A Summer In Europe (18 page)

She took a breath, swiveled to face Cynthia and smiled. “So, tell me about yourself. How did you get to know everyone here?”

The next morning at breakfast, by the coffee bar, Thoreau murmured, “Delightful chess match, Gwen. Well played.”

Gwen blinked at him. “What are you talking about? I haven’t played anyone in chess.”

He raised both brows at that. “To me, it looked like white pawn to e4 in a covered attack against the black queen at d5, threatening her into backing away from the center squares so you could cleverly capture the black knight at f5.” He crossed his arms and regarded her smugly. “Thank you for letting me assist last night, if only as a poor white bishop on g2.”

She pretended innocence at his insinuation. “I don’t really know how to play the game.”

He laughed. “Bollocks. I’m impressed. If you’re not formally trained, then you’re an intuitive player and far better than you think. Not sure my brother stands a chance against you in a live chess match—although I doubt he knows it yet.”

She shook her head. Sure, she’d used a
strategy
of sorts, but it wasn’t quite as calculated as Thoreau seemed to suggest. “I just asked a few questions. I was trying to be ... conversational.”

“You asked Cynthia enough questions to make her think she was the cover story in the next issue of
People
. And it was a very clever opening move because she liked the attention. Quite a lot. Your interest caught her off guard and it distracted her from noticing she’d lost her controlling position in the center of the board.”

He glanced around the room. The Britsicles were chatting in a far corner. Louisa glanced over at them and raised her hand in a wave. Cynthia looked, too, and actually smiled at Gwen.

He lowered his voice further. “Plus, you may have even made a couple of new friends.” He grinned. “Let me know if you ever want to learn the board-game version, Gwen. It would be great fun to teach you. A few more moves like that and you’ll find yourself at the backline becoming a new white queen.” With a parting nod and a cup of Italian espresso he was gone.

She knew enough about chess to understand what he’d meant about the pieces and the positions, but his analogy had her worrying her bottom lip, not at all certain if she should be flattered or insulted that he considered her such a crafty pawn, even if it were just for the duration of one game. She couldn’t help but feel the powerlessness of her position. Interesting, too, that he tagged himself as a bishop—an adviser of sorts on her team—and Emerson as a dashing knight on the
other
team that’d gotten cornered between her and Cynthia (the overly attentive yet easily sidetracked queen). Thoreau hadn’t bothered to give Louisa a position. Perhaps he considered her irrelevant in the chess match.

But if Gwen thought she’d finished with all game-playing exercises for the day, she was mistaken.

It was the Fourth of July and, at long last, she received her first e-mail from Richard that morning:

Dear Gwendolyn,

Sorry I wasn’t able to respond sooner. My home computer got a virus, so I haven’t been using it. And at work the server was down this week, and I couldn’t access my e-mail until it was fixed. Glad to hear you’re having fun in Italy, though. I’ll be thinking of you when I’m at the picnic.

Richard

Just “Richard.” Not “Love, Richard,” “Fondly, Richard,” “Yours, Richard” or even his most formal “Sincerely, Richard.” He pretty clearly was still upset with her for leaving.

And then, of course, there was the mention of the company picnic. She could have been spending the day in ninty-degree Iowan humidity, eating charred hotdogs, drinking sugary lemonade, picking at a scoop of heavy, mayonnaise-covered potato salad and, maybe, if she was lucky, getting a cherry snow cone for dessert ... or she could be walking onto an air-conditioned tour bus headed to the Italian Lake District via the Leaning Tower of Pisa, with wine, pasta and gelato waiting for her.

Even with the matchmaking antics of the elderly tour members, the mystifying behavior of her British companions and her own feeble attempts at social stratagems, it didn’t seem much of a contest, did it?

Upon arriving in Pisa, Davis, Dr. Louie, Kamesh and Ani immediately began debating the Leaning Tower’s degree of tilt from the ninety-degree perpendicular.

“It looks to be about a five-degree angle,” Dr. Louie guesstimated.

Davis whipped out his pocket protractor—yes, he actually had one!—and held it up so he could gauge the correct angle from a distance.

