This morning I noticed that one of the trees is dotted with red fruit, and I wandered down to see if they were apples - which indeed they were, though none of them were within reach.
I sat with my journal and wondered where to begin drawing.
An elderly gentleman approached and sat beside me under the apple tree. I greeted him and, after a deep, nervous breath, asked in Italian if I might draw him. He nodded.
I started shakily drawing and asked him the few questions I felt sure of.
"Come si chiama?"
"Malatia"
"Quanti anni ha?"
He held up eight fingers, then four.
"Ottanta quattro?"
"Si. Non é giovane. E sono malata."
He told me he was sick with bronchitis and had to take antibiotici.
It's not good, he said, shaking his head.
My boys back home would roll their eyes at what I said next.
"Well... it's a lovely day and life is beautiful."
"Si," he agreed, nodding thoughtfully out to the lagoon, "la vita é molto bella."
Then he told me I was beautiful, and asked if I was twenty-three. Italian men never lose it.
After a while he became too hot in the sun. A neighbour approached and began chatting with Signore Malatia. He introduced himself as Lino, and, pointing at Mr. Malatia, said, "And he's Rino, with an 'R'"
Rino encouraged Lino to sit down next to me, saying, if you sit, she will draw you.
Lino, chuffed, sat next to me. I asked my list of reliable questions.
He told me he was venetian and 70 years old. He asked if I was here on holiday, and I explained I was an art teacher, and was here with 17 students to see Venice and its Biennale.
The conversation was basic, but I was communicating in Italian again. The sketches were basic, but I was drawing again. The morning amble was short. But I met Lino and Rino, my rhyming neighbours, under the apple tree.
Love.
ReplyDelete