Vasto, Italy
On Sunday, we celebrated Umberto’s 66th birthday. It was a fantastic party with family and friends. Seeing my husband in his element, smiling and laughing, filled my heart with joy and happiness. It also brought back sweet and funny memories from the very beginning, our first days together.
Over the years, many of our friends have told me I should write a book about our story. It happened again on Sunday, and I responded in my usual manner: “I might do…one day.” I have a good reason for the hesitation. I don’t know how the story ends and I don’t want it to end, ever!
The day after the party, it occurred to me that I don’t have to write the whole story. I could start with the beginning. So here goes: this is how the Anita & Umberto story started.
The format may look like fiction but it’s the true story. The pic is obviously not from thirteen years ago. It’s one of my favorite photos ever because it captures incredibly well the spirit of our love and attraction - at first sight.
*****
The Cinderella - June 2013
“See that blonde, compà?” Umberto shouted to his buddy.
He was pointing at a slim female figure across the street, at the entrance of the bar that they had just left. She was wearing a sleeveless floral mini dress. Her blonde hair was pulled up with a claw clip. She was looking left and right, seeming a bit lost.
“Mamma mia!” She was hot! Definitely a foreigner. Umberto felt a strange burning sensation in his body, he wanted to cross the street and talk to the woman.
It was minutes past midnight, the last Saturday night of June, and the beach boulevard in Vasto Marina was as crowded as it could get. Each bar was blasting music louder than the one next door. Sweaty crowds invaded every inch of the pavement, shouting nonsense. Drinks in plastic cups spilled over and left sticky stains on the asphalt.
“What?” Franco shouted back, unable to hear his friend. Umberto leaned over to yell louder. Just a few seconds later, he looked across the street again. The blonde was gone.
“Porca miseria! Where did she go?” Umberto cursed in disappointment and forced his friend to walk around the block three times. They could not find her.
“Maybe it was Cinderella. Come on, it’s not like she was the woman of your life,” Franco joked, trying to cheer up his friend. Umberto was not amused.
“What do you know, compà.”
The Diary - 15 July, 2013
It was Monday morning. The blonde was sitting on a Finnair flight from Helsinki to Rome. She was looking distressed and writing frantically in a hardcover diary. Once a page filled up, she started a new one. After half an hour or so, she felt exhausted and stopped. There was nothing more to add.
“Calm down, you’re all right now. Calm down,” the blonde repeated inside her head, took a deep breath and leaned back to take a nap.
“Are you, too, going to Rome?”
A shrill voice made her open her eyes. The elderly lady sitting in the next seat had noticed the creative pause and wanted to start a friendly conversation.
“Oh great,” the blonde thought, “just what I needed.” She was not in the mood for small talk. The flight was full of jetlagged Asian tourists who had fallen asleep right after takeoff. She was sitting next to one of the few passengers who were awake.
“No, I’m going to the east coast. I’ve just bought an apartment there,” the blonde responded, wishing she was sitting next to a snoring Japanese tourist.
Luckily, the fellow passenger was quite happy to blab on without expecting further responses. With the old lady’s chatter in her ears, the blonde glanced at the newly scribbled pages. The handwriting was not her usual pedantic, academic-looking form. The text was almost illegible but that was not a problem - it was not written to be read.
She looked at her hands resting on the diary. The left ring finger seemed naked, there was a light indentation where the engagement ring had been until the morning. A wave of frustration hit her. There was one more thing to add. She wrote one more angry sentence:
“Once I’ve cleaned up this mess, never another man.”
The Stare - 16 July, 2013
It was 7 am on a boiling hot Tuesday morning.
Umberto was on his way to work, earlier than usual, and stopped for coffee at the “Sterlina” bar. The owners of this Vasto Marina institution were old family friends. They had known each other for longer than anyone could remember and Umberto had been a daily customer ever since he was old enough to drink coffee.
He walked in and did a round of greetings with everyone. It was the usual early morning crowd: construction workers, retired people, two carabinieri in uniform. A TV monitor was blasting music videos. Another monitor was displaying lottery numbers. An old-fashioned ceiling fan was circulating slowly. Tourists would not show up until a few hours later.
Except that this time, there was someone new.
