Caroline Winter

Face to Face

Novel extract

Chapter Seven

Conveniasi a quella pietra scema 
Che guarda il ponte, che Fiorenza fesse 
Vittima nella sua pace postrema. 

(But it behoved the mutilated stone 
Which guards the bridge, that Florence should provide
A victim in her latest hour of peace.)

DANTE, Paradiso, XVI, 145-147.

A few days later, Clara was walking to the library when she heard someone call her name. For a second, she thought she might have imagined it. She’d slept in that morning and had spent the whole day going through the motions, barely awake.

‘Clara, wait up!’

She turned. A tall, curly haired man was approaching her.

‘Second chance encounter in little more than a week, are you following me?’

Clara stared at the stranger, scrambling to piece together a familiar identity. ‘I wouldn’t have the time, even if I wanted to,’ she replied, stalling for time. 

Clara recognised his laugher. She searched in the dark for a name.

‘I had a great time the other night,’ he said. ‘You and Chris definitely know all the cool spots in Florence.’

His name clicked into place, suddenly obvious. James.

The air was cool, but the sun was shining brightly, illuminating James’ face with a pleasant glow. He had a dimple when he smiled. 

‘How are you doing?’ she asked. 

‘Never been better. Glad I bumped into you. Maybe you’ll finally come grab some food with me.’

She began walking again. He picked up the pace to keep up with her.

‘Ah, well. I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I was heading to the library.’

‘God, you really aren’t sure I’m not a serial killer yet, are you? Even after I pinkie promised!’

She laughed. ‘To be fair, you never know.’

‘I’m just keen to get to know my research group. It’s totally fate that I bumped into you twice. I promise I don’t have a clue where I’d dump a body – not yet anyway. Not to mention, as someone who went to Latin camp for five summers in a row, I doubt I’d fare all too well in prison…’

She laughed, yet her instinct was still to refuse. She hardly knew him, after all, and she really did have things to get done today. 

But then she thought about how lonely she’d been before she’d joined the Professor’s team. Those quiet days, before the soft murmur of Leo’s voice under the covers late at night as they discussed conspiracy theories. Before her evenings with Chris playing table football in their local bar. James was just trying to integrate into their team. He probably didn’t know anybody in the city, let alone have any friends.

The sooner James merged into their group, the sooner her anxiety would settle about having to identify a new research colleague.

‘If you want to walk with me to the library, we could grab a coffee on the way?’

James grinned. ‘Sounds dreamy, Clara.’

They walked in companiable silence for a little while before stopping by a coffee shop. Clara ordered black coffee, despite the late hour. She needed all the energy she could get. James ordered a hot chocolate.

‘Is it the university library you wanted to go to?’ he asked. They stepped back outside the shop with their drinks. ‘I know a lovely spot we could drink these if you aren’t dying to get your nose in a book.’

Clara hesitated. ‘I guess we could take a short detour,’ she said.

*

James began slowing down as they approached the Ponte Vecchio, a Florentine landmark and major tourist attraction. 

‘This…is your spot?’ she asked, amused.

‘Just wait, okay,’ he replied. 

He reached to grab her hand to guide her towards the bridge. Clara pulled it away quickly, awkwardly putting her hand in her pocket instead.

As they neared the medieval stone arch bridge that crossed the Arno river, there, in the heart of the city, she paused to admire it again. She often crossed this bridge to reach Oltrarno, the shopping district of Florence. The bridge itself was famous for the many small stores built along it, primarily jewelleries and art dealers, but Clara knew that butchers and tanners had once occupied those shops, long before. 

‘Did you know,’ she said, turning to address him. ‘This is the only bridge in Florence the Nazis didn’t destroy during World War Two. Allegedly, it’s because of an express order from Hitler himself.’

‘Really?’ James replied. ‘I guess that doesn’t surprise me all that much. Many of the greatest villains of history saw the value in preserving the monuments of the past. Just think about Rome during that period.’

‘Very true.’ Clara tilted her head up, observing the bridge. A look of curious awe crept onto her face. ‘I wonder what he saw in it. You know?’ she said. She was struggling to express what she meant. ‘What could make a man like that, a man built to destroy, order for preservation instead? I mean, every other bridge in the city was destroyed, and the buildings on either side of this one were burned as well, but this little ponte was allowed to remain. It does make you wonder.’

She blushed, conscious that she was rambling.

‘It makes you want to look again, doesn’t it?’ he replied. ‘To figure out what you’ve missed. What someone else saw in it.’

She nodded, looking at him curiously. 

They were standing at the entrance to the bridge. Live music was playing from nearby and young people were walking past them, untouched by Clara and James’ presence there. 

It felt easy to breathe.

‘Well,’ James said. ‘What do you see in it?’

