Happy That It's Not True (29 page)

The words, maestra, continued to echo in Cara’s mind.  Could it mean teacher, like in the broken Spanish that she had been pitifully relying on to understand Italian or did it mean master?  Cellini is the master, not me, Cara thought.

Some of the children moved closer to her, wanting to see the detail of the drawing, surveying her art supplies as though they were talismans.  She noticed their brightly colored clothes and book bags, and for the first time, realized that life was superbly unfolding in many places all over the world and that many children were loved and well taken care of—her American experience was only a tiny portion of the great mosaic.  Her meager existence in South Florida would never affect them, yet they didn’t see Cara as a foreigner, but a maestra.

              Two days later, the study group went to the Chianti region of Tuscany and stayed at a wine villa on top of a mountain.  Cara was entranced by rows of far-away peaks fading into lighter and lighter shades of blue.  Fog would sometimes slink up the mountain, a white sheet that seemed so mystical; Cara considered it a brush with God.

              There were Italian classes in the morning, and most of the day there was the opportunity to draw and paint.  Sometimes Ling would lock herself in her room and shout, go away, when someone would knock on the door.  Other times, she was quite social.  It was the large kitchen with windows overlooking the mountains that became the place where a dozen students compared each other’s thoughts about life.  One afternoon, as Cara and Ling were discussing art, from across the room, a young man named José, with Jean-Paul Sartre in hand, sought to prove that life itself was absurd.  “What is a chair?  Look at it, can you really tell me what it is?”

              As José spoke to the group of reflective consciousness, Ling glanced over her shoulder at him for a moment and resumed her discussion with Cara.  “He’s a philosophy major all of a sudden.  Anyway, all this art, all this amazing stuff we’re seeing.  It was a deeply religious experience for some painter or sculptor over five-hundred years ago.”

              “I know, I know,” Cara said.  “I’ve seen so much great art on the Internet, but to see it in person is life changing.”

              “The thing you’ll probably remember the most’ll be all those Italian children praising your work.  You’ll never forget that.”

              “Probably not.”

              “It’s nice to be loved.”

              “I have to admit-”

              “That drawing got me thinking of Diego.  He was going through some kind of religious crisis.  He would never admit to such a thing, but I think he liked to leave a lot of clues.  Maybe he was a little like Medusa, violated by the very god whose alter it worshipped.  Or maybe he was like Perseus, refusing to look at the serpents—a sight that turns the heart to stone.  I wonder sometimes what Diego was going through.  I wonder if sometimes he stared too long at the serpents of discouragement.  I wonder sometimes.”   

...

              That fall, the letters from art schools and colleges arrived like unexpected awards.  Cara compared their watermarks, weight, texture and letterheads—like a collector of rare books—surmising who had told the world about her.  On an overcast day, Cara and Ling sat on the campus grass exploring a friendship that was as deep as the richest blues they had ever talked about while painting together. 

              “Been getting a lot of letters in the past few days—I know it’s because of you, thank you,” Cara said.

              “Have you decided on a school?” Ling smiled.

              “I think I like the Rhode Island School of Design—I don’t know, maybe I just like the way the name sounds.”

              “Good choice, but no one calls it that. Everyone refers to it as RISD.”

              “Ris-dee?”

              “I’m sure you’ll love it there. Diego would be very happy—his money’s gonna be well spent.”

              Cara plucked blades of grass rubbing them in her fingers to feel their moisture.  “I think of him when I see you.  At the funeral, you sat next to me just like Diego sat next to me at my father’s service.  When all those strange relatives that I barely knew made their neurotic speeches at the remembrance part of the ceremony, you had the same look on your face.” Cara laughed.  “Like—these people are nuts or something.”

              Ling also laughed.  “It’s the crazy people that want all the attention.  But we shouldn’t talk—we’re artists—we’re worse than anyone.”

              Cara’s laughter faded as her eyes glimmered.  “You remind me so much of Diego—I’m going to miss seeing you.  I probably shouldn’t say this—I don’t want you to be sad, but you and Diego should’ve been together.  You were meant to be together and yet you weren’t.”

              “Hey—life goes on.  But I’m gonna miss you too.  How ’bout an art lesson before you leave me?”

              “Sure,” Cara smiled.

              “Remember all the paintings by Filippo Lippi we saw in Italy?”

              “I remember.”

              “Lippi was an orphan who was taken in by a monastery and raised to be a friar.  Problem was that he was an artist.  Not just some painting monk, a real artist—the kind driven by passion.  He couldn’t possibly remain pure.  His sexual escapades were legendary.  He was painting a portrait of a young lady under the care of nuns, and one day he ran off with her.  They had a child together, a child that would become another famous artist.  Lippi lived a very interesting life, captured by pirates, got into all kinds of trouble.  Cara, let us hope that we never become true artists, just lovers of art.”

              “Hm—I guess true greatness is overrated anyways.”

              “Speaking of great, one day remind me to tell you about Caravaggio, the greatest Italian painter of all—a murderer and a madman.  That’ll be the final lesson.”

Chapter Thirty One

              Cara graduated from RISD and entered the field of graphic design.  She painted in her spare time, eventually producing a body of work worth exhibiting.  One rainy summer night, her paintings were glowing inside a South Beach gallery—the softly lit walls flickering as bright flashes of lightning exploded outside.

              “Such a shame Cara—this is like rain on your wedding day—I’m surprised the turnout is this good,” said Denise, the gallery owner.

              Cara smiled as she walked away to be with the guests.  “Are you kidding? —my first solo show—I’m not complaining.”

