“I don’t mean that. I’m just asking you to use your head while you’re still in time.”
Michela’s silent for a moment. Then, without looking at me, she says, “Too late.”
“For what?”
“To have this talk.”
“Why?”
“Daniel and I have already done it. All right? Now you know. So stop giving me useless advice.”
Michela and Daniel kissing in the car. I think back to that kiss and how much it shocked me, but they weren’t just two kids making out. They were a man and a woman taking their leave of each other after making love. It was Michela’s birthday that day. She’d woken up early, excited about the sunny day and the blue sky. She’d told lies to both Alessandra and me to carve out a free morning for herself. I imagine her excitement while she put on her make-up in front of the mirror, before going out––and then they met. Where? In his room, the one with the tennis racket hanging on the wall? Or maybe in that ridiculous microcar, parked on some deserted road.
“Daniel’s been a real coward,” I say. “He deserves a lesson.”
Michela rummages around in her backpack and pulls out her earphones. “Don’t worry, I’ve already told him exactly what I think of him.”
“I’m sorry Michela. I wish I could do something to make you feel better.”
Michela doesn’t hear me. She reclines her seat and closes her eyes, the music at full volume in her ears.
Ahead of us, the shadows of the cypress trees stretch like fingers down the hillsides.
Montemori is a small Medieval town with a tower and encircling walls. Access is reserved for pedestrians. We park the car and walk up the narrow shaded streets. The flower pots on the windowsills are full of geraniums. Lucky pees on the corner of every house.
We go into the only open café to ask for directions. Behind the counter there’s a guy with long hair. Michela has a Coke with ice. I order a draft beer. Who knows how many times Gloria has been in here to get something to drink and sat on this very stool?
I ask the barman how to get to the suburb called Uliveto-Lesi.
“Take the gravel road that runs around outside the walls. Go straight for three––three and a half––miles, then turn left. There’s a sign, ‘I.H. Uliveto.’ I.H. stands for ‘Isolated Houses.’ Keep on driving up the hill. After a couple more miles, there’s a fork in the road. Right will take you to Lesi. It’s easy to get to the agritourism place from there. You’ll see the signs.”
He thinks we’re tourists. I let him believe it and thank him for his help. As we’re leaving, I notice an oil painting on the wall. A landscape of vineyards at dusk. The signature on the bottom right reads “G. Decesaris.”
“This must be Gloria’s,” I say to Michela.
“Is she a painter?”
“Maybe as a hobby. I’d say this is the work of an amateur.”
“What does she do, then?”
“I have no idea.”
“She must have told you why she came out here to the middle of nowhere.”
“Actually, I haven’t spoken to Gloria yet.”
Michela stares at me in disbelief. “You mean she doesn’t know we’re coming?”
“No.”
“And you’re going to show up just like that, after thirty years without seeing each other?”
“It’ll be a surprise, Micky.”
“Uh-huh. You bet it will.”
We leave the cafe and head back to the car. We follow the barman’s directions and take the gravel road. After nearly four miles there’s the intersection with the sign for Uliveto. We go left and keep on climbing. Every once in a while a pothole jounces us up and down in our seats. Lucky bumps around the most.
“Where on earth did your friend go to live?” Michela complains, clinging onto the door handle.
At the fork in the road we turn right towards Lesi. We pass by the agritourism place. It’s a big old stone farmhouse, completely renovated. Green lawns, flower gardens, outdoor swimming pool. The cars parked outside have English and Dutch license plates.
“We’re not going to stop and ask for directions?” asks Michela.
“No.”
The road narrows as we drive on. The bushes start brushing up against the car.
“Maybe we should walk from here, Dad.”
We reach a humble little house. On a blue tile outside the gate is the number five. Gloria is at number six. We’re very close. I keep driving until the road forks again.
“What now?” asks Michela.
There’s a narrow passage to the right. It looks like a path through the woods. To the left, the gravel road curves. It’s impossible to see what’s beyond.
