Gabriele

If walls could talk, oh but what tall tales they could tell.

Well, strictly speaking, being a prominent wall in the quaint little Trattoria, or Ristorante Italiano, where I am housed definitely has its interesting facets. I mean, I’m an attractive sort of wall: a dusky rose stucco one with lots of elaborate, colorful Italian pottery adorning me. I don’t like to brag, but I’m probably the best looking wall within miles of Florence, and I take great pride in my appearance. Still, no one really seems to notice me, the perfectly poised, sturdy wall. Instead, as they eat and drink, they’re consumed with events that spin their own worlds.

I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad thing that patrons don’t pay me much notice. After all, I enjoy laying low and always casually listening, ever observant to all things. Over the long years, I’ve seen a bit of what life has to offer, the highest and the lowest of moments. I’ve watched Gianluca repeatedly two-time his lovely wife, Lupe, for nearly two decades, his dalliances casual, but crude and unnerving. I’ve seen Tommaso and Malfie argue violently and end up sometimes working out their differences. I’ve wanted to cry with the Bassani family as they celebrated the christening and then the wedding years later of their only daughter, Gia. I’ve also wept with the DeLuca family after their patriarch passed, watching the family eat and drink their sorrows away. Yes, I’ve seen many things throughout the years, some sad and some happy, but the the most interesting thing I’ve probably ever witnessed was a miracle.

“Miracle? I don’t believe in miracles,” you say defiantly. I hear you, loud and clear. In all honesty, despite being Catholic based, I didn’t believe in them either until that day a few months ago. Maybe it wasn’t so much of a miracle as more simply put, a miraculous thing to observe. Either way, it left its mark, and I won’t easily forget that fateful event – or Gabriele.

It was a rather warm evening in late September when I saw her walk into the trattoria. Her dress swayed softly as she followed the host. She was graceful, lovely, and all alone. It was immediately discernable that she walked as though she carried the weight of the world on her slim shoulders. She took a solitary seat at the small table situated against me. I inhaled of her permeating perfume and wished I could sigh with delight, wondering anew why someone like her was all alone on a night like that evening.

From my encompassing stance, I watched her closely, noticing the taut lines of stress surrounding her tired green eyes. As she sat, perusing the wine list, the delicate hands in her lap clenched repeatedly until the fingers surely dug little rivets in her palms. What had transpired to cause this solitary woman so much unease and discomfort? I suddenly wished I could read minds, but alas, my only remaining talents were detailed observance and a keen ear.

Paulie, the youngest - and most charming - waiter on staff stopped directly in front of the table to take the woman’s drink order. If I could have rolled my eyes, I would have done so as I watched him relentlessly attempt to engage her with flirtatious banter. Instead, she appeared nonplussed and barely gave Paulie a second glance, momentarily deflating his boisterous ego.

She ordered a bottle of Château Pape Clément Pessac-Léognan; an aromatic, full-bodied, delightful choice. She was certainly no novice when it came to fine wine because this bottle was not inexpensive. I heard a soft sigh as Paulie left and surmised she was eagerly awaiting the wine to alleviate some of the stress she felt. Had the week been that unbearable for her, I wondered? Well, whatever the reason, I was sure she deserved the wine.

As she waited, the woman adjusted the gleaming silver utensils on the table, removed a piece of invisible lint from the immaculate white tablecloth, plumped a flower in the small vase in the center of the table, and then repeatedly stroked the handle of the crystal wine glass to her right. The tight lines on her face never eased; stress and impatience were tangible aspects, easily seen in her rigid posture. I thought tiny pieces of my stucco might crumble in abject despair as I watched her, so forlorn and lonely was her expression.

From the rear, an older man slowly approached. The sight of him gave me pause. Whom might this gentleman be? I’d never seen this man before, but he was clearly employed by the restaurant since he wore a waiter's attire. He was much older than the average employee, so again, I wondered who he might be. Still, he carried the anticipated bottle of Château Pape Clément Pessac-Léognan, so I assumed that Giuseppe, our owner, had given him the opportunity to prove himself worthy of the job despite his advancing years.

He stopped at the table, bowed ever so slightly, showed his customer the bottle’s label, and then began to unwrap and uncork the coveted vintage. Of a sudden, I was aware that the woman’s gaze appeared transfixed on the man’s hands as they worked with proficient and meticulous ease. Following suit, I focused my attention on his hands as well, wondering why this weary woman had been drawn to study them as she did.

Though creased and weathered, the man’s hands were capable and strikingly beautiful in a less than usual way. One could easily see he had used them for something more than merely serving wine over the long years as they were wrinkled and worn much like his face. My imagination soared. What secrets would the walls of his home – or his soul – tell about him? What work, what strife, what tribulation had those hands wrought or witnessed over the years? There was no doubt his hands were impressive, so surely there was a multitude of secrets to which they – or his walls – could attest.

I was intrigued by the sheer volume of character embodied in those sculpted, graceful hands. Was this the fact upon which she seemed so focused? It was no wonder. His hands moved with an ease borne of many years of service. They were riddled with protruding veins, and it was as though one could hear the pulse of the blood that coursed through each one. It flitted through my mind that this man was an enigma and that his walls could likely publish a novel about his vast deeds.

