The Purple Room

by Mauro Casiraghi

  “That’s true. I can’t stand it. I’m practically allergic.”

  “But you ate it anyway. Just to prove a point.”

  “Let’s skip that part. What happened after the bathroom?”

  “We went out to the garden for some fresh air.”

  “And I took another picture of you there?”

  “Yes. And you were much more charming.” A pause. “You really don’t remember anything else?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’d give anything to remember. Am I missing something important?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “Simonetta, please. What happened?”

  She takes a deep breath, then says, “You kissed me.”

  I struggle to remember the feeling of that kiss. I can’t.

  “And how did it go?”

  I get the feeling she’s smiling into the phone.

  “You want to know how I reacted?”

  “I bet you slapped me.”

  “No.”

  “So we kissed.” Silence. “Is that right? We kissed?”

  A sigh.

  “Sergio, the man who answered the phone is my husband.”

  I look down at the last photo, the one in the garden. You can see she’s wearing a ring.

  “Okay, I get it. He saw us, and all hell broke loose.”

  “No, he wasn’t at the wedding. Luckily. But you understand why I couldn’t accept your invitation.”

  “What invitation?”

  “You asked me to spend the night with you. At your hotel.”

  “Did you come?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So we didn’t spend the night together?”

  Another pause.

  “No.”

  “We didn’t even walk into a bedroom together?”

  “No.”

  “Did we go anywhere else? Somewhere with purple walls, maybe?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I feel empty. I’m back to square one. And I thought I was so close.

  Simonetta sighs over the phone.

  “When we said goodbye at the restaurant, you said you wouldn’t forget me. I hoped you’d call, but not to tell me that you’d forgotten me.”

  “I’m sorry,” is all I can manage to say. “I wish we had met under different circumstances.”

  “So do I,” she says, “but that’s how it is.”

  “Goodnight, Simonetta.”

  “Goodnight, Sergio. Take care of yourself.”

  I tell her I’ll do my best.

  7

  The ants are hard at work under the stone table where I dropped my glass. They’re drawn to the sugar in the orange juice I was adding to my vodka.

  I drank a lot last night. I went and looked at Michela’s childhood pictures after talking to Simonetta. Big mistake. It only took me five minutes to break down crying. I started pouring myself drinks, but it didn’t help. The tears kept flowing, and I couldn’t stop them. I called Roberto and woke him up. Hearing me like that scared him, and he wanted to come over. I convinced him not to.

  We were on the phone for two hours. He kept telling me that I had to stop looking back. No more brooding about the past. I had to look ahead, he said. I told him that wasn’t my problem. I don’t miss my youth, when life was full of promise. Who gives a damn about days that are long gone? No, what bothers me is the power the past has over me now. I wasn’t going through Michela’s photos out of nostalgia. I was trying to understand what’s happening between us today. If I cried, it was only because I felt so helpless in the face of her pithy words of wisdom. It’s too late, Dad. You know that as well as I do.

  Roberto doesn’t get it. He’s the kind of guy who thinks the past just weighs you down and stops you from living life to the fullest. Weirdly enough, he would welcome a memory loss like mine. We talked about the accident and how he still feels guilty about it. He thinks about that dive every day, and how he nearly got me killed. He keeps having a horrible dream where he sees me floating underwater. Dead. Pulled down by my lead diving weights, my body sinks deeper and deeper, and he can’t reach me. I joked that I have actually been feeling a little like a zombie lately. Roberto didn’t laugh.

  After the phone call, I went out into the yard. The night was cool and windy. I saw Nino and Sabrina close their bedroom windows and pull the curtains shut. Their light stayed on for a long time. I wondered whether Alessandra was right. Maybe the secret to their happiness was there, in that bedroom. Who knows? No one can really say what goes on between a man and a woman when they’re alone. How they touch each other. What words they whisper. Whether they caress or hurt each other. For better or for worse, it’s a secret that stays hidden in the tangled sheets of their nuptial bed.

  I stayed in the garden drinking until the sun started to rise. I slept in the lounge chair on the patio for a while. Now the sun is high in the sky. It’s very hot. Sitting in the shade of the porch, I notice something strange. The light is constantly changing. It shifts from white to gold. The bright green of the grass darkens. Colors all over the garden get a few shades warmer, older, sadder, as if someone put a sepia filter in front of the sun. It looks like the light of a sunset filtered through mist or a sandstorm, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky.

  As soon as I smell it, I understand.

  I get out of the chair, my back aching, and walk to the gate. A dense column of smoke is rising from the hillside nearby and blocking the sun over my house.

  Nino and Sabrina have come out, too. They’re still in pajamas.

  “Can you tell where it’s coming from?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll go check.”

  “Wait,” says Nino. “Let me get dressed and I’ll come, too.”

  We walk down to the intersection with the road that leads into town. From here we can see the whole Baccano Valley. On the left, there’s the ridge where they’re building the new apartments, all the vegetation razed. Down on the right, there’s nothing but underbrush and brambles. That’s where the smoke’s coming from. It’s not just some farmer burning dry leaves, either. It’s a real fire, and a big one at that. It looks like it’s getting out of hand.