They began walking now to the centre of the bridge, where the shops fell away for a small slice of pavement. During the day, tourists flocked there to take pictures. In the afternoons, street artists performed, and the young and old alike sat around and listened, late into the evening. 

A small, private concert.

It was a magical place, and one that Clara was fond of. She came here often with Chris on their night walks, when one or neither of them could sleep. She appreciated how often her housemate agreed to go on them with her, considering she loved Florence by night, but never felt safe enough to walk the streets by herself after dark. 

Directly in front of them, there was a bust on a pedestal, guarded by a metal fence. Attached to this, dozens of couples had hung padlocks with initials inscribed on them. 

Looking where she knew it would still be, she caught sight of the lock she had put there herself, with Leo, over a year ago. He had thought it was a stupid idea but had obliged her. Happy to do it because she wanted to.

 She felt an overwhelming desire to go and touch it.

 Instead, she turned to James. When she spoke, her tone was light-hearted. 

‘I’ve never thought of coming here at this time,’ she said, sarcastically. 

She thought he’d pick up on the joke and realise his blunder, but James didn’t seem to notice.

It was, after all, a good spot. James looked pleased. 

If Chris were here, he would have made a joke about male self-importance. Who on earth would think they’d discovered the evening buskers on the Ponte Vecchio? She factored the anecdote in to tell her housemate about later. 

They seated themselves on the pavement, a little to the left of a man singing nel blu, dipinto di blu with a rusty relic of a guitar.

She sat down first. James sat next to her, far closer than she thought appropriate. But it would be awkward if she moved away now. 

She decided to answer his previous question instead.

‘What do I see in this bridge? History. Love. Loss.’

‘Loss?’

She pointed to where they had come from. 

‘Did you notice the plaque? The Dante quote at the entrance, I mean?’

He nodded. He told her that he’d wondered what the words meant, translating them as best he could with his rough Italian, but confessed that he hadn’t understood the context.

‘The words on the inscription come from the Divine Comedy. They tell of an infamous murder that took place on this bridge, long ago. A nobleman travelling on it was struck down before he could cross to the other side.’

‘Why’d they kill him?’ James asked.

‘He was due to marry a girl from the house of the Amidei, as part of some kind of peace arrangement, but had changed his mind and decided to marry a girl from the house of Donati instead. At the time, there were all sorts of dissenting factions at war with one another, so this dude’s change of plans had a big, political significance. The Amideicouldn’t tolerate the slight, or perhaps they wanted to avenge the broken-hearted bride, who knows?’

‘So that’s what the plaque talks about?’

‘Essentially. Dante was referring to the civil conflict that rocked the lives of the Italians living in Florence at the time, and that eventually resulted in Dante’s own exile from the city of his birth.’

‘Sounds very Romeo and Juliet,’ he replied.

‘Exactly. Hence, loss.’

‘And have you suffered much loss, Clara?’

She could never tell him that she’d been born with a loss so monumental it had ricocheted like flying shrapnel, causing damage to every aspect of her life. Her lips sealed shut, refusing to answer.

‘I only ask because loss is an old friend of mine. But perhaps a topic of conversation for another time?’

She smiled gratefully. 

‘You really do know a lot of things, don’t you? I’m equal parts awed and intimidated,’ he stated, going back to their playful tone.

‘It makes me a pain in the ass to be around, I’ll tell you that for free,’ she said. She cleared her throat. ‘I literally can’t shut up about this stuff. I should have been a tour guide.’

‘If you were a tour guide, Clara, I’d follow you all the way around the city.’

‘Ha! Trust me, you’d get sick of me.’

‘I doubt it, but yeah, I get it. When I get obsessed with something, I find it difficult to get over it.’

‘And what are your obsessions, James Corval? Spill your secrets, here on the Ponte Vecchio.’

He smiled slyly, and she knew he wouldn’t breathe a word. 

It was frustrating. She wanted to peer inside him to see how he worked. Which cogs turned and where, and most importantly, why.

‘Ah, but you haven’t finished your story. You said history, and we talked Hitler. You said loss, hence the slaughtered nobleman. But why love?’

‘Well, I guess the story of the dead nobleman is a story of love, too, in many ways.’
‘The nobleman’s?’

‘No actually, I don’t think it would have mattered to him, either way. It was probably all politics for him. I was thinking of the first woman. The one he betrayed to marry another. How much do you think she loved him? Was her love so strong she couldn’t stand the thought of another woman having him? Did her jealousy cause his death, or was she just another of the many innocent bystanders of history? I think about her a lot.’

 Clara felt her cheeks burning at this last confession. 

‘And is that love, or is it selfishness?’ She was almost whispering now.

‘Love,’ James replied, decisively. He wasn’t looking at her either. ‘I’m sure of it.’

Clara lit a cigarette. She was surprised to notice that her hands weren’t quite steady.