“We learned in school that it was a little less than four degrees,” Ani said.

“Used to be five and a half back in the seventies,” his father contributed. “But they did all those renovations in the nineties to stabilize it, and they straightened it by eighteen inches.”

“Ja,”
Hans-Josef said, overhearing them. “It now leans three point nine meters to the southwest from where it would be if it were perfectly vertical, and it stands about fifty-six meters high. Who wants to go up to the top?”

Emerson shot her a mischievous glance and mouthed, “More stairs.”

There were 294 steps on one side and 296 on the other, to be precise. She smiled back at him but waved him off. She didn’t feel like racing against anyone that day, not even herself. Instead, she hung around the grassy square, strolling past Pisa’s Cathedral and the Baptistery, drinking in the site of the famous landmark and the sunshine.

And she observed.

She watched and, yes, eavesdropped on two married couples this time—Connie Sue and Alex, Sally and Peter—as they sat on a shady bench on the edges of the square and discussed the date the tower was built, who was in political and religious power at the time, what the history surrounding the construction and reconstruction was like and so on. Aside from their professed delight in finally seeing such wonders in person, there was also a constant search for meaning within the numbers and patterns that made Gwen pause.

“It took 177 years to build in 3 stages and work was first begun in 1173 ... all 1’s, 3’s and 7’s!” Sally exclaimed.

“And the same pope, Alexander III, that led the Church when they were breaking ground on the Leaning Tower
also
laid the foundation stone for Notre Dame in Paris,” Alex added enthusiastically.

On one level, Gwen found it funny—this incessant DaVinci Coding of Europe—but it also made her wonder what the point was of all the analysis. Like a game of sudoku, wasn’t the puzzle merely an intellectual exercise? Even if a pattern could be found based on the scant clues given, it wasn’t as though it was the cornerstone to anything important ... to any profound truth ... was it? To Gwen, it all felt like conjecture without hope of an answer key.

She listened to them a bit longer. The honeymooners were a jovial but disorganized pair. Sally professed that she’d wanted to take this trip for so long, but was overwhelmed by it, too.

“There’s so much to remember. Medications. Glasses. Dietary restrictions,” Sally confided to her friends. “Peter and I wouldn’t have had to deal with all of this if we’d been able to go on our honeymoon forty years ago when we were young and full of vigor.”

“Ah, love,” Peter said, cupping his wife’s hand in his. “You know I’m as vigorous as ever when it comes to you.”

Connie Sue squealed like an excited teen and pretended to fan herself. “Why, Sally, honey, I do believe you’ve got a romantic one on your hands.”

“It’s gonna be a hot time in the old
loggia
tonight,” Alex predicted.

The foursome laughed and broke open a package of big vanilla Rondo biscuits and a bottle of sparkling water to share.

In overhearing their discussion, Gwen was reminded of how she’d been taking youth for granted. Not just in Europe, but over the past several years. She worked hard to stay healthy, yes, and from a medical standpoint, her persistent fear of death was groundless (though accidents
did
happen). She reminded herself to take time to appreciate that she didn’t need any prescription drugs or have to impose any physical or dietary limitations on anything she did. At least not yet.

She sent a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens and was about to walk on when that British man, Colin, all but leaped in her path. Well, inasmuch as an eighty-one-year-old man could leap.

“If y-you p-please, stay th-there,” he stuttered, holding up his camera. “It’s l-l-lovely like that.” He motioned behind her and, when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the Leaning Tower positioned just off to her left with only the grassy park and a cluster of colorful tourists separating them.

“You want me to be in your picture?” Gwen asked.

He nodded and clicked a few shots with unsteady hands.

Gwen was confused. “But why don’t I take one of you, instead?” She stepped toward him, but the man winced and pulled the camera close to his chest.

“No, no ...” he mumbled.

“I’ll be very careful with your camera,” she said, thinking this must be his concern. “I just thought you’d want to have a picture of
you
with the Leaning Tower.”

Colin looked up at her, the clouds in his eyes clearing a little. “Maybe that would be a good thing, but—but—I don’t know right now.”

Something was definitely off with this guy. He didn’t seem dangerous, but he sure was behaving strangely.