Incredulously, Umberto stared at the profile of a blonde woman sipping coffee at the counter. She was wearing skimpy blue running shorts and a yellow sports top. Her hair was tied in a perky ponytail on the top of her head, and streams of sweat were flowing down her upper back. Her running shoes were covered in sand.
Umberto could not believe it. That was the blonde, the cinderella that he lost and could not find a few weeks prior. She was right here, at the same bar where Umberto and Franco had spotted her that Saturday night. He kept staring. The blonde finished the last drop of her espresso and turned to walk out.
Like a jackal watching its prey, Umberto did not take his eyes off her. He heard her say “grazie, arrivederci” to the owner’s daughter before exiting. Clearly a foreigner, but she spoke at least two words of Italian. And now he knew where to find her! He decided to have breakfast too early also the following day.
Outside the bar, the blonde walked a few steps, then decided to run instead. She was not sure what time exactly it was, and she had to shower before switching on the computer at 8am. On her way uphill, she remembered the intense stare of the man with blue eyes and curly hair. The one who talked to everyone.
“That guy was staring at me as if he knew something he’s never going to find out.”
She shrugged and forgot about it. She had a busy day ahead at work.
The “Buongiorno!” - 17 July, 2013
At 7 am on the dot, on a boiling hot Wednesday morning, Umberto walked into La Sterlina.
The owner’s daughter started interrogating him, jokingly, about becoming an early bird. What was going on? Before Umberto could come up with a credible story, he was surprised by a vigorous pat on the back and somebody shouting “Umbe!”
He turned and saw a face that looked somehow familiar. After a few seconds of processing, he recognized the man, a childhood friend who had moved to work overseas many years ago. They shook hands, hugged and gave two kisses on the cheeks. That’s when Umberto saw the blonde, over the shoulder of his old friend. She was having coffee at the counter, precisely at the same spot as the day before.
And just like the previous morning, she finished her espresso, wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and turned to walk out.
“Damn,” Umberto thought, “she’s leaving, I need to do something.”
He could not abandon the catch-up with the old friend. He could not run after her, that would look insane. Under time pressure, one word was all he could come up with.
“Buongiorno!” Umberto said to the blonde as she was walking past them.
Such an ordinary word, but he pronounced it with extraordinary precision. What was more, he moved his eyebrows to intensify the message, maybe she would get the hint - that this was much more than just any good morning greeting.
The blonde looked back at him, expressionless but polite, and replied: “Buongiorno.”
Before she disappeared out of the door, Umberto turned to look at her backside.
“Nice butt,” he thought inside his head. “See you tomorrow!”
“Italian men,” the blonde thought inside hers, rolled her eyes and ran home.
The Fatal Day - 18 July, 2013
At 7 am on the dot, on a boiling hot Thursday morning, Umberto walked into the Sterlina bar.
It was unusually empty, no old émigré friends patting his back, no pensioners buying lottery tickets, no police officers, no joking interrogation. He had his breakfast in silence and in a matter of minutes. Disastrously enough, the blonde was not there.
Umberto looked at the clock on the wall. She was late. He tried to kill time chatting with the barista. Minutes crawled and still no blonde. Annoyed, he walked out and lit up a cigarette. He could not believe that the cinderella had pulled a disappearing act again! He should have talked to her the day before.
In the meantime, the blonde was running towards the bar. She was in a particularly happy mood. Only three nights had passed since her arrival, but she felt lighter already. The Adriatic winds had blown away the clouds of resentment, and her diary entries were no longer angry or about the breakup. She loved working remotely, in the peace and quiet of her new apartment, cooking a simple solo dinner, and enjoying the meal in silence on the terrace.
And the morning runs on the golden beach were fantastic! This morning, the blonde had run longer than usual, and would have loved to keep going. But duty called, she only had time for a quick coffee.
Approaching La Sterlina, she noticed someone sitting on a high red stool next to the bar’s entrance, smoking, monitoring his surroundings in a nervous manner. It was the buongiorno-with-eyebrow-moves guy, the one who stared and seemed to know everybody in town, or at least in the coffee shop. The blonde decided to fiddle her iPod while she entered, pretending she did not notice him.
“Damn! There she is!” Umberto thought, excited, but tried to keep a poker face. He straightened his back and took off the dark glasses. Thank goodness he was wearing a brand new shirt! He felt a wave of gratitude toward his sister for ironing it so impeccably.
