A/N: I apologize for this story being so late. I think I may change my deadline to the end of February as opposed to the 14th, because it's looking like writing a story every day is too much for me. Welcome to the longest chapter yet. This one is GerIta, and I'm worried you'll find it boring… I don't know. I suppose we'll see, won't we?
Chapter 3: Adversity
Valentine's Day had never been something he'd paid much attention to. As a nation, he'd lived through hundreds of them, and after a while they began to feel redundant. There was very little to distinguish it from any other day of the year, besides cheaper chocolate and a few more kissing couples on the streets. Since he had always considered himself to be married to his work, he had always been more of a spectator of the holiday, rather than a participant.
That was, of course, before Feliciano.
Feliciano was entirely the opposite. Every Valentine's day was an event, an occasion, something to be remembered. Technically speaking, Feliciano was even older than he was, and yet he never seemed to tire of the foolish romantic gestures. Even before they became what they were now, he'd insisted on going out to expensive restaurants, despite how his own cooking outshone that of many of the world's most distinguished chefs. If circumstances arose that prevented them from being together on the 14th, Feliciano never failed to send some roses his way, along with a card and a phone call. He didn't quite understand why, but for whatever reason, Valentine's Day had always been very important to Feliciano.
This was the reason Ludwig was standing at the airport just outside Siena on a Monday afternoon, trying to hail a cab that could take him into Cerbaia. Feliciano had offered to pick him up, but he'd insisted that it would be no trouble. Of course, the real reason he'd declined was because he usually felt terrified for his life when the Italian was behind the wheel, but he hadn't told him that. He'd rather pay the ridiculously high taxi fee than race 30 miles above the speed limit down badly-paved roads in a Ferrari convertible. Besides, he was fairly certain he knew how to get to Feliciano's house anyway. It really wouldn't be a hassle.
After ten minutes of waiting by the curb, an old, yellow taxi pulled up and came to a halt with creaking breaks. The model itself couldn't have been more than 25 years old, but with its rusted pain, cracked side window, and missing hubcaps, the car looked ancient. A very tan, dark-haired Italian man ducked out of the driver-side door and rushed out to help him fit his bag in the trunk, though he was perfectly capable of handling it himself.
"Hello! You are a… eh… traveler?" the man asked in broken English. "Where are you going?"
"I am trying to get to Cerbaia," he replied, also in English. "You are probably more familiar with the area than I am."
The man gave him a confused look. "I am sorry?"
"Cerbaia. I need to get to Cerbaia."
The look on the man's face cleared immediately, and he smiled widely, displaying crooked teeth. "Cerbaia! Yes, I drive to Cerbaia." He slammed the trunk shut and walked around to unlock the passenger door before returning to the front seat.
The moment Ludwig closed the door behind him, he began to regret his decision to take a taxi. The cab driver was an even worse motorist than Feliciano. Only seconds after he pulled onto the road, the man turned on an outdated radio that was sitting on top of the dashboard, fiddling with the dials as he governed the vehicle with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. When he'd finished toying with the knobs and buttons, the machine began to scratch out fast-pace Italian chattering that couldn't possibly be conducive to attentive driving. To make matters worse, the man seemed to find it impossible to keep a steady speed, alternating between the gas and the break as though it was some sort of tap dance. He found himself holding the handle overhead for dear life when they merged onto the freeway. Luckily, the roads were mostly empty, so they were in no danger of crashing into another car. Then again, other cars weren't exactly a requirement of a car accident, were they? Trees, road signs, ditches, fences, and houses worked just as well.
After what felt like an endless amount of time, the landscape began to look familiar. At first it was just a small town that he remembered going shopping in. Then it was a grove of olive trees and a vineyard they'd toured once. When they passed by a blue sign announcing 'CERBAIA' in large white lettering, he knew they were close.
"You can pull over now," he told the cab driver. "I think I can find my way from here."
The driver turned to look at him with another confused expression, taking his eyes of the road so that they veered dangerously close to the centerline. "Sorry? My English… not good."
"Pull over!" Ludwig said quickly, not even bothering to try German. The sooner he could escape the taxi, the better. He kept his eyes trained on the wobbling road in front of them, as if his own attentiveness could make up for his driver's negligence.
