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India shaded her eyes from the late autumn sun and stopped in her tracks. Beads of water cascaded like diamonds from the Lincoln Center fountain splashing playfully onto the black marble rim. But it was not the shimmering droplets that had arrested her advance. No, it was the sight of a darkly handsome young man seated on the edge of the fountain.
There he was – a tall, almost gangly, olive- skinned man of about thirty-five, his longish straight black hair flopping carelessly onto his brow and creeping over the collar of his white linen shirt which he wore open at the neck to reveal a braided gold chain. Despite the glare, India focused on his eyes which were a close-set deep chocolate brown. Framing that unmistakable aquiline nose, they gave him the intent look of an Etruscan warrior just as his lips curled ever so faintly in an archaic smile.
This air of seductive mystery in and of itself might have riveted India, but in truth, it was not the beguiling and familiar mask which made her pause. No, it was the jaunty placement of the sitter's arm – draped nonchalantly around the shoulders of a well- muscled youth who leaned in against him, basking in the afternoon sun.
"Renzo?" she asked herself. "That couldn't be Renzo." The brilliance of the light was deceiving her. And before she could comfort herself with that thought, the pair got up and walked quickly away in the direction of the opera house.
India followed. She had a ticket for La Boh̬me that night. Will was out of town on business, but she had decided to go anyway. It was Pavarotti and Scotto Рby no means her favorite cast Рbut she had concluded that it was a more enjoyable way to pass the evening than waiting alone for her husband's return from California. As she swung through the revolving doors and merged into the crowd milling in the lobby, she caught another glimpse of the young men, but then their faces were lost in the maze.
Minutes later the ushers drew back the velvet ropes and the crowd surged in. India climbed the grand staircase to the balcony, scanning the crowds for another quick look. As the chimes sounded Mi chiamano Mimì, she reluctantly took her seat, resigned to the fact that her "sighting" of Renzo had been an apparition. So by the time the curtain did fall ecstatically on the first act duet, all traces of bittersweet memory had been erased from India's mind.
She had been hallucinating. Of course, it wasn't Renzo. Why would it be after almost a decade? Hadn't she heard that, after their breakup, he had moved away from New Jersey and headed to San Francisco to frame a new life? Surely, this intriguing, obviously involved couple had nothing to do with her old love. India shook her head and almost laughed aloud at her foolishness as she cued up at the bar to treat herself to a glass of champagne. Flute in hand, she dialed Will in California (it was only dinner time there), but his phone went directly to voice mail. She left a disappointed message and headed up the stairs to reclaim her seat.
As she rounded the turn from the Grand Tier to the Balcony, she came to an abrupt halt. There on the landing above her stood the Etruscan. This time he saw her as well. He was alone without the youth at the fountain. In the soft light of the crystalline sconces, he seemed older than before. His eyes were rimmed with crow's feet that turned down at the corners in a sad expression, and his hair seemed badly cut and tousled. There was a consciously bohemian air to his appearance, but there was no mistaking who it was. For an instant India's and Renzo's eyes locked. Neither spoke as
India forced herself to climb the stairs and silently slip by his motionless figure.
****
The day was dazzlingly bright, and India was impatient to get on the road, but her mother kept waylaying her with one admonition after another.
"IN-DI-A." She pronounced her daughter's name deliberately in a way that always made India cringe. Antoinette had been swept away by Passage to India when she was pregnant – one of the many sad flights of romantic fancy with which the poor woman who had never left West New York, New Jersey, indulged herself. Now she said it with all the emphasis of a dowager queen addressing a wayward princess.
"India, be very careful. It's a rented car, and your father can't afford an accident on his insurance."
"Yes, Mother."
"And be home no later than midnight. I can't wait up all night."
"You don't have to, Mother." Antoinette merely snorted.
India made it to the front door with her beach bag in hand. "Yes, Mother."
"And be sure that your body makeup doesn't run."
India groaned. Her mother had insisted that if she was going to wear a bikini, she must cover her "imperfections." India fully intended to shower away the sticky beige cream in the locker room before donning her swimsuit.
"Uh-huh," India muttered. "See you," she added, closing the door hastily behind her. It was only after she had turned the key in the ignition, put on a tape of Franco Corelli, and pulled out of the driveway a little too emphatically that she breathed a sigh of relief. She had managed to escape, and she was on her way to the Jersey Shore to spend the day with Renzo.
