Lure of the grapes, p.12
Lure of the Grapes, page 12
She turned to see him and smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
“What are the grapes for?” he asked.
“I saw Josephina make some kind of grape pie,” she said. “I want to try it too, and perhaps some grape juice to sip in the living room.”
“It is possible for you to enhance the taste of your coffee with the grapes?” he added.
“Oh yes! That sounds wonderful.”
“Perhaps you could mix in some of this?” he asked, and he gave her a glass jug of the sheep’s milk.
She smiled brightly. “I’m so glad you are here! The empty space in this house, overwhelmed me, even though I also love it.”
“Where did the flower come from?”
“I picked it outside. I was searching for something.”
“What is it you search for?”
“Someone to love me like you do,” she replied, sadly, even though it was a grand wish. “Perhaps that does not exist.”
“A dream is a seed that needs water to grow,” he said. “You don’t give up on a dream. Like a plant, that is how you kill a dream.”
“What if I need help?” she asked.
He smiled at her. “Don’t you realize? God is everywhere! He is not simply a story. He will help you!”
“But I don’t have any idea what my dream is.”
“God can give you that, too!”
He opened the window and showed her some grapevines and the distance.
“You must go…”
“But I want to stay! This is my dream house. Look how beautiful it is!”
“You won’t find what you want staying inside. Besides, you need more than me.”
“What do I need? A real man?”
“You need to find yourself there. No one is going to love you like God, you must accept His love and find love for yourself, too…”

Cheyenne and Julietta met Akala outside of the hotel D'argento.
“Buon Giorno!” Julietta called.
“Are you ready to audition at the Family Theater?” Cheyenne asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be!”
They walked down the street, through an alley, across a busy intersection, down more alleys and across a small bridge.
In front of a picturesque little brick building that appeared as if it should have been out in a breezy, Regency era courtyard, the two girls stopped.
“Here you go!” Julietta said.
“Thank you so much!”
They both hugged her and kissed her cheeks.
“Hey, maybe we’ll catch a glimpse of you at the grape festival in Bagno a Fiori this weekend?” Cheyenne said
“Sounds great!” Akala noted their departure, feeling a sense of sadness. She declared she would attend the festival and entered the cozy lobby of the Family Theater.
No one milled about, but she could hear clapping from behind some doors, reminiscent of a darkened movie theater.
Fareh was not there, in fact, it seemed the only people in the theater were those inside observing the show.
Appearing like a sore thumb, Akala crept upstairs and settled at a reading table in the corner of the hallway. The upstairs of the theater was full of books and there was a lamp on a little table by a large bookshelf. Akala sat down and turned on the lamp to read something.
She pulled a small journal from her purse.
“How about I wait with you?” said the cowboy. He came and sat down beside her at the little table.
“I have such a lack of confidence,” she said. “I must act better.”
“If you are insecure, why are you trying to pretend that you’re not?”
She stared. “Because they will reject me for being who I am,” she said.
“If someone rejects who you are, why are they so worthy of your time? Why waste precious time trying to prove your worth to someone else?”
There, at the end of the hall, sitting ominously at another reading table was a long-nosed face. “Strange,” Akala said under her breath. She eyed it, curiously.
The long-nosed face sat extremely still but wore normal men’s clothing. Did it move? Was it a real man? No, too strange, even for a place she might not fully understand. Then again, the Candyman was spooky too, and he was undeniably real.
Akala took books from the shelf and flipped through, trying to look as natural as anyone else. Unfortunately, all the books were written in Italian.
There was no one else upstairs, it seemed, until a woman came around the corner. The woman wore reading glasses and her hair in a perfect bun. Apparently, she was a worker at the theater and held a book, reading it as she walked toward one of the reading rooms on that floor.
Suddenly, the spooky masked man came and jumped out at the woman. “Fraah!” he cried.
Akala froze as the woman screamed. For a moment, Akala was scared for her, too.
“Stop Rocco, that ees not funny,” the woman scolded.
“Fraah!” he roared again.
“Rocco, stop eet. I’m trying to read.”
The woman walked into the reading room and slammed the glass door in his nose. He stood there and stared in at her.
Akala laughed aloud at the scene. The masked man turned his hideous long-nosed face in Akala’s direction. She frowned and looked back at the Italian book on the table before her and pretended not to notice him.
He came toward her, spookily… She glanced in his direction but pretended not to… Then she rose from her chair… She glanced again… still he came… She put the book on the shelf… She looked again… he was still coming… She picked out another book… Quickly, while still surveying him… She opened the book and nervously thumbed through it… There he was… He looked at her… She stared at him now and braced herself for a scare…
Suddenly, he pulled off the mask, and to her horror, it was the Fox-man. Fareh grinned, his teeth appearing more pointy than ever.
Akala gasped but did not scream.
“It’s me!” Fareh said.
Akala burst out laughing. Fareh stared at her, unsmiling. “She thought you were Rocco!” Akala said. “Isn’t that funny?”
“But it was not Rocco, it was me.”
