I took a room in a tiny hotel in Talamone. At the top of the steep steps leading up from the cove, I whisper in Gabrielle's ear and my heart contracts, expecting nothing, hoping for all.
She looks deeply into my eyes and nods. My heart expands. Side by side we walk in silence through the town, to the hotel. She walks up the hotel staircase ahead of me. I turn the old-fashioned key in the wooden door and push it open. The room is small, the furniture delicate. The bed is pure white. She walks to the large picture window, sees the view of the Tyrannian Sea, and gasps. In that silence, her gasp is volcanic.
The lock clicks behind me.
She beckons me to see the view with her. I like the way she feels against my side, the way she tucks herself into me. I place my arm around her waist, then around her slender back, and it finally comes to rest around her neck. I place the palm of my hand against her cheek and her head tilts against my life-line. The two of us gaze at the sea.
From out on the street, we hear music, a tune I know but can't immediately place. It's a haunting guitar strum, a young Italian man sings beautifully in English, singing words I once knew so well, words I once knew by heart. Then it comes to me: Wicked Game.
I used to sing out loud to that song in the dark early dawn as I drove my old Ford Escort from my home to the hospital for early morning rounds after I had married for the second time, and was then the father of not only Mark, by my first wife, but also of two little girls with Helen, my second wife.
I heard the album for the first time at one of those neighborhood step-parties: appetizers and cocktails at one house, cheeses and pates with champagne at the next, and so on. I had been refilling Helen's glass when the song came on. My eyes suddenly filled, catching me wildly off-guard. I topped Helen's glass off too quickly, the liquid splashing over the sides, sprinkling her new sandals. I had to get away, to be alone. I spent a long fifteen minutes in the guest bathroom of the house we were in, sitting on the edge of the toilet seat, my fingers dug into my eye sockets, feeling my wet cheeks.
I secretly bought the cassette soon after, a far cry from the rock and roll I had grown up on. I played it for months. Rewinding repeatedly.
The world was on fire and no one could save me but you. It's strange what desire will make foolish people do. I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you. And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you. No, I don't want to fall in love. What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way. What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you. What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way. What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you, and I want to fall in love. No, I want to fall in love. With you.
When, finally, the song no longer made me cry, I tucked the cassette under my seat and never listened to it again. I was not then, nor am I now, a man who cries. Did I already know, way back then, in the early years of my second marriage, that, once again, I had selected incorrectly, haphazardly. It wasn't something I would let myself consider, not seriously, but I must have already felt I had missed the target I had long been aiming for.
Standing in this hotel room with Gabrielle, our first hotel room together, the lyrics immediately confuse me: telling me to turn away, to run, to stay close to what I already have with Helen and our daughters who are now fully into the teen years, and urging me forward, to reach for what I have yearned for, what I feel with shocking awareness, with Gabrielle.
I turn to Gabrielle and kiss her, deeply and fully.
Within seconds, I strip her free of all that she wears. Her toes are polished the color of plump pink tulips. Gabrielle moans as I make my way up her tanned thighs and find she has what I've read about in the fashion magazines my daughters leave lying on the kitchen counter, a Brazilian bikini wax. Women in Columbus, Ohio rarely wax, at least Helen rarely does, though I have tried subtly to encourage it. Seeing Gabrielle this bare, clean, open, willing, I feel faint. All I want to do is bury my face in that pure, sea-soaked skin, her inner fleshy folds, find that pearl that once eluded me when I was young and green, eager but inexperienced.
The only good things to emerge from my first marriage were my son Mark and a thorough understanding of the mechanics of oral sex. She taught me to crave it and the better I got, the more I adored the power I had over her in that position. The way I almost still loved her when I was going down on her, how hard it made me each and every time.
With Gabrielle, it feels like I know every crease, every spot, her timing, as if we've done this endlessly, and I slowly settle in.
Okay, none of that's true. As Filan, my therapist, would say, I am romanticizing reality. I could argue with Filan right now, about this moment, that my dream of being in that Talamone hotel room with Gabrielle naked on the bed is not about my romanticizing reality at all. It's about the reality I actually want.
The only thing that is true is that Gabrielle sits across from me at a small square table in a Talamone café called Il Mare that has a large picture window open to the air and a view of the Tyrannian Sea. Walking up the steps from the cove, Gabrielle said if we were to eat lunch together then it couldn't be at a touristy place, not at one of the places recommended by the guidebook or our Italian biking sheepherders.
“If we are to eat together, Cameron, it must be in real Talamone,” she said. “I'm here for my own reasons, and I'm not interested in a place that has divided its menu half in Italian half in English. I have a need for reality, truth.”
“Gabrielle,” I said, “It's food, how much truer can food get?”
“It's not the food that must be true, it's the experience. Cafes with multi-lingual menus are never the real thing. You don't have to understand my reasoning, just respect my parameters.” She smiles at me, softening the blow she knows she's just delivered.