Her heart throbbed with excitement. For the past year she and Renzo had dated every Saturday night – mostly in New York City where Renzo loved to play the sophisticate, introducing India to restaurants, theatres, and amusements she had never experienced. They ate at Sardi's and had cocktails at the Playboy Club. They swooned over Corelli and Tebaldi at the Met and sat in orchestra seats for Cabaret. This, however, would be the first time they would spend the entire day together, completely alone, on Renzo's home turf.
India's beau had graduated as a chemist and fled the paternal nest, choosing a cozy shore cottage in Leonardo to create his bachelor pad. Until today, he had been almost secretive about it, so when he did ask India to visit him, she felt the significance of the gesture, and she attached to it great romantic expectations.
For, in truth, India Bertolini was in love with Lorenzo Almansi – deeply in love, her first serious adult romance. And all the stars seemed to be perfectly aligned for this fairy tale. After all, both she and Renzo were of Italian parentage, but more than simply Italian. Indeed, they were Sicilian – which, in fact, Antoinette would proudly emphasize was an entirely different breed. They were Catholic – well, their families were more than they – but they both understood the context that had at once shaped them and repelled them. Renzo, the youngest of nine children, had a twin sister who was a Dominican nun, and he himself had flirted with the seminary before opting for a master's degree in something far more empirical. Though he made his living among test tubes and petri dishes, Renzo had the soul of a poet. It was his secret longing for a bohemian existence that drew him to India, an art major at Sarah Lawrence, whose dream had been to flee to a Paris garret upon her graduation.
Since meeting Renzo, that desire had begun to wane. Instead of yearning for a view of Sacre Coeur, she began to wish for a modest Upper West Side flat where she and Renzo could live, love, work, and, yes, marry and eventually raise a family. Indeed, with each passing month as their relationship intensified, India felt her desire for la vie boh̬me slip stealthily away, surreptiously replaced by more quotidian ambitions. And she did not mind. Renzo was the one Рthe great love Рfor whom she would happily give up everything!
So it seemed to India as her little white '66 VW zipped down the Garden State Parkway, and she drew closer to the Keyport exit that today would bring her closer than ever to realizing this dream.
She pulled into the driveway of the tiny cottage and walked up the sandy path redolent with lilacs. Before she could ring the bell, Renzo opened the door and leaned over to kiss her on both cheeks – one of his many European mannerisms that charmed India.
"You look lovely, as always. I'll get my bag, and we'll go," Renzo said, leaving her standing in the foyer. Returning with a small duffle, he shepherded her toward his red Beetle and opened the passenger door for her. He had the top down, and as they pulled onto Route 36, the breeze whipped through her hair and drowned out their conversation.
So much for the careful coiffure her mother had helped her style. India smiled to herself behind her shades and put her head on Renzo's shoulder. She was content not to speak; just to be close to him was blissfully liberating. The majestic scenery of the Atlantic Highlands flashed by. They crossed the causeway toward Sandy Hook, and it wasn't long before Renzo let the Beetle skitter to a stop behind the tall dunes near the bath house.
"See you in a few minutes," he said as he headed to the men's changing rooms.
"It's going to take me bit longer to get this makeup off," India thought to herself. But when she did emerge some ten minutes later, having showered and peeled herself into her skimpy black bikini, there was no sign of Renzo. She shielded her eyes and scanned the beach, but there was no hint of him. The Beetle was where they had left it.
Hopping impatiently from one foot to another, India, who found any kind of waiting a torture, tried to quiet the litany of fears which automatically sprang to mind. After another five minutes had passed, an older gentleman left the men's locker room. India hesitated and then approached him.
Apologizing, she asked if he had seen her boyfriend in there.
"Yeah, I think there was a guy in the other stall."
"Was he OK?"
"Don't know, lady," he retorted, heading off toward the beach before India could importune him further.
India felt the familiar maelstrom of panic rise in her throat, and hot tears stung her eyes. As she was debating her next step, Renzo appeared, and India hastily turned away, wiped her eyes and forced a brave smile.
"Sorry, honey. You won't believe this but I couldn't figure this suit out." He gestured at the small pair of zebra-striped bathing trunks with a wraparound front panel that tied at the waist like a mini-sarong. "They're supposed to be the latest in Milano. I saw them in L'Uomo last month and ordered, but they are a devil to get into." He grinned ingenuously. "Do you like the suit?"
