Blue Sky with Clouds

Beginning-1

Lake effect

Cayuga Lake was as smooth as a plate of gray glass, its long reach notched by quirky bends in its shoreline. Its banks rose up steeply at first, then more gently as the slopes became the ridges that separated Cayuga from the other lakes, each running not quite parallel, like fingers leading to the palm of Lake Ontario. The water’s flatness revealed the downward slope of the entire region toward the north, with Ithaca at the head of the valley.

Livia sat in the worn leather armchair facing the window in the White Library at Cornell University. She had recently stumbled upon this room, a single three-story space with filigreed stacks around the perimeter that were connected by delicate bridges at each level. The only sounds were of footsteps on the metal stairs, books being dropped on carrel desks, and the turning of pages. Later in the day, smartphone signals, suppressed giggles, and chair legs rudely scraping the floor would disrupt these softer morning sounds, library-like and reassuring.

The days were cooling down, and the lake was warmer than the air, causing a drizzle on the Ithaca hills. It suited Livia’s mood. She liked the Cornell campus: it was perched between gorges carved by streams whose waterfalls dove dramatically to stony pools below. It was as if she’d been transported to the setting of a Gothic romance; the soft rain enhanced that impression.

Her father’s funeral five years earlier was attended by the same soft dripping of rain and of tears. From there, her memory stepped back to a previous day spent with him, a sunny day so warm that the din from the cicadas was deafening. She had followed her Papi up the steep slope, barely able to keep up in her rubber boots. The ancient apple tree they found was perched on the edge of a dry streambed, now a shallow ravine with a thin thread of water meandering around boulders and clumps of vegetation. It had been a dry summer. Livia hadn’t been able to locate her hiking shoes that morning, so her father had to climb the tree to reach that viable branch. She watched him from below, unable to prevent the splitting of the trunk and his slow-motion fall into the ravine. After he landed, she heard a “toc” when his head fell back against the rock.

She scrambled down to the streambed. Her father had fallen from trees–they both had–plenty of times. It usually ended in laughter, followed by days of teasing.

“Papá!” she called as she approached him, meandering, like the stream, around the obstacles in her path. When Livia reached his side, she realized he was unconscious. She tried her cell phone, but there was no signal. She needed to go to higher ground; she would have to leave him there alone. Her boots robbed her of her usual agility, as in a dream where shoelaces can’t be tied in time, or an escape made before one awakes. She was finally able to reach someone at a nearby farm.

“Pronto!” she said into the phone. “This is Livia, Giancarlo’s daughter. He’s fallen and hit his head ... in the Torrente Marzana, about three kilometers from the Badia Bellavista.”

The farmer and his son took an off-road vehicle as far as they could, then came up the torrente with an army cot as a stretcher, splashing in the water’s path. The farmer examined Giancarlo, shaking his head.

“He’s gone,” he said in a soft voice.

“What do you mean?” Livia asked. “Let’s get him to the hospital; he’s unconscious.”

The farmer was not one to argue with a woman; he knew better.

When they got back to the truck, Livia sat on the floor head-to-head with her father, who had been laid on the back seat.

“Should we take him to Arezzo?” she asked.

“That’s the nearest hospital,” said the farmer, looking at his son, who met his glance with raised eyebrows and a sigh.

“Maybe we should go straight to Florence,” Livia proposed, “if you would?”

“Cara Livia,” said the farmer, as he pulled onto the shoulder. He braked, turned around, took her hand and looked her in the eye. “I would gladly drive all the way to Milano if it would bring him back to life.”

Livia stared straight ahead, not seeing. She laid her head on her father’s chest and started to cry. He was her only parent and her best friend. How could this be?

“Don’t worry,” said the farmer, “we’re going to make sure, at the hospital.”

Now, in her armchair overlooking Cayuga Lake, Livia shed a single tear, remembering.

Who would have thought that her father’s horticultural legacy–a passion she shared–would lead to an invitation to teach here? They would have preferred him of course, but for his English. She shook her head and smiled. Everyone thought it was a big deal: an American Ivy League school!

She looked down at her book, Apples of North America. An email she had printed last week peeked from between the pages. She took it out and unfolded it.

Dear Livia,

I suppose it’s a bad practice to write when you’re down, but I hope our years of friendship will excuse me. Maybe I feel this way because summer is almost over, and the days are getting shorter.

Lately, I have been feeling frustrated by my routine, assailed by digital media all day and predictable socialization in the evening. I don’t know what has happened to my life. I am distracted by every path I haven’t taken.

Livia paused to absorb what she had read.

She imagined Lella writing it, sitting in the breakfast alcove of her family’s villa by the sea. She would have her cappuccino and some buttered toast beside her. In her mind, she played out her friend’s day.

* * *

Lella looked up from her laptop. A cat visiting the terrace caught her eye, luring her outside to the real world. She grabbed her sweater and walked up through the garden–so many steps–till she reached the cart path, paved with cobbles and concrete wheel tracks. It was wide enough for scooters and three-wheeled flatbeds, but no cars came up here.