Akala stopped smiling and cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m glad it was only you.”
“Only?” Fareh asked and seemed offended.
Akala put the book back on the shelf in annoyance.
“So where’s the lady?” Akala said.
“What lady?”
“You did not remember her name, remember?”
He blinked and remained silent.
“The audition lady?”
Fareh pointed to the glass door that had just been slammed. “That was her.”
Akala’s mouth fell open.
“She will not meet with us for thirty more minutes.”
Akala smiled, happy that the woman would be able to meet with her, eventually. Fareh motioned toward the theater beyond the curtains. “We can check out the show until then!”
The darkened theater was cold and smelled of leather.
Some duo performers came out from the curtain on the stage below. To Akala’s surprise, it was the mime and the Candyman that refused to play tag, juggling together to funny music.
The music was loud.
“I think I know them,” Akala said to Fareh but her voice blended perfectly with the music.
“What?” Fareh yelled.
The music suddenly died. “I THINK I KNOW—” Akala cried.
Gasps rang out in the nearby audience, and everyone looked at them. Some shook their annoyed heads or huffed in disbelief. Even the two performers, who had stopped juggling to do a trick, looked in her direction.
Akala’s face became hot. “… them.”
Some people around them looked at her sternly. “Quiet!” they reprimanded.
After attending the show for about thirty minutes, the audience clapped for the two statue men and welcomed a singer.
“Come on,” Fareh said and Akala followed him to the hallway once more.
The woman with the bun came and met them in the hallway. “Welcome to the Family Theater,” she said without changing expression, “Right this way.”
The woman studied Akala as they entered a room full of art and art supplies.
An iridescent painting of a woman in a toga on the wall distracted Akala. In the painting, the sky was purple and pink and blue.
“Please sit,” the woman told them and pointed to the couch beneath the painting.
They sat on the couch and the woman pulled up a metal chair to sit before them. Akala’s eyes widened.
The woman kept her eyes on them without a smile, while holding a notebook. She said a single word in Italian.
“Begin,” Fareh said.
“Uh,” Akala began. “I will pretend to be a damsel in distress.” She tried to get comfortable.
“Will you marry me?” Fareh interrupted her.
Akala blinked in astonishment.
“What?” she asked and her eyes bulged.
“Kiss me!” Fareh said and puckered up.
Akala cringed and made her usual disgusted grimace. She figured they should have rehearsed together.
The woman with the bun said something in Italian and jotted a few notes.
“What did she say?” Akala asked.
“She says you are ‘over’ acting.”
“I am?”
Akala wanted to cry but frowned instead.
The woman said something in Italian.
“She asks if you have any other skills besides acting?” Fareh said.
“I am a writer! What about if I write something?” Akala said. “Perhaps I can do that!”
Fareh told the woman what Akala had said. The woman answered rapidly in Italian. Akala noticed the woman’s shoulders shrug, ever so subtly.
“She says, ‘perhaps.’ There is a need for screenplays. If you can present a play, she is interested. But you will have to find the actors yourself. If you can arrange it, she will observe it!”
Akala gaped and smiled.
“‘Don’t get your hopes up too high, especially if your writing is as bad as your acting,’ she says,” Fareh told Akala as the woman left the room. Akala’s smile collapsed.
“I am astonished she said that to me.”
“What do you mean?” Fareh said, with a shrug. “She is interested in your play! You still have a chance to impress her!”
“I am not sure if it will work,” Akala said, and wrung her hands, overwhelmed by the prospect.
“Do you always have this much self-pity?” Fareh asked.
“No!” Akala retorted. Then she looked down. “Not always.”
“Things don’t always work the first time around! Don’t you realize that?”
Akala scowled at him. “Of course!” she said and realized all she wanted was understanding.
“Well, come on. You need to write a play.”
They proceeded downstairs to leave the theater together.
“Actually,” Akala said, “I was already writing for my project in creative writing class. The project would be more likely to pass if someone here at the theater approves of it!”
Fareh froze.
“Oh, no!” Fareh said, and pointed to the side door. “Biagio!”
Biagio stood there, slowly opening the door, and they caught a glimpse of him through the glass.
Akala tried to bolt the other way and slammed into Fareh like a piece of rubber. He fell backwards into a chair and Akala fell over his legs.
Akala finally picked herself up, and Fareh stood from the chair. Then suddenly, Biagio walked in through the door and noticed them.
“You two!” he cried.
“You’re on your own!” Fareh yelled and shoved past Akala to escape. Akala stumbled, her falling purse wrapped around her knees, and she proceeded down the hall like a galloping sweet potato.
Up ahead the two statue men schemed about something in the lobby. To avoid them, Akala turned and waddled up the stairs.

Meanwhile, Niccolò came to the theater. Before arriving, he had stopped at the instrument shop. With the money he had left after paying rent for himself and Rocco, he rented a violin.
