Variable

A dozen pairs of Italian leather boots gleamed in the shop window. Velvety soft, luscious and supple, they were the kind that would fit snugly around the calves under skinny jeans. Crystal had never associated cowboy boots like those with Italians, but of course they were famous for their shoes and all the fashionable younger women in Lucca were wearing them.

Textured black high-heels with hand-tooled designs pressed into the leather, exquisitely handmade in a hundred and something-step process, they were exactly the sort that Vittore would’ve been, if Italian men were boots.

He’d picked her up two days ago at the museum in Florence, posing impudently in front of Michelangelo’s David. He’d been wearing jeans and a sweater thrown over his shoulders and carrying a leather day-bag, but Crystal couldn’t help imagining what was underneath. She’d found out later that night.

Since then they’d traveled to Pistoia and San Momme, all the more charming for not being tourist attractions like Lucca. But now that they were here, she was anxious for Vittore to show her this old Roman town as he’d promised, using all his skills and knowledge.

For free.

Upon arriving, however, he’d checked his watch again and said he hoped she wouldn’t mind looking around on her own for a while so he could attend to unspecified business. Crystal minded a lot, but what could she do?

“We will meet in half an hour in the Piazza San Michel,” Vittore said, pointing it out on a map along with a few attractions she wouldn’t want to miss. “It’s a small town. You cannot get lost. Okay? Perfecto.”

Then he disappeared into a crowd of tourists.

Crystal had barely begun exploring when she saw those boots. The building housing the shop was made of the same light tan stones as the street, whose cobbled surface was worn smooth by centuries of use. No reason for Crystal to stumble, other than not watching where she was going. No reason to fall and twist her ankle badly, except those flimsy high-heeled sandals of hers. But she did.

Feeling humiliated, she used the wall for support as she pushed herself up. But putting weight on her ankle triggered a dizzying shock wave of pain and everything turned momentarily black.

No boots, that was for sure. In fact, unless she took a strong painkiller and wrapped that ankle, she was probably through for the day. Crystal couldn’t let that happen, not when she’d come so far and certainly not after finding Vittore. She found a pharmacia and hobbled on to the Piazza San Michele. During their brief acquaintance, Vittore often had been late. It would probably be no different this time. She sat down on the church steps and leaned back against the wall to wait.

Ordinarily, surrounded by soft earth-tones and such beautiful architecture, she would’ve been content as a cat sunning itself in a window. But her ankle was throbbing, and as the moments slipped by, she grew restless. What if Vittore didn’t return? A silly fear—of course he would. But even if he didn’t, she wasn’t helpless. She’d rented the car, had plenty of cash and credit cards. She could survive without Vittore. But she didn’t want it that way.

She’d felt so lucky and flattered when he took an interest in her. He was gorgeous, a decade younger, and though she kept trim and toned and well-groomed, Crystal knew she was no great beauty. Why had he done so? Why was he guiding her free of charge? Alarm bells had gone off in her head at that offer. Sure, he might be between tours, as he said, even if he did work for several companies. But he made his living at this. Why so generous? Fearing the worst, she’d remained alert for the first sign of a scam, at which she intended to decamp. But so far, there’d been no sign—that is, not unless you considered his frequently unexplained absences or the fact that his phone never stopped ringing.

She’d been overwhelmed when this tall trim Adonis with curly black hair offered to show her Tuscany. His eyes, when not concealed by dark glasses, glinted in the eggshell sunlight, his humorous charm delighted her. He’d suggested a scenic drive up into the Apennines, pizza and Chianti in the little village of San Momme, followed by a romantic evening at the former monastery overlooking Pistoia. What a night that had been.

But being alone today while he was off attending to mysterious transactions or constantly gabbing on the phone was not what she’d had in mind. Now she’d really screwed everything up by falling. Who could blame him if he wanted to forget the whole thing?

“You’re late,” she said as he strode toward her in the melting Mediterranean sun.

