Runner on the Bridge: I'll Miss You, part four

It could have been that he was trying to hard. The run up the Steps of Ascension to the Church of Madonna del Sasso was marked by fourteen engravings of Jesus' plight. Jesus he was not, though that wasn't a bad role model. He had work to do on his own beliefs but he thought if there existed a church like this back home, residing proudly on a mountain top above town, faith would not feel like such a chore. For now, he used the legs God gave him to power himself assuredly up the pathway made of river pebbles, stopping at each engraving to take in the weight of a story two thousand years old.

The granite courtyard in front of the church's door afforded a view back down the mountain to the small city of Locarno, resting on the shores of long Lago Maggiore, Switzerland. Not too far south, the lake extended into Italy. Glacial peaks of the Alps enclosed the lake like a fortress. No easy way out.

Which was a fitting way for him to feel as he was stuck in the fixed gaze of those at vista points, too much to take in, too curious to look away. This city, this region, held a grip on him that only home could compete with, for it was here that he got his first taste of Europe so many years ago as a wide-eyed child. The impression was deep, filled with Vespas and Haribo and a language he wanted to speak. From the culture of Switzerland he could create a new identity for
himself back home, and this set up a

pattern of yearly re-invention that was still firmly in place. Family friends showed him the best the place had to offer, the best of themselves as hosts and friends. Every few years he would return, his growing maturity allowing him to take back home this part of Europe as part of himself.

But looking down on Locarno didn't feel the same now. Places change. This little city had grown, filled in its blank spots with apartment buildings and occupied vacant storefronts with American companies – frustratingly, just like the home he needed space from. Longing for the Europe of his past, he searched the shoreline from high up on the mountain for places that would trigger a memory, something to bring him back to the time when everything felt new. But it had been too long, or maybe he was just out of practice, to have this approach of eyes wide open with no assumptions, no need to rank things as “best”. And now he felt stretched thin with a foot so far back in the past and one in the future, so thin as to feel he was transparent, looked through and discovered to be a fake in the present, his only line “This is just like the good old days.” And even that was a rare occurrence now. Apparently, the fortress wasn't as well protected as he thought.

“Mi dispiace, mi potete aiutare?”

An elderly woman struggled with a black iron gate, twisting in vain a stubborn latch. She wore a black dress down to her shins, walking shoes with thick midsoles and a look of determination. Everyday she walked up this path. She had her expectations. This gate was supposed to open for her.

A quick jiggle of the gate showed it was simply sagging and needed a lift to be released, so lift he did and swung it open for her with ease and a touch of pride, acknowledging to himself how good it felt to help someone with little gestures. She passed through as the hinges were still creaking.

Taking his hand in hers, she said “Grazie a mille.”

“Prego.”

She continued with her purpose down a different path than he had ascended, one built of blocks of granite set perhaps a century ago. He too slipped through the gate, following her lead at a respectable distance. If he just looked at her body and ignored her head of gray hair, his guess might be thirty. She moved with the ease of a local, with confidence through the familiar, always moving. Her past was her present would be her future. He had several guesses about what she carried in her tattered canvas bag, but whether it was vegetables for supper or blankets for a friend, it seemed irrelevant to her direction. She descended down to Locarno to be among people she never left.

Watching her, he wondered if she always walked with such intent. Some things never change, like the way one laughs or is predisposed to impatience. He wanted to think she was stalwart, a representative of the old guard keeping dying traditions alive. It could have just been though that this was his attempt to make this woman into all the important women in his life, for he missed her with an intensity that grew with time and distance. Now that he tried to bridge this gap, this stretching, this pulling, left him with an ache rooted in something becoming more intangible with each passing day. In his heart he didn't want to let go. Absence did make the heart grow stronger, but only when an end to the separation was in sight. He needed to see her somewhere in his future, though she was buried in the past, or soon he would snap. Something had to give.

The church loomed above him and the woman on its granite perch. Maybe it had been repainted in recent years. Was that yellow, mustard, gold? He saw a sign listing the daily masses, guessing a priest inside gave his best attempts at dressing up Christianity for a new generation, trying to make old traditions relevant and yet it all sounded so familiar. A smart priest would know he cant ever go back to the past. He understood this now, that nothing is ever the same tomorrow, that nostalgia should be respected like a sleeping tiger. Beauty could turn to pain. His ache was her, his fear that he would forget how much he loved her without her here by his side. And he didn't want to leave her behind. He wanted to carry her into today and wear her around his neck like a gemstone. But the day at hand felt as foreign as the ground he walked on. Why couldn't today be the day this country felt like home?

