Finding Jim (30 page)

I am the odd person out in our group of 11. Yvonne and Mario, a middle-aged Canadian couple sitting beside me, ask me about my life. Each question evokes painful answers.

“Do you have kids?”

“Are you married?”

“No. My husband was killed in an avalanche four years ago.” The American woman seated across from me looks uncomfortable and turns away to begin another conversation.

There is a short silence as Mario and Yvonne glance at each other before Yvonne says, “I'm sorry. What happened?”

My lips and heart loosen with wine. Jim is a part of me. My wound is a part of me. I am a 37-year-old widow. I adored my husband. I would like someone to love again. I tell them about Jim's accident and their eyes look sad, but they don't change the subject.

I stumble to bed well after midnight, feeling lighter.

The next morning, the sun rises fiery red. The birds form a symphony of melodic whistles to ease me into the day. I stick my tongue out at the mirror. Purple. Too much wine last night. At the breakfast table, Sylvano says that today we learn the feel of cooking, which means no recipes. My face stretches into a smile to stop any quivering. How will I remember everything without a recipe? How will I know the right way to do it? I like to have a plan so that I can avoid mistakes. No recipe? It's like going into the wilderness without a map and compass.

The cooking school runs for 10 days. The stainless-steel kitchen is about nine metres long, with individual learning stations, and pots of every size hang from the ceiling. Margareta, our teacher, instructs with a shy smile. “You don't use a garlic press because you will bruise the garlic. You must chop it.” A younger woman translates while the eight of us scribble notes. Throughout the demonstrations, Margareta handles the tomatoes, chicken and fresh rosemary the size of a branch as if they are precious heirlooms.

I squish egg, flour and salt together with my bare hands to make pasta dough, roll it out and feed it through a machine to create spaghetti and tortellini. My confidence builds as I learn. After morning class, our creations are served to us for lunch on three round tables sparkling with cutlery, crystal and china in the courtyard. The open-air living suits my soul. A lemon tree climbs the wall above the brick pizza oven, mingling its tartness with the sweet smell of plump roses. I chew the spaghetti Bolognese slowly. The chicken legs stuffed with ricotta cheese, rosemary and new potatoes inspire me to close my eyes. The ratatouille melts on my tongue. Like sentinels lined up in front of me, four wine glasses of varying size reflect golds, yellows and reds meant to accompany each taste sensation. For dessert, pears float in Prosecco, Italian champagne. I roll away from the table, swim a few laps in the pool before our afternoon excursion and wonder how I am going to eat dinner.

And so the days go. Wake up. Eat breakfast. Go to class. Eat lunch. Go on an excursion. Eat dinner until midnight. Go to bed. I realize that I do not think of Jim, or death, or grief when I cook. I am alone and I am fine. Jim is in my heart. I listen to my heart.

Every day I learn to prepare and enjoy delicious food. I learn there's no such thing as extra-virgin olive oil. It's either virgin or it's not. I work the flavours around in my mouth and taste the butter, cheese and fresh herbs. My clothes cling to my curves. I let go to the pleasure of feeding my hunger.

In Siena I marvel at the domes, arches and tile mosaic floors of the Duomo, which was begun in the 13th century and took three hundred years to complete. I climb the narrow marble staircase of the tower, Il Torre, to get a bird's eye view of the cobblestone road that circles the main piazza. In front of Il Palazzo Pubblico, the town hall, the Piazza del Campo serves as a slippery racetrack twice a year to those bold riders and horses competing in Il Palio. The different neighbourhoods of the city prepare jockeys all year for the races, and the names of the competing horses are drawn just days before each event. It takes several hours to settle them at the start line. In one and a half minutes, they race three laps around the square, negotiating 90° turns downhill. Horses and riders have died.

It seems nuts, but then most people consider rock climbing and mountaineering to be crazy, risk-taking stuff. I'll bet more horseback riders in Il Palio have died than rock climbers. I'm not so sure about mountaineers. I have a hard time picturing myself careening around the slippery racetrack with hundreds of other riders to contend with. The system seems overloaded. Rock climbing and mountaineering feel more comfortable.