India nodded speechlessly. As a rule she liked everything about Renzo, but the bathing costume was a little over the top.
"You look terrific," he said before she could recover. They walked down the beach and set up their blanket and umbrella as far away from other sunbathers as possible.
"Race you," Renzo challenged and headed off into the surf. By the time India caught up and put her toes tentatively in the freezing brine, Renzo was out beyond the breakers swimming parallel to the rolling whitecaps. India slowly waded out up to her waist, grimacing each time the swells splashed her. She waved at Renzo who saw her heading back to the beach. Diving through a breaker, he stood up facing her and shook himself off like a shaggy puppy.
Bending down, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her out past the surf. She threw her arms around his neck and hung on for dear life. India did not swim particularly well, but she hesitated to show her terror. Instead, she pressed her cheek against Renzo's and closed her eyes. She felt his soft and salty lips cover hers, and she gave in to the blissful sensation of floating in his arms.
Back on the blanket she smoothed coconut- scented oil onto his shoulder blades, letting her arms slip around his neck and down onto his firm, olive-toned chest, lightly tracing a path through the tufts of dark, curly hair. Renzo's strong hands closed over her tiny ones and gave them a little squeeze, before he disengaged himself.
She sighed slightly and settled down next to him. They lay staring at the cloudless blue sky punctuated by arpeggios of soaring gulls. The heat lulled them into drowsiness and like a magnetic current drew their bodies closer. All at once, India felt Renzo turn onto his side and then lean over her and claim a lingering kiss. In the heat of the day and the blaze of her passion, she simply let herself go. It was Renzo who ultimately checked himself, planting a sweet peck on the top of her nose.
"It's late. We should get back. I made dinner reservations for us at Buona Sera. My brother Hugo and his wife are joining us."
Renzo was already packing up the blanket and umbrella so he did not have the time to notice the look of disappointment which had crossed India's face.
****
India adjusted the spaghetti straps of her slim orange linen sheath and surveyed herself in the full- length mirror. She piled her dark curls up on her head casually and fastened them with a barrette. She liked what she saw and hoped Renzo did, too. He had been chivalrous in insisting that she change in his bedroom while he used the small bathroom down the hall.
Before she stepped out, she couldn't resist peeking in Renzo's closet. There hung in perfect order a row of sleek, dark-colored suits all impeccably tailored in the European mode. Next to them were the requisite selection of long-sleeved shirts – mostly white cotton, but a few pastel silks as well. She ran her hands over the shoulders and down the lapels of one particularly fine navy jacket. The light worsted had a sensuous feel, and impetuously she wrapped the sleeves around her waist and leaned into the imaginary model. A knock on the door made her close the closet with guilty haste, grab her purse, and, donning a cheerful face, join the waiting Renzo.
Buona Sera was already crowded when she made her entrance on Renzo's arm. The maître d' took them directly to a prime table in a candlelit corner where Hugo and Maryann were sipping cocktails. Hugo, an older, grayer, stouter version of Renzo, stood up and greeted them warmly. A round of quick introductions was followed by Renzo's order of two champagne cocktails for India and himself, some brief chitchat, and then an escape into the menus.
"Let's have the lobster thermador," Renzo proposed to India. "It's the specialty." India looked
a little hesitantly at the price, but she nodded in assent as Renzo whispered, "It's a celebration."
"Yes, indeed," Hugo chimed in. "Maryann and I have been so eager to meet you. My brother never stops talking about you."
"All good, I hope," India quipped, shifting a little nervously on her banquette.
"What else?" Hugo replied a little too loudly. "We Almansis have excellent taste in women."
India smiled awkwardly and lowered her eyes to her lap. She relaxed only when she felt Renzo's hand steal under the table and settle gently on her knee. Their eyes met, and she sucked in a breath of relief.
The dinner hour went better than she had expected. Hugo dominated the conversation, regaling India with stories about his five children, his construction business, his motorboat, and the pleasures of living at the Jersey Shore. Renzo seemed content to let his oldest sibling hold forth exuberantly, to savor his lobster and champagne, and to drape his arm affectionately around India's waist.