He grasped the expensive wine bottle with both hands, so carefully that I surmised he thought it an irreplaceable treasure. Tesoro mio. My treasure. Yes, this man appeared to treasure the bottle of wine as if it were a newborn babe in his care or the most fragile of items. It pleased me beyond measure to know it for some unknown reason.

So seemingly intrigued was the woman by the waiter’s hands that she forgot to taste the wine he had poured in small measure in her glass.

“Signorina, is the wine not to your liking? Would you prefer something else?”

I was hypnotically transfixed as I watched the waiter rub his left index finger and thumb together as he awaited the woman’s response. Was this something he’d always done or merely a nervous gesture? Whatever the reason, I found the small movement inordinately graceful.

I turned my attention back to the woman and saw she had noticed the same thing, her gaze also fixed on his two fingers. However, prompted by the question, she quickly refocused and tasted the wine. “My apologies. The wine is perfect.”

As he filled her glass, I saw that despite the rugged texture of his fingers, they were long, lean, and elegant. It was obvious they had performed some type of labor prior to his work as a waiter, although I could only guess at what. Had it been a type of manual labor or a labor of love? Had he been a carpenter, a mason, a butcher, a fisherman, or even an artist? Sculpted hands creating magnificent sculptures or pottery perhaps? My imagination ran rampant with images of a life hard-lived, and yet challengingly productive. No, this man had not lived a life of luxury or privilege.

“My name is Bella. Might I know yours?” The woman’s voice drew my attention.

The waiter’s glance showed only the slightest surprise before he stood tall and gave a respectful bow. “Si, Signorina. My name is Gabriele. Gabriele de Rose.”

Gabriele. After eavesdropping on numerous patrons over the years (I have a memory like an elephant), I knew that the name was often associated with the Archangel Gabriel and as a result, with healing. I mean, after all, it’s Italy and such things are often discussed in every corner of this country. With my thoughts, an unusual vision filled my stucco driven interiors: this man’s rugged, yet graceful hands making contact with the weary woman and a profound peace coursing through her being. My imagination danced with the thought.

Gabriele rested one hand ever so slightly on the edge of the table as if to steady himself. The scattered brown age spots across the back of the hand were in stark contrast to the crisp, white table cloth. It was exceedingly odd to find such weathered hands so attractive, but still, I did. There was a timeless elegance and beauty of purpose in every gesture his hands made, including the rubbing together of the index finger and thumb. I could see that the woman thought the same thing. She reminded me of a moth drawn to a flame, and I could sense her desire to reach out and touch this man.

“Hello, Gabriele. It’s very nice to meet you,” she said and extended her hand in greeting. There was preoccupation and expectancy in her eyes. Had she perhaps had the same vision I had only moments ago?

Gabriele broke into a smile that encompassed his face’s entirety, making him appear years younger than the story his weathered hands told. He was suddenly filled with a brilliant vitality that radiated from within and nearly flooded our small space. Indeed, my dusky rose felt like exhuberant pink for a moment. The thought crossed my pottery laden exterior that Gabriele must have been quite handsome in his former years. In amusement, I realized that he was, in fact, still exceedingly attractive despite his years.

Gabriele extended his hand in greeting, warmly grasping the woman's small hand in both of his. “Hello, Isabella. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. Soon you will feel much better….and soon you will find much happiness.”

Stunned by the waiter's words, I eagerly awaited the woman's response, but before she could offer so much of a word, Gabriele gave the slightest wink and walked away. He disappeared behind a curtain in the rear of the restaurant.

I quickly turned my attention back to the woman. Surprise filled her eyes as she continued to lightly rub where the waiter had touched her hand as if hoping to keep the warmth of his touch upon her skin. I saw that her entire countenance had begun to change. I could almost see the endorphins slowly ebbing and flowing through her body as the stress she'd worn began to dissipate. Perhaps the vision I had experienced only moments ago had not been a precipitous one. No, I was sure that the fact this man’s name was Gabriele and that his hands were so beautifully made were not the least of coincidences.

She was suddenly calling over the flirty waiter from earlier in the evening. I listened carefully, wondering at her next words.

Paulie appeared confused. He was sorry, but there was no one named Gabriele working at the restaurant. Might he help her with something else?

No surprise there, I thought. I wanted to curl a nonexistent lip and smile in amusement or offer a nod of affirmation.

The woman thanked Paulie and watched him leave her table. Suddenly, it was as though I could read her mind just as I’d wanted to do earlier. This woman understood, as did I, that Gabriele was no ordinary being. She had just been the recipient of a wondrous one – a one in a million.

I continued to be amazed, and I watched a brilliant smile flicker across the woman’s face. It was as though a deep-seated peace was filling her all the way to her toes. It must be akin to a glorious freedom, I thought, after the burden she had carried into the restaurant earlier in the evening. Oh, but I fervently hoped this woman’s faith in the universe had just been restored.

Around me, the other walls whispered to one another, a bit jealous of my experience but eager to spread the wonder of Gabriele. I stood proudly erect, holding my militaristic stance. It was beyond special that I'd witnessed such a thing, and I knew that my faith in this revolving macrocosm of a universe, like the woman’s, had also been renewed. With it came the dream that for all those who wandered into my sliver of space, life would be ripe with endless possibilities. Being a wall had a specific purpose; it was a gift of which I would never tire. I would continue to stand strong for each human that came my way, and I would await the time when an angel like Gabriele might stroll into my midst again.