The path climbed and wound around rustic stone houses yet to be restored, precious because of their proximity to such beauty. Lella passed odd little flights of stone steps that ascended the embankment and died into the slope of the groves. She kept walking until she got to the ridge of the promontory above Portofino, where the view took flight over the sea.

She, too, was nursing a memory. She had seen Giorgio one more time after she had told him that there was no way they could be more than acquaintances, friends maybe, after his infidelity. Although, Lella thought, was it really that, or the dishonesty about his dedication to her?

She allowed her gaze to tumble down the terraced slope dotted with Olives with their pale, lance-like leaves. The sea in the Golfo Paradiso was sparkling with the light of the lowering sun. The universe felt large and she, small, though with every right to be there.

Lella passed a stand of Pines that momentarily blocked her view. The air was fragrant and their bark rough. This was good company for those who have earned their solitude. The sun cast tree shadows over the well-groomed path until the scintillating sea came back into view.

* * *

Livia remembered that walk. She and Lella had taken it every time they had been there together. Livia continued reading her friend’s letter.

I have been so grateful for my stay in Santa Margherita, and though my time here is up, the idea of returning to Milan and its unrelenting rhythm doesn’t appeal to me.

So, I will happily accept your invitation (to visit the Visiting Professor) while you are at Cornell. I am sure there are some exceptional places to walk in the Finger Lakes hills.

I’ll be in touch when I am able to get tickets and dates. I’m looking forward to seeing you in the States.

Much Love,

Lella.

Livia smiled at the prospect of her dear friend coming for a visit. She would take her on a tour of the Orchard; they could walk along the forest streams that inevitably led to waterfalls, so many waterfalls! They would catch up.

She checked her phone for the time and saw that she needed to head to the Ag school. Livia left the library and headed up Tower Road.

“Professoressa Torricelli!”

Livia turned to see John Handby, from the agronomy department, catching up to her. He was a handsome man, graying at the temples, dressed like a model from a manly clothing catalog. Livia smiled, trying not to laugh at how stereotypically American John looked. He used her Italian title to demonstrate his cultural awareness, and because he liked the way it rolled off his tongue.

“Hello John,” she answered. “You don’t look like you’re planning on getting dirty today.”

He smiled indulgently. “Just a lecture this morning.” He adjusted his glasses. “Would you like to get some coffee later?”

Livia tipped her head, thinking. “I might be free around 11:30.”

“Okay, I’ll stop by your office then. Maybe we can go to the Dairy Bar and get a sandwich, too.”

“That sounds good.” Livia turned to enter the Plant Sciences building, but John passed ahead and held the door for her.

Livia wasn’t sure why John was so attentive to her. Could he be angling for an invitation to Italy to see her fruit tree collection? Her father was a well-known horticultural archaeologist, and together they had done much to establish the field before his death five years ago. That made her a bit of an inadvertent celebrity.

Hanging out with the other academics wasn’t really Livia’s thing. She attended all their meetings, but otherwise kept to herself. She hadn’t rented an apartment near campus, choosing instead to live in the little village of Trumansburg on the other side of the lake. That was her way. When she was done for the day, she would drive down into the Ithaca Flats, pick up any groceries she needed, and then up the other side to her little Greek Revival house with its rickety front porch. She had fallen in love with it because it was next to an abandoned church with an old orchard and a tiny cemetery behind it. From this refuge, she could walk to the coffee shop, the post office, and the deserted Rongovian Embassy, a legendary music venue. She would peer into the windows and imagine the music, laughing, and dancing. Now there was just dust.

Her landlord had cleared her rented house of its disabled furniture, leaving a big oak bed frame, a table and six chairs; and some thrift-shop dinnerware. Livia bought a new mattress and borrowed or bought the rest of the things she needed second-hand.

Today, after lunch with John, she would head home and read some student lab reports until Lella arrived.

Arrival

One of the best things about the American marketplace was choice, Lella thought. It was also one of the worst, rendering a person completely impotent when faced with simple decisions like choosing coffee varieties, ice cream flavors, or car rental options.

Her plane had arrived at JFK on time, but the flight to Syracuse had been canceled for lack of interest. Rather than wait another six hours, Lella decided to get a car and drive to Ithaca. Bewildered by the number of agencies and their slow lines, she checked sites on her phone and found a “25% discount and Free Days!” that allowed her to go straight to her car, a Ford Focus. If her GPS didn’t fail her, she would arrive at six o’clock. Listening carefully to the voice emanating from the device, Lella made her escape from Queens, skirting Manhattan and crossing the Hudson River. She took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up on Route 17, which, according to the voice, would still get her there, ETA six-thirty.

Lella leapfrogged trucks and disparaged the incorrigible minivans, avoiding drivers who were either on their phones or eating. She wondered how these people would fare on an Italian highway if they couldn’t manage these wide, straight roads. She didn’t go through any little villages or towns along the way, though signs offering food and gas were clustered at intervals, suggesting their presence somewhere inland. Thick vegetation blanketed the hills and valleys like a nubby Berber rug or a forest of giant broccoli. The sky was an endless blanket of cotton clouds.