"Ah, yes, I am stopping…" said the man as he jerked the steering wheel towards the right and used the parking break to bring the car to an abrupt halt. The tail end of the car was still sticking out into the road but he decided not to comment. Instead he threw open the door and stooped out onto the street, making immediately for the trunk to grab his bag. In a matter of seconds he was thumbing through his wallet, looking for the correct amount of euros to pay the driver.
"This should be enough," he said, handing over a number of bills and slipping his wallet back into the side-pocked of his bag. The man took the cash immediately and flipped through it, counting and looking somewhat thwarted. Perhaps he was used to getting large, unintentional tips from American tourists who were either unfamiliar with European money or too lazy to count correctly.
Once he had finished paying the Italian, he managed to pull his phone out of his pocket with the hand that wasn't carrying his baggage, sliding the bar to unlock it and checking for any texts from Feliciano. To his disappointment, there weren't any, but then again, he had told him not to text him while he was on the plain. He was probably just waiting for a text to confirm his flight hand landed before he sent him any messages.
"Would you like me to hold, eh, bag?" offered the cab driver. "It is… more easy, to use phone?"
Surprised but appreciative, Ludwig handed over the bag. "Thank you," he said and began to tap out a message in German on the touch screen of his phone.
Just arrived in Cerbaia. Will be at your place soon.
For a couple moments, he stared at the message. Then, before he could change his mind, he added two more words and sent it.
Love you.
Swiftly he shoved his phone back into his pocket and retrieved his bag from the Italian driver. Without another word, the man hopped into the cab and drove off, leaving him alone in the middle of the badly-paved road near Cerbaia. Up ahead, he could see the small cluster of houses that was, no doubt, the town in question. Hopefully he would be able to ask a local which home was Feliciano's.
After ten minutes, he reached the edge of the little town, which he now saw consisted of no more than fifteen houses, a small church, and two family shops. Outside the nearest store, a old, plump woman was bustling about, carrying bouquets of flowers indoors and glancing up at the sky nervously. She wore an apron over a dark brown dress and smiled at him kindly as he approached.
"Scusi, uh…" he began, searching for the right words in Italian. "Do you… know where Feliciano Vargas lives?"
The woman smiled warmly and nodded. "The Vargas house is a ways up the road," she said, gesturing eastward along the path that exited the village. "It is quite a walk. You may want to hurry, though. I think it will rain soon."
"Yes?" Ludwig replied doubtfully, looked up at the cerulean, cloudless sky and then back at the woman. "Well, thank you, for the…" He glanced over at the flowers the woman was fawning over and was struck with a sudden idea. Gesturing at a bouquet of deep red roses, he asked one last question. "May I buy…?"
"Of course, of course!" she exclaimed. "Would you like a ribbon on them?"
"Oh, no thank you…" he tried, but she was already wrapping a large red band around the stems and tying it into a bow. Hastily, he reached into the side pocket of his bag to get his wallet and…
The pocket was empty.
A cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he felt around through the rest of his bag without success. Could it have fallen out while he was walking? No… The pocket had been sealed with Velcro the whole way. Suddenly, his mind flew to the moment he'd handed over his bag to the cab driver only fifteen minutes earlier. Had the man stolen it? He must have… How could he have been so foolish as to let him hold his bag? Now he was stuck in a foreign country with no money or identification. He could feel a headache forming already…
"I am sorry," he told the woman. "I do not have money…"
The woman nodded sympathetically, as though she'd guessed what had happened. However, she finished tying up the bouquet and held it out to him all the same.
"No, I…" he paused, wondering if he'd misspoken. "I can't pay."
The woman just smiled knowingly. "Please, take it. No one should go to their lovers on Valentine's Day without roses."
He almost refused, but the look in the woman's eye seemed to suggest that she wouldn't take "no" for an answer. Instead, he simply smiled and thanked the woman, accepting the roses and heading in the direction the woman had pointed before.
By the time he was nearing the summit of the small hill the village was situated under, clouds had begun to flock together above him. He never would have expected it, since the rest of the day had been entirely clear, albeit a bit cool; the flower woman must have known something he didn't. Luckily, he didn't have much farther to go, or at least he didn't think he did. He hoped that when he reached the top of the hill, he would be able to see Feliciano's house.
