We had expected a good lunch, but not a memorable one.
It was over ten years ago. My husband and I had rented a spacious but old flat in central Rome for two weeks. It wasn’t our first visit by any means, but we did many of the usual things – going to churches and galleries, spending a memorable evening in the Vatican and just walking around.
It was towards the end of our stay and we had gone out for lunch to a rather old-fashioned local restaurant. It had been in the same location for decades, perhaps with the same classic menu and the numerous waiters in black uniforms. I can’t remember now what it was called or what we ordered, but the food was reasonably good.
The tables were close together by English standards. Our two-person table was next to another, perhaps only an inch or so apart, so they could be easily joined for a group of four. As a result, we became increasingly aware of an older man, perhaps in his eighties, sitting alone at the table just next to ours. He was well dressed, with a confident air and an intelligent face. He seemed to be known to the restaurant staff.
We had been married for fifty years and had a very easy way of chatting about all kinds of things, from what we had been seeing in Rome to our grandchildren, the current news and much else besides. I wondered how much this man could hear of what we said, but nothing was so confidential that it mattered much.
Sometime after we had finished our second course and were ordering coffee, the man made eye contact with us. He offered a comment about the food or the restaurant or something similar of no great importance. He spoke in good English, although it was clearly not his native language.
But this had broken the ice. He asked where we were from. When we said London, he told us that he loved London, especially the gentlemen’s clubs around St James. This was not part of our world, but we smiled to be agreeable. He mentioned that one of his sons worked in England and he liked to visit from time to time.
He then told us he was from a South American country (unnamed here to preserve his anonymity) and was a former Supreme Court judge there. I wondered briefly if I should believe this, but decided it was an unlikely detail to invent. He had been forced out when the then president came to power and he had moved hurriedly to Europe. Most of his time was spent in Rome, but he travelled around to England and other countries.
There was some mention of a wife and four or five grown up children, but it did not sound like he had much contact with them, even his wife. Indeed, he seemed a slightly forlorn figure, eating alone – most likely frequently – in a foreign city.
He asked about us. How long had we been married? Did we have children? What were we doing in Rome? All reasonably innocuous. Most of this was directed to my husband, possibly because he was more comfortable talking man-to-man or perhaps simply because the configuration of our seating meant that he was more within direct eye-contact.
And then suddenly the conversation took a very different turn. He said it looked like we loved each other very much and stopped briefly to check for confirmation. My dear husband, although normally reticent like most Englishmen, said yes, we did. I think I nodded or murmured some agreement.
Would you mind my asking, said this stranger, but what do you mean by love?
The atmosphere shifted. This was not a light-hearted question, but a serious question from a serious man. We knew it, he knew it and he knew we knew it. Perhaps he was trying to work something out in his own mind.
I could see my husband beginning to reflect, to search for an answer. That’s a difficult question, he said, buying a little time. Yes, was the quiet reply. My husband is a reflective man and not afraid of difficult questions. As an academic, he is used to them. But this was definitely not part of his lunch plans.
Well, he began, looking back I’m not at all sure that I was in love when we first married. Of course, I was strongly attracted for many reasons, but I didn’t understand then what love was. I was much too young and un-formed. And my mind was on other things – mostly myself and where I was going. Had I been asked what love meant, my answer would probably have focused on my wife’s special qualities.
But, he continued, I feel now that love is something that develops slowly over time. It requires a period of growing into maturity. If I had to define it, it’s something to do with wanting what is good for my wife – to be willing, if necessary, to sacrifice my own interests in order to help her. Of course, I may also benefit from doing that, but I would do it even if I didn’t. I want – very deeply – for her to be happy and fulfilled. It’s in this same way that I also love my children and grandchildren.
All of this was said quietly over some time in a slow and thoughtful way.
I’m not a weepy person nor a sentimental one. I don’t weep in the opera or when watching a touching movie. But here was my husband trying to explain his love for me, right in the middle of a public restaurant in Rome. My eyes definitely misted up.
There was nowhere, anywhere, except these two small tables.
My husband said later that the judge’s eyes were also moist. He had looked lost in thought, perhaps seeing what might have been absent from his own marriage. The table became rather quiet. The judge said something to the effect that he wasn’t sure he had ever experienced this. We slowly went back to more normal conversation.
At some point, the waiter came for the bills and they were paid.
This has been a very interesting discussion, the judge said. We could have taken contact details and continued the conversation elsewhere – after all, he said he came to London from time to time. But I made a calculation that we were not likely to have that much in common and a future relationship was unlikely to thrive. Perhaps he thought so, too.
We shook hands and left the restaurant separately.
We did not even know his name.
writes
I was 32 and on my honeymoon when I first encountered the wisdom of enjoying a profound moment with no need to make it more. A chance meeting of a woman who invited us to dinner at her vacation home. It was so unexpected and delightful and rare that when we learned we lived in the same town and our favorite wedding gift had been purchased at her husband’s gallery, we wanted to stay in touch. To our surprise, she said no. She had enjoyed the encounter as much as we had but left it at that. It took years for me to fully understand why, just as you described here. Such moments are miraculous. But if we try to extend them into a friendship, we will fail and the moment will become lost or mundane.
Yours is a beautiful story. My husband is a man of few words who has difficulty expressing himself yet if he could, I expect he would say what your husband did, and that is a beautiful thing indeed ❤️
Lovely, Ann. We thank you for joining us and telling such close to heart revelation about you and your husband.