I don't understand, either the experience she is hoping to have or the parameters I am to respect. But I desperately want to eat with her, sit across and see the emotions she thinks she's so good at hiding play across that beautiful face, watch her sip at a glass, her lovely full lips wrapped around the glass ledge, drinking the water in small sips. I want to experience all of that. So perhaps watching her drink from a water glass, that is the true experience I need to have.
Gabrielle met me at the stairs leading up from the cove, dressed back in her biking shorts and shirt, her bikini stowed in her yellow bike bag, my own suit stowed in mine which I had slung across my shoulder, but she was still wearing her flip-flops, her biking shoes tied around her biking bag. Flip-flops make me crazy when I see my sixteen and eighteen year old daughters wearing them, but Gabrielle's were sexy, dotted with sparkling rocks.
All I kept thinking about as I walked up the stairs behind Gabrielle was fucking her. It's true. I just wanted to fuck her. Okay, not entirely true. I am using the work ‘fuck' to keep at bay my feelings. I think if I say I want to fuck her, that ameliorates the feelings I already possess for her. Fucking her, the concept of fucking her, makes me feel I will be free of that encumbrance; though I think I want to be entwined to her forever.
So I find us Il Mare. It is past three when we sit down at the table. The hour in which everything usually closes in Italy, but for some reason Il Mare is still open. Gabrielle and I are the only ones in the place. The hostess pretends she isn't keeping the place open for us, that we aren't keeping the staff from their Italian long lunch. It makes me feel we are special.
Gabrielle looks at the menu and immediately puts it down.
“Do you know what you want?” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “I don't see it on the menu, but I'm sure they can make it.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
I don't like having to make special requests of any kind, certainly not at an Italian restaurant that clearly wants to close but won't because of the American tourists who will be paying in dollars. We will be paying in dollars because I'll be paying with my American Express card, and I have been assured that I will get the best exchange rate of euros to dollars during my trip.
But still I am concerned. Why I am concerned is ridiculous. I make real money. I have real money socked away. I have real money socked away that Helen knows about, our money, and money she doesn't know about, and that account holds real money too.
So why am I suddenly concerned that Gabrielle wants to order off the menu. Is it that I will see the entry for this lunch on my credit card statement when I am back home, where I supposedly belong, and I will think back to this day, to having lunch with Gabrielle, and will wonder why I didn't take the actions I know I want to take. That I will have to review that bill sitting in my study, in the room that all the children, and Helen, too, know is off limits, the one place in my home where I can go to be alone.
I know that's what it is: that Gabrielle and I will part after this lunch and she will go on to experience this biking trip on her own, and I will experience it with my wife, and Gabrielle and I will never have another chance to be alone, and in a month or so from now all I will have of this afternoon, of she and I on a rock in the Tyrannian Sea, and this lunch, is a credit card receipt.
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It's lovely, this, and familiar ... if not in the experience, then in the longing. It does ring true.
fav.
You write like an old hand, girl. Let me know if you'd like this version of "An Italian Lunch" to appear with "The First Olive" in Women Writers. It might work out nicely to run both of them.
*
ah, those italian lunches. redux.
this version is leaner, tighter, seems to move better. i like short sentences to start, shallow breathing of desire, as narrator beholds--it could move even faster, i think--
(note: i don't know that you need ALL of the song lyrics...reader can suppy, in the cuts (and for those who don't know the song or isaac the artist, may be taken out of the story, dunno.)
the way it ends, from the poetic to the prosaic amex bill, is v good--can we ever get what we want? can we ever know what we want? every romantic memory winds up as a receipt?
*
stay with it.
Isaak. Sorry, Chris
This is a tighter version, and I think it's stronger. Also, agree with Gary about the lyrics. I would cut to a phrase perhaps.
Great piece.
I wondered whether permission would be needed to quote the lyrics at all or at length, but I like the use of the quote; it advances what the story leaves us thinking of this pair wrapped suddenly in a love game.
yes, the love game angle, sure--but under what rules of the game?
in the longer work, this is a theme that might emerge: the "gendered" seeing of the rules of the game, the hunt, different gendered ways of knowing & seeing, diff POVs, and so forth.
i think you have something fine here, to work with, cherise--and so pleased ann wants to run more of it, all to the good--
Cherise, I like your revisions, the lyrics, and your long comments. You're fun to read.
Hi to all, and thank you for generously re-reading this revision and commenting.
James: I'm glad the longing rings true, that is what I am seeking.
Sam, thank you for finding it tighter, even though it's actually 400 plus words longer.
Ann: I love being called "an old hand" at writing, high praise indeed.