However, his hopes did not materialize. When he finally arrived at the crest, his leather travel shoes covered in grey dust, he was disappointed by the view of a rolling, picturesque, and very home-less countryside. There wasn't even a single small shack or barn to betray evidence of human influence. To make matters worse, the dark clouds skulking overhead seemed to be getting denser. Perhaps the next hill would give him a better view. Perhaps he could reach it before the rain came.
Once again, the universe failed to indulge him. Maybe it thought it had been too generous when it provided him with a senseless cab driver who stole his wallet and left him to fend for himself miles away from his actual destination. The rainfall began as a light sprinkling; barely enough to be considered rain. Several minutes passed and it graduated to "drizzle", which was far more noticeable. The unpaved road did not hold up well in wet conditions. Water began to gather in any small depression it could find, and by the time the rain achieved the level of "showers", most of the dirt had turned into mud. Puddles quickly formed as the "showers" escalated to "heavy showers", drenching his clothes and plastering his hair to his forehead. Hunched over with his hands hidden in his pockets, he tried his best to keep himself as dry and as warm as possible, but with little success. Although there was little wind, the downpour still managed to find its way onto every part of his body from head to toe. The cuffs of his trousers were soaked through from splashing in puddles, and the clothing on his back and shoulders stuck to his skin.
He began to wonder of the universe was trying to punish him for all his past wrongs. It was true that he'd done some horrible things throughout his lifetime, but surely he'd paid proper cosmic compensation by now? Personally, he felt that he could never fully make up for many of the horrors he'd committed, even if he'd been forgiven by the rest of the world. However, if karma still had bones to pick with him, he would rather karma told him outright rather than making him put up with all this frustrating passive-aggression, manifested in the form of taxi drivers and torrential downpours.
He was so preoccupied he barely noticed when he arrived at the top of the next hill over. One moment, he was hiking upward, and the next, the ground was flat. Shielding his eyes from the rain with his hand, he scanned the landscape and was relieved to find a large, old-style villa positioned not too far away on the plateaued hill. There was just one problem…
The road was washed out.
A small ocean had formed between him and Feliciano's house. While it didn't appear deep, it spanned on for what he guessed was about a quarter kilometer. The water was murky from all the mud from the road, giving it the appearance of some sort of soup broth, except much less warm. There was no other way across it. He would have to go through it.
Steeling himself, he put one foot into the water, grimacing at the feeling of water filling his shoes. The shoes would be ruined; it would be impossible to restore them after they got this saturated. As he sloshed along, he kept his eyes focused on the warm glow of the porch light from Feliciano's house that was becoming increasingly more appreciated as the sky darkened. Although the water was only ankle-deep, his whole lower legs were completely sodden and muddy. Miniature rivulets of rainwater streamed down his face and dripped off his chin, almost making it difficult to see. He was almost there… Only a little bit farther…
Finally he reached house. The front door flew open as he emerged from the small sea, revealing a surprised and horrified Feliciano. The Italian muttered something that sounded like "Mio Dio" before rushing out to pull him inside.
"I thought you were coming in a cab!" Feliciano exclaimed. Just as Ludwig was about to respond, he interrupted him and continued. "It doesn't really matter now, I guess. You're soaking! You must be freezing cold. You should take those clothes off right away. I'm sure I have something you can wear if the clothes in your bag are all soaked, too."
Despite how wet and cold he was, and despite Feliciano's fawning, the only thing he was aware of as he entered the house was how much mud and water he was tracking inside and how long it would take to clean up. He peeled off his clothes obediently so that he could try to minimize the damage, though he had to admit he was feeling extremely cold as well.
Several minutes later, he was sitting on the couch next to Feliciano, clad in a too-short satin robe and nursing an almost burning-hot cup of coffee. Struck by a sudden thought, he went to retrieve the flowers he'd bought earlier from where they'd been set near the door. When he reentered the living room, he presented Feliciano with the very wet and very sorry-looking bouquet of roses.
"They were ruined on the way, but…" he said bashfully. "Happy Valentine's Day.
To his surprise, Feliciano began to laugh. Before he could ask what was so funny, the other man stood up and kissed him full on the lips, silencing him effectively. When the first kiss ended, he initiated a second, and a third, and a fourth.
"Buon San Valentino," whispered Feliciano in his ear. And suddenly, despite the horrible car ride, despite losing his wallet, despite the monsoon he'd faced to get here, he couldn't imagine being anywhere else.
