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“I wish for…”
She closed her eyes.
The coin seemed to take on a life of its own as it launched out of her hand. It soared upwards into the precipitous air, pausing momentarily as if acquiescing to her desires, before crescend-oing downwards. She watched it splash into the waiting pool; it swirled and eddied beneath the weight of water. She sighed. Wishes were a fool’s errand.
The denouement of her life with Alina had not been entirely unexpected. She had suspected—the late-night hours, the distance. The eventual silence. Finding out about Bina hadn’t been as much of a shock as she had suspected it might be. The most feared scenario is not often the worst of it because the conscious can touch it.
In a way, she had been relieved; the toll of IVF and the quest for a child of their own had burned holes in their relationship that even love could not heal. In a way, she didn’t blame her. How could she?
Regardless, through self-fulfilling prophecy or the natural course of a marriage that happened too soon, she found herself amongst the bustling streets of Rome, making wishes into holy fountains and breathing in the sickly-sweet stench of gelato and sainthood.
She did not stop to ponder where her coin would go; most people didn’t. Over two hundred years’ worth of minted yearning would make for quite a monument of silver. No, she had, as many before, been mesmerised by the baroque intricacies of the work. The crafted stone of Oceanus perched on a shell, presiding over his dominion—the power and delicate beauty of the tides that turned. She had indeed marvelled at the workmanship—the dedication, and then she had turned to the matter at hand. A wish.
Clearing Trevi of coins was one of Gio’s favourite tasks. Something about being knee deep in hope made him feel oddly connected to the world of tourists who flocked to Rome for the opportunity. It had long been established that the coins would make their way to Caritas, who would use it for alms.
“1.5 million euros,” he muttered as he lackadaisically fished his broom further into the water. “You’re some fountain, alright.” He chuckled to himself.
Gio, his co-worker, leaned in, directing the suction hose towards the newly formed pile, gathering the coins into the collection bucket. Neither spoke. They would later, over grappa and supplì, but not about Trevi—for some unarticulated reason, that topic was off limits, unlike everything else. They had known each other since boyhood, and never once had they talked about the fountain and their Wednesday morning duty.
The coin jumped out of the water like an Exocoetid; it spindled upwards—levitated in front of his eyes before hurtling downwards and settling at his feet. Matteo glanced at his friend—there was no reaction—his eyes focused on the water. Doubting his sanity, Matteo looked at his feet. Yes, it was still there. And it was glowing like dimming embers. Unsure of himself and having never touched a sacred coin, he bent down to retrieve it, placing it in his pocket for later consideration.
Once the job had been completed, much to Gio’s bemusement, Matteo waved off the usual breakfast rendezvous. He wasn’t in the mood for coffee. Instead, he walked through the streets of his beloved city, his hand instinctively reaching into his pocket. Rome, with its layers of history and bustling life, seemed different to him now, the affected gestures of the men playing chess on the sidewalks of cafes, alien.
The coin in his pocket felt like a scarlet letter. A thief. Was he a thief? Reaching the bridge above the river, he looked down on the swirling water below, he was conflicted. So many years, and he had never reached out his hand for a coin. Not even shrapnel.
He continued walking.
As he reached the end of the bridge, descending into the embankment, he heard her—soft murmuring at first, and then the steady sob of the destitute. He walked towards her, cowering under the bridge.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the coin, holding it out like an effigy.
“Here—take this. It is not much, my sweet child, but it holds dreams—it is for your wishes.” He kissed the coin before placing it in her outstretched hand.
The girl looked up, the tears still glistening in her eyes, making them shimmer vivid green. She took the coin tentatively, her fingers brushing against his for a moment. They both felt an effervescent energy pass through them. She smiled, a pure, unguarded smile as she whispered, “Grazie, gentile signore.” Matteo nodded, and wordlessly he walked away.
Seren had relished her time in the city; the anonymity of it had been exactly the healing she had needed. The animated passion of daily Italian life had given her a welcome kind of peace. Having exhausted the tourist trail and made whole by centuries of unfathomable creativity, she found herself outside the steps of the Oasis Celestina Donati.
As the nun ushered her through the building, talking about the foundation and all its work, Seren was captured by the simple belief with which she spoke. Her life calling had been this—to help the destitute children of the city. Listening, she was almost envious of the purity of the dedication. She wondered what that might be like, having a path laid before you and never considering anything else or more, just knowing with absolute certainty that this is where you are meant to be. There was a certain beauty in that, she thought.
As they continued through to the gardens, Seren watched the boys rambunctiously kicking a football, whelping with joy as they passed it to each other. Girls huddled in corners, whispering, no doubt of boys and future dreams.
And sat serenely under the shade of an apple tree was a young girl drawing quietly. Seren stooped next to her on the ground.
“What are you drawing?”
The girl looked up; her green eyes sparkling.
“Oh, just a kind man and the coin.”
“The coin?”
“Yes, yes—this one.” She held out her hand. “It’s…it’s…for my wishes,” she explained with a seriousness that belied her age. “But I think… I think it might be for yours, too.”
The adoption process was slow and fraught with bureaucracy, but it would eventually come to pass. To mark the auspiciousness of the occasion, Seren took Isadora to the Trevi. She told her quietly the story of how, many months ago, she had stood at the foot of the fountain and made a wish.
“What did you wish for, Mamma?”
With tears pricking her eyes, “I wished for love,” she said, ruffling her daughter’s hair.
“Thank you, Mamma,” she whispered, her green eyes alive with the light of belonging. “For your wishes.” She threw her precious coin back into the fountain. Home.
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