The Italian Bachelor

The Italian Bachelor

Her ordered his usual cappuccino and with the curt wave of the hand signalled—nothing more, to the waiter who with his empty tray in hand bowed away. The caffe was nearly empty at this time of the morning; in the freshness of the hour, dew still clung to the tabletops and chairs. But it was his favourite time of the day. He revelled in the quiet intimacy of a fine morning.

Summer was closing up shop. The tourist were fewer and the air had an unmistakable crispness and whispered secrets of a long-forgotten autumn. He enjoyed that too. The close of a season; the birth of another. And having lived among the ancient village houses and cathedrals all of his life, he considered himself an expert.

At the table next to him, he overheard the harsh whispers snapping in the air. The middle-aged couple hadn’t caught his interest when he sat down. But now, as their tension rushed toward him, he could not but help himself to steal a closer look. He did so over the softly frayed border of the newspaper that he had folded for just that purpose. It gave him a perch to spy from, and over the rim of his eyeglasses, he watched.

The foreign man sat with his shoulders hunched forward, the fork in his left hand hung suspended over the bleeding yellow yolk of his eggs, the knife’s tip forgotten in the pot of jam. The woman with him had grown lovelier while crying softly into her napkin.

The cover of the newspaper was enough of a shield to forgive him the intrusion into their fragile moment. If he was aware of them, they certainly were not aware of him, but their lives spilled over the worn edges of the table, over the uneven setts on the terrazza. To complete his disguise, he snapped the paper, pretending a consuming interest in the print, though the only words that held his interest were hers.

“You’ll have to stop it. I can not bear another moment of this agony.” It was more than a snippet. It was a confession that the woman made on behalf of the man over her uneaten breakfast.

Of course—it was the husband’s fault. Those things happen much too often, and husbands, he knew, felt less qualms in stretching the bands of matrimonial vows. He took a sugary sip of his quickly cooling drink and kept his eyes close to the paper, his ears wide open to the unfolding words across from him.

“I’ll see to it this morning.” The man leaned forward breathing comfort into the woman. But she wanted none of it, she wanted what she had before. Yesterday even.

“I’m afraid it is too late.” She blew into the napkin.

Their tension was spilling out further. Another patron, a stout woman was leaning suspiciously close into the fragile brink of their conversation. She dropped her napkin, then her fork, to overhear. He had more tact than that. He folded the paper and set it on the table, next to his hat, next to his gloves and the hook of his umbrella. He held the advantage like a trump card. His table wobbled closer to theirs. He drained his cup and snapped his fingers for another. He hadn’t planned it this way. A stack of papers was crowding his desk; he should have delved into the sweaty, teenage, summer vacations yesterday, or to be fair, last week. Now he’d have to rush the grades, be more generous than he had intended.

But the woman had enraptured him with her tears. Despite the flaming redness blooming on her nose, the swell of tender eyelids, she was lovely. He loved the golden halo the morning sun shone into her chestnut hair; and when she dropped her head in misery, the blunt cut hair swayed, brushing the collar of her blouse. Poor thing. He longed to take her elegant hand in his and brush his lips into her palm. He’d hush: all better. And he’d never let her linger in the uncomfortable predicament that made her weep.

A moment later, he shrunk back into his chair, aghast, that the husband continued his meal. How could he? while his wife breakfasted on cold tears. How could he? he caught his head from shaking in disgust. But that wasn’t the worst. The insensitive husband pushed his empty plate aside and reached for a corner of her buttered toast. Such marriages would never last, he thought.

“I just can’t shake the image in my mind. Those eyes bored right into me. I’m not certain I can hold on.”

The brute leaned into his elbow on the table and wiped the greasy crumbs from his mouth and spoke clearly. “I’m sorry dear. I wish it hadn’t of come to this. Though we both have known for some time that it would.”

He had to bring his hand up. To shield his mouth from speaking insults at the man; to rush over to the crying woman and comfort her. But he hadn’t the time. He was running late. He fished the billfold from his pocket and laid a crisp bill on the table. A hefty tip, but he had overstayed. The bell would chime and he’d never been late for anything in his life. Except to comfort this woman.

He capped his hat onto this head and squeezed the gloves into the hold of his hand. The umbrella, he hooked into the crook of his elbow. He could not help this poor, shamed woman. And women like her always did chose the wrong husbands. The ones who did those awful things to hurt them. He dared one more glance at her elegant loveliness, offering himself up with his stare, but she saw only the tears in the napkin.

Poor thing. He thought again as he strolled along the narrow alley into the sun weaving her light into the day. Poor thing. What will become of her? His head ballooned with intended pride of what he could offer her. It was he alone who could ease her aches.

With his back to them, long stretches of window-box houses and flapping curtains separated him for their shame. He failed to see the husband reach across the table to fold the woman’s hand into his own. With his keen eye he would have seen how perfectly the slender fingers of the woman fit inside the man’s piano hands. He would have fought off the tenderness and explained it away as a small concession for the trespass. With his back to them, he never saw as the lovely wife stood and waited for her husband’s hand to guide her down the slinking side lane and press her into the small cubicle space that someone had marked. Veterinario Ambulatori Dr. Pietro Gaetti.

If he could have followed them inside he would have cried with them as the long sleep of a needle stilled the white, bundle of corkscrew curls on the table; the tail wagging with fanfare love. He would have seen the tears of the husband comfort the tears of the wife.

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