“Ah, you have a story, then,”
She says in her most gentle voice.
“A story?” I ask. “I don’t understand what you mean by story.”
As she lights another cigarette and sips on her Prosecco,
She leans back with dreamy eyes and begins the tale of what in the end can only be described as a “story”. Her Persian accent modified by years of speaking Roman Italian, drifts across the table as we sit in one of her favorite cafes in Trastevere.
Her name means ocean in her native Persian and her mannerisms and way of speaking match it perfectly. I believe I could have listened to her philosophy on life and love forever, soothed by the gentle cadence of her voice. Her tale is actually comprised of many similar accounts, all of which could really be classified as “stories” in their own right. She married a wealthy Italian when she was in her early twenties. Never having lived in the same city, even after their marriage,
She and her husband have each written “stories” that keep them entertained and yet still in love with each other. Never have they sickened of each other; always they enjoy their time together whether it be at his vineyard in Tuscany, her flat in Rome, or some other location at which they have met for a holiday. It would seem she and her husband have become experts in “story writing.” They never discuss them with each other; stories are private matters understood to exist and remain private. They are briefly passionate affairs that serve both people involved and leave each better in some way for having written it.
“Are all such stories short-lived?” I ask her still somewhat confused.
“Ah, that is the mystery isn’t it.”
She replies. “Some stories take a lifetime to write. They are the best ones and the real ones! The ink goes on the page very quickly and intensely at first. Then the writing actually stops for months, years even. And yet, the book does not get closed and shelved; the final pages are not yet written. Strangely, just when you have almost completely forgotten that you still have this unfinished story or you believe it will remain incomplete, the ink suddenly gets splashed across the pages, again. It is as intense and quickly penned as the initial writing; it can stop just as abruptly too. But always, this true great story will be finished.”
Completely enthralled by the pure Italian romanticism of it all, I ask her “do you think my story is this true great story waiting to be finished, or just a regular old story to be shelved and dusted off for reminiscing?”
“You cannot see the depth of your eyes when you speak of him, bambina. It is THE STORY for you.”
“No, you must be mistaken. It cannot be THE story for me. The ending will never come; circumstances just will not permit it. I agree there was a time when it seemed like the pen might have been picked up and more ink added to the pages; but not now. Choices have been made; other people are involved. I think it ended and now sits on the shelf waiting to be occasionally taken down as che bella storia. Its beautiful to re-read, but certainly cannot be rewritten, changed, or added to.”
“Are you most certain of that, carissima?”
She says as she sheepishly smiles at me and orders another round of drinks.
No, I’m not certain of that, at least not anymore.
She, with those intense brown eyes and timeless sense of wisdom, has created a small seed of doubt. Maybe it is this place, these people, the language, the wine; maybe she is right; maybe . . .
“Bambina,”
She interrupts my thoughts, “do not look so pensive. You Americans need to learn to have your stories and allow them to write themselves. Sometimes they need a bit of encouragement; but mostly they just need to be allowed to flow from you and take shape on the page. This man, he is from home, no?”
“Well, in a way he is from home. I guess you could say we began writing our story when we were in school together, back home. Neither one of us live there any longer. In fact, we are a country, and right now 2 continents apart. In fact, I haven’t seen him in over a decade.”
“Of no consequence, mia cara. You come from the same place. You are of the same origin. You are home to each other. Capisci?”
At the risk of sounding dense, I question her, “Home to each other? What does this mean, home to each other?”
“You share a beginning; you introduced each other to love. Together, you each made a permanent home in the other’s heart,”
She says, as if this finally settles the matter.
Still not satisfied, I say “Yes, but everyone is introduced to love by someone. That doesn’t always mean that they remain home to each other and become each other’s great stories.”
“Si, vero, in some scenarios; but not yours. Look at how long you have known him, and how often you have been drawn to each other over the years. The distance and intervening circumstances do not matter. Even though you are here, living your dream to be in Italia, he is here with you, in your heart, home.” Still reading the doubt in my face she continues, “Bambina, we have a saying here, La casa è dove la tua storia ha inizio. It means, home is where your story begins. As you Americans are fond of saying, Home is where the heart is. If you are each other’s home, your story not only begins there; it remains there waiting for its final words.” Taking another sip of Prosecco and releasing cigarette smoke into the hot Roman night,
She has the final word on this topic. “No mia cara, you cannot read your own eyes. He is fortunate for having this place in your heart; his home. This is THE STORY and much remains to be written.”
