Bleeding Heart

Victoria’s writings had taken on a life of their own. She wrote for her school newspaper and then for the city paper while she was in college. She wrote a piece on a mysterious fire at the town library. Her story gave such detailed information of the fire that the police could arrest a suspect; who turned out to be guilty.

She also wrote fictional stories and modeled her characters on local, colorful eccentrics. In her first successful composition, she had written about a woman who was the source of gossip and secrecy. She was a nurse who had a little girl, who seemingly vanished. The child was simply not talked about by the nurse but the neighbors’ curiosity was piqued.

In the story, the nurse murdered the child and hid her in a closet. She had carefully wrapped her in bandages like a mummy and placed her in a box which was wrapped in Christmas paper, complete with a big, red bow and deposited her to the back of a closet.

She rarely had any visitors aside from the occasional plumber’s call, and they were all taken aback by the strong odor of disinfectants, which she would explain that as a nurse, she was hyper sensitive to germs. She had ceased even in celebrating Christmas. There was no tree, no lights and no decorations.

Over time, the decaying process was inevitable. Victoria detailed for the reader the yellowing wall paper from the years of smoking throughout the house, the well-worn carpet with the floral pattern and the way the body reeked when you opened the closet door. No one ever suspected her of any wrong doing, she was, after all, a nurse.

The woman who had inspired Victoria’s tale had in fact, three children; three little girls aged 3, 7 and 10, and, all three children had disappeared. She had murdered her entire family, all her precious children. By the time the bodies of the children were discovered and the story had broken, the nurse was long gone.

Victoria’s stories became the talk of the town. She began to be looked upon with wariness by her neighbors and friends. She decided she had outgrown her home town and left for fresh inspiration elsewhere at the age of 22.

Her love of fashion made Italy an easy choice for a new, exciting destination. Besides inventive story material, the Italian men were quite an eyeful and an easy distraction. There, she met Cosimo, in Florence. They met on a cloudless and breezy day when Victoria was having lunch at the Piazza della Repubblica.

Victoria had just purchased her first authentic, Versace outfit; lime green, tight fitting jeans with a low slung, double, gold chained belt, a silk print multi-colored blouse and a pair of open toe mules. She swung back her head back to show off large, hooped earrings, dramatic eye make-up, large sunglasses and a carefully messed up hairdo. It was the 80’s and she was posed and poised for a compagno.

She had a few boyfriends back in the states but this… this was a whole new ball game. She was seated, cross legged at a table as she sipped a cappuccino. She felt very grown up and very Italian. There was a strikingly handsome man walking in her direction and he was looking directly at her. He was olive complexioned with a thick head of tussled, wavy black hair. He was wearing what looked like a Don Johnson knock-off; white suit jacket and pants with a grey tee shirt, sleeves rolled up, loafers and no socks. Victoria grinned and thought, he must be doing his “Americano.” He casually held a folded newspaper in his right hand as he strolled. Don’t look at him, she thought. Be aloof and sophisticated.

“Ciao, bella,” she heard him say. “You are American.”

What? How could he know? She continued to sip and hold onto her cup. “Excuse me?”

“You are American.”

She lowered her glasses. “How do you know?”

“You are having a coffee out here, not at the bar and you are drinking cappuccino; cappuccino is for the morning, never for this time of the day. Always a dead give-away. May I sit?”

He’s a bold one. A hot, sexy, bold one. She uncrossed and crossed her legs and motioned for him to have a seat. It was hard not to fall for Cosimo Abandonato. The way he looked at Victoria, she would have said yes to anything. He gazed openly at her cleavage beneath her plunging blouse. An American boy would have gotten the finger by now.

“You are a tourist, bella?”

“No, actually. I’m living here. I’m a writer and I’m in need of a fresh perspective. I’ve had a successful career in the U. S.”

“Ah, but you are bored.”

“I didn’t say I was bored.”

“Maybe, restless?”

“Maybe.”

“I like that in a woman.”

They sat looking at each other for what felt like an eternity. If she was restless, so was he.

Cosimo ordered a Spritz, made with prosecco, sparkling water and Aperol and introduced himself. They chatted while his sipped his Spritz and she her cappuccino.

A good gust kicked up and lifted the napkin from under Victoria’s drink, sending it tumbling across the piazza. “I can think of a better place to have a good conversation. Let’s finish up our drinks and I will take you there.”

He took her back to his apartment, where they could… converse. It was an upscale walk-up with a balcony. Victoria noticed the fine furnishings but lack of personal items. It was nicely decorated but it had the feel of a hotel room. Must be the bachelor life of a Florentino. He did have a nice wine collection. He invited her to sit down in the living room while he selected wine and music. She heard the familiar chords of My Cherona by the Knack.

