The Rose Brooch
It was a cool, breezy evening. I spent it on the porch reading. It was getting late, I was getting tired, so I decided to go upstairs and get ready for bed. I unpinned the rose brooch from my dress. It slipped from my fingers and fell on the floor. I quickly bent down to pick it up. As I did so, I glanced at it and smiled. My mind flashed back to the summer of 1972. I had gone to Arona, on the Lago Maggiore, with my father.
My ex-husband and I were having serious marital problems. I was persuaded to accompany my father to Italy. I left my children with an aunt in Israel. She visited us in Tehran often. My children loved her. She was a fun person. She lived in Savyon and had a spacious garden and a dog called Laddie who was happy to romp and play with them. What could be more perfect than that? All day long the children played with Laddie and visited relatives that cosseted and loved them. They were well cared for and perhaps a bit spoiled. As for me, it was a much-needed respite.
In Arona, we stayed in a family-run hotel called La Rocca. Two brothers and their wives ran it. My father stayed there quite frequently when on business. The hotel faced the lake. It was peaceful and serene. There was a terrace where I spent hours on end gazing out at the lake, trying to attain a semblance of peace. I needed to think. My father sensed that and gave me the space that I needed. In the morning hours, he would meet the various clients he needed to see. He returned to the hotel for lunch. The hotel had an excellent chef. We were served our meals on that terrace. As we took our leisurely meal, we would look out at that peaceful lake. Sometimes sailboats would go by. There are little islands on which castles are built, with little churches. It is all so picturesque. To this day, in my mind’s eye, I still remember the stillness of the place. I still savour the delicate taste of some of the dishes we ate there and think of it as the perfect experience. After a rest, we would either amble about with the summer crowds or drive around to different towns. I would drive and my father would lean back and take in the beauty and serenity that surrounded us. We did not speak. There was no need to. We just absorbed the majesty of what surrounded us.
Looking back, I recall the pleasure and the sense of excitement I felt walking through the town on those picturesque, narrow, cobbled, and winding streets. I peeked through store windows in fascination. Italians are so artistic. Even the simplest items seemed to be created with an artistic eye. I discovered that Wednesdays were mercato day. The village square would be filled with stalls of the artisans offering their products. The nuns offered finely detailed embroidered linen. There were inlaid and carved side tables and intricate little boxes to keep little treasures in. There were the softest leather handbags, leather gloves, and wallets. They were so soft, it seemed as if they had been massaged in the most luxurious of hand creams. I bought a little sling bag from there. Even now, all these many, many years later, it is as soft as can be. It has not dried up nor become brittle. I still take pleasure in touching it, feeling it… There were oh so many things that delighted the eyes. They all were made with pride. About eight or so years ago, Peter and I happened to be in the area on mercato day. I was looking forward to attending it. How disappointed I felt! Over forty years had passed. Sold now were not delightful treasures of the years gone by, but the inferior quality goods made in China and other such places. I looked about me and remembered how it used to be. I felt like crying with disappointment!
One day my father had to go to Milano to meet with some clients. Their driver picked him up. I was told not to expect him for lunch. Instead of sitting on the terrace, I decided to wander through the streets of Arona. It was a pleasant day, and I was beginning to feel less fragile. I straightened my shoulders and held my head high. I told myself that whether I worried or not, it would not change matters. With that attitude, I walked out of the hotel and started to wander about. I remember distinctly, as I wove through the narrow streets, looking above me and seeing the balconies on either side of the tiny, narrow streets. If persons from opposite balconies leaned forward, they would practically be able to hold hands. I meandered about. I people-watched, one of my favourite pastimes. The morning wore on. I tired, so I stopped at a café and had caffe latte and a pastry. I liked not having to speak to anyone. It enabled me to try and clear my head from my situation at home. This was my time to regenerate.
As the morning wore on, the passersby dwindled. It was almost lunchtime. Shopkeepers were beginning to go home for the afternoon. It was then that I noticed a little shop that sold jewelry. In its window was displayed a long-stemmed rose in two-toned gold. I was drawn to it. I had to have it! I could see that the man inside was getting ready to close. I hurried in before he did. I asked to see the brooch. Very reluctantly, he produced it. I sensed he really wanted to go home for lunch and not to have to deal with me. Just holding it in my hand, I knew it was to belong to me. I asked the price. He told me. After a bit of negotiations, I bought it. He smiled. I smiled. He wrapped it up for me. I tucked it in my handbag. “Buon giorno,” he said. “Buon giorno,” I replied. I left his shop and walked back towards the hotel. That purchase made me happy. Throughout the years, it stayed one of my favourites. I loved it. I still love it. Each time I wear it, I look at it and remember the day I obtained it. It was the day I realized that there may be ups and downs in life, but life still goes on.
And tonight, forty-eight years later, as I bent down to pick up the brooch that I dropped, I remember my dear, caring father and the time he whisked me away to Arona to sort out my painful thoughts. That brooch represents my father’s undying love for his daughter. And though he has been gone all these many years, his love is still nestled deeply in my heart and brings me great comfort whenever I am in need of it. Thank you, my dearest Papa. Thank you.