Disclaimer: Though I wish I were that talented, The Light in the Piazza does not belong to me. It's the property of the wonderful Mr. Guettel and all of the other people associated with it whose names escape me. I make no claim.
A/N: If you haven't seen The Light in the Piazza…do so at once! I would love to have anyone read my story, so I won't stop you if you haven't, but it might not make a lot of sense. If you don't know anything about the musical or the book, SPOILER WARNING this story is from the point of view of Clara, a girl from North Carolina traveling through Italy with her mother, in the moments leading up to her first meeting with Fabrizio, the man with whom she will fall in love. As a child, Clara was kicked in the head by a pony, which lead to mental developmental problems. I've tried to capture that in my writing, although I may or may not have succeeded, you be the judge. I've also written this story in stream of consciousness, a technique I've never really used before, so please review and let me know what you think!
A New Old World
I like the light here. It's warm. It's yellow, the way light ought to be. In this light, people turn and stare, but they don't hide. They're so much closer here. On their faces I can see what they feel. That man, there, with the funny crooked nose is scowling at me and my pencil and paper. I like his nose. I wonder if it looks the same on the other side….It does! If I draw him on this side, will it look the same as my drawing of the other side, but backwards?
I like the light here; it's so soft and warm. At home, it's heavy and green. Sometimes it presses on me so hard that I think I can't breathe. Maybe it's because of all the trees. There are so many of them, and I can never seem to get past all of them. No matter where I go, there are more there waiting for me, crowding in around me. I've sketched and I've drawn and I've painted them, but they don't go away. They clog up the air with their heat and their wet smells, and they make the air green and heavy. But Mother and I got in a plane and flew away from them, here, to Italy. Here, when I draw the people they go away. Sometimes I want them to go away. Sometimes I don't, but I can't tell them that. Maybe if I learn to speak Italian I can tell them not to go away.
That man is wearing such a funny hat! Why isn't anyone else staring at it? It's brown and only brown, which I suppose is why, but there are so many colors in it. I wonder if they feel as different as they look….
Of course, Mother won't let me touch. She always pulls me away from people, sounding sorry. I don't know if she's sorry for me or for them or for her; she won't tell me. I guess she doesn't want me to take the man's hat, but I don't see why. I wasn't going to steal it. I would have given him mine, if he had wanted it, and he didn't look like he minded.
That boy is looking at me again. His face tells me more than anyone else's. His hair curls like the statue's, but he's wearing clothes and the statue isn't. Does he keep secrets in that bag? No. He doesn't have any secrets to keep. Not now. Does he know about the man that was hung here? Mother says the people who live here are sorry for it now. Is he? I'll have to ask him when he comes to talk to me. Why hasn't he talked to me yet? He wants to. He knows me.
Where did he go?
Mother keeps talking about the art and artists and their history. Did she see all of this with Daddy when they were here? That was before I was born. I know that. I wish I could know as much as she does. I try to, but I just can't. Sometimes I think someone built a wall inside my head. There are things inside it that I just can't get to. Mother doesn't mind when I can't remember things, but I think Daddy does. He's so unhappy when he looks at me, but no one will tell me what I've done.
The wind's getting stronger. It's trying to talk to me, to tell me something exciting. Something is going to change. I hope it does. Of course, things have already changed because I came on this trip. I'm away from home, from the people and the way they stare when I'm not looking, but won't meet my eyes when I look at them. No on does that here. Maybe they only do that in the United States, or maybe just in North Carolina.
Oh! The wind's taken my hat! It's flying so high; I can barely see it in all the yellow light. I won't be able to keep up with it much farther. Good, it's coming down! It's…
Him. He sees me.
"Fabrizio."
He knows me.
"Clara."
I know him….
The End