Redheaded Waltz

memoir part 14

This is part 14 of my memoir.

Here is part 1:

The Trick is to Drink it Quickly

And the next part:

Jail

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The Americans

It was dusk, almost dinnertime. We were hungry. I put a pot of water on. It took a while to boil.

Jesse sat in the doorway of the van, legs crossed, holding his guitar. He began to play. A waltz, lilting and soft.  

     “Remember when I started writing this one?”

     “Yeah, in Florence.” 

     “Wasn’t that awesome? That campground? The old trees?”

     “Yeah.”

     “And the view wasn’t too shabby, either.”

     “Yeah.” 

I remembered the view. We’d been in a campground, a formal campground where you paid for your spot—which was in an old olive orchard overlooking the river Arno. The campsites were scattered through the orchard, and at the top of the grove was the parking lot, where a couple of fake Michelangelo statues stood guard to tempt the tourists.

We looked at the statues, and, with more interest, at the groups of American tourists taking photos of them. Did they think the statues were the real thing? Maybe.

Later, we struck up a conversation with another American—a young art student who had come to Florence to paint. I invited her to eat with us.

She came, carrying a bottle of wine and a portfolio. I was happy to cook dinner for someone new. After we ate, the art student got out her drawings.

Jesse sat next to her and looked at the drawings for a long time.

“They’re awesome,” he said finally. He finished the wine and opened another bottle. After a while the bottle was empty. Jesse said something funny and the art student leaned toward him and laughed. She was very pretty in her dress in the fire light. I hoped she would leave soon. Jesse was the nicest guy in the world and crazy about me but now he was drunk and when he was drunk it was like he became someone else. It was like he forgot about my existence, even though I was sitting right there. I tried to make sense of it, but the two Jesse’s were impossible to reconcile.

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Redheaded Waltz

Jesse kept playing. He hummed a melody as he strummed the chords. “This is your part,” he said. “It’s really easy. You should get out your violin!”

The water was boiling now. I added the spaghetti.

“I figured out what I’m going to call this one,” he said, grinning. “The Redheaded Waltz. Is that alright with you, Red?” 

He kept playing. The song lilted along, sad and sweet. “I’ve been working on it for a while,” he said. “It’s for you—I wrote it for you.”

I tried not to think about Florence, the art student, anymore.

The stupid Americans.

“It’s good,” I said. 

The Spaghetti was done. Jesse opened a bottle of wine. We ate, sitting on our chairs by the truck while Wogart ran around the orchard. The night air smelled good. I watched as stars came out in the sky, one by one.

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Part 1:

The Trick is to Drink it Quickly