Saverio had left a note on Niccolò’s door to meet him at the theater, and since Saverio had paid his debt to Biagio, a sense of obligation arose within him. Niccolò could only speculate as to why Saverio wanted him to meet there, but he did not hesitate to go. The theater intrigued Niccolò for some reason and he wondered if there might be something special there for him.
“Dear God,” Niccolò prayed, “Your Word says the righteous will not be forsaken and their children will not beg for bread. I want to be right in Your eyes, not for money, but because I want to be able to serve You. I cannot do that without Your help and provision. I leave my life in Your able hands. Please help me in playing the violin or whatever way You will.”
Niccolò had found Biagio poking around the curtains leading into the theater, as if looking for a criminal, and hurried past before Biagio saw him. Despite having his debt fully repaid, he managed to go unnoticed by Biagio and became trapped upon catching sight of the two statue men in the lobby. He had nowhere to go and looked back and forth rapidly.
A large crowd of people came out of the theater where Niccolò had tried to escape. Now the people hemmed him in. Biagio came through the crowd.
Niccolò thought of the difficulty of living statues. He held his arms up and did not move. Biagio passed him by, but some others came and studied him.
“Is he real?” they wondered.
A woman wearing reading glasses and a tight bun came and studied him, too.
“Very nice physique,” she said. “Have you ever considered working in theater?”
“Theater?” Niccolò asked. “I wouldn’t mind it!”
The woman then studied the violin case which he held.
“Do you play the violin?”
“Yes, but it has been a long while!”
“Can you meet me upstairs in thirty minutes and play something for me?”
“Sure!”
Niccolò felt astonished by the woman’s smile and departure.
“Thank You for the opportunity,” he prayed.
Suddenly, at the far end of the lobby, the two statue men stood with a third man that Niccolò did not recognize, as the crowd dispersed and shuffled out of the front doors. Niccolò ran upstairs and hid within the folds of the red curtains dividing the theater and the upstairs lobby.
Niccolò listened closely and stood as still as he could for a few moments. The curtains moved, and he noticed a girl advancing towards him in the dim light from the hallway.
Niccolò blinked as Akala inched her way toward him, looking up toward the ceiling. Upon catching sight of Niccolò, she let out a gasp.
“Sh, the policeman comes!” Niccolò said in a loud whisper.
Niccolò observed that her purse was tightly entangled around her thighs as she clumsily tried to extricate herself from the curtains. Niccolò figured he should find a new hiding place. They both tumbled from the curtains as footsteps ascended the stairs.
They ran into the art room and fell under the table to face one another. Under the table were costumes in a box with the sides ripping open. The costumes seemed to messily unfold themselves as they tumbled out of the box.
Biagio came into the room. They became as ice, frozen as Biagio walked back and forth in front of the table, as a soldier guarding something.
Akala stared and seemed so full of anxiety that she would run. Niccolò took her by the hands. Akala then met his eyes and smiled, seeming to calm.
Then Biagio meandered slowly to the hall again. It seemed he had finally left when they picked up sound coming from the theater and workers exiting the theater area.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Niccolò whispered. “We find ourselves in strange predicaments!”
Suddenly in the hall Biagio yelled, “Hey, you there!” and someone’s scared cry became smaller with the following footsteps, which also became smaller.

“How’s it going?” Niccolò asked.
Akala still wanted some kindness, and Fox-man certainly wasn’t willing to give it to her. “Not bad…” she lied.
“Why did you hide from the policeman?” Niccolò asked.
Akala pictured Niccolò hiding within the same curtain and the sight of his face, as she inched toward him. She covered a laugh with her hand and suddenly remembered all that she had done two nights before and became serious.
“I did something illegal, but not on purpose. I accidentally sold bracelets that were,” she hesitated for a moment, “stolen.” She took a deep breath. Telling someone what had happened freed her heart.
Niccolò studied her, with compassion.
“It was an accident,” he said. Akala glanced at Niccolò and sensed his compassion. “Why were you selling the bracelets?”
“Because I needed some money but also, I thought it would help me get an audition with the theater. I got the audition, but I just failed it miserably.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Being hired as an actress, that was my hope. The lady said I’m not that great at acting, but if I want to write something, she might give me a second chance at a job.”
“The saying is, when someone wants something bad enough, they make a way. If they don’t, the motivation to try hard enough is not there.”
“That sounds about right,” Akala said. She determined to stay in Italy somehow, whatever it might take.
They faced the painting Akala had seen before.
“This one,” Niccolò said and pointed to the Romanesque woman, pulling a fluorescent green pear from a tree. “What is it that you observe?”
Other pears hung in the air and some lay on the ground. It looked like a picture with three dimensions.
“I don’t know,” Akala answered.
“It is a maiden,” Niccolò whispered through a smile, as if to assure her. In his voice was softness like velvet. It was a comforting, embracing softness like one would give a frightened child. “The artist based the painting on an old poem. No one sees the trota pear. The trota pear is ignored and becomes trampled upon, because no one sees it. The maiden is like the trota pear. Love, you see, she desired it. To have someone to be there, to just love her. Perhaps, according to ancient custom, she actually was not allowed to be married.”
