Analise

By Luca Bernardini

On the fifth ring, Jonah picks up, finally. His mother has been calling for days, every attempt going unanswered. She’s been worried about him. He is a shy boy, her son. Man, she corrects herself. He is twenty-seven now. She should stop stressing about him, she knows, but that’s easier said than done. A mother will stress about her children until she is six feet under, and perhaps even after that.

Jonah, though, has never been adventurous. As a child, he rarely left the house, spending every weekend inside with a book. When he went to college—barely down the road from home—he somehow managed to get a girlfriend, Sarah, who in turn got him a circle of friends. They were going to get married, those two. His mother still remembers catching him one afternoon searching for rings online.

But that’s all over. Sarah broke up with him a week before he booked this absurd trip abroad. To “find himself,” he claims. To “chase his dreams of becoming an author.” He’s always loved writing, but he’s never struggled with it before. That excuse… what a load of nonsense. He hasn’t told her anything more. She refuses to pry, but, God, does she want to. She needs to know if her baby’s hurting. And of course he is. He’s lost so much recently. His job followed quickly after the girlfriend and the friends.

“Hi, Mom.” His voice is blurred by the static of five-thousand miles between them. God, she missed that voice. He’s never been away from home this long. But Europe—he claims he loves it. She’s asked him many times to describe it; she’s never been. He talks about the romantic yellow glow of the streetlights, the café chairs angled toward the street instead of each other, the easy waltz of Europeans with no intention of wasting their lives behind desks. He speaks of the mountains of Switzerland, the beaches of Portugal, the food of France, the towns of Italy. Her son has a way with words, that’s for sure. He always has.

“Hi, Jonah, honey. Tell me everything. How’s Italy? That’s where you are now, right? How’s your writing? Have you made friends?” She stops herself before she can keep going. She doesn’t want to overwhelm him, to have him hang up and shorten their conversation.

He laughs into the phone. She wishes the static isn’t there. If only the line is clearer, if only there isn’t an ocean and half of America separating them. He explains that he’s in a small town in Tuscany, at some bar tucked into the corner of a piazza. He says that word with a flourish. She smiles to herself. It’s cute, him trying to practice his Italian. He takes a sip of something, the sound of liquid sloshing and ice knocking against the rim of a glass. He says he’s writing now. About a woman named Analise. What a beautiful name. Jonah must have met her recently.

“Is she pretty, this Analise?” She’s his mother, she can’t resist asking if he’s found someone new! He desperately needs to get over Sarah.

“Very,” he says. “She’s blonde and elegant. The picture of grace. She keeps her hair twisted neatly out of her face. Matches her shoes to her purse. She’s a bit older than me, but not by much.” His mother rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. Jonah talks like this often. He notices everything, her kid. She asks him to tell her more.

“She has a son. Maybe seven. He’s a disaster, that kid. Where Analise is pristine, he is disheveled—his stained shirt missing three buttons, dirt on his knees, and his white shoes that look gray, like they’re scrubbed clean every night only for him to ruin them again tomorrow.” Jonah begins to ramble. She loves when he does this. “Analise is tired. She won’t admit it, but she has bags under her eyes even makeup can’t cover. This boy is her antithesis; he keeps her working hard.”

“How did someone so composed make something so wild?” She asks, hoping he’ll continue. There’s music in the background of Jonah’s voice, some violinist playing a slow song. She sits on her couch, running her hands along the fabric, and closes her eyes, imagining she is there with him in Italy, instead of here, in Milwaukee, alone.

“It’s a sweet story, actually.” Jonah said.

“Do tell, honey.” “Analise was married young, but her husband died a couple of years ago. She still wears her wedding ring, just not on her hand. The people in her hometown, in France, kept asking her questions. So now, it hangs on a chain around her neck. She fiddles with it constantly.” Jonah speeds up, his words tumbling out the way they did when he was in elementary school, telling her about the first short story he ever wrote—something about an alien. He was so excited then, jumping up and down, breathlessly explaining his tale.

“She met her late husband in this very town, actually. Ten years ago. He was American. They met in the train station—literally. She was on a way to her friend’s wedding in Florence, and he was late for his train. He barreled through the train station and crashed right into her. She fell for him immediately.” His mother urges him on, soaking in his storytelling. It’s raining where she is, gray and dull. His voice is such a light.

“Anyway,” Jonah continues, “he asked her out for coffee. They ended up spending the whole day together. Dinner, too. He was charming, really outgoing. She was quieter, more type-A. They clicked. Opposites attract, right?” Jonah coughs and pauses for a second, taking another sip of his drink. A waiter comes to talk to him; she hears the exchange in broken Italian. Then, Jonah is back. “Sorry. Where was I? Oh—right. He brought her into the very piazza I’m in right

now. They danced to imaginary music and joked about life. He climbed onto the fountain that I’m currently looking at. It’s beautiful, Mom, truly. It’s in the center of the square, huge and lit up.”

“I wish I could see it,” his mother says.

“Me too, Mom. I’ll take a picture for you. Anyways, so her late husband was climbing this fountain, and he brought Analise up to it. That’s where he kissed her. The rest is history. They were married for years before he passed. Their son… he reminds Analise so much of her husband. He’s easygoing and fun-loving, just like his dad.”

“What a story! How do you know all this? Do you think you’ll see her again?” She can’t resist asking. She hopes Analise and Jonah will meet again. A little summer romance might be exactly what her son needs. It would ease her mind to know he has some company.

“Oh, no, Mom.” He responds. His voice is a bit soft, distant—and isn’t the static this time. He’s drifting, thinking. Her dreamy boy, always with his head in the clouds. His nose always in a book, a pen always in his hand. “You misunderstood me. It’s just a story. But wouldn’t it be great if it were true?”