  “Sons of bitches,” says Nino. “They set the hillside on fire to force people to sell their land, so they can keep on building.”

  “We should call the fire department.”

  “I got it.”

  Nino runs to get his phone while I stay and watch the flames, not quite sure what to do. Then I hear a dog barking. Climbing over the guardrail, I look down the steep slope.

  A little white mutt is trapped between the fire and a briar bush. There’s an opening it could get through, but the dog is terrified and doesn’t move. I wonder how long it’s been there. I whistle to it. The dog sees me and pricks up its ears.

  “Here, boy! Come here!” The dog whines but doesn’t budge.

  The fire devours another few feet of bushes.

  I take a few steps down the slope, grabbing onto branches and brambles to keep from sliding.

  “Hey! Come here!” I shout.

  It doesn’t work. The dog is paralyzed with fear.

  A few people are gathering on the road above. A neighbor yells at me not to go down there. He’s right. I should forget it. It would be stupid to risk getting seriously hurt. I’m about to go back up when Michela springs to mind. I’ve never liked dogs, but she loves them. What would she say if she knew I’d let one burn to death and hadn’t even tried to save it?

  I continue down the slope, trying to steer clear of the fire. It’s very close. I can feel the heat on my face. People are still shouting down at me from the road. I don’t stop. I fight my way through the brambles. The thorns scratch my arms and hands, but I push forward until I see the dog’s white fur.

  “Here, boy! Come here!”

  The dog looks surprised to see me. It licks its nose with its pink ton
gue, wags its tail, and tries to squeeze through the brambles toward me. I hold my arms out to it.

  “Come on! Jump!”

  Suddenly, the wind changes, throwing smoke in my face. I can’t breathe. I start coughing, hard. My eyes are burning. I can’t keep them open. I’m about to give up when I feel something soft in my hands. It’s the dog’s paws.

  “Good boy! You did it!”

  I lift it up into my arms. Now I have to get out of here as fast as I can. I turn around to go back the way I came, but something’s holding me back. My shirt is caught on the thorns, but my hands are full and I can’t pull myself free. The heat of the fire is pricking at the back of my neck. It feels like my hair could catch fire at any moment and, all of a sudden, I feel drained. I can’t find it in me to move. My eyes are burning like crazy. I close them and stop moving, as if staying still could save me.

  The dog squirms in my arms, trembling all over. It doesn’t understand why we’re not getting out of this inferno. I stroke its head to calm it down and wonder if I’ll make it into the news. Man Survives the Bends, Then Burns to Death. My mother will probably cut it out and file it away in the June folder of box fifty-three. This time, though, I’m not going to go down without a thought in my head. I focus on Michela’s childhood pictures. My last thought will be of her.

  The smoke swallows me whole and steals my breath. The heat is unbearable. As I wait for the flames to take me, I realize I can’t think about my daughter. The thought of that woman in the purple room fills my mind. I see her again in the light of the window, and feel a twinge of desire. My body tenses, full of longing for her. It seems impossible to die without knowing who she is, without seeing her again. Almost without realizing it, I brace my feet against the earth and start pushing with my legs. I lean forward as hard as I can, until my shirt rips. Finally free, I put my head down and throw myself forward. Holding the dog tightly in my arms, I run until we’re away from the fire.

  I end up surrounded by firemen. One takes the dog from me. A couple of others throw a blanket over my shoulders and whisk me away. Up the road, more firemen are shooting water out from their truck. The onlookers cheer my rescuers. Someone asks if they should call an ambulance. I say no. My arms and legs are covered with scratches, but I’m fine.

  Nino comes over to me, wide-eyed.

  “Sergio! What the hell did you do? Are you out of your mind?”

  A firefighter brings me the dog. It’s covered in soot and wagging its tail as fast as it can.

  “Here’s your dog,” he says. “It’s not hurt.”

  “It’s not my dog.”

  “Well, whose is it, then?”

  We ask around. Everyone says it must be a stray. No owner. Just a lucky little bastard without a home.

  Nino and Sabrina wanted to take me to a doctor. I told them the scratches weren’t serious, and eventually they left me alone. I left the dog with them. They made up a bed for it in their yard and set out a bowl of fresh water.

  Except for my singed eyebrows and some black stuff I spit out into the sink, I came out okay. I throw my smoky clothes into the washer and disinfect my cuts. While I’m putting on Band-Aids, I hear the roar of a firefighting plane flying over my house. It’s flying back and forth, scooping up water from Lake Bracciano to dump on the fire. It’s so loud that I almost miss the phone call.

  “Good morning, Sergio! It’s Luisa, from the agency. Are you busy?”

  “Not at all,” I say. “You work on Sundays?”

  “Love never rests! I like to take care of my clients seven days a week.”

  I think of her husband again. I picture him sitting in the car, waiting for her with the motor running and the air conditioner on full blast, staring blankly ahead while the radio announces traffic jams on the road to the seaside.

