Death in Florence, page 6
“You made it?”
The woman laughed. “Of course. This is my store. I make everything in here. One of a kind!”
“Oh.” At that moment, Diana was determined to have that dress. But with the luck she’d had lately, she also felt sure something would stand in her way. “What size is it?”
“Size two.”
Well, there it was. That left her out.
“But all of my dresses can be let in and out for a perfect, custom fit,” she said with a smile, going over to the window. She pulled the dress form down and began to take the dress off. From this angle, Diana realized that the fabric was blue with tiny stars. “Let’s try it on.”
“All right,” Diana said, letting the woman lead her through racks stuffed with dresses, to a single dressing room in the back of the building with a red velvet curtain.
The woman swept it aside dramatically and ushered her in. “It was calling to you, no? I think dresses do. I could already tell this one belongs to you.”
If it did belong to me, it wouldn’t be a size two, she thought, quickly undressing as she looked at the dress on the hanger in front of her. Well. Fingers crossed.
She took a deep breath and slipped it on. Miraculously, not only did it fit, but it hugged her curves nicely, with plenty of room. It didn’t even accentuate her little stomach pooch. And it looked lovely, with the sweetheart neckline and graceful, flowing skirt with several layers. She stood up on her tiptoes, pretending to be in heels, and gathered her hair up, imagining herself sitting in the audience of the old theater.
Yes, it’s very nice, she thought to herself as she twirled around a bit. But I don’t have shoes and I don’t know how much it costs . . .
She pulled open the curtain to find the woman standing there with a pair of strappy heels that matched the silver-blue hue of the dress almost exactly. “These look like your size.”
Stunned, Diana slipped her feet into them, feeling like Cinderella as they fit her feet exactly, without pinching at all. And the heel wasn’t anything that would break her neck, either. At that moment, as she gazed at herself in the mirror and swished the skirt around her knees, she knew that whatever the price, they belonged to her.
It felt like . . . like . . . serendipity.
She looked up at the woman, beaming at her reflection in the mirror, and smiled. “I’ll take them.”
*
Diana would have looked up the Arena di Verona prior to taking a cab to it from the shopping district, but without a phone, that was impossible. It didn’t matter. While she was changing in the dressing room, she’d noticed a photograph of it. In fact, it looked very much like the Colosseum, though smaller, but even better preserved.
But even the photograph did not prepare her for the place in person. She gasped as she stepped out on the curb. The giant Roman amphitheater was full of ornate sculpture, columns, and arches of pink and green blocks. Diana simply could not believe that she’d be spending the afternoon enjoying a performance of Shakespeare, in a place where hundreds of years ago, gladiators would perform bloody and chilling spectacles for audiences.
It was a dream come true, but she quickly tempered her expectations as an usher took her ticket and led her down to her seat, right at the front of the theater. Remember what happened the last time you got excited about an event, in Versailles? Someone ended up dead.
She almost laughed at the thought. This was a play, not a bunch of gladiators fighting. The chances of death today were pretty slim.
Because of the age of the theater, the seats were rather small and uncomfortable, but she was right there in the center, so close she could touch the stage. The usher handed her a program, and she paged through it, as two large Italian men took the seats on either side of her.
Squeezed in between them, she sucked in a breath and opened the program. As she paged through it, she noticed with a bit of disappointment that it was all in Italian. She turned to a black-and-white photograph of the man she’d met on the train, the one who was playing Quince. He looked even more handsome in the photograph, with his white shirt, open at the throat, and even more of a beard, his thick dark hair tumbling over his forehead. It almost stopped her heart to look at him, remembering the way he’d smiled at her over the table in the train car.
Marcello Camillo. That was his name.
Without her cell phone to help her translate, she did her best, trying to decode the rest of the small biography. Born and bred in Verona. Recently played the Duke of Venice in Othello in last summer’s Shakespeare Festival and Horatio in Hamlet in the one prior. His television credits included a stint on All My Children. Received his M.F.A. from the University of Verona. No mention of family or children, though Diana wasn’t sure a bio would include something like that. She stared at the picture for far too long, then paged through the other actors’ information with waning interest.
The lights dimmed and a loudspeaker crackled. Someone said something in Italian, which Diana assumed was the usual notice prohibiting flash photography and to silence all phones. She closed the program on her lap and got ready to watch as the crowd around her silenced.
Then the play began. The curtain rose on a woodland scene, as she’d expected. Then, to her excitement, the first actors appeared on stage.
It was the palace of Theseus. Two men and a woman appeared on the stage. With excitement, she leaned forward, ready to hear the gorgeous phrases of the master wordsmith himself.
And then . . .
They spoke.
In Italian.
She listened to the lovely words, not understanding a single one of them. Shakespeare was challenging enough as it was, but in another language, it was quite impossible. The actors seemed good . . . she thought. But by the time Lysander, the mortal young lover of Hermia, arrived—at least, she thought it was Lysander—she had no idea what was going on.