Gary: thank you for your comments and thoughts on the lyrics. I have gotten rid of Isaak's name. It takes me a while to muse and then cut more, and for now I'll keep the lyrics because they are Cameron's touchstone, and as I am his master, but as he is the voice here, they'll stay until another redraft. But you hit it on the head. The first seven chapters are in alternating POVs, Gabrielle's and Cameron's.
Thanks to Ann's encouragement that I submit to Women Writers: A Zine, I did a thorough revision of what was a much longer first chapter in order to turn it into a stand-alone short story that she chose for publication, called The First Olive. Her encouragement had the unintended effect of making me really look at what I was doing, and made me realize that the whole novel must take place over seven days in Italy, on this biking trip. The first chapter started with Gabrielle looking back at the time and trip now passed, and that is gone, at least for now, in my head.
And Ann, you're correct. Looking at it as a lawyer, there is no way I could use these lyrics without permission. I figure if I get so lucky, I'd love to have to deal with that problem!
Gender and the "gendered' way of seeing life, love, the so-called "game" of love and lust and want is already intensely part of it of all the pages I have written.
I think one of the great things about fictionaut is being able to get some immediate comments, from a wonderful group of writers/readers.
I know that posting this long comment on my own story is probably the wrong thing to do, but I wanted to thank everyone for being so good spirited. I've been working on a lot of different writing projects, but I think, at least as of right this moment, that I want to set myself an impossible task: to write the entire first draft of the novel over the course of this summer.
I don't think I would have reached this point of clarity had all of you not commented on An Italian Lunch, both the initial version and this one as well.
And to Matt Dennison: you're right, a man wouldn't care about clothes or labels, stripped naked is, stripped naked.
And to JMC, if a writer is fun to read, then at least half the battle has been won! Thank you for such great praise.
i once wrote the first draft of a novel in three months, cherise--i know it can be done. i hope this works out for you--
i once wrote the first draft of a novel in three months, cherise--i know it can be done. i hope this works out for you--
I love this bit as it fits the Male POV: "Okay, none of that's true. As Filan, my therapist, would say, I am romanticizing reality. I could argue with Filan right now, about this moment, that my dream of being in that Talamone hotel room with Gabrielle naked on the bed is not about my romanticizing reality at all. It's about the reality I actually want". And this too: "All I kept thinking about as I walked up the stairs behind Gabrielle was fucking her. It's true. I just wanted to fuck her. Okay, not entirely true. I am using the work ‘fuck' to keep at bay my feelings. "
All the best with the novel, Cherise. fav
Expecting nothing, hoping for all. This reads beautifully and begs to be reread and savored.How much truer can food get?Gabrielle wants to order off the menu.She will go on to experience this biking trip on her own.My amex bill.Really good stuff here.
I'm going to play devil's advocate on this: I think Cherise is a great writer, and I love the piece but prefer version 1. I felt the sex got too explicit in the rewrite, and when that happens, the reader often tends to focus on the sex scenes to the exclusion of a lot of the other great parts of the story. So that's my two-cents worth. I'm not a prude, it didn't disturb me in the slightest but I felt it diminished the rest of the story somewhat. Of course it's Cherise's story, and certainly her call
Myra, thank you for reading and the fav too. Lots of male POV in the chapters thus far!
Darryl, thank you for your generous and wonderful comments. To have work be reread and savored, doesn't get much better than that!
Susan,
I so love you playing the devil's advocate! And, I greatly appreciate your two cents! What is interesting is that all the sex remained the same, from version to version, with one exception, the addition of the paragraph that begins "The only good things to emerge from my marriage..."
Play devil's advocate any time with my work and thank you for your wonderful words!
Is that right? Well I'll be damned! Somehow version 2 felt like it had more sex than the original. Or was it because I've read it twice and got twice as much sex! So just ignore what I wrote and do your thing. I'm sorry to be so dumb
Cherise, I like this revised version. As others have said, it’s tighter and leaner. I like the addition of the text about the album. For me, it provides more depth to the narrator and the situation in this story. Overall, this revision makes a great story even better!
I’m not entirely sure how the lyrics permission thing works but for me, this would be something I would worry about later. I would just keep writing using what you want to for now.
Christian, thank you for reading this version, so appreciated. It's longer but leaner. I learned about song lyrics from Ann Bogle.
"Fair Use" allows the use of other's words, so long as you use 200 words or less. In that case permission isn't required.
And for the fav, Christian!
Thank you Con Chapman for the separate comment about AMEX, and for the great fav.
Agree that this is much tighter, and I too would cut the lyrics down a bit--I'm a big fan of lyrics in prose, if it works, and it does here, but still think a bit less and it will be stronger. Otherwise, the additions and edits you've made have crafted this into an even tighter piece. Well done!
I hadn't read the original version so came at this one fresh. I was quickly captivated and the story held me throughout. Now I want to read more!
btw is the Tyrannian Sea the same as the Tyrrhenian Sea?
