PART ONE
II
nne was a fine girl. She was sweet, intelligent, ambitious of soul, and
energetic in her curiosity. I'll say she was attractive but she did not attract
me. This is said as my former self is moving through the Palazzo to where she
stood shrieking my name in delighted surprise. At some level my life's path
certainly carved out a straight downhill road toward her from time to time so
perhaps it is correct to say that I appeared to be metaphysically attracted to
her. Her body collided into mine with an enthusiastic hug. Regrettably, my
response to this affection was to pointedly not return the hug and begged off on
account of my baggage load. This was no reflection of my affection but is
instead a manifestation of my mannerism which leaves me loathe to physicality.
She was, of course, obliged to ask "What are you doing here?" and followed it up
with "Its great to see you!" and I countered in kind. In little time we were
settling back into the banter and synergy of old friends. We began walking then
to her apartment after she had, as I had hoped, insisted that I stay with her
and her roommate for a time.
"Maria won't mind you at all. I just had to put up with her lay-about boyfriend
(now ex-boyfriend) for two weeks so she won't be able to complain."
I was able to then enjoy an exciting telling of a sordid, dysfunctional affair
that ended in anger and self-loathing for all the title characters though
thankfully Anne was but a bit player in this Romance and was able to regale the
tale with cheerful enthusiasm and wry embellishments the likes of which I am in
no ways capable of recalling nor leastwise emulating and you, the reader, are
most assuredly the more impoverished for the not knowing of it for it received
belly laughs and compliments from this weary (yet sustained) traveler but were I
to even waft what wee details of it that I recollect onto these pages you'd
undoubtedly be but more enticed for Anne was not uncommon in her ways of finding
pleasure in celebrating the investigation of the lives and lore of her friends
and even, indeed, those of complete strangers though she did pursue peculiar
aspects of this fascination with all of those who shared in her universe in that
she would at times, in the night, be taken by the desire to wander off the road
of a sudden and look for ways to trespass upon the private affairs of strangers
within their homes and I, being her friend, had been induced to accompany her on
a few of these voyeuristic excursions some of which took us to climbing fences
and crawling through back yards and all the while she would maintain absolute
innocence and a seemingly healthy, good-natured approach to her foible such that
one of my fondest memories of her is to see her bright red cheeks and flashing,
laughing green eyes illuminated by the moon in back of some manse in the town of
M_________ after we had spent some time watching a family watching their
television and thinking ourselves so very much the richer than they in our
viewing experience in this instant.
She was the sort of girl who so loved to read that so she did yearn to write and
she so yearned that she would be forever creating stories and narratives for all
she saw. The world she inhabited was one of rich intrigues, high Romance, and
splendidly adored finite details. A great many people live their lives satisfied
by the image of some Divine being crafting the world for man to exist within.
For Anne and those of her ilk, the world is made by writers. Every new moment is
the product of gilded craftsmanship. Narratives run their course through the
lives of us all and our paths are marked for us not by anything other than what
the tale requires and what the crafter believes will mark the days as the finest
possible tale.
More than crossing paths on the banks of the Arno, for Anne we were two
fascinating characters coming together to further some larger plot and explore
new variations on themes we had already encountered in our lives. In this light,
we become heroes for the now and our petty, pseudo-intellectual offerings become
the gist of the volume and gain both gravitas and veritas in the process. That
is not to say that our lives were aggrandized unduly (nor duly) but rather her
perspective performed the all-too-oft-missed duty of setting stock on everything
that we said and did. It wove into the fabric of our days a pattern of themes
and tones that we'd not have otherwise have sensed let alone appreciated.
It is a form of existentialism to determine that you are a character in a grand
story and that all of your actions weigh heavy upon the tale that your days will
tell. What is your story? What are the themes and the insights to be found upon
the pages that are your years? Is it a tragedy? Is it consistent and is it
passionate? Would you, reading the story of your life, be swept up in events and
find yourself unable to put down the book? Anne, each and every day, was both
writing and reading her life story and it was a sublimely beautiful tale (what I
read of it).
Paused on the Ponte Vecchio, we took the time to smile for there is no finer
place to pause as it is quite impossible to fully arrest one's own progress
there and you will always move on after exactly the right amount of respite. The
shops were all closed at this hour but the spiritual echoes of the day's
tradings still haunted the magical place. So many, so very many years of energy
could not be silenced by silence.
With my load shifted and resettled, we continued on our way while I ventured
onto the subject of her own dalliances into the affections of men which shortly
induced her to confirm that I understood that I would be sleeping on the couch
while she would not to which I issued certain assurances that she confessed were
unnecessary as it was confirmed that we were but comrades and this, in turn,
encouraged her to convey that she was working her way back into the arms of Bear
after a long winter without. She and he had been on and off for years and years
and I certainly never took a liking to him. It was not as a competitor that I
disregarded him but instead as a character that was neither well enough defined
nor well enough endowed with wit to make for an intriguing foil to Anne's being.
The burly man of her heart though did not dwell in Florence so my friend was
reduced to longings, which were only marginally met, by regular correspondence
and irregular relocations. To this I offered my sympathies appropriately, which
understandably inclined her to enquire into the hills and valleys of my own
misadventures of late in love.