After tiramisù and brandies were served, the foursome got up to dance. It was a cha-cha which both India and Renzo attacked with an Arthur Murray diligence, but little real abandon. As the band segued into a slow fox trot, she smiled. "That's more like it!" As she settled into Renzo's arms, she felt a tap on her shoulder, and Hugo cut in on his brother.
"You don't mind, do you, brother? I want to dance with your pretty lady." India smiled wanly as Renzo obligingly switched partners. For all his bulk Hugo was a surprisingly athletic and engaging dancer. He gracefully maneuvered India away from Maryann and Renzo, and holding her at a tasteful arm's length, launched into the monologue he had been preparing all evening.
"Renzo is crazy about you, and I can see why. We were getting worried about him, you know?" India's eyes were quizzical, but she remained silent. "I mean he is already twenty-six and has not had a serious romance until now," Hugo rebounded. Still India remained mute. 'You're the perfect girl for him, and I can see that. You're Sicilian, and you're smart and beautiful." He flashed the contagious Almansi smile. "He'll have our family's blessing. My dad is already seventy, and he wants to see all his kids settled, you know, with great wives and houses and children. You want children, don't you?" he blurted out, suddenly holding India away from him.
India seemed stunned, but she managed to stammer, "Well, yes, of course, eventually. I'm still in college."
"Yes, I know," Hugo lowered his voice and pulled India closer so that he could launch the next salvo directly into her ear. "And that's what I wanted to say to you. I know you're brilliant. Renzo says so, and, of course, you'll want to get that degree, but maybe you should consider taking a little break. You could always go back to it after you're married – after you've had a baby or two."
His eyes searched India's, which flooded with confusion. "I'm just saying, honey, that I think Renzo is ready to propose, and knowing my brother, he won't ask twice. You get my meaning?" he asked imperatively.
India simply nodded, dumbfounded. "It's taken a long time for him to be ready to take the plunge," Hugo whispered. "Don't let this chance slip away – for both of you," he added conspiratorially.
He escorted India back to the table where Maryann and Renzo also appeared to be sharing secrets. Without sitting, Hugo addressed his wife. "Let's go, baby. It's late, and I have to go visit a job site early tomorrow morning. We'll leave these two lovebirds alone."
Continental kisses were exchanged, and Renzo accompanied his brother and sister-in-law to the door where they paused for a minute. India watched them exchange a few private comments before Renzo turned back, stopping first at the bandstand to make a request. As he reached the table, the musicians had already struck up Moon River, and he swept India to her feet and waltzed her out to the dance floor. The lights were low; Hugo was gone, and India suddenly felt a surge of emotion. She melted into Renzo's arms and did not resist as he pressed his hips against hers and his lips onto her bare shoulders.
****
"A perfect evening," Renzo pronounced as he handed India a gold-rimmed porcelain cup of perfect espresso. They had returned to the house ostensibly for India to get her things. She sat on the sofa, and Renzo plopped down beside her. She kept her eyes focused intently on the dark roast and sipped slowly. She did not dare engage Renzo's glance, though she desperately wanted to. She knew if she did, he would read the storm of questions in hers. She felt him settle himself back on the cushions and drape his arm languidly across the back of the sofa. She checked the urge to lean back against his chest. That would be too forward; it was Renzo's move to make. And for what seemed an eternity as India stared into her empty cup, Renzo remained still and silent.
"I should go," she said without conviction and set down her cup. Before she could hoist herself to her feet, however, she felt Renzo's arms encircle her and push her back into the soft cushions. His lips hungrily found hers, then her forehead, then her eyes, her throat, and her cleavage. He paused and looked her deep in the eyes, searching for permission, for some answer perhaps. India closed hers and threw her head back, breathing deeply. As if this was the sign he awaited, Renzo's slender fingers gently slipped the spaghetti straps of her bodice down over her shoulders, and with a graceful arching of his body, covered India's with his.
How long their embraces lasted India could not later remember. It seemed they were two bodies suspended in space, two beings transported in time. So, when India suddenly heard Renzo's voice, sounding strangely choked, she was confused. Where was she? What was happening? Why was Renzo standing above her hastily buttoning his shirt and extending a hand to help her up.
"You should go," he said weakly. "It's either that or you'll have to sleep in the bathtub and lock the door," he said in an attempt to recover his poise.
India accepted his proffered hand and sat up slowly. She adjusted her dress and swept up her hair that had come cascading around her shoulders. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet, brushed past Renzo, and gathering her purse, headed blindly for the door. Renzo intercepted her and planted a conciliatory kiss on her forehead.
