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She felt suffocated again, the heat, the press of the crowd, and her growing headache all contributing to the feeling. She leaned up toward Giancarlo. “I’ll be back soon,” she said in Italian after assembling the phrase in her head. “I’m just going to get a breath of air.”
She moved away before he could object and slowly weaved her way through the tight clusters of people. Once outside the gallery, she breathed the night air gratefully. The darkness was calming and the noise inside the gallery was muted. Looking up, she could make out the stars, even amid the glare from the lights of various restaurants that lined this main road of the Trastevere area of Rome, and tried to pick out the familiar pattern of the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, and Polaris. At Somerton Lake, she would have had no problem, its familiar placings at different times of the year so well known to her. Here, she was more tentative and struggled a bit before she located Orion’s Belt, recalling Shawn Colvin’s song. The song drifted through her head, and she found herself humming it, swaying a little to its rhythm.
The stars reflected overhead, the words taking her to the sky of the song’s southern hemisphere and the seven sisters in that sky. “The song mentioned “the dreaming time.” Fragments of the Australian indigenous community’s creation myth floated through her mind, linking to images containing the swirls and patterns of that culture that bled into the images of early Anasazi drawings in the American Southwest and from that, the loose shape of an idea that caught fire in her imagination. And suddenly, it wasn’t Shawn Colvin’s lyrics going through her mind, but others. Fragments, a string of words emerging from a part of her mind she’d shut off long ago. “The skies above you with stories to be told….” The words to the next phrase were just shaping in her mind when she realized what she was doing and shut it down. Those days were gone. She wasn’t that person anymore. With deliberate care she returned to Shawn Colvin’s lyrics and conjured up photographic images of stars with creation stories attached that would transform into art pieces to convey the ideas. Would she use those stories? Or maybe fragments of her beloved Romantic poets? She searched her memory of the English literature classes that had opened her eyes to such a wealth of beauty and meaning and fostered the deep love she held now for so many of the nineteenth-century poets.
“There you are,” said a voice in Italian. Giancarlo emerged from the gallery. He took her hand and pulled her toward the entrance. “Come back in. It’s time for my welcome speech.”
She followed him inside to the small reception area. Groups of people spilled out from the exhibition area toward the reception desk. Giancarlo led her to the desk, nodding to one or two guests who greeted him. He picked up a sheet and showed it to her.
“See,tesoro, you are a success.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
Kate took the sheet from him and saw a sea of red dots. It was the master copy listing her art pieces and beside all but two of the twenty pieces was a red dot. Sold. She’d sold eighteen pieces before the end of the night. She looked up at Giancarlo in disbelief. His dark eyes were alight with joy, his mouth curved into a wide smile.
She grinned. “I sold all these pieces? My first solo exhibition, and I sold nearly all my artwork?” On impulse she gave him a big hug, squeezing him tightly while issuing profuse thanks.
After a brief moment he pulled her arms away and placed them at her sides. “Careful, you don’t want to get the earrings entangled in my clothes.”
She moved back in horror, a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Giancarlo, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”
“It’s of no matter,” he told her. “No harm was done.”
He took her hand again and led her through to the exhibition room, toward the first piece, to the little area they’d roped off in the corner where a small podium with a microphone had been placed. He took up his place behind it, positioning her next to him. He rested his graceful long hands on each side of the podium and leaned toward the microphone a fraction.
“Attenzione, per favore,” he said in a formal manner. He began his speech by welcoming the guests and outlining the gallery’s pedigree before continuing with a brief biography of Kate, describing her origins in America only briefly, and then moving on to her studies in Paris. He built her an impressive pedigree, too, in the process, to mirror the glamorous one of the gallery. The speech wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to her, because he’d given her the gist of it to check he’d made no glaring errors, but the slight embellishments now made her blush a little.
Instinct caused her to step back a little, as if the movement would disassociate her from the words. She scanned the polite faces turned toward Giancarlo and reassured herself that these people would hardly remember anything that was said. For them it was about who was present and that they should be seen to be there among these elite art collectors and aficionados. And the photographers. They were in the front, just before her, taking photographs of Giancarlo and her, making her blink when the flash was used. She adjusted her stance, remembering the coaching Bibi had given her to achieve the most flattering angle for the camera.
Polite clapping ensued as she realized Giancarlo had brought his speech to a close, his hand squeezing hers. He pulled her slightly to the side of the podium, turning to her. She gave him a puzzled look, conscious once again that her dress had twisted slightly in the movement. Did she have too much skin on display? Giancarlo lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her left hand. He began to speak again to the assembled group, but Kate was too aware that her arm had lifted to such an extent she might be revealing more than she was covering on that side of her chest. She tried to shift to face the gathered group more, but Giancarlo held her firmly and continued to speak. She tried to concentrate on his words, but only small groups of words filtered in like “fate” and “heart,” and all the while her urge to pull her hand away became stronger.
She scanned the group standing in front of her for evidence that her fears had been realized, but all she could see were faces filled with polite interest, a few indulgent amusement and others boredom. Thankfully, Paloma had chosen to leave after the first few minutes, staying only long enough for photographs. Her work had finished.
Kate felt Giancarlo take hold of the third finger and she looked over at him, puzzled. He slipped his other hand into his suit pocket and withdrew it a moment later holding something. That something was slipped on her finger and transformed into a large antique ruby and diamond ring. Stunned, Kate looked up at Giancarlo unable to speak. His eyes were filled with love, joy and triumph, all the emotions that she seemed to lack at this very moment.
He gave her an amused look, leaned over to her, kissed her cheek and murmured, “Saysi, my darling.”
“Si,” she said, as instructed.
More cameras flashed, the assembled group clapped loudly. Kate fought the urge to close her eyes and cover her ears.
Eight
Light shone through the window beside her to the Persian carpet that covered the heavily varnished walnut wood floor. Even in the middle of October, the sun still had enough strength to feel like summer in Rome, especially now, in Paloma’s apartment, with the French doors firmly closed and only a small gap in one of the other windows allowed for fresh air.
Kate resisted the urge to wave her hand to cool her face, putting the wine glass on the small table beside her instead and folding her hands in her lap. Left hand on top. It was unplanned, but she refused to read anything into it, just that it helped settle her, to calm her mind and get through this conversation with Paloma. Still, underneath her left hand, she could feel the bite of the ring against her palm.
As if sensing her nerves, Giancarlo reached over from his place next to her on the sofa and squeezed her hands.
“So much to celebrate,” said Giancarlo.
“Yes,” said Paloma. “The exhibition was quite a success. All but two pieces sold. You are to be congratulated, Giancarlo. You have established your prominence in the art world, without a doubt. We must consider the subject of the next exhibition.”
“I was thinking that we should build on the success of this one,” he said, his eyes alight. “A similar series, only with a subject strongly connected to Rome. Using Dante perhaps.”
“Or Virgil.The Aeneid,” said Paloma.
“Yes!” said Giancarlo, smiling at his mother. “The Aeneidwould be perfect. There are so many sites that Katerina could photograph.”
Oh, so they hadn’t forgotten her role in the process, thought Kate wryly.
