Juliet's Answer

by Glenn Dixon

  “Canto 6,” I mumbled, trying to commit the lines to memory. “One-oh-six to one-oh-eight. Yes, I’ll look.”

  Manuela tipped her head once more. “Then you will understand,” she said. “Juliet was real.”

  When Manuela left, Anna and I walked to the new office on Vicolo Santa Cecilia. We tracked wet footprints up the marble steps and slopped across the foyer to the glassed-in office. It was dark, and when she flipped the light switch, there was a loud pop and a fizzle of electricity.

  “Che palle,” Anna said, under her breath. She put her hands together in a sort of prayer of frustration; then she plunged into the shadows and hoisted a small desk lamp from the corner. She pulled the lamp over to the wooden table in the middle of the room and switched it on. The lamp cast a pale yellow swath over the pile of letters there, unsorted, a swamp of colors and envelopes.

  “We are having a problem with the lights,” Anna said. “With the electricity.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I like this better anyway.”

  “It is the correct mood,” she said.

  “Yes, it’s more atmospheric.”

  The dim yellow light washed across the ancient stone walls, almost like candlelight, and I remembered that this had once been a goldsmith’s shop hundreds of years ago. Anna pulled out a chair and I sat beside her. She reached for an envelope, but she didn’t open it.

  “How’s everything going with you?” I asked. I could tell by her eyes that her attention was not on the letters.

  “It is not the best,” she admitted. “Maybe I am almost finished with the Club di Guilietta.”

  “Anna? Why?”

  “It is nothing.” She forced a smile of resignation. “I need to find a career path for myself.” She touched the corner of her glasses with two fingers and gazed absently at the envelope still in her hand. “I have been giving all my time to the club, but it is time for me to start . . .” She shook her head. “To start my life.” She paused. “But what about you?” she said. “What has happened with your letter? Will you tell me now?”

  “I got an answer,” I said. “But by the time I did, it was too late and, I don’t know, I didn’t really act on it.”

  “She is gone?”

  “She got pregnant, and it wasn’t mine.”

  Anna raised her eyes to study me. “I am very sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, trying to brighten. “I’m back. I’m going to answer more letters. I’m going to figure everything out.”

  She nodded once, almost to herself, and pulled the letter from the envelope. “Probably we should start then.”

  I pulled an envelope in toward me. I read it, but it wasn’t really registering. There was more on my mind.

  “Anna,” I said, “can I ask you something?”

  The light from the lamp made a halo around the tips of her hair.

  “What would you say you have learned from all these letters? What are we supposed to be getting out of all this?”

  She sighed and brought her letter up, holding it to her heart. “I think every time you answer a letter, you answer yourself also.”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “And from every letter,” she went on, “you can learn to be a better person, to imagine what you might do in that situation.”

  “It’s like practicing,” I said, “to try and improve.”

  “It is true.” Anna lay her letter back down on the table. “I have learned that the people of the world are all the same. My problems are only small ones.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. “I had many ideas for the club, but the economics are not good right now. Italy . . . it is a difficult time for us.”

  Then she smiled, hesitantly at first and then radiantly. “The lights,” she said, gesturing at the darkness around us. “Not even the lights can work properly.”

  * * *

  It was late when I finally got back to Emiliano’s. I ignored the creaky old lift. It was just as fast to walk up the three flights of stairs. I pushed the comically large key into the lock and clicked the door open. All was dark inside when I plodded across the wooden floor to my room at the back. I was wide awake, still a little ragged from my escape, but Verona was beginning to work its magic. I felt, for the first time since I arrived, something like tranquility. I pulled out my laptop to check for the day’s e-mails. The screen flickered into being—a blue constellation of stars, a whirling galaxy—and I clicked open my mail server. At the top was a message from Desiree.

  “I’m coming to Italy,” she wrote. “I’m flying into Milan on Thursday.”

  It was already Tuesday. I thought for a moment and typed back: “I’m in Verona. You should come and visit. Maybe you should answer some letters with me. Do you want me to ask Giovanna if it’s all right?”

  Desiree must have been sitting at her computer at that moment, because the reply came almost immediately.

  “Yes, and yes,” she wrote.

  For a moment, I regretted it. I hardly knew her. On the other hand, she was fluent in Italian and that might be good. And maybe it would be fun to have someone else to travel with, someone to laugh at my jokes.

  She arrived two days later, in the afternoon. I met her at the train station. A wheel had cracked on her suitcase. It careened and bounced behind her, but she strode gracefully over to where I stood waiting.

  “You made it,” I said. I made a move to hug her, but she was distracted and pulled away.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I don’t know about this.” She gazed past me, searching. The train station was not about to win any awards for architectural beauty, but it seemed she was transfixed by it. “I was worried,” she said, “that I might run into trouble at immigration.”

  “But everything’s okay?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But now this stupid suitcase is broken.”

  “Maybe we can get it fixed. Here, I can take it.” I motioned at the suitcase and she turned it over to me. She worked up a smile for me.

  “Everything is all set,” I said. “Emiliano has an extra bedroom and his place isn’t far from here.”

  “Okay,” she said. Her features were strained, her mouth tight and grim.