"Drive safely and call me when you get home. I'll wait up." She managed a nod.
Once in the car she gunned the engine and headed down the dirt beach road toward Route 36. By the time she reached the macadam, the tears had morphed into uncontrollable sobs.
What had gone wrong? Why didn't he see how much she loved him – how much she wanted him – how sure she was that it was OK. Even God would forgive them; they were in love, after all, and they would marry. They could marry now if that's what Renzo wanted. She didn't care what her parents would say. If Renzo wanted her, she would be his. Isn't that what Hugo had been trying to tell her?
"This is all my fault," she thought, and her sobs redoubled. She had been so cautious this whole year – the little Italian Catholic girl protecting her virginity, and then tonight she had startled him with her receptivity. It was only natural that, after a year of gentlemanly controlled passion, Renzo felt guilty for his advances. Oh, why couldn't she make him understand how much she loved him, how much she was ready to throw all those conventions to the wind – how nothing else mattered.
As the last words echoed in her ears and pounded behind her aching eyeballs, India swerved to the left and, rather than heading north, chose the Parkway South. It was only a few minutes before she realized her error. She had executed the cloverleaf and was pointed toward the Keyport/Leonardo exit. Feeling all her resistance and self-control melt away, she slowed through the tolls and pulled over to the bank of phone booths on the right. She stumbled out of the car and automatically dialed Renzo's number.
"Sweetheart, you can't be home already," he answered on the first ring. "Are you OK?" he bleated into the phone, and as she dissolved into loud sobs, he did not even wait for an affirmative. "Where are you?" he shouted, and waiting only for a single exit number, blurted out, "Stay there. I'll come get you."
****
Still weeping, India had slumped over the wheel of her car when Renzo's Beetle flashed his lights and pulled into the space beside hers. She squinted into the headlights and wiped her red, swollen eyes. Unsteadily, she got out of the front seat and threw herself on Renzo's neck, burying her face on his shoulder. Without a word, he removed his jacket and placed it around her shoulders and started to lead her back to her car. He seemed strangely quiet. India balked and stood still in her tracks; her terror stricken eyes implored him.
"Come on," he said, taking her by the elbow and opening the driver's door for her.
"What are we doing?" she moaned.
"I called your mother. You're going to follow me to your house," he said firmly.
"No!" she protested, "I can't drive. It's too late. Let me come back with you."
"If you do, you know what will happen," Renzo said in a resigned monotone.
"I can sleep in the tub –" She raised her voice hysterically.
"No, you can't."
"Really, I can if that's what you want. I don't mind. I just don't want to go home. Not tonight . . "
Renzo wheeled around and placed his hands on her shoulders. He lifted her chin until their eyes met, and he said calmly, "We can't, India."
Renzo drove cautiously through the rain, constantly checking his rearview mirror for India's car. The Parkway exits flashed by, but India did not count them. She abandoned herself to following Renzo with a numb resolve. "Best not to think – just drive – just get home," she told herself. "We'll fix everything tomorrow."
Every light in the tiny Tudor house was ablaze as the two cars pulled into the driveway. Antoinette flung open the front door usually reserved only for company and, with exaggerated relief, welcomed in the prodigal pair. Despite the fact that it was now 1:30 in the morning, the parlor coffee table was set with coffee service and biscotti, white linen napkins and the matriarchal silver, as if Antoinette was accustomed to receiving "gentlemen callers" at this hour. Her insistent look told Renzo not to refuse. He sat tentatively on the edge of the blue damask sofa. India collapsed beside him, suddenly mortified.
"Please eat something, Renzo, and I'll go fix up the spare room for you. You can leave after breakfast," Antoinette offered in a tone that was really a command.
"No, Mrs. Bertolini, thanks. I can't. My family is expecting me early tomorrow morning. I just wanted to make sure India got home safely. It was my fault she was late."
Antoinette nodded and withdrew. "I'll leave you two to your coffee then."
India simply hung her head. Renzo waited until the dowager dragon was gone and then stood up.
"I'm going now, India," he said gently.
India rose and walked him into the foyer. She tilted her head expectantly. He hesitated a second and then planted a tender kiss on her cheek. The door closed behind him before she could utter another word.
India never saw him again – not until that autumn night a lifetime later.
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