All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [103]
When I knocked, the nurse opened the door and asked me to wait a few minutes. In that brief flash, I’d glimpsed what the Professor looked like now, and I was glad for the chance to collect myself. When I returned, he was on his feet, IV trailing, hugging me and telling me what a pleasure it was to see me. His curly locks were shorn and dark from indoor light; he was all ribs and sunken cheeks, but he was there.
We chatted for a couple of hours, and I returned a second day. He told me I looked the same, and I said he was handsome with a beard, small stretches to remind us of our younger, sexier selves. I talked about the Poussin paintings I’d recently seen at the Hermitage—a favorite among the many artists he acquainted me with—and reminisced about our travels, but he waved away the topic. “I think that part of my life is over,” he said. So we spoke of ordinary things. He showed me photos of his wedding and children, and I showed him pictures of Golden Gate Park on a spring morning. I described an amusing art exhibit I’d seen that morning at the Pompidou and thanked him for teaching me so much about how to experience art.
I was cheerful, maybe too cheerful. But the Professor laughed at my stories and then caught himself laughing. “This is the first time I’ve forgotten I’m sick,” he said, marveling. “You make me feel good, like myself.”
He thanked me for making a special trip.
“Any trip to Paris is special,” I said.
He held my hand. “Some relationships, cara, are important for life.”
He asked if I was seeing anyone, if I was in love, and I told him I have bad luck with men. Seeing him, hearing his still-vibrant voice, I wondered if I was still single, after all these years, because he always had been in my life, and in my heart. At least I’d never met another man I loved as much.
The Professor said he was looking forward to going home soon. The cancer was inoperable, but these days they treat it like a chronic disease.
“Like AIDS,” I said, wanting to believe it.
“Brava,” he said.
I kissed him on each cheek and reminded him that he always said we never knew when or where we were going to see each other again.
“Spero che ci vediamo,” he said. I hope we’ll see each other again.
“Ci vediamo,” I said, glad there’s no other way to say good-bye in Italian. I walked out of the hospital, and kept on walking, all the way across gray Paris, from Montparnasse to Montmartre.
Three weeks later, I received an e-mail from a friend of the Professor’s letting me know that he had died. Reading the message, I felt bereft, as I had standing on the platform at the train station in Naples, saying good-bye to the Professor after our first few days together on the island of Ischia, ten years ago, when I thought I’d never see him again. But I felt a similar sense of hopefulness, too, as after that delightful chance meeting, a sense of life. The Professor had reminded me whenever I needed reminding that I could still experience la bella vita, I could be desired, I could embrace something less than perfection, and, most important, that I could love.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to William Zinsser, for encouraging me to stop worrying about the publishing world and write what I please. I’m grateful to Kit Miller for giving me time at Orchard House to write, and have fondest memories of Maya Miller, who cheered me on with my daily thousand words. My fellow members of the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto, especially Ethan Watters, Tom Barbash, Elizabeth Bernstein, and Po Bronson, gave me invaluable support, suggestions, and community. Many wonderful women offered their wisdom along the way: Cristina Taccone, Cecilia Brunazzi, Cindy Fraser Taylor, Katy Butler, Sharon Salzberg, Martha Borst, Giovanna Tabanelli, Kimberly Easson, and Alyce Musabende. Saludos to Anja Fauske, Cheryl Finnegan, and Lamine Thiam in San Miguel de Allende. Zoë Rosenfeld was an amazingly perceptive and helpful reader. Thanks to Suzanne Gluck, Erin Malone, Shaye Areheart, Penny Simon, and everyone at Harmony Books who helped