The first scene ended, and then she sucked in a breath as Marcello—as Quince—appeared, dressed in a linen blouse, doublet, hose, and craftsman’s apron. She knew the play quite well, though she hadn’t seen it since her school years. This was the comedic part where Quince, attempting to put on a rousing theatrical production for Duke Theseus of Athens and the Amazon queen, Hippolyta, arranges all the rather untalented craftsmen of the town to act in the play. There was quite a lot of laughter from the audience, especially at Nick Bottom.
Marcello stole the scene, even with Nick Bottom constantly attempting to. Marcello spoke in such fluid Italian she was instantly hypnotized by his words. He was clearly talented, his voice strong and sure. As he spoke, she found herself zeroing in on him, unable to look at anything else happening on stage. She grew warm, and her bare chest flushed as she watched. For a moment, she could’ve sworn his eyes drifted toward her, and a smile appeared on his face as he said his lines.
If only she knew what he was saying!
Not that it would’ve done much good. He was simply reciting the lines to the play.
By the time Puck, the woodland sprite, came jaunting about the forest, she’d lost interest again, but she couldn’t stop thinking of Marcello. He was clearly the most talented of all the actors. His presence on the stage had dwarfed them all.
She struggled through the rest of the first half, only perking up every time Quince arrived on the stage. When the curtain fell, signaling intermission, she checked her phone. She had a missed call from Bea.
She ran outside and checked her voicemail. Sure enough, they’d arrived about twenty minutes ago. She called back. Just when she thought the phone was going to ring through to voicemail, Bea picked up. “I forgot you can’t text. I sent you a text,” she said with a sigh. “Where are you?”
“I’m at that play. It’s only intermission. I was thinking about staying at a hotel overnight but I haven’t really looked into—”
“Don’t worry about it. Enjoy the play. Lily and I found a place right next to the train station so we’re having a glass of wine. Just call us when you’re done and we’ll meet up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very! We’re on a patio in downtown Verona, sipping Italian wine on a beautiful summer’s day! Well, Lily is having a San Pellegrino, but you know. Things could be a lot worse.”
For a moment, Diana wondered if she should skip out and join them. It was the safer, more comfortable thing to do. She looked around at all the people, sipping their intermission drinks from the bar and chatting in Italian. It was probably foolish for her to come to this play when she was so lost by the whole thing. And for what? As much as she had convinced herself it was for the culture, for the once-in-a-lifetime experience of seeing a Shakespeare play in a Shakespearean town, part of her had also been hoping that that dashing actor would . . .
Would what, exactly? Call her onstage and profess his love for her?
No, maybe not that. But still, the whole Fall in love in Italy thing hung heavily in her mind. Maybe wanting it, being too desperate for it, would only make it impossible.
Still, she hadn’t gone on this trip to be safe. She’d gone to step out of her comfort zone. And that was what she was going to do.
“All right, darling, I’ll see you in a bit,” she said as the lights in the lobby dimmed, signaling the show was about to start. “I must go now.”
She flipped her phone closed and headed back to the front row, picking up the pace when she realized most of the theater was already back in their seats. As she got there, she noticed the two burly men that had sandwiched her in earlier. One of them had put his program on her seat.
Before she could get annoyed, though, she moved closer and realized that it wasn’t a program. It was a slip of white paper, origami-folded into the shape of a flower.
Squinting, she moved nearer and read the single word on the front. It said, Diana.
Her heart skipped a beat as she picked it up and looked around to see if anyone was watching her. She lifted the flaps, her hands trembling, and read:
Princess Diana,
You look so beautiful out there. Please meet me backstage after the show. I’ll be waiting for you.
Yours,
M.
CHAPTER NINE
He winked.
At the conclusion of the performance, when the actors came out, Marcello dashed on stage with the other actors, did his final bow, looked right at her, and winked.
Diana flushed and applauded as hard as she possibly could, her skin buzzing with the excitement of it all.
When the curtain went down and the applause began to die, Diana stepped into the aisle, realizing she couldn’t remember a single thing that had even happened during the second half of the play. A couple of times, she’d thought maybe she just dreamt the note, but then she’d find it in her clammy palm, its delicate folds and swaying script a reminder of the care its creator had put into it.
Marcello.
And then, he’d winked.
He wanted to meet her. To . . . start something.
Calm yourself, she said as she climbed the steps of the arena, fanning her face. After all, she’d gotten excited in Paris, only to find out the man wooing her was nothing but a cheating scumbag. She needed to temper her expectations. If all you get out of it is a signed program from a good actor, that will be enough.
But she couldn’t deny her heart wanted more.
Forcing away those thoughts, she went through the lobby and found the corridor leading backstage. There was a guard waiting there, an old man who didn’t look threatening at all, despite his official blue uniform. She smiled at him and showed him the letter from Marcello. He looked at it and said, “Marcello, eh?”
She nodded. It only said “M,” though. So what did that mean? Did Marcello often woo women to sit in the front row and ask them to visit him backstage? Was he a player? “How did you know?”
He grinned, and in a deep accent, said, “The folds. Marcello loves origami. He is a true artist with it.”
That sounded like a lie. Like he was fudging for a friend. “Oh. How nice,” she said, not certain if that was just the guard, covering for him. “The flower was very nice.”
