I want to ask if his parents are still married in that timeline, but I decide against it. That would probably be opening a can of worms.
“Well, that’s not the timeline you live in,” Claudio says hastily, pouring himself a glass of wine. “And in this timeline you better eat your food before it gets cold.”
Vanni shrugs, seemingly unaffected, and shoves a piece of cappone in his mouth.
Despite that minor blip, dinner is wonderful. I savor every morsel of food (who knew fennel could taste so good?) and sip of wine, and there’s still room in my stomach when Vanni brings out a wooden slab arranged with sliced fruit, cheese, and half a honeycomb, the honey oozing across the board.
When we’re done, Vanni and Emilio start to bring the empty dishes inside and I’m about to do the same when Claudio comes out holding two small antique glasses of bright yellow liquid. He stands at the end of the table and motions with his head for me to get up.
I get out of the chair, leaving my cardigan behind on it since the evening air is warm, the sun close to setting. Then I go over to him, taking the glass from Claudio and raising it to my nose to smell. “Limoncello?”
“Sì. I made it myself.”
That brings a smile out of me. “Of course you did. Is there anything you can’t do?”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Probably. I’m not sure I can write.”
“I’m sure you can write.” I take a sip of the liquor. It’s blissfully sweet and cold.
“I can’t write well.” He takes a sip of his drink, my eyes focused on his lips, the quick flash of pink tongue. He swallows, gazing at me, and raises the glass. “It’s a digestif. Perfect for after dinner, along with a walk. Would you like to keep me company?”
I hesitate, though I’m not sure why. “Sure.”
He picks up on it and frowns. “I’m not keeping you from your writing, am I?”
That’s not it.
“Probably not. I’m not sure I’ll get back to it tonight.”
“Ah,” he says as we start strolling across the lawn. “You work more in the morning, yes?”
“More like I need to have a lot of time prior to physically writing just to let it percolate. You know, simmer in my brain. I mean, I guess I could force it right now but…”
“But art can’t be forced.”
“Not for me,” I admit. “A lot of authors have this ability to write on demand but that’s never been my method. I don’t even have a method, I just know I have to feel it, live it. It takes a lot out of me, so going into it is like going into battle sometimes.”
“I know how that feels,” he says. “And I’m guessing it can be a battle to be pulled out of it.”
I bob my head. “Aye. If I’m into it. If I’m not, well, it’s a little too easy to hit save and leave it and go and do something else. Some authors have the urge to write all the time. I find it much easier to just … not. Sometimes I think that makes me bad at what I do.”
He glances at me, a look that makes me feel strangely appreciated. “I doubt that. You’re just human. Every artist is different.”
I try and take that to heart instead of pushing it away. I’ve so rarely had the chance to talk about writing that it’s a relief to find someone who seems to understand.
We turn up a pebbled path that runs parallel to the villa, lined by potted lemon trees and pink oleander, and the occasional marble statue. I pause by one of them, a woman covered in roses. She’s not only life-size, she looks so lifelike, as if she was once real and turned to stone, like a victim of Medusa.
“How do you do it?” I whisper, running my hands over the roses, feeling their hard grooves, the petals as smooth and velvet soft as a real rose. They seem to glow in the coral light of the setting sun.
“Do what?”
“Make this,” I say. “My brain can’t wrap itself around this kind of creation.”
He has another sip of his drink and runs the back of his hand over his lips. There’s something intensely sexual about it that for the second time this evening, my body feels like it’s betraying me, heat pooling inside my core.
“It’s easy,” he says after a moment, his gaze leaving mine and drifting over the statue. “I should say, it can be easy. It depends. I create statues for people, churches, cities and towns. Those are commissioned. I make replicas of other works, more or less. Those are easy. That is just based on skill. If you have the skill and the training, then it is easy to do as they say. I’ll admit, easy sometimes means boring. But it’s money.”
“Which one was this?” I ask.
“This was for me,” he says. “I have an idea and then I work with it. You know, for her, the lady of the roses, I could see her in my mind. But I was unsure of how to free her. Sometimes it’s already there in the marble or the clay and you just have to unearth it. It already exists in this world and you’re uncovering it. That is the best. You feel like an archeologist unearthing dreams.”
An archeologist unearthing dreams. I like that.
He sighs, sucking in his lower lip for a moment. “And sometimes it’s blank. You’re not sure what to mold, what to sculpt. You need to create it. You need to create the idea. That can be hard. That is when you are waiting for the muse. Perhaps writing is the same?”
“Pretty much,” I say as I finish the rest of the drink, a nice buzz picking up. “Sometimes the book is there, somewhere, already.” I gesture to the space above my head. “It’s already a thing and you just need to transcribe it. You’re like a medium, writing down messages from some other life. And other times…”
“It sucks.”
I laugh and give him a sly smile. He gets it. It’s so rare to find someone who knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Yes, sometimes it just sucks.”
He tilts his head, eyes raking over my face, then raises his glass. “Here is to our muse, then. May she bless us both.”
I raise my empty glass and he finishes the rest of his. He swallows and then plucks my glass from my fingers. “I shall get you a refill.”
“Actually,” I say quickly as he starts toward the house. “I think I’m going to make another attempt at writing tonight. I’m inspired now.” Or at least determined.
His face falls slightly. “You can still have another drink for inspiration?”
I shake my head. “I better not or I’ll be tempted to go to bed. But perhaps I’ll have another espresso to take to my room.”
“Of course,” he says, and we head inside the house, the sun setting at our backs.
Eight
Claudio
Despite my blathering on about the methods of my art to Grace a few nights ago, the muse has been refusing to show her face today and every day before. Oh, she’s here. I can tell. It’s brewing, this need to create, even if I can’t identify it, even if I can’t see it. I can feel the vibrations in my bones.
The door to my studio vibrates on its hinges from frantic knocking.
I shut my eyes, drawing in a long breath. I know it’s Vanni. Grace would never dare to disturb me when my studio door is closed. I’ve learned that about her these last few days. She knows creation is sacred. She’s been keeping to herself, writing, while I’ve been doing what I can in here. If this was a competition between us, however, I’m pretty sure I’d be losing. She has found her muse, but mine is still shy. It doesn’t help that it’s my job to be a father first. Art must always come second.