Che Gelida
Manina (What a cold hand) is an beautiful aria from Puccini's opera La Bohème,
in which Rodolfo introduces himself to Mimi as they sit on the steps of their
cold rooming house. This story is about opening your heart to new love.
 |
| Rodolfo sings Che Gelida Manina to Mimi |
M. S. Spencer© 2014
Che Gelida
Manina
By M. S. Spencer
"I don't want to stay here, Amelia."
"But Mother, you love Sarasota! You
love the sun, the people, the beach. Why this sudden desire to move to Morocco?"
"It's always been a dream of mine."
Grace knew her daughter wouldn't buy it, but didn't want to tell her how
desperately she needed to get away from Florida. Since Jack died nine months
before on Christmas Eve, she couldn't bear to go to the Gulf…or listen to his
favorite opera, La Bohème…or even light candles at dinner. Jack had been the most romantic man in the
world and the love of her life. Now that he was gone, all desire for romance
had gone with him. It was only because of her promise to him to stay through
one last Christmas that she had remained. I'll keep my promise, but I'll be out of here
by Boxing Day.
"Well, it makes no sense." Amelia
switched gears. "Just yesterday Brad was saying you should come up here to
Portland—"
"Not on your life. I may be a doting
grandmother but I don't think I could handle twin toddlers twenty-four-seven."
The woman at the other end of the phone
sniffed. "Hmmph. Well, we don't
want you alone on Christmas Eve, Mother. Brad would be happy to book a flight
for you."
"You know I can't, dear."
"Oh, bother the promise. Dad would
understand."
Grace thought of Jack's last whispered
request. "No, he wouldn't."
"Okay, okay." Amelia paused.
"Did you sign up for Friends.com yet?"
"No, and stop badgering me."
"All I ask is that you think about
it. It's about time you got out of the house. The site's supposed to have a
ninety-percent success rate in matching people."
"I doubt that. Gotta go, dear." Grace
hung up and stared at the website on her computer screen. She hesitated, then
clicked "Your Friends.com Profile." She wrote quickly and furiously,
tossing her thoughts out before she lost her nerve.
Recently
widowed woman, 60, seeking companion for excursions—bird watching and
sightseeing. Not interested in romance or personal confidences. No moonlit
beach walkers please. No candlelight dinners. Love of opera a deal-breaker.
She typed in her credit card number and
clicked 'Submit,' then returned to her profile and reread it. "Oh dear, that sounds awfully
negative…"
Her finger hovered over the 'Delete Post'
button when a message popped up. "Edward Harper has emailed you." She
opened it.
Widower, 62, happy to oblige. Coffee today?
Next to the message was a man's photograph.
She studied it, trying to plumb its secrets—a broad face, the planes of the
cheeks flat and tanned. Little crinkles of skin at each temple hinted at a
quiet sense of humor. His bright hazel eyes under a thatch of brown hair smiled
at her, as if willing her to say hello.
She pressed 'Reply' and typed in, "Yes."
An hour later she sat in a booth in the Gray
Dolphin Café, wondering if she'd recognize him. A tall man came through the
automatic doors and strode resolutely toward her. "Are you Grace?"
I
can deny it. I can get up and walk out right now. The eyes held her.
Cheerful, calm, intelligent. "Yes. Won't you join me?"
He slid onto the seat and ordered coffee
for the two of them. Grace, used to dealing with the world on her own, found it
refreshing. He had a way of making her feel comfortable and pampered at the
same time. Two hours later they parted at the café door.
She didn't hear from him that day, or the
next, or the next. Exactly one week later, an email popped up. "Coffee
today?"
Fingers scampering quickly over the keys,
she typed, "Yes."
They met at the café, but Edward drew her
outside. "How about a walk through Robinson Preserve? I brought
binoculars. And coffee."
"Sure."
Two hours later he left her at the café entrance.
She almost asked if he'd like to see her again, but didn't.
Precisely a week later, he called.
"Coffee?"
This time she was ready. "Would you care
to go to Spanish Point with me? It's an historic site."
"Certainly—I was going to suggest something
similar. I'll pick you up at the café."
And so it went for two months. The two of
them met every Wednesday and toured local sights like Marie Selby Gardens, Ringling's
Ca D'zan, and Ybor City. Edward proved a perfect escort—knowledgeable, funny,
interested in everything. Grace's life came to revolve around the weekly dates.
She'd find herself thinking about him every day, wondering more and more often
how he felt about her. After all, he never asked her personal questions. If she
inquired about his past, he would demur. "We are but fellow travelers.
That was the deal, wasn't it?"
Whenever his reticence grated on her, she would
reread her Friends.com profile. You asked for this, Grace. In fact, you
insisted upon it. Then she would pour herself a drink and watch another
re-run of Love Boat.