  I stopped. “Are you sure everything’s all right?”

  She shook her head and I put a hand on her arm.

  “It’s going to be fun,” I said. “C’mon. You’ll see. You’ll like it here.”

  Her fingers fumbled to the little locket around her neck. “You’re right. I am glad I came. I needed to do this.” She nodded and seemed to look around for the first time. “I can’t believe I’m back in Italy.”

  Outside, the sky was clear for the first time in days. “Let’s get a taxi,” I suggested. I yanked on the suitcase. It lurched and almost fell over and she laughed for the first time.

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure about this either. I liked Desiree well enough, but I was worried that it might be kind of weird. We hadn’t really planned this trip. It had just sort of happened.

  A white taxi pulled up and the driver jumped out and popped open the trunk.

  “Buon giorno,” I began, hauling Desiree’s suitcase forward. The driver heaved it into the trunk and I dug in my pocket for a scrap of paper with the address. “Number 7, Via dei Montecchi,” I said. The taxi driver glared at me without comprehension.

  “Fammi vedere,” Desiree said, pulling my hand and the scrap of paper up to scan it. “Quanto ci fa pagare per andare a Via dei Montecchi?” she asked. “Numero sette?”

  The taxi driver nodded. “Dieci euro.”

  “Va bene,” said Desiree. Then she turned to me. “It’ll be ten euros.”

  In less than ten minutes, we were at Emiliano’s. I paid the driver and hoisted Desiree’s broken suitcase out of the trunk while she spoke some more with the driver. He waved merrily at her as he pulled away from the curb.

  She was staring up at the building now. It was hard to read her thoughts. Was she tired? Or was she wondering if she’d ma
de a mistake? I maneuvered her suitcase into the dark foyer. “We can take the elevator,” I said. We shuffled into the lift and I clanked the iron grating shut. It clattered up slowly and there was an almost uncomfortable silence between us.

  “I hate elevators,” Desiree said. The lift was not much larger than a closet, and we were pushed in awkwardly close together.

  “Are you claustrophobic?”

  “I was stuck in one once. The motion makes me feel barfy,” she said.

  She had been on two planes, a train, a taxi, and now a creaking, coffin-like lift. That was enough for anybody.

  “Do you want to sleep or head to the office before it closes?”

  “I’d just as soon get started. I want to meet Giovanna.”

  I opened the door to the flat. Emiliano was nowhere to be seen, and the front room was empty. Off to one side was a long table where Emiliano usually set out the breakfast things. Under a glass cover sat a cake. Emiliano must have baked it that morning.

  “Pan di spagna!” cried Desiree, crossing the room. She lifted the cover and inhaled deeply. “Oh, I love this.” A golden light slanted in from the windows. It caught her cheek and her soft jawline. It all looked like a Renaissance painting.

  “I’m glad you came,” I said.

  Her eyes caught mine, two blue planets. “I’m glad you asked me,” she replied. She lifted a small paring knife that sat beside the cake. “What do you think? Should we have some cake before we go?”

  “Is it good?” I moved closer.

  “This is Italy,” she said. “Of course it’s good.”

  Half an hour later, we were walking along the river. The sky had clouded over again. Up ahead were the church spires and red-tiled roofs of the Old City. “Just up there,” I began, “is the Roman arena. It’s the third biggest in the world, but you can’t really see it from here.”

  I felt like a hack as a tourist guide. She’d grown quiet again. We crossed the bridge and veered right, past the cemetery, past the train tracks, down into the industrial ghettos of the city.

  “Where exactly is this place?” Desiree said.

  “Not much farther.”

  Desiree soldiered on beside me, stepping around the puddles from the rain the day before. “I should have brought my boots,” she said.

  “Boots?”

  “It’s cold. My feet are cold. My mom told me to pack light, so I left my boots behind at the last moment.” She sighed.

  “It’s not much farther.”

  “I don’t know about this.”

  Down the road, I could see the entrance to number 3. “It’s right there,” I said.

  “Are you sure this is going to be okay?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I’m probably not the best person to be doling out love advice.”

  “I wasn’t either when I started. You’ll be fine.”

  “And I barely know Romeo and Juliet. We didn’t study that one in school. We did the one with the witches.”

  “Macbeth,” I said.

  A wall to the side of the front door had been wallpapered with fake bricks and a scatter of old letters were tacked onto it. Desiree studied one of the letters and frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”

  I swung the door open, and in the darkness Giovanna stood behind the counter. Desiree shuffled in behind me.

  “Buon giorno,” I said, and Giovanna nodded.

  “Giovanna,” I said, “this is Desiree, who I told you about.”

  “Of course,” Giovanna said. “It is lovely to meet you. We have everything ready.” She stepped out from behind the counter and breezed smartly toward us.

  “Buona sera,” Desiree said. “Thank you for having me.”

  “This is your first time to Verona?” said Giovanna.

  “No, I lived in Italy. A long time ago.”

  “Allora, parli italiano?”

  “Sì,” said Desiree. “Ho vissuto in Italia per otto anni.”