“This way,” I say, turning left on instinct.
After the curve, we find our way blocked by a gate bearing a sign that reads, “Private property.” It’s a farm equipment depot.
“Great choice, Dad.”
There’s no room to turn the car around. I have to back up. The first part is easy, but at the curve I make a mistake and run into a tree. A tail-light breaks.
Michela throws me a wry look. “Hey,” she says, “it’s your car.”
“Fine, you win.”
We leave the car and walk back to the little house. I ring the door bell. An old woman appears at the window.
“Who is it?”
“Excuse me, ma’am, we’re looking for number six.”
“Decesaris?”
“Yes.”
“You have to drive up another half a mile, then you’ll get there.”
“Can we go in the car?”
“You can, you can. Just drive very slowly.”
Michela stays on the road, giving directions while I back up. Once we’re back at the fork, I manage to get the car pointed the right way. Michela hops in and we start up the road the old woman told us to take. The trees get thicker and thicker the further we drive into the woods. After a stretch that seems to go on forever, we come out on the other side of the hill. The road opens up suddenly. The sun has gone down behind the hills and the sky is orange. The vineyards laden with grapes go on as far as the eye can see. It’s the same view as in Gloria’s painting.
“Why are we stopping?” asks Michela.
I turn off the engine and watch the swallows darting through the air. The light is perfect, but I don’t feel any desire to take photographs. I’d feel like a thief. This road, these vineyards, even this light and these colors, have been absorbed by Gloria’s eyes, have remained imprinted on her memory. They belong to her. The same is true of the rustling of the trees, the smell of dust and grass, the humidity that sticks to your skin. It’s all Gloria’s. This is her domain.
I start up the engine again and we drive on, while my stomach knots up like I’m about to enter into a fight to the death. We arrive at the top of the hill. There’s a Fiat Panda parked on an open sweep of grass. I stop and we get out.
At the end of the path stands a solitary house. It’s a little renovated farmhouse, long and narrow, with two floors. The walls are yellow tufa stone. Along the front of the house runs a trellised portico with a hammock suspended between its posts.
“You’d have to go live on a rock in the middle of the sea to be more isolated than this,” Michela says. She takes hold of Lucky and starts towards the house.
“What are you doing?” she asks. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Yes, I’m coming.”
We cross the garden. The number on the wall of the house is the right one.
“Anyone home?” I call in a trembling voice.
No one answers. Lucky starts sniffing around and pees on a pot of flowers.
“Micky, curb that dog, will you?”
Under the trellis there’s a table, four chairs, burnt down candles and a few empty bottles. I take a step back and look up. The upstairs window is dark.
“No one’s home.”
“The door’s open, though,” says Michela. “Your friend can’t have gone far.”
It’s true. The door is wide open, with only a sliding screen to keep the insects out.
I open it.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m taking a look around. You wait here.”
“It’s not your house, Dad.”
“Just a minute. Warn me if anyone’s coming.”
I enter, sliding the screen door closed again behind me. On the ground floor there’s the kitchen and a bathroom. An old repainted table, a gas stove with a refillable tank attached and a refrigerator. No dishwasher. The walls are bare. On a piece of paper is a shopping list: milk, bread, soap, sanitary pads. It’s Gloria’s handwriting. Under the list there’s a doctor’s prescription, but I can’t make out what medicine it’s for.