“I do not care at all,” Vittore replied, using his favorite phrase. The first time he’d said it, Crystal had been shocked and scandalized. But now she regarded such arrogance merely as part of his comic routine. He asked if she’d gone to any other places he’d shown her on the map, short-circuiting any questions she might want to ask.

“Too busy buying drugs.” Amused by his stunned expression, she added, “Ibuprofen. I fell and twisted my ankle.”

He was very solicitous then, asking over and over if she was all right, and whether it had been hard for her to purchase the medicine.

“Easy. I walked up and said, Buon giorno—”

“Crystal, Crystal,” Vittore shook his head. “It is BON JOUR NO. Do you not listen to a word I say? You must learn to roll your Rs, so you don’t sound like an ignorant tourist.”

“Ignorant or not, I got what I wanted.” It was fine for him to teach her Italian. Or warn against typical tourist blunders like ordering a cappuccino after 10:30 in the morning. Or requesting a latte when you didn’t want a plain glass of milk. But not fine to call her names.

He realized he’d offended her and apologized.

Surprised, Crystal said, “You’re forgiven.”

He put his arm around her. “With your ankle, do you still feel like walking around the top of the Roman wall?”

She’d read that wall was four kilometers long and encircled the city, but they could get off almost anywhere. “Yes.”

She leaned on him as they climbed a twelve-meter-high stone staircase to the broad promenade, where tall arching chestnut trees created pools of mid-afternoon shade. Shops and practically everything else had shut down. They were alone on the high earth-filled stone barrier except for a few runners and skaters. Olive groves silvered the surrounding hills. The sky had never looked this blue back home.

“Is the weather here always so beautiful, Vittore?”    

“Variable. The weather is always variable.”

Years ago, the merchants had lost a lot of tourist dollars because of an inaccurate forecast that kept many from attending a famous festival, he explained.

“Ever since, officially the weather is always variable. That’s Italy.”

Crystal heard the disdain in his voice. She wanted to say that corruption, bureaucracy, and inertia didn’t matter. This was an amazing country, and she felt she could become special here. When a bicyclist passed by, she asked why the rider wore a badge.

“He is a volunteer, Vittore said. “This wall must be patrolled because so many tourists have fallen off and killed themselves, some unfortunately children.”

“Where were their parents? Italians must think tourists are idiots.”

Vittore only smiled. He’d already called her ignorant; was he now calling her an idiot? Before she could frame a reply, Vittore proposed that they sit down. He wanted to talk to her about something important.

“Fine, my ankle is killing me.” They took a seat on a bench with a curved back made of iron strips; stylish yet comfortable, very Italian. Vittore said he was having problems. Pleased that he’d confided in her, she asked what kind.

“It comes down to this. I am ready to leave Italy, probably forever.”

“Vittore, how can you say that? Italy is so beautiful. I love it here.” 

“I have lost my job.”

Crystal moaned sympathetically. “That’s terrible. How could this happen to a superb guide like you?”

“All I know is life will be different now that no one will hire me. And a crazy woman wants me dead.”

“What crazy woman?”

“She is a friend who works in a bar here in Lucca.”

“If she wants to kill you, you must be more than friends. What did you do to lose your job?”

Vittore’s phone rang. He silenced it, surprising her. “Let’s get off this wall, Crystal.”

As he helped her down the steps, she thought he must have a girl in every town. “I never made any promises to Philomena.”

So that was her name. But who was she?

“Somehow, she believes we are in love.”

This was beginning to sound like an Italian opera or soap opera.

“How did I ever let myself get mixed up with this woman? Everyone warned me she was trouble.”

“Is she beautiful?” 

He shrugged as if this was not important.

Crystal was picturing a young Sophia Loren. How could she possibly compete with someone like that? But there wasn’t any competition, was there? Vittore would show her around, then they would go their separate ways, leaving him to solve his problems.

“I have told Philomena many times that I do not love her, but she keeps following me around. One evening, while I was having dinner with a tour group, she showed up waving a butcher knife, screaming she would cut my heart out. It was terrible. A kitchen worker took away the knife, but someone complained.”

