Without Reservations_ The Travels of an Independent Woman - Alice Steinbach [102]
What a long, painful process it is, letting go of those you love, I thought, walking back to the villa one night. Still I knew that slowly it was happening. The odd thing is, letting go of the two young boys I loved didn’t make me feel as lonely as I had feared. It seemed to be freeing up more space for the men they had become.
One morning, while loitering near the entrance to the villa, I watched the arrival of two new guests in a chauffeur-driven car. Along with several pieces of expensive luggage, the couple—a tall, regal-looking woman with silver hair and an impeccably dressed younger man—moved toward the receptionist’s desk. I, naturally, moved along with them, curious to learn what I could about this rather intriguing couple. Were they mother and son? I wondered, although the gap between their ages seemed too wide for that. Was he a paid companion, perhaps, for a wealthy woman? A nephew? Maybe a grandson?
Pretending to study a brochure about sightseeing in Treviso, I took up a position near the reception desk. The check-in procedure yielded several pieces of information. One, they were British; their accents definitely patrician. Two, the woman—in her seventies perhaps, but quite striking—did most of the talking. Three, the young man—in his early thirties perhaps—had quite a pleasant demeanor. Four, they were staying in separate rooms.
What I planned to do with this information I hadn’t a clue. But they were by far the most interesting people I’d seen at the villa. And they spoke English. Who knows? I thought, perhaps our paths will cross. Perhaps we’ll meet one morning at breakfast. Or in the village. Or in the garden.
A day later I did meet the British couple. But not in any of the likely places. We met at Asolo’s graveyard, the cemetery attached to the small church of Sant’ Anna. It was the place, I had been told, where Freya Stark was buried.
The walk to the graveyard, situated on a high spot outside the town’s center, took about thirty minutes. When I reached the tidy little cemetery, I was out of breath and slightly dizzy from the altitude. I seemed to be the only visitor. Looking around at the rows and rows of tombs crowded together, I realized I had no idea as to the actual location of Freya’s grave. But what the heck, I thought, that wouldn’t have stopped Freya and it won’t stop me.
At the end of an hour I still hadn’t located what I’d come to find. Tired, I sat on a tombstone to rest. It was then that I saw them approaching, the British couple from the hotel. Embarrassed to be caught sitting on top of someone’s gravesite, I jumped up and blurted out, “Hello. I’m an American and I’m staying at your villa.”
The silver-haired woman smiled. “Well, I wish it were my villa,” she said. “But, alas, it’s not.” Up close, she appeared even older than I’d imagined, but still quite lovely.
“Are you looking for someone special?” asked the young man.
“Yes, I am. Freya Stark.”
The mention of her name drew an instant response from the silver-haired woman. “Oh, my, what a dear old gal she was. Wonderful woman, Freya Stark. Is she buried here?”
I told her yes, I thought so, but that I hadn’t been able to find her.
“Did you know that just last month a memorial service was held for her in London?” the woman asked. “At St. James’s Church. In Piccadilly. I heard it was really beautiful.”
I knew that church; I had visited it three months earlier. Quite by accident I’d popped into the modest-looking building to take a rest after a long walk through Piccadilly and Mayfair. From a plaque posted at the entrance I learned that Sir Christopher Wren designed the church in 1674 and, after