In Florence I sit for two hours on a stone bench staring at Michelangelo's statue of David. Over five metres of smooth, rippling, white-marble muscle. David is meditative, almost worried-looking with a furrowed brow. His slingshot is over his shoulder, partly hidden, and the rock he holds in his hand is out of view. Such a strong being exuding such humility. David's characteristics remind me of Jim, of my unified goal of living with an open heart, of what's important in life. I want to run my hands all over his naked body to absorb his strength.

On the last day of school, I feel weary, melancholy and indecisive. For eight days I have fed myself well. I feel full and empty at the same time. I want to feel good like I did when Jim was alive. But feeling full does not get rid of the pain. I do not need to eat so much. I want to make the smallest footprint possible and use only what I need. Indulge once in awhile, but moderation is important and moderation takes discipline. This is who I am. I hug Yvonne and Mario goodbye and am grateful that I have learned to love food again.

I board a slow train bound for Rome on phase two of project Do What's Good for Sue. For €100 a taxi driver takes me the remaining 120 kilometres east of Rome to the small village of Anversa degli Abruzzi, in the Sagittario River valley. The driver drops me as close as he can to the address I give him, and I stumble down the steep, cobbled alleyways lit by old London-style lanterns. Ovid, the Roman poet, resided here, and it feels as if I am stepping into a medieval play. One hundred people live in the village, and the ones I see at the main piazza outside the only bar return my greeting, “
Buon giorno
.” There is no trace of tourists.

Patricia, the art teacher, meets me at my apartment wearing jeans, and I study her auburn hair as she leads me around my new home as if it is her own. In my bedroom there is nowhere to hang clothes, the bed sucks my body in like quicksand, the plaster is cracked and I wear a sweater to keep warm. This is no Villa Delia. But the view from the creaky window plummets to the valley floor and then climbs like a fighter jet straight up the mountainside. My roommate, Laurie, is an upbeat 27-year-old “corporate consultant in transition” from New York. The other three American participants cancelled because they did not want to travel, given the war in Iraq.

The first day of class, Laurie and I walk five minutes to the studio, on a path that hangs on the side of the hill. An arched, wooden double door opens into the first floor of the studio, where the cement floor is splattered with different colours of paint. A kitchen lines one side of the room and shelves of art supplies range the other. Rosa, a middle-aged Italian with a ponytail of long grey hair, wearing a stained apron covering an ample stomach, turns from the stove. “
Buon giorno
. I, Rosa, the cook.” She waves a wooden spoon in the air and returns to her cooking. Patricia and her younger friend Katie, a photographer from Paris, rise from the table to do introductions.

Patricia pulls down a wooden staircase, and we climb to the second floor, the attic. Floor-to-ceiling shutters push out onto a teeny balcony. Easels stand patiently and a still life of a pewter jug, a blue-and-white patterned clay pitcher, three bunches of garlic and two ripe tomatoes nestle in the folds of a sheet draped over a table in the middle of the room. There is space for three people to create comfortably.

Our first exercise is to do a charcoal drawing of the still life, without looking at it. Patricia instructs us to observe the image for two minutes before she covers it up, then we will draw “blind.” The purpose is to learn to see what is really there as opposed to being a slave to preconceived notions. This is one of the rules of survival. You can't deal with a situation effectively if you don't see it for what it really is. I am nervous about losing my reference point, just as I feel lost without Jim. But if I keep living as if Jim were alive, I will truly be lost.

Laurie laughs as she settles in to the task. I fidget and finger my notebook, chew on my pencil and look around the room for some way to memorize the objects. My brain darts from object to thought and back again until the scene is scattered in my brain. When Patricia covers the still life, I shift from leg to leg several times before I draw the first line. It's too big and I scrub it out. After five minutes we compare our memory to reality. The sizes of my objects are all off. I scoff to myself that a preschooler could have done better. I'm ready to toss mine in the garbage; Laurie is curious to see what she remembered, rather than be judgmental.

We spend an hour on a second drawing and are permitted to look at the still life but must focus on lights and darks. Patricia comes behind me as I work. “How long has it been since you drew with charcoal?”

I think back to my university art course. “Fifteen years.”

