Page 104 of The Start of Something Wonderful

‘Eh, il postino!Attenzione prego!’ I yell. ‘Stop here!’

We lean our bicycles against a lamppost and join the growing line of mainly American, Japanese, and Spanish-speaking tourists waiting for the box office to open.

José Cura, the Argentinean tenor, is playing the role of Rodolfo at tonight’s performance ofLa Bohème, and the couple in front of us has flown over especiallyfrom Buenos Aries to see him perform. (Pity his understudy.)

‘Excuse me. Do you speak English?’ comes an American drawl from behind.

I look over my shoulder, and before I have time to respond, a large lady sporting a baseball cap and multicoloured poncho says, ‘We were just wondering if you and your husband have ever seenLa Bohème, and how it compares toLes Misérables? We saw that onBroadway and loved it.’

‘Oh, um, we’re not …’

‘My wife and I, we love this opera, don’t we darling?’ interjects Francesco, a cheeky grin creasing his chin. ‘We come from England by bicycle to see it.’

‘Really?’ says the woman, mouth gaping to reveal a large piece of gum.

‘Sì. And my great-grandfather, he write the music.’

‘Omigod!’

‘Ja, bitte?’ calls the lady through thebox office window.

‘Two for tonight,per favore, in the upper circle. One for me – and one for my wife.’

‘One hundred and forty euros, please,’ she says with a knowing smile, as she passes the tickets through.

‘We should be going,’ I say, promptly dragging Francesco away by his sleeve, before our American friends have the chance to probe any further – and before I crack up.

* * *

We head out along the shady Augustinerstrasse, lined with rows of unchained bicycles (bike theft is non-existent here), past the antiquarian bookshops, quirky galleries, and a life-sized wooden figure of Pinocchio perched on a bench, and on towards St Michael’s Gate. We stop by the church and go inside. The sweet smell of incense mixed with lilies hangs heavy in the air. Solitary figures sitin silent prayer. Who or what are they praying for, I wonder? For a sick parent, a pet, a premature baby, a son fighting in some foreign war, for a lotto win, or for success with a job interview?

I look round to find Francesco lighting a candle, head bowed. I leave him to his private thoughts, and retreat on tiptoes to an empty side chapel.

I drop to my knees, close my eyes, and ask Steveto keep Wendy safe, to encourage her to pick up her paintbrushes again, and although no one will ever take his place, would it be all right for her to fall in love again someday?

Feeling a gentle hand on my shoulder, I tilt my head back and am met by Francesco’s kind, watery eyes. He holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet, our fingers locking together. He kisses the crown of my head lightly,and as we walk along the red-carpeted aisle towards the exit, and out into the bright and busy square, I am reminded once more that silence can be filled with meaning; that you don’t have to cram every void with inane chatter. I don’t feel the need to impress Francesco with my wit or knowledge of Viennese rococo architecture, and am not embarrassed that he’s caught me crying.

* * *

Ofall the places I have so far visited in Vienna, the little innocuous market just around the corner from Rudolfstrasse has to be one of my favourites. It’s so … well, ALIVE. Sure, I appreciate the magnificence of the Opera House, the Spanish Riding School with its chandelier-lit paddock, the over-the-top, baroque, faded golden glory of Schönbrunn Palace, but they all have a LOOK-BUT-DON’T-TOUCH feelabout them; whereas here, in this little market, I can see, feel, smell, listen to the Vienna of the here and now.

I know I shouldn’t compare, but Nigel would not have been impressed: So what? It’s just a market. All these historic buildings and you drag me here?

‘Che bello!’ enthuses Francesco, disappearing into its maze of colourful stalls: pyramids of blood-red, vine tomatoes, bunchesof thin asparagus, reaching out like witches’ fingers, rosemary, oregano, and garlic bound up with raffia, swaying from metal hooks, roasted chestnuts, smoking in a coal-filled, metal drum, speckled eggs, nestled together in straw-filled baskets, row upon row of freshly baked Kaiser rolls, rye, wholegrain, sourdough, and seeded artisan loaves that send your taste buds into overdrive, trays of sausages,cuts of meat in pools of pink blood, and trotters with sprigs of parsley stuffed between their piggy toes. Aaw. If I allow myself to think about those cute little porkers too much, I could turn vegetarian.

I seek refuge in the flower stall, where the air is perfumed with woodsy pine, cinnamon, eucalyptus, and orchids. With Christmas just a few weeks away, it’s like entering an ice-white winterwonderland. Ladies in voluminous dirndls and boiled wool, fir-green jackets with rustic horn buttons and heavy-duty gloves deftly create advent crowns from aromatic spruce, holly, metallic frosted pine cones, red berries, cinnamon sticks, silver ribbons, garden twine, and candles.

I return to the food section where I left Francesco. Through the rows of hanging, cheesecloth-wrapped salamisand hams, pretzels, and dried chillies, I watch him as he zips from one stall to another, tasting olives, smelling herbs, feeling tomatoes, and aubergines, checking they are ripe. He laughs and jokes with the amiable stall holders, cosied up against the cold in furry earflap hats and fingerless gloves, his hand vocabulary and humour bridging the language gap.

I’m learning that the Italianhand gesture can be used either to convey a meaning that it would take several words to express, or to simply emphasise a point – a kind of communication shorthand.

He’s spied me and is gesturing for me to come over, so I shall now do my best to demonstrate this point:

‘Eh,cara, I have an idea,’ he says (forefinger stabbing temple). ‘Call (thumb to ear, little finger to mouth) Anna andCristina. Tell them tonight, before (forefinger rotating backwards) the opera, I prepare dinner.’(fingers of right hand clasped together and indicating mouth.)

‘But you’re on holiday.’ I groan. ‘You don’t want to be cooking on your night off. There’s a lovely taverna near …’

‘Punto e basta! Enough!’ (horizontal cross-over and swiping of both hands.)

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