Author's Note: Wow, you lucky bunnies are getting another chapter update. Maybe completely and utterly uninteresting to some, but inspiration for this chapter came from the animated movie Britannica's Tales around the world, the Beauty and the Beast segment.
Over the next couple of days, I soon settled into a routine.
I would wake up at 7 am, have breakfast – sometimes sitting out on the balcony, then I would get dressed and get to the office at around 9. At work, my usual tasks included sorting mail, answering letters, making shipping arrangements for a various assortment of antiques (something I found out that the company also precured and collected in a special building I was not privvy to) and fetching the dry cleaning, and sometimes other secretaries lunches.
Pretty standard internship assignments really.
Maybe it sounds like I found it boring, or tedious. Quite the opposite – this was the first time I truly felt like I maybe could do something else with my life, not related to sports. It was an nice feeling.
At the end of the day, when I got off work, I would take a walk down to the bistro and have dinner (I was fast becoming a fan of their lasagna) or buy some groceries from a small corner shop close to my apartment. I wasn't the best cook, but I did know how to make a simple meal for myself.
Then after dinner, I would put on my training clothes and go for a jog around the village – it was much larger than I first had thought – with roads that felt like they went on for miles, circling the hill the village stood upon, like the rings of saturn. I was slowly becoming aqquainted with the different landmarks, the cathedrals, and the trees with brittle, elongated branches that stretched towards the sky. The dust that would inevitably follow in my trail as I ran, for the earth was dry and almost white in places –yet the nature here was lush, undeterred. Rarely was the air moist, nor did salt cling to my lips or my skin, my hair. Instead what lingered was the heat between my shoulderblades – because no matter how fast you ran, the wind was always warm.
It was good for the muscles, and I was never sore or aching when I got home.
These were the good things about my stay in Volterra.
But for some reason I did not really understand, the other secretaries from the Volturi tended to avoid me. I had made it very clear that I had no problem understanding their italian, yet I was never included in any conversation, was never invited to eat lunch with them. If I tried to start talking about anything other than work, they would scold me for being inefficient. They often stood apart, whispering and giving me these looks. I knew I wasn't accepted.
Maybe it was childish of me, that this one thing mattered so much. What really mattered more was that I was gaining the experience I knew would look good on a college resume, or any resume for that matter. If I wanted my future to involve me living in Europe, far away from what I had known, then this was the perfect way to get there.
But still, it would be nice to have someone to have lunch with once in awhile.
The clock struck 12, and as per usual I collected the small paper bag with my lunch in it and left the office in search of somewhere nice to sit and eat. I usually just ate in the shade of the piazza, but sometimes if I felt energized, I would take a brisk walk down to the park a few blocks away. Today I was at my usual spot on the stone bench outside the palace building, packing up my lunch as I admired the various carved images on the walls, close to the slanted rooftops.
I did not understand how people could find them beautiful.
Maybe that sounds strange, but perhaps I don't look at them the right way. What I see is wide, gaping mouths, jagged lips and frowns, eyes that look more dead than alive, full of anger and despair. Add to it that most of the sculptures have decayed partially with time, a nose missing or a limb abruptly torn away. They are fascinating, but not beautiful.
As I sit there, munching on a homemade salad and watching the statues and decorations, I don't see that there is another person suddenly present. But the air goes too still, like it does when someone enters a room. I turn my head, stop chewing as I see who it is.
About five feet away, in the deepest shade of the overbearing structure, stands Aro.
He is almost like one of the statues, almost as pale and immovable. It's slightly unnerving, and I have no idea how long he's been there. Clad in a dark burgundy suit, hair jet black, he looks like an ink stain on a white piece of parchment. Eyes so red, that they could be mistaken for an infection, two gaping wounds. Something that should be covered up.
He is looking at the decorations as well, or at least he appears to be. His eyes remain upward, tracing the lines of some shape I cannot identify. Perhaps he is not looking at them at all.