David, thank you for reading and your kind words. Very appreciated. And for the fav.
Yes, there is more, and working on more after that.
Yes, the same sea, I decided to go with the easier spelling.
Robert,
Thanks for reading this revision and liking the changes. I think for now I'll keep the lyrics as is, until I go through it all again.
I so appreciate the time and the comments!
Good. Tighter. I understand him better but am getting to a point where this could be caused by re-reads and thinking about the piece.
Liked the song lyrics. They fit.
Probably good for the novel; he is coming across to me as weak. Scattered, or at least ambivalent. I feel like he shouldn't have let himself get into the situation.
I should say I love the last line. I love the last line.
Never saw version one, but this does nicely. I admire the way you eave backstory and introspection throughout the lunch - seamless. And you def have the male voice down. Note the omitted question mark in first line of penultimate para. Goodluck on your summer novel writing quest. I once wrote a first draft in 4 months, then spend 3 years revising - it can be done! Hope to see more of this story -- it intrigues. Peace...
Larry, thanks for reading and so glad you love the last line.
Interesting comment on whether he's weak, scattered or ambivalent...
Thank you Linda for reading and your great comments. I debated whether to use question marks in that penultimate paragraph, and decided, for now, to leave them out. But it's something for me to think about.
I agree that this version is tighter than the last, which make for better reading.
Did you post the first four chapters? Do you plan to?
Matthew, thank you for reading this version and for the star. I left you a lengthy message on your wall about other parts of this project.
lovely work Cherise. Congratulations and cheers. Glad to have read this, and I did not get to #1 - but this is mighty nice. I agree with the song lyrics being shortened almost entirely. I like the way this piece makes me think about the power/balance in sex, well written work indeed.
Meg,
Thanks so much for finding and reading this piece of mine! I actually have already shortened the song lyrics down a lot in the chapter.
Yes, the power/balance of sex, grist for so so much!
OK Cherise I have finally gotten here this week and I am so glad to have read this version. By the way, I'm going to submit this comment before I even glance at anyone else's, because I want to write from my gut; then I'll see if anyone else had different views. Here goes...
It is trimmed and changed in subtle ways, but I think I like it better. A couple things that struck me with this read:
1) With Gabrielle, it feels like I know every crease, every spot...
that word "spot" stuck out for me, was not as smoothe as the others. Spots seem ugly -- is that what you meant? They are not sexy, or even sexual. It's a picky point, but I'd change it to something more fitting: every fold? every place? every... ? something other than spot, I think. Just an idea. If you stick with 'spot' the maybe expand it -- like describe the tiny freckle on her... that you adore (so we know it's a good spot, hehe).
2) I like the way the narrator reflects on the song and recalls hearing it the first time. I love the details there. I think it could be better without the lyrics in one block like that. I think it might work better if you wrote a few lines from Wicked Game (such a good song, I always loved that -- and the man's voice is enough to get you going!) sprinkled throughout that section -- that is, make them more a part of the text, not a blocked off thing on their own. Introduce a couple lines when he first thinks of them, then write a little more of his thoughts, then go again with a couple more lines. I they fit beautifully in the text, but a little tweaking would make them fit just right.
That's my 2c anyway. Take it or leave it. Love the rewrite, you take such care in your writing, and yet you make it look effortless. Lovely, this. Thanks for pointing me to it to have a second go! :)
OK, well I see I didn't overlap too much there on my comments. Maybe Gary hinted at what I saw too... just an idea about the lyrics -- I really do think it would do better to spread them out, make them part of the story, not like you are simply quoting Isaak in one block. Also: forgot to say, * as usual!!
Michelle,
Thanks for the terrific read of this! Yes, yes, you are absolutely right - spot is a stupid word, and I think the idea about twirling in the lyric lines is a really fine one. I will keep these comments and utilize them when I go back and revise that actual chapter! Thank you for your wonderful attention to detail. And for the fav! Next up for me of yours is X!
there’s a wonderful play and balance in this piece…the hotel fantasy brought to us linearly and then the double backing to reality, which is still elevated, literally, an intimate lunch date in a café above a cove, the open sea spreading beneath them, you clinch things for us about the man and his relationships…a language of distance even hyper control (ameliorates, encumbrance) bracing up against a burning to just dig in, dive into the glass. Terrific images of his conflict and isolation, and how one might “travel” in this world….the vulnerability of open toed shoes, off-menu ordering, and the way he frets over the reduction of a truly romantic moment to a credit card statement viewed in his office off limits to all but him.
Doug,
Thank you for your wonderful reading of this piece! It's always remarkable to hear/read what others take from a piece of work, to see if what I, as the writer, was trying to do came through.
Thank you!
interesting juxtaposition of wanting to be in a restaurant undivided, true, yet out with someone other than the wife.