I go up to the second floor, where I find yet another staircase leading to a loft, but I remain where I am. In the growing darkness I can make out a sofa and an old armchair facing towards the window. Outside, one strip of light still lingers in the pink sky, while the hills have already faded into black smudges. I’m about to sit down and wait for the darkness to become complete, when I notice something on the chair’s armrest. I squint, trying to figure out what it is. There’s a central body with long, narrow things sticking out like spokes. They look like legs. Spider legs. Could it be? I mean, sure, we’re in the countryside, but I’ve never seen a spider that big. It stays still, motionless, as if it knows I’m watching it. I think of Silvia, the entomologist. If she were here, I could ask her for help. Do spiders that big exist in Tuscany? Tarantulas? Black widows? Whatever it is, I can’t leave it here in Gloria’s house. There’s a magazine on the sofa. I roll it up and creep slowly forward. The spider doesn’t move. As soon as I’m near enough, I raise my arm to strike. I’m about to bring my arm down when I realize my mistake. That thing on the armrest isn’t a spider. It’s a hand. A bony hand, covered in dark spots, stiff as a claw. I’m so shocked that I drop the magazine.
Hidden by the back of the chair, someone gives a start. “Gloria, are you back?” a drowsy voice asks.
I don’t make a noise, as still as a taxidermist’s creation.
“Who’s there?” the voice repeats.
The hand rises off the armrest, grabs the lamp cord and pulls it. With the light on, the dark window becomes a mirror. The whole room is reflected in the glass. There I am, standing behind the chair, my face a picture of guilt and alarm. There’s the person sitting in the chair. It’s an old woman with a crooked mouth and a string of drool on her chin. She, too, is looking at the reflection in the window. She’s staring at me with one watery eye wide open, while the other opens and closes, trying to get used to the light.
“Who are you?” she asks, fearful. “What are you doing in my house?”
“My name’s Sergio, Mrs. Decesaris. I was a friend of Gloria’s in high school. I don’t know if you remember. We met up a few times, outside of school.”
Gloria’s mother splutters something unintelligible, grasps a cane she’s been holding between her legs and attempts to rise.
I take a step back towards the stairs. “Don’t bother getting up, I was just leaving.”
The old woman is trembling all over but, with a terrible effort, she manages to stand up. She turns and stares at me with that wide open eye. She opens her mouth, as if to ask me something, takes a deep breath, then shouts at the top of her lungs, “GLOOORIAAA!”
I hurtle down the stairs, across the kitchen and towards the door, forgetting about the fly-screen.
I smash into it full tilt, taking it down with me.
19
It’s gotten dark outside. There’s no trace of either Michela or the dog.
“Micky? Where are you?”
No reply. A noise makes me look up towards the window. Mrs. Decesaris is pressing her face up against the glass. Her wide-open eye keeps on staring at me. Gloria’s words, like a prophecy, have come true. It seems like the eye of the decapitated Medusa, full of horror.
I walk away from the house and continue on down the path that leads into the countryside. I can’t see anything. I have to be careful where I put my feet.
“Michela?” I call. “Where are you? Michela!”
I go past an old olive press and keep on walking. I go on until I find myself in the middle of an olive grove. The trees are black and still.
“Micky! Answer me! Michela!”
“I’m here.”
“Where? I can’t see you.”
“Down here…”
I turn back, following the sound of her voice. I leave the olive grove and skirt some laurel bushes. The scent of the leaves fills my nostrils. I push through a passage in the hedge and find myself in a vegetable garden.
“Hey, Dad” says Michela. “Where were you going?”
She’s holding a flashlight. She’s pointing the beam of light at the soil. There’s a person hunched down near the ground, picking zucchini and gathering them into a plastic bag.
“That’ll be enough,” the woman says, standing up straight. Then she turns to me and says, “Hi, Sergio.”
She’s wearing a pair of shorts and a man’s button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She’s put on a lot of weight, especially around her hips, in her stomach and her face. Her legs have stayed thin, though. Her hair is tied up and she has the tan skin of a person who lives out in the open air.
“Hi, Gloria,” I say, with an ease that surprises me. “How are you?”
I hold out my hand. She shows me hers, covered with earth. “I don’t want to get you dirty.”
Her voice has remained exactly the same. Her face too, apart from the extra weight, is the same. There is something else, though, that makes her different from the girl I remembered. Something that has nothing to do with the passage of time. I don’t know what it is yet, but it makes me uneasy. Gloria seems on guard, ready to defend herself. As if she’s afraid of me.
