Florence in Ecstasy. Jessie Chaffee
and strolls back to her locker. “Those men, crazy. There was an Australian girl here—she got burned three times! Three times!” She pulls on her own small leggings and glances up at me soberly. “She was thirty-three. You think she would’ve known better. Acted like she was about thirteen. Bad news, these guys. That boy from Chicago seems nice, though. Have you met him?”
I nod. Peter. The student. He’s a serious rower. He walks around the club with his toned arms held slightly out from his body as though they’ve just been inflated. He’s young, even for me.
“American boys are nice. Simple. I spent some time in America. I should have stayed—ha! The guys here, you just can’t tell. Three times she got burned.”
“What do you mean… burned?”
Francesca purses her lips and makes a motion with her hand. “She was humiliated. Everyone knew. And two of the guys were married.”
“Didn’t anyone tell her?”
“Tell her what?”
“That they were married.”
“I thought she knew! You think she would have been smarter about it. Thirty-three years old! It got so she couldn’t show up here. What can you do?” Francesca returns to the mirror, twisting her hair up into a coil, silent now, and I hear another eruption of laughter from the adjoining room. Our area feels like a vault, a mausoleum. We are rarities, like the red tiles scattered across the stark white walls. Chance blocks of color.
“Not a lot of women at this club, huh?” I ask.
“A few.” Francesca shrugs. “It’s mostly men. Doesn’t bother me as long as my husband isn’t one of them. If he was a member here, I wouldn’t be. That’s for sure.”
I don’t say anything, but she locks eyes with me and continues. “I don’t see him all day. Just a half an hour at night. Then I go walking with the dogs so I don’t have to see him.” She pulls on her little ankle socks and the cloud passes over us, forgotten. She’s practiced at transitioning, but I’m curious now.
“Are you from Florence?”
“Me? God, no. I’m from a real city. Milano. I’ve been here twenty years.” She sighs at the burden. “Like I said—you lose time.”
“Did you meet your husband in Florence?”
Another sigh, a flick of the hand. “Yes. I was twenty-one. How old are you again?”
“Twenty-nine,” I repeat.
“Ah, sì. Twenty-nine. So you understand. I was only twenty-one. Too young to know better. He’s one of those real loud types, you know? Real neurotic. I see it in my daughter sometimes. She’s at that awkward stage—all pimply, short hair.” She pauses. “Peter’s single, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I mean, he’s a student.” What is she thinking?
“Yeah, he’s single. All men are at that age.” She closes her locker decisively. “You going to the game Monday?”
“I don’t think so.” Stefano has distributed invitations for the event—a soccer match, one of the first of the season. He bought tickets for the members at a discount, and though I accepted one and said that, yes, I’d see him there, I’m not sure I will. It’s one thing to come to the club, to exchange a few words with him over a smooth shot of espresso. It’s another thing entirely to see people out in the world.
“You should come,” Francesca says. “I could use another woman there, you know? And the game’s wild. Well, take care. Ask me about any of these guys.” She pauses to glance back at herself in the mirror. “I appreciate it, you know. The bad thing.”
I’m not sure anymore whom or what she’s talking about.
“It’s taught me. But it’s a shame to learn like that,” she says, then strolls to the door. “Ciao.”
“Ciao,” I say, but she doesn’t appear to hear me as she smiles and joins the voices on the other side.
Later in the afternoon, I’m again struggling with the ergometer, intent on getting it right. I look down at my arms, which seem thicker, and look away. My face in the mirror is red, growing with the heat. I can feel it growing. Look at you. I close my eyes, slide the seat forward, roll my body in, push back with my legs, and pull with my arms. I hear footsteps and Stefano enters followed by Luca, who has a bag slung across one shoulder. I watch their reflections.
“Eccola,” Stefano says. “Troppo veloce.”
“Too fast?” I ask.
“You must wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Spingi e poi—”
“Stefano!” A voice from down the hall.
“Scusi,” he says, and disappears.
Luca watches me in the mirror and I stop moving. He smiles but says nothing. He’s a person at ease with himself and the world. It makes me nervous.
“You must wait,” he says finally, crossing the room. “Push with the legs e poi pull with the hands. Try.”
I lean forward, curl in, and then spring backward, pulling the handle with me.
“Too fast,” Luca says. “Di nuovo. Slow.”
I lean forward, curl in, and begin to pull, but a pressure on my back stops me. I glance at him in the mirror. He’s leaning down, his hand supporting me. I look for a loaded smile, wait for a line.
“Aspetta” is all he says. Then, “Push with the legs.”
He keeps his hand steady, releasing the pressure gradually as I slide back. When my legs are almost straight he says, “Adesso,” and I draw the handle all the way into my chest.
“Così,” he says. “You understand?”
I nod.
“Di nuovo.”
I repeat the motion, alone this time.
“Brava.” He stands up, smiling, and skin gathers around his eyes. Like Francesca, he must be older than he looks, but he does not carry the weight of age or the gravity of too much experience.
“Grazie.”
“Di niente.” He turns to leave.
“Are you here tomorrow?” My voice echoes loud and he turns around, surprised.
“Domani? No.” He looks confused. I’ve done something wrong, misread his casual kindness for something else. “Tomorrow is Sunday,” he explains. “The canottieri is closed.”
“Oh.” Of course. Sunday.
“Allora, until soon. Maybe Monday, yes? At the game?” He tilts his head, smiles, and is gone, leaving a lightness in his wake that I try to hold on to as I curl forward and push back, waiting to pull with my arms. I stop then and let the wheel spin slowly to a rest.
Sunday. The club is closed and the city is closed, too. It isn’t the soft closed of American cities—the change in hours or the farther walk for groceries—but an imperative rest that shutters all the shops. I should begin looking for jobs back home. Instead, I hurry to the train station, buy a second-class ticket to Siena, and leave Florence for the first time since my arrival.
As the train pulls out of the station the car doors inhale and then exhale a small man in wire-rimmed glasses. He grips a cigarette, looking down the aisle for the smoking car. Across from me are two young women: one with large eyes and tiny doll lips reads aloud self-assuredly from a novel