The paralysis hit him again when the blonde walked into the bar, seemingly ignoring the man. He could not utter a word. Now what? He couldn’t possibly go back in and have a second breakfast, the owners would think he had completely lost it. He decided to wait until she came out after her coffee and then - attack! He wouldn’t have to wait many minutes.
“Buongiorno”, Umberto said to the blonde as she walked out. She stopped.
“Buongiorno”, she replied and looked at him. His eyes were incredibly blue. She felt a bizarre energy. She should have kept walking but her feet were stuck to the pavement.
“So, are you on vacation here?” he asked her probingly, to see if she understood Italian.
“No. I have an apartment.” the blonde responded, bluntly, with a strange accent.
“Where? Vasto Marina?”
“Sì.” She let out a nervous smile.
“What? How is that possible? I’m the Mayor of Vasto Marina and I didn’t know!” Umberto cracked a joke, forgetting to speak slowly. The blonde wasn’t smiling any more. She did not understand a word.
After a brief and awkward silence, he continued, trying to articulate more clearly: “Is the apartment yours a l o n e?”
“Here we go,” the blonde thought. “So predictable. So like… men.” She was looking at his shirt. A classic white shirt, perfectly ironed, with the embroidered initials “UM”.
“The son of a gun is married. No man irons a shirt that well,” she thought but still delivered another one-word response.
“Sì.”
Umberto cheered inside his head. This was excellent. Oh yes, the blonde would surrender, he just needed to proceed strategically! He felt his chest expanding with exuberant confidence.
“OK. But what if you have a problem? For example, something breaks in the apartment, or you need some work done?” He asked with an angelic smile.
The blonde wasn’t sure if she understood. Something about problems in her apartment. She remained silent while Umberto continued:
“Why don’t you take my number, I’d be happy to help if you need anything. For the apartment.”
“I don’t have my phone. This is for music,” she responded, truthfully, and showed a pink little gadget that was connected to a pair of earphones.
“No problem. Just give me your number and I’ll give you a ring. Then you’ll have mine.” Umberto could not believe his luck. This was much easier than he had expected. Maybe she was Swedish or something. He had heard that Swedish women were quite … emancipated.
She thought for a second before spelling out the number, not sure if it was a good idea or not. She did not want to give her work cell number to a stranger. Luckily, she also had a pre-paid Italian cell which she had bought for local calls. It would be safer to use that one.
Umberto listened, punched in the number, let it ring, hung up and smiled.
“Perfect. I just rang you. Now you have my number.”
“OK.”
She didn’t find the words to say anything more elaborate. She had to get going, to be on time for work. She took her job seriously and did not want to be late, not even a minute. But she did not know how to say it in Italian. Also, there was something about the man that made her feel … not nervous but… what?
“Oh come on! Don’t be ridiculous,” she thought. “Remember, you’re OFF men!”
Umberto saw the blonde fidgeting, as if she was about to go. No, not just yet! He didn’t know her name!
“So impolite of me, I didn’t even present myself. My name is Umberto. What’s your name?” He asked with a most courteous smile.
“UM. The initials on the shirt. Umberto M,” the blonde thought. She didn’t want to say her real name. She already knew that Italians were not able to pronounce it and it made things clumsy.
“Anita,” the blonde said. A good-looking gondoliere in Venice had once called her that. “He said I looked like Anita Ekberg,” she remembered and smiled sensually at the seductive memory. Umberto thought the smile was for him.
“A pleasure to meet you, Anita,” he said, and they shook hands. “See you soon, Anita.”
The blonde ran home, reprimanding herself: “What’s wrong with you? It’s been four days, you haven’t even cleaned up the previous mess and now this? You could at least have given him a fake number! Come on!!!”
Moments later, in the shower, she calmed down. Thinking about it, really, the risk was low. Knowing the games that men played, it’s not like he was going to call. Not any time soon anyway. And she would not call him. Ever. On top of that, she would change her morning run route and grab the espresso at a different coffee shop.
Two hours later, Umberto’s first SMS arrived.
It surprised Anita and made her heart beat a little faster. She forgot that she was off men and responded without hesitation.
That day, two lives changed forever.
The lives of two very lucky people.
They just didn’t know it yet.
*****
Before the birthday party started on Sunday, waiting for guests to arrive.
“Life starts now… happy birthday, Umberto”