As the weeks passed, Grace sank deeper and
deeper into a funk. Edward was careful to keep his distance—the occasional
touch on the hand or squeeze of the elbow meant only that he wanted to draw her
attention to something. She began to covet the delicate brush of his fingers
across her skin. Sometimes she would even bump into him, pretending to be
absorbed in a painting or view.
She had said goodbye to him one Wednesday,
facing the emptiness of the week ahead. Sitting in her car, it suddenly struck
her as unfair. Is this all he can give?
One afternoon a week for the rest of my life? She checked her face in the rear
view mirror. Wrinkles spiraled through the once blooming cheeks. Her hair had
begun the gradual but depressing transformation to pure white, and her once cobalt
blue eyes had faded to the cerulean of a misty morning sky. She started the
engine. "I've got to do something."
But as the days dragged by, she did
nothing. Time and again she would click on Edward's address, only to hesitate. I'm not
ready.
That Sunday Amelia called. "I hope you'll reconsider and come for
Christmas, Mother."
Christmas.
Christ. In her preoccupation with Edward, she had lost track of the date. In
three weeks her vow to Jack would be discharged. What difference would it make if I left a few days early? Unexpectedly,
Edward's smiling face flashed before her. Yearning vied with terror,
threatening to rip her heart apart. I'm not ready. I need to get out of here. She
finally managed, "Perhaps I will."
"Wonderful! Come a week early—that
way we'll have plenty of time to catch up."
"All right."
As her departure approached, Grace put off
informing Edward. I know him. He'll nod
silently. He won't even ask if I need a ride to the airport. She stifled
the stab of pain.
The day before she was to leave, she finally
confessed. His eyes, for once, did not smile, but he said nothing. She waved
him off at the café and went home to finish packing. As she locked the suitcase,
cold reality sluiced like ice water down her back. I guess this is it. She looked around the cozy bungalow Edward had
never entered. And yet he seemed so much a part of it, of her life now. The
longing she'd felt for him—longing that she refused to acknowledge—exploded
into desire. I want him. I want to hold
him. And I want to talk—really talk—pour out all my thoughts and my childhood
dreams, my needs, my fears.
To silence the pleas, she did something
she hadn't done since Jack died—she took the shell path to the water. The beach
was empty and she walked until her feet hurt—a mile, two miles, three. As she
walked, the sun began to descend in one of those glorious Florida sunsets that
make you wonder if you've landed on another planet. The white powdery sand crunched
between her toes. How I've missed this! Maybe I was wrong to cut myself off from the
things I loved.
By the time she arrived back at the shell path
it was nearly dark. She turned for one last look at the moon and stars. A beach
chair sat forlornly on the shore, waves lapping at its legs. Something
fluttered from it. Oh, right, I left my
towel there.
As she approached, a silvery tenor began
to croon Jack's favorite aria from La Bohème.
In it, Rodolfo sings to his new love Mimi, 'Che gelida manina—What a cold little hand you have!'
She rounded on the chair. "Edward?"
He sat up. "Grace?"
She wanted to run into his arms. She
wanted to kiss his lips, his forehead, his hands. Instead, she stood quietly, her
arms at her sides. "Edward, what are you doing here? I thought you hated
the beach."
His eyes bored into her. "Not me.
You. You didn't want romance. You didn't want to hold my hand, or light a
candle, or hear my music. I respected your wishes."
She ached to cry out, "I was wrong!
Edward, I want to be with you!" but fear clogged her throat. I'm not ready. All she could manage was,
"Yes."
His lips twisted. "Yes." Then he
stood up and walked away across the sand. Grace watched helplessly as the
second love of her life left her.
She went to bed, but the hours ticked by
as she lay awake, by turns angry and despondent. The next morning she called
Amelia. "I've decided to stay here for Christmas."
"Mother? Why? You'll be so lonely!"
"No! No, I'll be fine. I have a
promise to keep."
She checked the calendar. Four days to go
to Christmas Eve. She had to find Edward before she left. I can't leave without telling him about Jack—without explaining my aversion
to romance. She turned on the laptop and typed his name in the search box.
The first list turned up three dozen Edward
Harpers, ten of whom lived in the Sarasota area. She spent two days tracking them
down, leaving messages at the most promising leads. Then she sat down to wait.
Christmas Eve arrived without any word
from Edward. Her suitcase stood ready by the door. As the light faded, she went
outside to her patio. La Bohème played softly from inside. I can't lose him. Why didn't I tell him? What was I afraid of? The
pain? You fool, the pain found you
anyway. At least she had the beach and the music back. Only one more thing to do. She rose, found some matches, and lit
the Christmas candle. As she watched the flame flicker in the evening breeze,
she savored an uneasy peace. Perhaps it's
for the best. I'll leave tomorrow and
forget all about him.
Someone moved from the darkness into the
light. She sprang up to find bright hazel eyes smiling into hers. He touched
her hand and sang softly, "Che
gelida manina. What a cold little hand you have, my
dear. May I warm it?"
She gave it to him, then led him down the
path to the beach.