“And you lost your job.”

They stopped to rest again on another bench near a noisy construction site where an old hotel was being restored. Much of the three-story building was concealed behind huge tarps, but dozens of sage-colored shutters were visible stacked against the walls. Over a bulldozer’s roar, Crystal asked, “Did you go to the police?”

“And tell them what?” 

“You could take out a restraining order.”

“Believe me, restraining Filomena would take more than an order.”

Crystal patted his shoulder. She had never seen Vittore like this, with all his arrogance and magnetism dwindling. She felt truly sorry for him.

“She calls me all the time, saying, Give me another chance. I love you. If you don’t love me, I’m going to kill myself.”

“Would she?”

“Who knows?”

They got up and walked slowly past potted lime trees and flowers and tall thin cypresses.

“I don’t like to say so,” Vittore said, “but I’m having money problems, too. Housing is expensive in Firenze. I’m behind on my rent.”

Crystal did not like this turn in the conversation. “Have you tried to get your job back?”

“I asked them for another chance, yes, of course, but I do not blame them for firing me.”

Was Vittore going to ask her for money? Oh, she hoped not. She wanted so to believe he’d really been interested in her. But she knew from the start that it might come to this.

Vittore said he’d approached other companies, but word about what happened had gotten around, and now no one would take a chance on him. “I’ve tried to think of something else to do, like work in a shop or make gelato, but I know I cannot. Since I am an excellent guide, I thought about writing a tour book. But there are rows of them on the shelves already. That is why I intend to leave the country.”

“And go where?”

“I was thinking about America with you.”

Oh, no.

“I have enjoyed traveling so much that the idea of ever settling down with one woman has always seemed ridiculous. But now, much to my surprise, I find myself thinking about it all the time.”

Vittore looked into her eyes. Did he think her a complete fool?

“You cannot understand how I feel, Crystal, because like so many other women you fell in love with Tuscany at first sight. To you, Italy is romance, beauty, sun, and wine. But to me, America is the magical country. There, I could find a job. In America, I’d be special.”

Crystal smiled. “Ever since we met, I’ve fantasized about taking you back to Louisville with me.” She was picturing the effect this would’ve had on Robert and Franny, currently her two least favorite people.

“Really? That is wonderful,” Vittore said.

“The problem is, I’m not going back to the U.S., at least not anytime soon.”

“But your visa will expire, no?”

“I’ll get another. I don’t have any reason to go home. I plan to rent a house in Tuscany and live on wine and olive oil.”

She smiled again, her best smile, the one she used to dazzle.

“But you can come and stay with me if you want.”

Vittore stopped. After a moment of furious thought, he said, “That is very interesting, Crystal. Let me think about it. While I do, I know a good place to get pizza.”

At the busy pizza bar, a waiter who greeted Vittore like an old friend led them to a small table shaded by a yellow-and-blue umbrella. Vittore ordered in swift Italian. Soon, red wine arrived. Every few minutes, the waiter would return to their table to speak with Vittore, always in Italian. They even laughed in Italian, Crystal thought.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, we are just talking about the football games. Some fans are upset.”

Vittore’s phone rang as the pizza arrived. Crystal hadn’t noticed when he’d switched it back on. He answered and slowly turned around. His mouth fell open at the sight of a stunningly beautiful and very pregnant woman standing in the doorway. Despite being with child, she’d dressed with painstaking attention to detail in the popular Italian ensemble of jeans, boots, lots of black, and a few subtle accessories.

“That’s her, isn’t it?”

“Time to go, Crystal,” Vittore said, nodding at another door. “I’ll catch up with you.”

Crystal wiped her mouth and slowly got to her feet.

“Ciao, Vittore,” she said.

Crystal nodded to the pregnant woman as she went out the front door. She had changed her mind about trying on those boots. They would be the rage back home next year.

© 2024 Rick Neumayer

“Variable” will appear in the forthcoming THREE FOGGY MORNINGS: Stories by Rick Neumayer. If you like this one, I’d love to hear from you.