Only the Wall and I Know

If walls could talk....the tales they would reveal would include secrets, identities, lifelines, and many more things, including the unfathomable....

I sat by the fire in the small, dimly lit restaurant, staring at the colorful array of Italian porcelain adoring the dusky stucco wall. I was so mentally exhausted from the week of work that my mind could scarce think on anything except the glass of wine that would soon be mine. The beverage was much needed to help alleviate the stress running rampant through my body this evening. A young, flirtatious waiter had taken my drink order, but I had not given him a second glance so preoccupied was I with the disaster of my workweek. It was hard to dwell on much of anything else in the face of such adversity.

I watched an older gentleman purposefully approach my table with a bottle of Château Pape Clément Pessac-Léognan. I was treating myself tonight, and I felt had earned it. As he poured a small amount of the aromatic wine into a crystal glass, I immediately noticed his hands. Though wrinkled and weathered, they were strikingly beautiful in a less than usual way. One could easily see that he had used them for something more than serving wine over the long years as they were weathered and worn, much like his face. My imagination wandered, and I wondered what secrets the walls of his home – or his soul - would tell about his hands if they could but talk. What work – or what strife and tribulation - had his hands wrought or witnessed over the years? Surely with such impressive ones, there was a multitude of events and secrets to which his walls could attest.

His hands carefully grasped the expensive wine bottle as he opened it. I was intrigued by the volume of character embodied in those sculpted, graceful hands. They moved with an ease borne of many years in service. They were riddled with protruding veins, and it was as if I could hear the pulse of the blood that coursed through each one. Again the thought that his surrounding walls could likely publish a novel of deeds imaginatively flitted through my mind.

Distracted, I forgot to taste the wine in front of me.

“Signorina,” the waiter prompted. “Would you prefer something else? Is the wine not to your liking?”

I was momentarily transfixed while I watched him rub his left index finger and thumb together as he awaited my response. Was this something he’d done nearly all of his life or merely a nervous response? Why did I find the movement so graceful?

“My apologies. The wine is perfect,” I quickly offered after a small sip of the red nectar.

He grasped the expensive bottle of wine with both hands, so carefully that I surmised he thought it an irreplaceable treasure. Tesoro mio. My treasure. I smiled at the comparison. Yes, this man appeared to treasure the wine as if it were a newborn babe in his care or the most fragile of items.

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

“My name is Bella. Might I know yours?” I asked suddenly on impulse.

The waiter glanced at me in surprise, but then he stood tall and made a respectful bow. “Sì, Signorina. My name is Gabriele. Gabriele de Rose.”

Gabriele. I knew that the name was often associated with healing because of its reference to the Archangel Gabriel. At the thought, an unusual vision immediately drifted through my mind: this man’s rugged, yet graceful hands, making contact with me and a profound, ensuing peace coursing through my being. It was an intriguing thought.

I watched beneath my lashes as 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 it were in stark contrast to the crisp, white table cloth and also revealed he was at least in his sixties. What on earth had propelled a man who had worked most of his life to take a job as a waiter when he should be reaping the benefits of his previous labor? My heart suddenly plummeted, so grave was the concern that his life’s savings may have evaporated and led him to such a path. Furthermore, had I caught the trace of a discernable tremor that ran lightly through his fingers?

It was exceedingly odd to find such weathered hands so attractive, but still, I did. There was a timeless elegance and beauty of purpose exuded in every gesture or movement they made, including the rubbing together of the index finger and thumb. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I longed to reach out and grasp his hand in mine for some inexplicable reason, but I restrained the impulse as I knew it would be inappropriate and create an uncomfortableness between us. Instead, I did something else.

“Hello, Gabriele. It’s very nice to meet you,” I said and extended my hand in greeting. I desperately needed to touch this man and feel the power I was drawn to in his hands.

For only the briefest moment, surprise flickered across his brow, but then he broke into a smile that encompassed his face’s entirety. His eyes twinkled, changing his appearance and making him appear years younger than the secrets that might be revealed by the weathered, wrinkled hands. There was a sudden, brilliant vitality within him. This man had surely been quite handsome in his former years. The thought crossed my mind that even still, he was exceedingly attractive despite the wrinkles and years.

“Hello, Isabella. It is very nice to make your acquaintance,” Gabriele said as he accepted my hand and grasped it warmly within both of his. There was an inherent strength in his touch, just as I had suspected. "You will soon feel much better," he said before, with another bow and a slight wink, he disappeared behind a curtain in the rear of the establishment.

Amazed, I watched him walked away. How did he know I wanted to feel better? And why did he call me my given name of Isabella when I'd only introduced myself as 'Bella'?

I could still feel the warmth from his hands. Endorphins were slowly ebbing and flowing through my body, filling me, and the stress I had felt was quickly beginning to dissipate. Perhaps the vision I'd experienced only moments earlier had not been a precipitous one. No, I was sure the fact this man’s name was Gabriele and that his hands were so beautifully made were not the least of coincidences.

I called over the young waiter who had taken my drink order earlier, asking him to please send Gabriele back to my table for a moment.

He appeared confused. “Gabriele? I apologize, Signorina, but there is no one working here by that name. May I help you with something instead?”

I shook my head, declining his help and attempted to hide my surprise. No one named Gabriele? Why was I surprised? Indeed, if the walls of this establishment could talk, they would likely tell me what I already knew: Gabriele was no ordinary being, and the gift I’d just been a recipient of was indeed a wondrous one.

I stared down into my wine glass, searching for answers although only reaching one conclusion. A smile began to suffuse my face replacing the confusion until I felt it all the way down to my tippy toes. The feeling was full of glorious freedom after such a stressful week. The long week had not been the dismal failure I’d first thought, and just maybe, my faith in the universe had been restored. Something unexpected had just occurred, and I found myself on the receiving end of it all.

I lifted my gaze to stare at the faint pink, stucco wall in front of me. Suddenly, the detail of each plate that lined the wall was evident; each a uniquely made piece of pottery. It was readily apparent that we, as humans, are much like those pieces of varying pottery. The wall seemed to be taunting me, reminding me that only the two of us knew the sacred secret of what had just occurred with Gabriele. The wall seemed to grow larger with each breath I drew. Whiskers issued from it, reminding me that I must never forget the gift I was just given. It was no ordinary day when one encountered an angel or was touched by wondrous, healing hands. A deep-seated peace continued to invade my being, and with it came a knowledge that life was full of eminent possibilities.