The paperbag in my hand crinkles, the sound too loud. His eyes move at the noise, and I don't why I should be so alarmed when he's suddenly staring at me.
"Hello 's a nice day, isn't it?" I say, my voice even and careful. I don't know why I feel I need to be, but my instincts are too strong. There's a completely blank look on his face, but at my words it morphs, like a puppet that has suddenly had its strings pulled. He folds his hands together and gives me a courteous nod.
"Piccolo fiore del Libano." he murmurs, Little flower of Lebanon.
"What?" I ask, and I notice now that I've spilled some salad on my skirt, which I hasten to remove. Meanwhile, Aro walks towards me, until he's right next to the bench, looking down at me curiously.
"You are named after a saint, after all. Did you know that?" he asks smoothly.
I shake my head slowly, swallow another bite of food and look down at the plastic container awkwardly in my hands, once again feeling like I don't know anything. There's an awkward silence between us that I do not know how to break. I am looking down at my lap, yet I see his dark figure move out of the corner of my eye, sitting down on the bench next to me. He folds his hands gracefully in his lap, turning his eyes away from me to stare straight ahead, which makes it easier to face him. Perhaps he knows how unnerving his apperance can be, and tries to make up for it.
"How are you settling in?" he asks then, and I sag with relief. I nod at his question, playing with the plastic fork in my hand.
"Good. I like it here a lot, sir." I say. He's looking at my salad now, glaring at it as if it has commited some personal offence to him. His pale fingertips drum against his thigh, a steady rhythm. He glances up at me before returning his gaze to the view.
"And the accomodations have been satisfactory?" he asks, and I notice how he tends to shift from talking with a high-pitched voice, to an almost ridiculously dark and somber one. Right now it is the latter.
"Yes, everything has been great." I say, which is true – well almost.
"So why is it, that you still eat lunch here by yourself everyday?"
I go silent. I don't know how to answer him, and I dont want to make stupid accusations about the others. If someone doesn't like you, its not something that can be forced. Yet, he is right – I haven't wanted to admit it to myself, but I am lonley here, in Volterra. We sit in silence for a couple of minutes, watching doves drink from the fountain and an old man with a cart full of fresh vegetables wheel by.
Aro coughs, like he has something stuck down his throat.
"Florence offers plenty of diversions." he says, and it sounds like he's trying very hard not to say something else. I turn to him and frown, thinking over his words. He meets my gaze, almost lazily so. His eyes are half-lidded, but focused.
"But I cannot have lunch there and make it back here on time." I say, and he shrugs, makes a vague gesture with his hand in the air. A sliver of it touches the sunlight, and it must be a trick of the light, because for a split second, light gleams back from his hand, almost like a prism.
I hasten to eat some of the bread I packed, hunger obviously making me delusional.
"You should go there on the weekend. Who knows, you might make new friends." he says, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips, but his voice is kind.
Despite the weirdness of the situation, my boss giving me unexpected advice, the advice itself was not a bad one at all. I had yet to explore Florence, and perhaps there would be venues there where I could meet people, perhaps even hang out. That was a big part of these internships overseas after all – getting in touch with another culture, and meeting new people. I smile to myself, then at Aro.
"That's actually not a bad idea. Thank you for that, Signore." Aro nods at my words, but stops midway, looking at something ahead, his whole body tense. I turn to see what it is. A small boy from across the piazza is staring at him. His mother's back is turned, talking on the phone loudly in italian. There's something about the boy that has Aro looking well, strange. He looks back at the boy with a defiant gleam in his eyes, even though he has begun to stand up from the bench, taking a step back into the shade. There is almost something like fear in his eyes, and his hands are no longer completely still at his sides.
"Anything to make a transition easier. " he murmurs, then he disappears inside.
The only item left of my lunch is an apple, bright red. Its sitting on the bench where Aro was just sitting and when I reach for it, I realize that its the exact same shade of his eyes.