  Giovanna’s face brightened. They chatted awhile and I stood behind them, smiling awkwardly until their conversation petered out and Giovanna invited us to the small office at the back. I sidled in, pulling an extra chair to the desk so that Desiree and I could work together.

  “Is there anything you will need?” asked Giovanna.

  “No, no,” I said. “I think we’re fine.”

  “Va bene,” she said. She smiled once more at Desiree, then turned to leave, her heels clicking down the hallway back to her counter.

  “She’s really nice,” Desiree said.

  The cardboard box of letters sat heavy on the desk. “What were you two talking about?”

  “Oh, I just told her about my studies at university. She studied languages too in Bologna, and international relations, just like me.”

  “She never asked me what I studied.”

  “She said you would show me what to do with the letters.”

  “I will,” I said. I plucked a letter from the top of the box. “It’s not that hard.”

  “There are an awful lot of letters,” she said. The box loomed in front of us, brimming, overflowing. “You have to take them one at a time.” I slid a letter out of the first envelope.

  “Dear Juliet,” I read out loud. “There’s a boy back home. I don’t know if he likes me, but I really love him. There’s another boy, Jason, who is more interested in me. He is always looking at me, but I don’t like him as much.”

  “That’s it?” Desiree asked.

  “Lots of them are like that, I’m afraid. They’re young. They think they’re in love.”

  “So what are we supposed to say?”

  “Mostly you reiterate what they’ve written. Say something hopeful, and then you can sign it ‘Juliet,’ though I usually sign as ‘Juliet’s secretary.’ ”

  “Because you’re a guy?”

  “Yeah. And then you tuck your answer in one of these envelopes over here, but don’t seal it. Someone else will put the return address on it.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But that still doesn’t tell me what I’m supposed to say. I mean, what about this girl, this . . .” she looked at the name. “Andrea?”

  “You have to be encouraging. Just reassure her that she’s okay.”

  “What would you write?”

  I picked up the pen and started. “Dear Andrea. Thank you for your letter.” I stopped and tapped the pen on my lips.

  Desiree was staring at me like I was an idiot. “And . . . ?”

  “Just let me think for a second.”

  “How about this? May I?” Desiree took the pen from me and started on a new piece of paper.

  Dear Andrea,

  Thank you for your letter. Only you can know what’s best for you. Listen to your heart and it will guide you.

  “Sure,” I said. “That’s pretty good.”

  Desiree was already writing again. “The other boy, Jason, seems genuinely interested in you, maybe for who you really are, and that’s important. You must always take care of yourself first. You must ask yourself what you really want.”

  It was a good answer, I had to admit. It made me think about what I really wanted. Did I know? Maybe just someone who would understand me. Someone who would care about me.

  “So what do you think?” asked Desiree.

  “Pretty good, you know, for a first time.”

  “What was that Shakespeare quote you said you used all the time?”

  “To thine own self be true?”

  “Perfect,” said Desiree, and she closed off the letter with that.

  We didn’t stay long that first day. When we left, a patch of blue sky had opened up in the east. The sun was peeking through and we decided to walk into the Old City.

  “Is there a moat?” Desiree asked as we crossed over the bridge. “I remember seeing a moat when I was here.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The medieval city walls reared up on our left. To our right, a wide piazz
a opened. In the middle of it rose the Roman coliseum, still far in the distance. “Do you remember that?” I said.

  “Not really.” We edged across the piazza toward it. A fenced-off section held one of the massive props they’d used in the Romeo and Juliet opera. A little farther on, a pair of Egyptian heads, King Tut masks at least ten feet tall, stared down at us.

  “What are those?” she asked.

  “Props for the opera,” I said. “Those ones look like they’re for Aida.”

  “Maybe we could go sometime,” she said.

  “Maybe.” We walked on in awkward silence. Eventually, we passed under a Roman Gate—the Porta Borsari—which had once been the main entrance to the city.

  “I really don’t remember any of this,” Desiree said.

  “Were you here with . . . him?”

  “No. I came with some friends. We came for Sunday brunch. La Buona Domenica is a big deal in Italy.”

  Up ahead, the rusty red bricks of the Castelvecchio—the old castle—appeared. The towers and ramparts jutted up into the evening sky. A tour bus chugged by, all the heads turned away from us, gaping at the fortress.

  “This,” I said, “was the castle of the Cangrande.”

  “The big dog?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Cangrande was the prince—as in Prince Escalus.”

  “From Romeo and Juliet?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Come on, I want to show you something.” I took her arm, and we crossed the street to the other side, where a narrow passageway opened up in the castle walls. “Through here.”

  The stones under our feet were worn, centuries old. I kept my hand on her forearm for a few more steps and we strode up an incline. Along the tops of the walls were the same swallowtail crenellations I’d seen on the top of Romeo’s house. A busker playing an accordion sat on a ledge. The sun was sinking over the walls.

  “Is this part of the castle?” Desiree asked.

  “Yeah, we’re actually out on a bridge. You can climb up there onto the ramparts and look out over the river.”

  “Hmmm,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Well,” she said, “it’s a good metaphor don’t you think? We’re crossing a bridge but you can’t even tell it’s a bridge.”