The man pushed off his stool and hobbled to the side, letting her pass. He winked at her. “Downstairs. End of hall. Right.”
Too late to turn back now. Even if he is a player, you’re just going to get your program signed. That’s all.
“Thank you,” she said, gripping her program in her hands and stepping into the narrow hallway. Because the arena itself was centuries old, she felt as though she was venturing into a crypt. Though Diana wasn’t exactly tall, the ceiling was so low that she feared her head would scrape it, and the stone walls around her seemed to weep with rivulets of water. The smell was like moldy copper, and the corridor so dark that she had to brace herself against the wall several times so she wouldn’t trip on the uneven stone flooring. As she walked, up ahead, she heard the lively sound of conversation.
When she came to the first door, which was open and said Pietro Colombo, Direttore, she found an office, where two men were arguing in Italian. One, who she assumed was the director, Pietro, was holding a clipboard and wearing a headset. The taller of the two men was wearing the Oberon costume and looked pretty upset about something. They both stopped speaking and glared at her as she came forward, as if she’d interrupted them.
Then the large man muttered something under his breath and came lumbering toward her. The hall was so narrow that he had to slip sideways to go past her. As he did, he rapid-fired Italian at her and gestured down the hall, to where she’d come from.
“I’m sorry, I don’t . . .” Assuming the man was saying she wasn’t allowed back there, she pulled out the note from Marcello and held it up. “I was invited back here by one of your actors?”
He took one look at it and rolled his eyes in disgust, then muttered, “Marcello e le sue donne.” Before Diana could ask what that meant, he waved her off, then slammed the door.
She passed another room, where she saw several of the fairies from the play, enjoying drinks and chatting. They paid her no mind.
At the third one, she noticed the man who played Lysander, standing in front of his mirror, gesturing to Hermia. Oh, they were very good, Diana thought as Lysander, slim and built like a rod, took notice of her. Maybe they would sign her program, too?
His eyes narrowed, and he turned, walked to the door, and slammed it in Diana’s face.
Diana blinked. Apparently not. Apparently these theater types weren’t all that friendly. Well, it was her own fault. She probably shouldn’t have been peeking in his dressing room like a clod.
Diana passed about a dozen more rooms, each filled with actors or stagehands, before finally coming to the end of the hallway. Marcello’s door was closed, but there was a chalkboard there, and written upon it, M Camillo.
Diana Camillo. The thought flittered across her mind before she could tell it to behave. Come on, Diana. What are you, twelve? Marriage is the last thing you’re after. You want your program signed. That’s all.
Still . . . a little, or even a lot, of romance would be nice. After all the disappointment her love life had given her, an ember still burned inside her, forever hopeful. Fall in love in Italy.
She reached her hand up to knock, and her knuckles had barely made contact with the door when it flew open. A petite blonde in an Elizabethan costume bustled out, dragging her layers of skirt with her. It was Titania. She took one look at Diana, smirked and let out a small, scoffing laugh, then shut the door behind her and moved past, nearly toppling Diana with that massive dress of hers. Diana had to flatten herself all the way against the weeping wall in order to let her through. She stomped away, muttering something to herself in Italian.
Diana watched her disappear into her own dressing room. And then, she was alone in the hallway. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a voice called from inside.
She twisted the knob and went in. The room was small, like the others, dimly lit, and smelled like roses and incense. She stepped in. The floor was uneven, rising slightly up to where there was a small dressing table. Marcello was sitting at the tufted bench there, his hands on his knees, wearing his costume and smoking a small black cigarette. Through the smoky haze, he smiled at her and stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray on the table. “You received my note,” he said, turning back to her. “Good. I am delighted to see you.”
Was he really? Or did he just get done having a lover’s quarrel with Titania?
She let out the breath she was holding. It didn’t matter. She was just here to talk to him.
“Yes, um . . . I am glad you invited me back here.” Be calm. Casual. Relaxed. She held up her program, the front of which was now smeared with the sweat from her hands. “I thought perhaps you could sign my program.”
He let out a wry chuckle that suggested he knew much more than she was letting on. It put her off, making her feel like Little Red Riding Hood talking to the Big Bad Wolf.
“Is that what you thought?” he said in a lilting, teasing way as she hovered in the doorway. His brow was beaded with sweat, and his linen blouse hung open at the neck, damp with it, the once-white collar a dark beige with his stage makeup. “Come in, come in. I am not going to bite, Princess Diana.”
She took a step forward. She was being silly. She was a grown woman. Why was she acting so timid?
Deeper in the room, it opened to a larger space than she’d noticed from the door. There was a large rack in the corner, stuffed with costumes and clothing, and an oriental-patterned changing screen along the far wall. He motioned to a ruby red sofa that was surrounded by little knickknacks, stuffed animals, and flowers, gifts that he must’ve been given from admirers. She pushed aside a coat and sat as he turned. She realized he was holding a bottle of wine.
“Interested in sharing a drink with me?” he asked, but the corkscrew was in the cork and he was already prying it out. “I just received this as a gift. Good vintage.”
A gift from one of his admirers. Just like all the other gifts around here. Probably, all of these are from women. He is an attractive man.
_preview.jpg)