“Your daughter was telling me about your trip. What an incredible coincidence.”
What coincidence? I’m about to say, but Michela jumps in first. “I couldn’t believe it! We stop in the café to ask for directions, Dad sees a picture hanging on the wall and says, ‘I had a school friend with this name, Decesaris. The initial’s the same too’. And the barman says it’s the same person. It’s crazy!”
“Yeah,” I say, playing along. “I was curious, so I thought I’d come and say hello. Have you lived around here for long?”
“Four years.”
She doesn’t add anything else. We set off towards the house. Michela lights the way with the flashlight. Lucky pops out from the darkness and trots along behind us. Gloria walks with her eyes fixed on the circle of light from the flashlight. She doesn’t say any of the things that anyone else would say in her place: How many years it’s been! What have you been doing all this time? Do you remember the last time we saw each other? Nothing.
“I thought I saw a person at the window as I passed by your house. Do you live with someone?”
“It’s my mother,” she says. “She’s not well. She had a stroke.”
We come to the trellis. Gloria turns on the outside lights. She notices the broken fly-screen. Michela throws me a questioning look. I ignore her.
“Excuse me a moment,” says Gloria. She goes into the kitchen, puts the bag of vegetables down on the table and rinses her hands at the sink. Then she crosses to the bottom of the stairs and calls up, “Mother! What happened here? Did you come down by yourself again?”
No reply from upstairs.
“I have to go up and check on her,” Gloria says.
“Sure. Go on. We just passed by to say hello and then we’ll be off,” I say.
“All right. I’ll be right back.”
Gloria goes upstairs. As soon as we’re alone, Michela gives me a punch on the arm. “What are you doing? We came all this way and now you want to leave?”
“Gloria seems pretty busy.”
“But you haven’t talked at all!”
“Maybe we don’t have anythi
ng to say to each other,” I reply.
From upstairs we can hear the voices of Gloria and her mother. They’re arguing.
I shout through the open door: “Bye, Gloria! We’re leaving!”
She doesn’t hear me.
I head out, pulling Lucky along by the leash. With every step I take I seem to sink deeper into the ground, but I can’t stop. There would be no sense in staying here any longer. When all’s said and done, wasn’t this what I wanted? To meet reality head on? Banging your head on a wall hurts. It’s no use complaining afterwards.
Halfway down the path, the dog stops, refusing to budge.
“Come on, Lucky, don’t make me drag you.”
The dog digs in its paws and won’t move. I have no intention of carrying it. I haul it along through the dirt and keep on walking without looking back. I get to the car and open the door to let Michela and the dog in. Only Michela’s not there.
“Micky?”
I turn and see her talking with Gloria. I walk back to see what’s going on.
“Your daughter’s starving,” says Gloria. “If you like, we can have supper together. Nothing special. Zucchini and fresh eggs. We can make a frittata.”
“Thank you, but I think we’ll stop for something along the road.”
“Let’s stay, Dad! I really like it here,” says Michela, a little too emphatically. “Please… I have to pee, too.”
I try to find a plausible excuse to leave without being rude. I can’t find one.
“I’ve got some very good Chianti,” Gloria says.” A friend of mine makes it. If you like wine, you should taste it, Sergio.”
Sergio. My name in her mouth. I like hearing her pronounce it. I’d like her to say it again.
“All right,” I say, “as long as it’s really no trouble.”
“Just give me a minute to take a shower. In the meantime, make yourselves comfortable. Michela, the bathroom’s on the ground floor. Then you can get a bottle of wine for your father. It’s on the kitchen counter.”
Gloria disappears into the house. Michela goes to the bathroom, and I sit down under the trellis. Lucky curls up at my feet. There’s a gentle breeze blowing. It smells of hay. There are no mosquitoes and the sky has filled up with stars.
The Purple Room Page 16