He returned with two glasses and a bottle of a red, Tuscan blend. She was grinning sheepishly.

“Something is funny?”

“My Cherona; it’s so American.”

“Is a good song, no?”

’Yes, but, you know, this is Italy…”

“Okay, you want Italian music. I have very good Italian music.”

He pulled out another CD and replaced it. “This is Alan Sorrenti, Non so che darei; I Don’t Know What I Would Give in English.”

Cosimo was very proud of his English. He was also proud of his wine knowledge. He told Victoria about his family’s vineyards and how he would someday take over the business. Victoria liked his confidence. He was smooth; a trait that would have put her off in an American but was somehow charming in an Italian. He told her he knew of a group of artists and writers he could introduce her to.

The Alan Sorrenti CD was playing in the background and the wine glasses were never empty. “I don’t know what I would give,” she said to herself as she listened and succumbed to Cosimo’s charm. But she did know what she would give. An afternoon of conversazione, wine and song led to a night of athletic love making. There were times when Victoria would swear that there were two different men having sex with her, one was gentle and sweet, the other was lusty and impatient. She decided she could live with that.

She and Cosimo became insatiable lovers. They would steal away to an empty bedroom at parties or take trips to the bathroom together while visiting his parents, in the not always private vineyards; to the cheers of delight from the workers tending the vines, ducking into alley ways on walking tours along the Amalfi coast to booking an entire couchette on the treno on the way to Tuscany to savor some Chianti.

Victoria thought how insane was; was she in love or just in lust? His ability to change personas during love making was so intoxicating, she couldn’t get enough of him.

It wasn’t long before Cosimo asked Victoria to move in with him. He was also receiving pressure from his family to marry. Normally, they would have wanted him to marry an Italian girl but they seemed unusually taken with Victoria. They cohabitated for three months before Cosimo asked her to marry him; and she told him she was pregnant.

Victoria and Cosimo shared a happy life in Florence. After their first daughter, Azzurra was born, it was nearly nine months to the day that their second child, Rosabella, was born. There was a two-year gap before they had a son, Baldasarre. Cosimo’s family couldn’t have been more delighted. They doted on their grandchildren. Victoria had taken somewhat of a back seat after her children were born. Cosimo took his place in the family wine business and Victoria became a successful and popular writer of romazi rosa. The love bizarre that she and Cosmo shared early on had waned and Victoria thought that maybe the passion had run its course. She missed it but they were content in their lives as Florentinos. Until the spring of 2000.

Victoria began to write with single-minded determination. First in her journal. Then she began writing on notepaper, then napkins. She gathered up her collection of notes and began typing. At this point, she hadn’t written a fiction story in years. Most of her writing of late consisted of columns for the local paper. She was trancelike in composing the account of a man who was being stalked; no, possessed by another dark figure; a man who relentlessly impinged on his victim’s life. A man who could win his prey over and use him; body and soul.

It used to bother her some that her mother-in-law had taken over much of the child rearing duties but now it was a sanction. She had become completely absorbed in writing her story. As she wrote, she kept trying to change the outcome; but she couldn’t. It was as if she had to write it just that way with those horrible consequences; the victim would be consumed, slowly, a little at a time. She could remember the same sensation when she wrote for the paper in her hometown, like the one about the nurse but those people had no significance in her life. This was somehow intimate… and a compulsion.

At the same time, Cosimo was struck with a debilitating illness, he became weak and frail; it came on quite suddenly and violently. Cosimo was a man who was rarely sick There were few colds to speak of and no life traumas. Victoria was alarmed to find her once handsome, vigorous husband reduced to this feeble and now dependent-on-her man.

“You got to take care of your husband, Victoria,” said momma Abandonato. “Take him to the Medico. Your nose is always in your typewriter. Those puttanas in your stories mean more to you than your husband!”

“I’m doing the best I can and I have taken him to the doctor, momma.”

“But still he is malato!”

“Yes, momma, he is still sick. I’ve taken him to three very good doctors and they don’t know what is wrong with him. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Then take him to ospedale! You no take him, I take him!”

“Momma… please!”

“Please me, Victoria! Take him to ospedale!”

“Fine! I will take him! They can do nothing for him but I will take him!”

Cosimo was admitted to Ospedale di Santa Maria Nuova in Florence; at least he would be close by. Victoria took Cosimo’s face in her hands and kissed him goodbye. He looked up at her with vacant, expressionless eyes. Just like the man in her story was carted away to a hospital and there, would wait for death to release him from his non-existence. he clutched her sweater and sobbed as the nurses wheeled Cosimo away. Momma Abandonato darted after the nurses, tearfully pleading to them in Italian to help her son.

“I have to talk to Daphne” she said as she mopped her tears with her sweater.