice and a wedge of orange. ‘She likes the wine?’ He looked towards Flora, still walking slowly along the shelves, peering closely at bottles.
‘We run a wine shop where we live, in England. But we’ve only just opened. You look like you’ve been here much longer.’
‘One hundred and twenty years.’ The man chuckled, his eyes wrinkling at the edges.
‘Well, you’re obviously doing it perfectly.’ Johnny picked up the drinks and the plate. ‘Thank you. Is it OK to take this outside?’
‘Please.’ The man gestured to the door. ‘Hang on, I forget your olives.’ He skewered a couple of salted olives with toothpicks and popped one in each of the Spritzes. ‘There you go.’
Johnny set down the cups and plate on the wall outside overlooking the canal and perched on it, waiting for Flora. He watched her move along the shelves, turning the occasional bottle round to look at the back label. He sometimes felt helpless, knowing how much she must be hurting. Most of all, he felt helpless at being unable to make it better. But seeing her now, lost in temporary wonder, he felt sure that she would, in time, feel happy again.
She came to the door. ‘There’s a bottle in there I’m going to buy, one I know we’ll never get our hands on back at home. I’m going to take it back with us and we’re going to drink it in the sun in the garden in the spring.’ She clapped her hands in delight at the thought. ‘Won’t be a minute.’
‘Well, don’t be long or I might have to drink your Spritz.’ He took a sip. The bittersweet sharpness of the Aperol made his mouth water.
Back inside, Flora put the bottle on the counter, a Soave Classico from a small producer she’d read about but had never had the chance to try.
‘Good choice.’ The old man looked at her. ‘You know this wine?’
Flora beamed. ‘Actually, no. But I have heard about it and always wanted to try it.’
‘The family have been making wines for over four hundred years. And the vines that grow the grapes to make this one,’ he tapped the label, ‘are more than seventy years old. The wine is amazing. The secret,’ he tapped his nose this time, ‘is in the soil.’
‘Thank you, I can’t wait to try it.’
‘You have a wine shop, too, your husband tells me.’ He started wrapping the bottle in tissue paper.
‘Yes, we do. Yours is really special.’ She glanced around the shop again.
‘You are very kind. It’s not always easy but, you know, wine is life.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘There you go. Hope you enjoy back in England.’
‘Thank you so much.’ Flora smiled at him as she took the bottle. ‘We will. Ciao.’
Flora went to join Johnny, putting the wrapped bottle carefully in her bag as she left the shop. She picked up her Spritz and took a sniff, then a sip, first tartness, then sweetness, then a hit of salt, the bubbles prickling her tongue. ‘You see, why don’t we always have one of these at home before noon?’
Johnny laughed. ‘I’m not sure we’d get much done in the afternoon if we did.’
‘I’m talking about just the one, like the Italians. It’s such a civilised custom.’ The cool liquid ran down her throat. She picked up one of the crostini. ‘Want to share?’