Gwen took a step back. “Well, okay. If you change your mind then I’ll—”

“There you are!” Aunt Bea said, coming up unexpectedly from a side walkway.

“You were looking for me?” Gwen asked her, surprised since she’d told her aunt not more than a half hour ago that she’d intended to wander around independently.

“No, dear. For Colin.” Bea strode over to him, stood close and smiled warmly. “Are you feeling well?” she whispered.

He looked unsure.

Aunt Bea murmured a few things to him Gwen couldn’t hear, then turned to her and said, “Gwennie, I’d like to introduce you to my friend Colin Pickering.” Then, to the older man, “Colin, this is my niece, Gwendolyn Reese.”

He laughed and carefully held out his hand to shake Gwen’s. “That rhymes.”

Aunt Bea patted him on the shoulder like she might a young child. “It does.”

Gwen shook Colin’s hand but glanced at her aunt in curiosity. What was going on here? They’d already been introduced twice before. She could understand, perhaps, why he might forget the first time. But the second as well? What was wrong with her that she was so unmemorable?

Her aunt managed to convince the man to let Gwen take their picture together in front of the Leaning Tower. “You ought to be in a few shots yourself, Colin,” Bea said lightly, her wiry arms pulling him tight beside her.

He gave a rueful chuckle. “I’m not at all sure I want to remember myself.”

Nevertheless, he let Gwen snap a couple of quick photos. Then, he and her aunt wandered off together as Gwen watched and, perhaps, began to understand.

She was reminded of a conversation she’d had with Aunt Bea about her late uncle Freddy during those dark months after Gwen’s father died. Bea had said she was sad to have lost her husband, but that their memories lasted forever. “I’ll always have those youthful adventures to remember when I’m old and gray.”

Gwen had looked at her aunt and smiled. To her young mind, Aunt Bea had been old and gray for over a decade, but she’d always seemed so capable. For Bea, there seemed to be nothing uncertain about the power of love and the lifelong allure of fond memories. She had a storehouse of both. But what if the ability to remember began to deteriorate? What if a person could no longer draw upon that power?

Gwen gazed across the grassy expanse of lawn, suddenly aware of how fervently everyone around her was trying to
live:

Sally and Peter with their long-awaited honeymoon.

Colin with his incessant picture taking, whatever its meaning for him.

A bunch of tour members with their attempt to experience Europe through better math equations.

Her aunt with her reliving the kind of adventure she’d once had with her husband.

Gwen caught sight of the British-Indian father/son duo—Kamesh trying to ease his son through this coming-of-age experience on his way toward manhood. But it was also interesting, Gwen noticed, watching the alacrity with which Ani helped his father adjust their digital flip camera. The way the youngest among them was far from useless, even if he was inexperienced.

Everyone
had value. Perhaps she, too, was capable of doing more than she’d done. Perhaps she, too, could share her skills, test her limits and take a leap into the unknown. Challenge herself more than she had thus far. Her resolve was only underscored by the next conversation she eavesdropped into—this time between Zenia and Hester.

“Look at the way it’s stacked,” Zenia said, pointing at the Leaning Tower. “Like an eight-layer wedding cake.”

“The plastic bride and groom would fall right off and crack their heads with a cake like that,” Hester observed. “I wonder how many of them skinny columns there are goin’ ’round the tower.”

“Don’t know.” Zenia studied the structure silently for a moment. “But that pattern they form with the arches would be real pretty in a knit vest or scarf.” She pulled a pen and a piece of creased paper out of her fanny pack and began sketching a few design elements.

Hester admired Zenia’s artistry, but then returned to staring at the tower. “I bet’cha there could be some exciting chase scene up there,” she told her younger friend. “It’d be perfect for a thriller. Like a J. D. Robb novel.” She elbowed Zenia and then stabbed the air in the direction of the famous building. “Just think about it. All those floors with bad guys running up the stairs, out on the balconies, around in a circle. They’d get to the top and have a battle to the death.” She snapped her fingers. “It could be a wedding party. On the Leaning Tower wedding cake! And someone would fall off and crack their foolish little head open... .”