“You seem to be remembering just fine.”

Rosa calls us down for lunch, and we sit at a thick wooden table outside. Katie unscrews two bottles of wine and my body relaxes. The conversation rolls around to boyfriends and spouses. “How about you, Sue? Do you have someone special?” Katie nudges my arm.

I take a deep breath and brace my hands flat on the table. “I was married to a wonderful man. But he was killed in an avalanche four years ago.” I pause to look up.

Katie no longer smiles as she puts her hand on my arm. Patricia leans over from her conversation with Rosa to listen. I clear my throat.

“He was mountaineering in Alaska with two other guides. He was leading. An avalanche broke above him and swept him over a cliff.” Some of the words stick. “The other two survived. His name was Jim. He was a good guy.” I wonder if this is the only chance I will have to talk to them about Jim and if I should cram in a few more details.

“I lost my husband too. To cancer,” Patricia says in a soft voice. “When he died, I brought his body back here, to Anversa. We both loved it here so much.” I cry thinking of the image of Patricia accompanying her husband back to Italy. Patricia cries.

Rosa pats her on the back. “Don't talk about sad things. Don't cry.” She clears the table.

“Sometimes talking about sad things makes you happy.” I smile and wipe my eyes with my hand.

“How long were you married?” Patricia asks.

“Two years.” Again, I wish I could say longer.

“You're too young to have that happen.” She shakes her head and we finish lunch.

That afternoon, I hike for hours on the mountain trails that extend out from Anversa. Blood pumping through my veins feels good. The only sound I hear is the high-pitched, undulating, drawn-out whistle of the wall creeper with its extraordinary crimson wings, and all I can smell are sweet grapes, tangy pine and spicy saffron. The Sagittario River supports all sorts of life amidst a backdrop of towering, grey, craggy mountains. The Oscan goddess of snakes and healing, Angitia, is thought to preside here, and I lead with a walking stick as a precaution.

I end up in a village of 10 inhabitants called Castrovalva, balanced on a steep ridge 1500 metres above the valley. The Dutch artist M.C. Escher painted this village from the very spot where I'm standing, with wildflowers, ferns in the foreground.

In the evening, Laurie and I return to the studio to work on our still-life drawings, listen to mambo and play cards. On the way home, as we cross the piazza, Laurie whispers, “That cute guy there is checking you out.” I keep walking and file the compliment for a time when I feel more ready, more attractive. Right now I am enjoying the company of gentle women.

For a change of pace, Patricia drives us to the bustling town of Sulmona to paint images from the market. I buy a bunch of sunflowers that are almost as tall as I am and begin to draw them in pastel as soon as we get back to the studio. Using purple, black and brown, I painstakingly dot in the seeds in the middle of the flowers. For hours and hours I sit at the outdoor table and draw. After three days I ask Patricia for some fixative to spray on my finished drawing to stop it from smudging. She lightly traces her finger over the swooping, curvy leaves I have drawn. “I see you in these leaves more. The lovely curvy lines seem like you.”

“Really?” I did the leaves more by memory, not looking up at the real thing as often. I was tired of doing so much detail in the flowers and trying to make them look perfect, so I went faster on the leaves. They don't look as much like the real leaves. I wonder why she thinks they are more like me. I am more comfortable with the way I drew the flowers.

At the end of the week, Laurie and I exchange e-mails and invite one another to visit in North America. Carefully I roll my artwork into a hard tube to carry onto the plane to France.

Being away is a good thing. It is lonely at times but I am proud that I am doing something just for me, that my heart no longer waits for Scott. I realize I am ready to love again now. I don't think I was when Scott and I first connected – which is probably what attracted me to him – but I'm ready now. I am worthy of love. I love Jim and will always love him, and whoever chooses to love me will have to accept that and realize what a gift it is. I will not second-guess my heart again. I will not compromise on true love again.

I have seen the beautiful sights of Tuscany, eaten wonderful food and drunk great wine and laughed. I am drawing again and it feels amazing – my heart is alive. I have explored the Italian wilderness. I have met interesting people, all with their own stories. Life is good. I will love again.
Via avanti
, time to move forward.