XIII - Tambourine Girl
Monterosso, Cinque Terre, Italy
We are in Italy, Cinque Terra, five historic towns nestled into deep ravines along the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. We have walked for miles along handmade stone paths which flow through the steep hills and valleys like a long, lethargic serpent winding its way through the countryside. In the groves, nets have been set to catch the falling green olives. An old man hangs on to the edge of the cliff with one hand while he resets new stones into the decrepit wall.
I drag you along like a dog on a leash.
It took quite a bit of convincing to even get you to start. We’d been traveling together for almost two weeks, Rome, Florence, Venice but these five towns were the pinnacle of the trip, at least I thought so. But you begged, yes begged, not to climb once you saw the first set of steep steps. “Let’s not do this.,” you said.
“What?!”
“Let’s not do this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why not go down to the market?’
“What are you talking about?” I sneered. “I can’t believe what you’re saying.” I looked at the sign that pointed straight up towards the path. I too had doubts. “We came here for exactly this. We flew here to be at exactly this moment. And I’m walking it with or without you".”
I turn.
You follow.
We puff our way to the first look out. Your lungs filled with marijuana residue, mine with grief.
Old metal pipes, like the ones in my backyard in Toronto, support the grape vines here too. There is something about the Italians, their love affair with the land that makes my Mennonite heart ache. What I’ve lost feels insurmountable at times, but damn it, that is not going to stop me from this present climb.
We descend into the first town, enter a little church where you play, like the talented musician you are, on an old organ at the front of the sanctuary. I snap a pic of you, smiling like a young boy even though you just turned 55. Is it your age that is getting in the way of our climb together? When I’m your age in six years will I resist a hard climb in the same way?
The heat of the day without enough water and too many clothes forces us to finally take a break. I buy a light flowing halter dress, a bit too big but my bathing suit top keeps things secure. You replenish your water.
We arrive at Monterosso, the final destination at dusk. The sky splitting open into purples, maroons, blues. You take a pic as our dinner is served on the outdoor patio. I smile at how far we’ve come - a conflict avoided, an annoyance subsided.
As we walk towards the sea, I sneak a lemon from a ledge of an outdoor patio. “I’m taking this one home.” I say as I toss it into the air and catch it. We laugh.
Large cliffs jut out into the sea, young people dive into the waves below. I want to jump too - strip down and plunge into the dark waters. I long for a man who takes risks, like my father used to do. Instead we slowly make our way up a flight of stairs of the old castle wall and take in the incredible view.
Four musicians play below, guitar, bass, keyboards, tambourine. The guitarist sings enthusiastically into the mic. You lean into me and say, “Well, we know what the tambourine girl is there for. I wonder which one is sleeping with her?”
“What?”
“Why else have her around?
You laugh.
I don’t. Is this why I’m around? Is this why we play music together? I wonder.
“How else is she going to make music?’ I say. “Play the tambourine by herself?”
The stars are out now. The sky a deep black. We take the train back to our Airbnb, a room in a cave, cold and damp in-spite of the warm sea-side air outside. In bed you turn to me and ask “Do you still love me?”
“Does the tambourine girl love the singer?” I ask.
“Of course.” You say.
I flip and turn my body towards the stone wall. Your hand rests on my thigh. It’d be rude to push it off. I stare at the cracks that run along the wall and wonder whether I can get past this latest grievance. Like the lemon, will we be able to endure the trip home together or will have things soured beyond repair? Time will tell.
