FICTION

Dreams of a House of Stone

An American architect in Southern Italy fails to build over the cultural gap but finds his creative path

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I held Manuela’s slender hand to help her across the boards covering the unfinished flooring. A merciless noon sun burnt through the Panama hat; like the construction site, we hadn’t made much progress. The workers had downed their tools at our approach and the cicadas filled the quiet warm air with their song. “Maestro” and “boss”, the workers greeted me, half out of respect, half in jest. Manuela got a better reception. Fabio, the carpenter, stuck a cheeky kiss on each cheek which she returned. They both broke out in joyous laughter as their every exchange ended up doing.

Manuela’s floral cologne blended in the air with the smell of fresh cement, the sweat of the workers, and whiffs of the Adriatic’s salty breath which made it all the way up here. Her white linen dress, bright against her olive skin, was speckled with dust from the construction site. I was sorry that she had to see it in such a state, still. But she had insisted on coming in her charming Italian way and I still have to learn how to say No to that. Maybe I’ll never learn.She tottered on her cork wedge heels and lost her balance, slipping out of my sweaty grasp. I…