Back down by the lake and the Piazza Grande, by the hydrangeas and begging ducks, by cafe umbrellas and cigarette smoke, a series of benches faced the water, inviting leisure. In a natural yet inadvertant way he followed the woman to the lakeside, revealing his inattentiveness when she sat down next to an older gentleman and their movement stopped. She looked up at him.

“Grazie, grazie.” Thank you for a kind gesture not forgotten by a shift in scenery.

“Prego,” he repeated.

She turned her attention to the gentleman on the bench, pulling goods from her bag – salami, cheese, bread – and placing them on his lap. In return, he held both her hands in his and mouthed ancient Italian, their version of the language created during intimate moments such as these. She returned his affection with laughter and dancing eyes. He was the lucky one. She gently pointed back up the mountain, mentioning the details of the church gate. Then she excused herself and gestured to him to sit in the open space on the bench by her friend.

“Sit. Sit,” said the old man.

“You speak English?”

“Yes, little bit. Come. Sit.” The wood was warm where she had been. A breeze kicked up across the lake, shaking locust trees. Time could stand still for all he cared.

“Grazie, per opening the gate. Her strength, she is no so strong as she once was. But she make this walk every day, so it's not so bad. You are from Australia?”

“No, United States.”

“Ah, American. Dove? Where?”

“California.”

“Si, California. It is beautiful, yes?”

“Yes, but not like here.”

“No, no. Yes, it is beautiful. You have the redwoods grande, ah.”

“Yes, I guess it is nice.”

“Si, si.” He sat back at a good memory. “And now, you are on holiday?”

“Si.”

“And where have you been?”

As he told him about Paris and Vernazza and Venice and now Locarno, the old man took in the description of each city as he might ingest fine wine – in, taste, gone, in, taste, gone. He pulled off chunks of piora cheese, offering every other piece to the young man with a hunk of torn-off bread.

Speaking aloud the thoughts he had about each destination made them feel real, not a figment of his imagination or just of his past. They were alive. And when he peppered in stories of her, she felt alive too. The old man was a good listener, his furrowed brow showing his intent to understand. With each anecdote there was a smile and with each smile there was a connection and with each connection he could feel his heart open. The key that jangled around in his pocket with Swiss franc change was probably a common key, would open most any lock. He wasn't going to hide anymore. If the premise of any lock was thievery, he wanted nothing to do with locks. In the back of his mind he knew a lock on the Pont de L'Archeveche needed removing. Giving was worth the risk. This old man was a master thief, for he picked the lock on his heart with quiet skill, stepped inside and took a look around.

The old man could hear his questioning, the doubt as to whether all these days added up to anything. He whispered these words:

“Everybody's looking for the ladder. Everybody wants to know how the story started and how it will end. The steps you take, they are not so easy. But what's the use of half a story, half a dream. You must climb all the steps in between. 'Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.' That is Rilke. He was Austrian, not German. Ha! Un giourno, bene?”

“Si.”

The old man patted his arm before he could respond much more, ending the moment in acknowledgement that his listener wouldn't understand his words today but, handed to him like a rough stone yet to be polished into a gem, their worth would eventually become evident. The old man's hands were thick and calloused.

His own hands were still smooth, he still had time. So he would carry this stone with him, and not some heavy key in his pocket that wouldn't open a rusty lock anyway. With daily rubbing and patience, this stone could become precious. And that, not a lock that freezes moments, was something he could wear around his neck.

Finally, the salami was brought forth. He smelled it, rubbed it with his thumbs and set it on the bench. It was smaller than the American varieties, the meat darker and speckled with more fat.

“Life is like a stick of salami,” he proclaimed, now in full a full voice. “You must enjoy each slice. Do not think of all the pieces you have eaten. And do not slice salami in many pieces to have such a big pile in front of you. You can only eat one at a time, no?” He pulled a knife from his inner jacket pocket and cleaved off the first bit. “Slice just one, peel and eat...enjoy. Then, aspetti...wait. Enjoy one at a time. Capisce?