‘I do think you’re too harsh on us men though,’ James continued, when she didn’t say anything. ‘I think his family wanted the nobleman to marry the first girl, for political reasons, but he loved the second. So much so that he was willing to start a war for her.’

‘Do you speak from experience, James?’ she asked, tentatively. She leant back to rest her hands on the pavement behind her. It was her turn to put him on the spot. ‘Have you ever been willing to start a war for love?’ 

James laughed, tilting his head up to the sky. His Adam’s apple bobbed teasingly in the half-light of the early evening.

‘Ah, but that isn’t the sort of thing you confess. All you can do is stick around long enough to find out.’

He seemed to address this last statement to the bridge itself, before turning to smile at her softly.

She immediately looked away, realising how inappropriate the conversation had become. ‘Leo and I are together,’ she said.

After a pause, he replied, ‘I know.’

In front of them, a child began dancing to the music. Her parents filmed her on a camera as they held onto one another proudly. 

They watched the scene for a few moments, looking at the little girl twirl in delight as the busker sped up the music with his guitar.

‘You’re right,’ she said. She retreated to their previous conversation, where it was safe. Her eyes were fixed firmly ahead of her at the child. ‘I wasn’t thinking of the nobleman when I said love, before.’

‘Ah, what then?’

‘A tale of love for a tale of love. A fair trade. Spill and then I’ll oblige.’

She hoped he would take her bait. She wanted to have the upper hand, even for just a moment. She wanted to know something about him. Something that mattered.

 In the currency of dreamers like Clara, a true story of love, or of heartbreak, was priceless.

‘Ah, very clever of you. First you rope me into wanting to know about the bridge, then you demand a ransom. Cruel. But I’m afraid I’ve been about as lucky as our nobleman when it comes to the pursuit of love.’

She waited, hoping he’d say more. He sighed, acquiescing.

‘I loved someone once. She is no longer of this world, although this world is of her, for me, at least.’

‘Oh.’ She didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

Looking up, she was startled by the look of grief in James’ eyes. She was touched by his display of emotion. 

Why had she been so reluctant to get to know him?

‘What was her name?’ she asked, softly.

‘Laura,’ he said, the sides of his mouth drooping. ‘Her name was Laura.’

The name sat heavily between them.

‘What happened to her? If you don’t mind me asking.’

James sighed again, turning his face away from hers to look out at the view from the bridge.

‘I still find it hard to talk about it.’ He paused. ‘Her mum found her in the bathroom. She’d tied a sheet to the towel rack and knelt forwards—’ 

Clara held her breath. When he spoke next, it was barely a whisper. 

‘Who knew you could even kill yourself like that?’ 

‘I’m so sorry James,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you did everything you could.’

‘It wasn’t enough,’ he replied, finally turning around to look at her again. ‘She’ll haunt me forever.’

A long moment past. ‘I’m always here if you want to talk,’ she said, not knowing what else to say. 

James nodded. ‘Thank you.’

It was Clara’s turn to change the conversation. Anything to take that look off his face.

‘According to legend,’ she said, ‘Dante was here, on the Ponte Vecchio when he first saw a young woman standing, perhaps right here. The woman, Beatrice, is believed to be the character who appears in the Divine Comedy to guide Dante on his way, helping him achieve a beatific vision. It is thought that Dante only met the real Beatrice twice, separated by a distance of nine years, but that those meetings impacted him so much he loved her all his life, even after she died quite young, carried off by the plague.’

‘So, he never forgot her?’

‘Never.’

‘Why didn’t he make her his then?’ he asked.

‘She was unattainable. Married to another man.’

They shared a look.

‘Nobody is ever, truly unattainable,’ he said. ‘We make decisions and then pay the price for them. A bit like the nobleman – see, we’ve tied it all together nicely. Three stories, history, loss, and love. Nicely done Clara.’

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, startling her. It was Chris, asking her if she wanted him to feed Caravaggio. Somehow, it had gotten late without her realising. She sent a quick text back. 

She made herself look at James, speaking the words she knew she had to say.

‘I think you’re wrong. Some people are unattainable.’

James shrugged, but his smile said otherwise.

‘I should probably head home, it’s gotten late.’ She felt too restless to go to the library.

James looked disappointed. He insisted on walking her home. 

They walked in silence for a long time.

‘Are you sorry I dragged you out for coffee?’ James asked, eventually. 

‘Not at all, thank you. I had a great time.’

‘The pleasure was mine. Are we going to be friends then?’

Her lips tugged upwards. ‘I think so.’

‘Good.’

She turned away, and they walked on. When they got to her front door, he tore out a page from a notebook in his bag, then scribbled his phone number on it. The jagged edges of the torn note looked like teeth, bared. 

The act of breaching the gap between their bodies – to slip the note into her coat pocket – brought them close together. For a moment, their lips were mere inches apart. 

‘Ring me. If you like.’Although he said it casually, it sounded like a command.