  “I just spoke with Marilena. She told me that your date was lovely, but that… there wasn’t much of a spark. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  “It happens. Anyway, it’s a good way for me to learn about your preferences. It seems to me you might prefer to meet a woman with her feet on the ground, someone who’ll step up and take the lead. What do you think?”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Good, because I think I have a better match from you. Her name is Antonella. She’s forty-two, and she’s a physical education teacher. She’s a very interesting woman—confident and proactive. She was an award-winning athlete as a girl. She’s been married and divorced twice. She has twins, two boys, by her first husband. They’re grown up now and away at college. Antonella’s not looking for another husband, mind you. She just wants to meet new and exciting people. Naturally I thought of you, Sergio. Would you like her number?”

  She chose the place. An Irish pub down by the Coliseum. When I called, instead of the usual casual coffee date, she asked whether I wanted to “grab a beer or two.”

  I recognize her as soon as I walked into the place. She’s sitting at the bar, already drinking a beer. Denim shirt, tight pants. We sit down at a table and talk about my Band-Aids. They make a good icebreaker. I tell her about the fire and she listens, sipping at her beer. When I finish, she says it was a brave thing to do, the kind you don’t hear about much anymore. I’m about to reply that it was fucking stupid and that I’ll never walk into a fire again just to save a dumb dog, but I stop myself. Maybe I shouldn’t let her think I’m a better person than I am, but this is our first date. I think it’s normal to want to make a good impression. I’m sure she’s doing the same thing. Anyway, I’m right about one thing––inevitably, we both feel the need to justify meeting through a dating agency.

  “I just wanted to try something different,” says Antonella after ordering another beer. “I got tired of wasting months just to find out that a guy wasn’t right for me. Now I get to choose from the get-go.”

  To demonstrate, she picks up a stack of Heineken coasters and deals them into two piles, like playing cards.

  “This one yes, that one no. Yes, no, yes, no… It’s like being a soccer coach. I decide who plays and who sits on the bench.”

  She laughs. She has big, white teeth.

  “And you? Why did you sign up?”

  “Dunno. Curiosity, I guess.”

  “Come on, don’t be shy. Tell me what made you do it.”

  “It’s complicated. You know what you want. I’m not so sure.”

  “Let me see your hand.”

  She grabs my left hand. She’s got a strong grip, that one. I’d never want to be slapped by her.

  “Can I take off this Band-Aid? I want to see something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She rips it off ruthlessly. The cut on my palm is still bleeding. It doesn’t phase her. She holds my wrist tightly and tells me to straighten my fingers.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “It’s okay.”

  I try not to flinch. She bends over to study the lines on my palm. Meanwhile, I study the top of her head. She has a few grey hairs along her part. She doesn’t seem to care. She does nothing to hide them.

  “There you go. I thought so.”

  “What?”

  “Look at your love line!”

  “That’s a scratch, Antonella.”

  “No, the line under that. It breaks off, see?”

  It’s true. The line she’s talking about just stops suddenly, about three quarters of the way across my palm. I’d never noticed.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s the Great Love that Ended Badly. A classic. Hard to forget. You subconsciously compare every woman you meet to the one that broke your heart. Obviously, no one ever measures up.”

  She looks at me like I have some kind of sickness, and adds, “Plenty of men spend their whole lives searching in vain.”

  “I think you’re wrong. I’m not like that.”

  I try to pull my hand out of hers. She holds on tightly.

  “I know I’m right on this one,” she presses. “Who is it? Y
our ex-wife?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Did she leave you?”

  “Yes. It was hard at first, but then I realized it was for the best. It’s water under the bridge now.”

  “If not your wife, it must be some other woman. Who is she?”

  “No one. Really. My heart couldn’t be more free if I were a teenager on my first date.”

  Antonella looks into my eyes, skeptical. She slowly releases my hand, brushing delicately against my fingers as she does so.

  “You’re a liar,” she says, “but it doesn’t matter. I want to help you anyway. Whoever your Great Love that Ended Badly is, I’ll make you forget about her.”

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  Antonella flashes her big white teeth at me.

  “I’m going to take you to my place.”

  8

  From her living room windows, you can see the statues adorning the church of San Giovanni in Laterano, all lit up. They look like they’re waving at me. The apartment is small and tidy. Above the stereo is a shelf full of trophies, plaques and medals. There’s also a recent photo of Antonella in a bikini, lying out on some rocks by the sea. A good tan. A damned good figure.

  “Oh no!” she says from the kitchen. “The fridge is broken again. The beer’s warm. There’s whisky if you like, but no ice.”

  “Whisky’s fine.”

  I hear her opening and closing cupboards. She comes back to the living room carrying a tray with two glasses and a bottle of whisky. She sets it on the coffee table in front of the TV.

  “Don’t just stand there. Sit down.”

  I sit on the couch and pour for both of us. She puts on some music, then sits down next to me. I pass her a glass.

  “I don’t like toasts. They create too many expectations. And I don’t expect anything – not from you or anyone else. You know what I mean?”

  “So, let’s toast to nothing,” I say, lifting up my glass.

  “OK. To nothing. I like that.”