              Adriana was there, refusing the champagne—as pleased as any mother could be, thankful that Cara had found a way to balance her love for art with a practical career.  At that moment, Cara felt vindicated—the years of self-obsession had not been fruitless.  The price list sheets were as flattering as the smiles, which made her appreciate how much favor life had shown her after the summer of storms.

              A thin and handsome Alex stepped in out of the rain, closing an umbrella to reveal Joyce, his stunning fiancé—unveiling her with almost the same amount of pride that he had in his sister—grinning and turning his head to absorb the stories on canvas.  Cara winked at him, and nothing else needed to be said.

              Ling was admiring one of the paintings. She drank in the composition, meditating on colors and shadows.  She had come for nothing less than to devour the symbols and patterns.  The painting of a young girl climbing a mountain of hearts glistened with varnish, the cool gray-blue skies being conquered by love as hot as lava.  A quick glance and a smile from Ling made the evening a success, regardless of whether or not a single painting would be sold. 

              Ling was not the only person whose friendship had been the result of knowing Diego—Priscilla was also there with her husband—a man who didn’t look like the type to travel the world with women waiting at every port.  Priscilla looked with astonishment at a matted frame.  “Hey—what’s that doing here?” she laughed. 

              The sketch that Diego had made of Priscilla bore the label:  Priscilla, by Diego Alonso – pencil on paper.

              “Can you excuse us for a moment,” Cara smiled at the husband, pulling Priscilla away to whisper privately.  “I don’t think any of Diego’s work had ever been in a show before—so I just had to get one of his pieces in—as a tribute.”

              “So you’re the other woman,” Ling cut in.

              “Oh!” Priscilla moaned with realization.  “He loved you so much—he wanted nothing to do with me.”

              Ling smiled and raised her champagne glass.  “Diego was a good man—let’s toast to him.”

              As the glasses rang, through them Cara saw a vision—past the many people filling the gallery, a shadowy figure emerged from the heavy downpour.  The quiet party ambiance was interrupted by the sound of wind and rain—and then with the closing of the door there was soft music and conversation once more.  At first, Cara thought it almost comical—absurd.  Ling noticed an expression she had never seen before in Cara.  Priscilla understood everything as she turned around to see a familiar looking man placing his wet umbrella into a brass stand. 

              “Hold—this—please,” Cara said as she handed Priscilla her champagne glass without looking at her.

              Cara walked cautiously toward the man as if she were meeting the author of her heart.

              “Hi Matt—Thanks so much for being here. Is Sheryl coming?” Cara said listening to her own words as if they were being spoken in a dream.

              “Oh—I’m not with her anymore.” Matt said without any sorrow.  He grinned.  “It was a di-sas-ter.” 

              “You’re not seeing anyone?”

              “No—Cara—I’m not.”

              “Let’s go for a walk,” Cara said with a peculiar austerity. 

              She took Matt’s hand and led him out of the gallery.

              “Where’s she going?  It’s pouring outside,” Adriana said to Alex.

              “That was Matt!  Remember Matt—our next door neighbor?”

              Cara and Matt ran through the rain until they found an overhang to shield them from the unrelenting cascades.  Out of breath and laughing, the two collapsed in each other’s arms, trembling—surprised at how cold rain could be on a hot summer night.

              “I can’t believe I did that,” Cara laughed.

              Matt grinned as he gazed at Cara’s face, beaded with water.  “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” 

              They kissed.  The wind blew the rain sideways, disguising Cara’s tears—the only clue that she had been overcome by happiness—infinite, unyielding happiness. 

...

              Cara rested her chin on her folded arms, clinging to the open car window, half looking at the world—half taken by reverie.  As the miles of concrete bridges cut through the Florida Straits and the warm salty wind caressed her hair, she thought of Diego.  Matt scanned the horizon as he drove, the Atlantic to his left, the Gulf of Mexico to his right. 

              “What’cha thinking ‘bout?” he said.

              Cara turned to face him and stroked his arm.  “Do you have any particular obsessions?”

              “Huh?  No—Wait, I’m obsessed with you—that’s the better answer, right?”

              “Is there a certain type of woman you’re attracted to—Brazilian women—brunettes—blondes—Asian women?”

              “Uh—no-o.”

              “No fetishes?”

              “What—like a foot fetish?  No—that’s just weird.  When I think of feet I think of, like, toe jam and fungus and all that stuff.”

              “I’m glad,” Cara laughed.

              By the time they had reached Key West, their cravings led them to a bar and grill in a two-and-a-half story wood-frame structure with louvered shutters and verandas painted in pastel colors.  They sat in a booth and ate mahi rolls and fries while holding hands. 

              Cara shook her head and smiled.  “You would think we would have a little more decency than to act like teenagers—eating with one hand—and feeding each other.”

              “If people don’t like it—too bad,” Matt laughed.

              “How long ya think we can keep this up?”

              “Displaying affection in public?”

              “Just—being out of our minds in love—when do we become normal?”             

              Matt bit a fry out of Cara’s fingers and chewed thoughtfully.  “Hmm—It’ll go probably like this. I’m a guy—so—I’ll become a little grumpier every day.  Eventually, I’ll be a grumpy old man.  But despite my grumpiness, you’ll love me even more.  You’ll say I can’t help it—I just love that grumpy old man.  You just can’t help but love a grumpy old man.”

              Cara laughed.  “Oh—so that’s how it’s gonna be?”             

              “Yeah, but it’s hard to be in a bad mood when you’re with the woman of your dreams.”

              “The feeling is mutual.”

              “So tell me all about your dreams—your hopes—desires—aspirations.”