'Isn't that the embassy?' she asked as the car pulled to a halt amidst a row of elegant stone houses. 'So it is', he said in a playful tone, leaning across her lap to look out the window.
She looked at him in amusement. He was really enjoying himself with his secret plan. She was happy to indulge him. He carried so much on his shoulders every single day. Had dealt with so much personally this week she was ready to play along with whatever he wanted. She reached up and kissed him. 'What's that for?' he asked. 'I don't need a reason to kiss my wonderful husband', she said and he smiled happily.
He helped her from the car, stepping out onto the cobbled streets, always a challenge in heels. The delicate silver sandals caught the light of the almost setting sun and gleamed as she set first one foot down, then the other. She held onto Joe's arm as she tentatively took the first few steps, gingerly assessing the contact of her heels against the dips and rises of the stone, smoothed by generations of Romans and tourists, diplomats and religious who had passed this way so many times before.
Donatello watched through the viewfinder of his camera as Joe paused for a moment and looked to the sky, then his watch then to the front of the embassy. He watched as the president hesitated, turned to his wife and said something. She looked in the same direction and nodded emphatically.
Together they set their course toward the footpath on the opposite side of the street. He held out his hand, palm upwards and she placed hers in his to help her navigate the step. As she stepped up she bunched the fabric of the dress in her hand, giving Donatello a flash of a long elegant well muscled leg in profile. The flash of the camera bounced off the silver of her sandal, a burst of light exploded, creating a hazy, ethereal glow from which she seemed to emerge as if from a chrysalis.
Appropriate, he thought to himself. In front of his eyes this woman, this couple had navigated so much and now were on the other side of the demon that had chased them since almost the first day he met them. Now he had the privilege of watching them without that particular threat overshadowing them.
He could see it in their posture. They were both lighter somehow, taller, ready to have fun, to share a joke to tease and to rest a hand lightly upon each other. Not that they didn't already touch. All the time. But there was an ease in the action now, a softness that was absent all week.
As he continued to follow them with his lens, a light shower of rain began to fall, more a mist than fully formed drops but the couple continued on their way. They seemed determined; they had a true destination in mind. The President asked a question of his wife and she smiled enthusiastically, nodded in acceptance of his secret request.
He disentangled his hand from hers and instead slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her body close to his, shielding her as best he could from the gentle spray through the larger frame of his body. She seemed to settle in against him. It was a familiar movement, a comfortable space for both of them. She rested her arm almost vertically up his back, palm splayed, covering as much of him as she could. Claiming him as her own.
Donatello let his eyes wander, unsure of the destination, presumably the Embassy? But why? Surely they weren't visiting on a whim? But then again perhaps that's what's expected of the First Couple? Some long held etiquette. Some tradition that must be followed.
He lifted his face from the viewfinder and swept the area ahead. Something caught his eye. No. Really?
He felt a little tremor of excitement run through him as he figured where they might be headed, moved to get into position. As he turned he saw the door of the embassy open, the entrance hallway was a gaping dark space, welcoming but intimidating. The nothingness is compellingly curious.
Suddenly there was movement. Two white hats bobbing in sync as the Marines beneath them began to emerge from the half light into the last moments of the sunshine. They marched in perfect unison. The photographer almost expected to see sparks released from the stone underneath their marching feet. The TAP, TAP; TAP, TAP of the soles of their gleaming boots was thunderous in the quiet street.
