The Goddess and the Geek

It was on a passage to Italy that I'd met Fiammeta. I was following through on a quest to play tennis on an international tour in Europe, not necessarily to win mind you, but to be a the best libertine I could possibly be. I mean, how hard could it be with all those discos and friendly European women? She was watching the matches in the gallery and being the friendly type was quick to engage this rather clueless American in conversation. My match wasn't until the next day which suited me fine, I'd rather talk to her anyway. She was an Italian goddess, blonde, blue-eyed with the creamy olive oil skin you'd expect on a nice Italian girl. She was Sophia Loren to my Jerry Lewis and quite frankly, to this day I don't remember a jot of what we talked about. Want to know why? Because I'm stupid, that's why. I was so awestruck by her beauty that every time I looked at her I sort of went "Ack" or the equivalent sound that your cat makes when coughing up fur balls. Now when I say I was stupid I mean in the ways of the world, not in the brains department. I prided myself in being able to keep up in political discussions as well as the latest developments in alternate realities, quantum theory and multi-verses. But I was a bit out to lunch on women of this caliber. Or any caliber for that matter. This comes with the territory when one is a geek. Let's just say I had much to learn.

She and I managed to spend a day roaming the streets of Venice. She knew the city well and I was grateful for the company, especially knowing that every man we walked by wanted to be me. Yes, I am that shallow. She belonged on a magazine cover, perhaps Italian Vogue or Moda Italia so I considered myself lucky. But more to the point, I enjoyed that brief time we spent together in the waning summer of 1978. While on that tour I managed to have some decent matches and also managed to get my ass kicked in a few others. I wasn't ranked, I was just a fairly decent college player who might have done well on a good day if one of those clay court specialists had been out too late and had too much to drink the night before. So winning wasn't really part of the equation but that's alright. I accomplished my objective which was to see a bit of the world and expand my horizons before I returned to my one horse town in California. But before I left I met up with Fiammeta one more time to watch the quarter-finals of the very tournament I was playing in. I had the pleasure of meeting her mother and father who had also come to watch the match. I deluded myself into thinking that they had come to meet me and of course I was just humoring myself. The younger people in the gallery were dressed much like an American crowd, with rugby shirts and jeans but the older folks were dressed much better. I remember Fiammeta's father wearing an eggshell colored suit that made him look quite continental. The memory of that crazy summer still pulls at me. I wrote letters to Fiammeta and she would always write back. She was proficient in four languages which helped me tremendously. I was just starting to be proficient in English despite my twenty-three year head start and hopefully I'm now good enough to consider myself a writer of sorts. She was busy with university and like most university graduates she went out and made something of herself by finding a job, getting married and starting a family.



I would return to Venice in 1984. I had less than stellar expectations and objectives this time out so instead focused on playing the American tourist. I know, it sounds like a brand of luggage and there were times on this trip that I did feel akin to baggage but at least this time I traveled lighter and left the tennis rackets at home along with that damn steamer truck that just about killed me six years earlier. The first person I met at the train station was her husband, Renzo. She had warned me that he might arrive a few minutes earlier than she so when this tall fellow with a wry smile walked straight up to me on the platform I knew instantly it was him. We both smiled and shook hands as Fiammetta arrived seconds later and formally introduced us. I'd always felt that Renzo was very accomodating, even cool, to allow someone to visit who had been so attracted to his wife when she was younger. We would either be great friends or he would end up killing me. I was betting on the former and the fact that I lived only tells you all what you need to know.

The three of us would stroll through the streets of Venice and Mestre just doing what Italians do in the summer... enjoy the warm nights with good friends and good food. It was on one of those nights that something jarring and yet wonderful happened for you must know already that this essay has little to do with my European adventures. It has more to do with grief, understanding it fully and what it means to another person close to you. We had been walking and laughing until we decided to go into an ice cream shop for some wonderful Italian gelato. The Italians are rightly proud of their gelati and will tell you all about it if you let them. Gelato is made in smaller batches and has a slightly more intense flavor than American ice cream so I was really looking forward to trying some. Fiammeta went into the shop while me and Renzo hesitated outside. I remember leaning against a bannister on the steps of the shop when suddenly Fiame came out of the shop quickly, holding her hand over her mouth. I said "What is it?" to Renzo and he whispered back "Her father". Yes. Of course. Her father. The handsome man in the suit that I had met at that tennis match six years earlier had passed away two years earlier but for Fiammeta it was like yesterday. What was it in that ice cream shop that had triggered her emotions? What did she see? Was it the memory of her father taking her out for gelato? A father who'd be unable to deny his little girl an ice cream cone on a summer night? I never did ask Fiammeta exactly what it was she saw in the shop nor do I intend to. Everyone is entitled to their secrets, but recently I did find out more about her father. I had been curious to know the character of a person that could engender such strong feelings of love and loss.

Her father had been born to a wealthy family but because his step father was Jewish his family had to flee Italy during World War Two only to return after the war. Despite his wealth and although she was an only child Fiammeta swears that she was never spoiled. But what father wouldn't dote on his daughter? She remembers how he allowed her to learn how to drive in his beloved Alfa Romeo 2000 when she was getting her driver's license. She now admits that it was much too fast a car for her but she loved it nonetheless. That's a picture I would dearly love to see, her father coaching her while she drives a very fast Italian sports car on two wheels. The horror!

I wrote this because I never really understood the loss that she felt for her father back in 1984. It wouldn't be until I lost mine nearly twenty years later that I really got it. Outside of being Italian our two fathers couldn't be more different. Hers was wealthy, mine was poor. She lost him when she was 22, Pop left this earth when I was 47. I was lucky to have him for so long... yet she would tell you that she was just as lucky. In her home Fiammeta displays a framed photograph of her father holding her in his arms when she was a little girl. I would stare at this old black and white photo for minutes at a time, wondering where he'd gone and wondering what kind of story his life could tell. I still don't know what it was that Fiammeta saw in that ice cream shop that night but maybe she'll tell me one day. I'd love to hear that story.