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.

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 wanted to sigh with delight, wondering anew why someone like her was all alone in such a place as this.

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 fingernails 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 as well as I did faces, but alas, my only talents remained as detailed observance and a keen ear.

Piero, the youngest - and most charming - waiter on staff stopped directly in front of the table to take the woman’s drink order. If I’d had eyes to roll, I would have done so as I watched him relentlessly attempt to engage her with flirtatious banter. Instead, she barely gave Piero a second glance, easily, but 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 Piero left and surmised she was eagerly awaiting the wine to alleviate some of the stress she was obviously feeling. Had the week been that unbearable for her, I wondered? Well, whatever the reason, I was sure she was in much need of and deserved the bottle of expensive wine.

As the woman waited, she meticulously adjusted the gleaming silverware 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. The tight lines on her face never eased; stress and impatience were tangible aspects, easily displayed in her rigid posture. I thought tiny pieces of my stucco might crumble in abject despair as I continued to watch her, so forlorn and lonely was the expression she wore.

From the rear, an older man slowly approached, and the sight of him gave me pause. Whom might this gentleman be? I’d never seen this man before this night, but he was clearly employed by the restaurant since he wore the proper attire of a waiter. He was much older than the average employee these days, so again, I wondered whom he might be. He carried the anticipated bottle of Château Pape Clément Pessac-Léognan as if it was a newborn baby, so I assumed Giuseppe, the owner, had given him an opportunity to prove himself worthy of the job despite his aging years.

The man stopped at the table, bowed ever so slightly, showed his customer the wine bottle’s label, and then began to unwrap and uncork the coveted vintage. Of a sudden, I was aware that the woman’s gaze had transfixed on the older man’s hands as they worked with proficient and meticulous ease. Following suit, I focused my attention there as well, wondering why this weary and heavy laden 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 expected way. One could easily see he had used them for something more than merely serving wine over the long years. They were wrinkled and worn much like his visage.

My imagination soared. What secrets would the walls of his home – or his soul – speak of? What work, what strife and tribulation, had those hands wrought or witnessed over the long years? There was little doubt his hands were paradoxically impressive, so there must be a multitude of secrets to which they could attest.

I was thoroughly intrigued by the sheer volume of character embodied in those sculpted, graceful, and aging hands. Was this the fact by which the woman seemed so transfixed? It was a small wonder for it was obvious his hands moved with a gentle ease borne of many years service. They were riddled with protruding veins, and it seemed as though one could hear the pulse of blood that coursed through each one. It flitted through my mind this man was an enigma and his walls could most likely publish novels detailing 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 knowing full well how much the woman desired it. It pleased me beyond measure to know this small fact for reasons unknown.

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

“Signorina, is the wine not to your liking? Maybe you would prefer something else?” he asked.

I was momentarily dazed 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 response? Whatever the reason, I found the small gesture graceful and mesmerizing.

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

As the man filled her glass with the wine's luscious nectar, I observed his fingers were long, lean, and elegant despite their rugged texture. 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, paintings, or even pottery? My imagination ran rampant with images of a life hard-lived but also well-lived in a challengingly, rewardingly way. No, this man had not lived a life of luxury or privilege, but I was sure he had garnered something more valuable in the scheme of things.

“My name is Isabella. May I ask yours?” The woman’s voice, a melodious sound, drew my immediate attention.

The waiter’s face showed only the slightest surprise before he straightened before bestowing 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, you see), I knew that his name was often associated with the Archangel Gabriel and 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. It was a fascinating thought and I ushered up a small prayer for such a thing.

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 his hand contrasted sharply against the crisp, white table cloth. It was exceedingly odd to find such weathered hands so attractive, but still, they were. There was a timeless elegance and beauty of purpose in every gesture made with them, including the seeming magic found in the rubbing together of his index finger and thumb. I could see that the woman was thinking the same exact thing. She reminded me much of a moth drawn to a flame. Her apparent desire to reach out and touch this man became a real, very palpable thing.

“Hello, Gabriele. It’s very nice to meet you,” she said and extended her hand in greeting.

Ah, there it was - her way to make hands on contact. I could easily see there was a preoccupation, determination, and expectancy in her eyes. Had she perhaps had the same vision I had witnessed moments ago?

Gabriele broke into a smile; it encompassed his face’s entirety, making him appear years younger than the story his weathered hands told. He appeared filled with a brilliant vitality which radiated from within and nearly flooded the small corner of the restaurant. Indeed, my dusky rose color felt like bright, neon pink for a moment. A thought crossed my pottery laden self, and I knew Gabriele must have been quite handsome in his former years. In amusement, I realized he was still exceedingly attractive despite his aging years.

Gabriele extended his hand in greeting, warmly grasping her hand in both of his. “Hello, Isabella, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. Soon your heart will be filled with peace….and you will also find the happiness you desperately seek.”

Stunned as much as the woman appeared to be, I eagerly awaited her response. However, before she could offer so much of a stammered word, Gabriele gave a slight wink and strode away, his steps suddenly light and quick despite his advanced years as he disappeared behind a curtain in the rear.

I quickly turned back to the woman. Surprise and something more, a fine mist of tears, filled her eyes. She lightly rubbed where the waiter had touched her hand as if hoping to keep the warmth of his touch therein. I saw her entire countenance had begun to transform - I could almost see the endorphins slowly ebbing and flowing through her body and the stress she'd worn beginning to dissipate. Perhaps the vision I had experienced only moments ago had not been false but a precipitous one instead. I was now sure the fact this man’s name was Gabriele and his hands were so mesmerizing were not the least of coincidences.

The woman was suddenly calling over the flirty waiter who stood nearby. I listened carefully, wondering what her next words would be.

Piero seemed perplexed as she questioned him. He apologized but there was no one named Gabriele working alongside him at the restaurant. Might he be able to assist her with something further?

No surprise there, I quickly surmised. I wanted to lift a nonexistent lip and smile in glorious amusement and stunning affirmation.

The woman thanked Piero and watched him leave. Suddenly, it was as though I could read her mind just as I’d wished earlier. This woman understood, as did I, that Gabriele was no ordinary being. This man had been so much more, and she knew she had been the recipient of a wondrous gift. It was a gift in a million.

In continued amazement, I watched a smile begin to flicker across the woman’s face. It was as though a deep-seated peace had begun filling her all the way to her toes, just as the Gabriele had predicted. Surely it was a feeling akin to flying, a glorious type of freedom. She had carried such an obvious burden into the restaurant earlier in the evening, but now it seemed she had been freed of his heavy weight. I fervently hoped her world had just been realigned and a measure of her faith in the universe and perhaps mankind had just been restored.

Around me, all the other walls whispered to one another, a bit jealous of my firsthand experience but still eager to spread the sweet story of Gabriele. I stood proudly, holding my militaristic stance. It was truly beyond special I'd witnessed such a thing, and I knew that my faith in this revolving macrocosm of a world, like the woman’s, had also been renewed. With this knowledge came a new found destiny. I would do all I could for those who wandered into my space, hoping to fill their lives with endless possibilities and miracles. My existence as a sturdy wall now had purpose - it was a gift of which I would never tire. I would forever stand strong and be supportive for all who visited. In these ways, I would also await the next time an angel, Gabriele or another, would enter into my midst. I would be waiting and I would be ready.