Michela comes back with a bottle of wine and a glass. “If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have ruined everything,” she says.
“What, exactly, would I have ruined?”
Michela doesn’t answer. She lies down in the hammock and lets it rock her back and forth.
“She’s kind of fat,” she says, “but you can tell she was pretty when she was young. She’s really different from Mom.”
“Yes, I know.”
The wine is dense and has hints of vanilla. I empty my glass and we remain in silence.
It takes them a long time to join us. Gloria helps her mother downstairs, a step at a time. Very slowly, they come out under the portico. Mrs. Decesaris drops into a folding chair and stares at me with her wide-open eye.
“Mother, this is Sergio, and this is his daughter Michela. They’ve come from Rome.”
The old lady dabs at her eye with a handkerchief and nods, her head bobbing forwards and back. She keeps on glaring at me, as if I were guilty of some horrible crime. Still, I’m sure she hasn’t said anything to Gloria about my intrusion a short while ago.
Gloria has changed her clothes. She’s wearing a loose cotton dress. She gathers her damp hair up at the nape of her neck, securing it with a pencil. Her skin smells of soap.
“I’ll go and get dinner ready,” she says. “If you like, you can set the table.”
“Come on Micky. Let’s give a hand.”
All three of us go into the kitchen. Gloria cuts the zucchini into long thin slices and puts them in a grill pan on the stove. Then she makes a tomato salad and the frittata. In the meantime, Michela and I set the table under the trellis. Mrs. Decesaris watches our comings and goings without saying a word.
“If you like, I can fix the screen door,” I tell Gloria, when we’ve finished setting the table.
“If you feel like it. The tool box is under the sink.”
I get a screwdriver and dismantle the frame around the screen. It’s not hard. I only have to put the edges of the screen back in the runners. While I work, Gloria and my daughter chat in the kitchen. Michela asks Gloria what she did after high school. Gloria tells her she went to study art at the University of Bologna. It must have been a good time in her life. You can tell she was fond of the city, and of a friend––a boy––who helped her get to know it. Someone who introduced her to politics and encouraged her to join a committee that managed cultural exchanges with Eastern Europe. She talks about trips to Prague, Budapest and Berlin before the fall of the Wall, when Michela hadn’t even been born yet. For my daughter, it’s ancient history.
“Are you a painter, too?” she asks.
“No, not anymore. The painting you saw in the café in Montemori is the last one I did.”
After Bologna she went back to Milan. “Back then everyone was very busy making money,” she says, “everyone except me.”
She changed jobs often until she decided to open a florist’s shop. In the meantime, her older sister, Ursula, got married and went to live in Switzerland. They hardly see each other anymore. Ever since her mother’s stroke, Gloria’s been looking after her by herself. Four years ago she sold the flower shop and moved to the Chianti hills.
“Did you ever get married?” asks Michela.
Gloria doesn’t answer. “Time to eat,” she says, picking up the frittata. “Dinner’s ready.”
Michela sits down beside her, and I find myself facing Mrs. Decesaris and her staring eye. Every now and again, she dabs at it with the handkerchief she keeps balled up in her fist. Gloria has made her some soup with tiny noodles. She ties a tea towel around her neck, as if she were a two-year-old. Mrs. Decesaris grasps the spoon and starts eating. Every so often some broth dribbles out of her mouth and down her chin, onto the tea towel.
Gloria takes a sip of wine and turns to me.
“Thirty years,” she says. “It’s a strange feeling, to think so much time has gone by.”
“It’s hard to believe.”
“You haven’t told me anything about yourself, yet. Besides Michela––and I imagine she’s the most important thing––what else has happened to you?”
I’m sure Gloria imagines my life as an orderly routine, equally divided between work and family. Married with a grown daughter, summer holidays at the seaside, dinner parties with other married couples, a television set in the bedroom to fall asleep in front of. She doesn’t know that our stories are similar. Both of us are isolated from the rest of the world, like two prisoners, two exiles, each lost in his own solitude. She doesn’t know that we need each other desperately––not yet.
“If I were to make a list of the great events in my life, it wouldn’t be very long. In fact, I wouldn’t know what to put on it.”
“I don’t believe that,” says Gloria. “Nothing memorable has happened to you in thirty years?”
“Nothing that would tell you about who I really am, I mean.”
“Why don’t you tell her about when you ended up in a coma?” Michela chimes in.
I give Michela a sharp nudge with my knee under the table. “My daughter’s always kidding around,” I say to Gloria. “Of course, I’ve had the same experiences as everyone else: I have a job, a house of my own, I got married. I got divorced, too, actually…” I drink some wine and leave the concept of divorce hanging in the air. “Still, I can’t say that anything has happened to change me from who I was thirty years ago. I think I’ve stayed the same Sergio that you knew back then.”
“Lucky man,” says Gloria, winking at Michela. “I’d like to feel the way I did when I was sixteen. Who knows if maybe then I could fit into a size four?”
Gloria stands up, puts her hands on her hips and starts wiggling like a belly dancer. Her round curves rise and fall beneath the fabric of her dress. She’s very good. Michela stares at her with admiration. It’s the same look of wonderment I used to see in her eyes when she was five and I’d magically pull a coin out of her ear.
“How do you do that?” she asks.
“Come on, I’ll teach you.”
Gloria shows her how to do it. Michela puts her hands on her hips and tries to imitate her. They dance together, without music, trying not to laugh. It’s not long before they both burst out giggling like schoolgirls.
“If you feel so young,” Gloria says, “you should take your daughter out dancing. She’s good.”
“I didn’t mean that I feel like I’m still sixteen,” I try to explain. “It’s just that the things that I felt back then haven’t changed. They have a value that––”
I don’t get a chance to finish. Lucky, asleep under my chair, suddenly jumps up and starts barking. We hear the sound of an engine and, a moment later, the headlights of a jeep appear.
“Ettore’s here!”
Gloria picks up the flashlight and goes to meet the newcomer. I sensed an eagerness in her when she rose. Maybe it was relief at not having to go on listening to me wax lyrical about the past. When she comes back, she’s with a slender man of about fifty, with a carefully trimmed beard and an impeccable linen shirt. He’s carrying a couple of bottles.
“A good evening to you all,” he says, smiling. “How are you, Mrs. Decesaris?”
Gloria’s mother murmurs a barely audible, “Fine.”
Gloria makes the introductions. “Ettore Barbieri, this is Sergio…” she hesitates. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your last name.”
“Monti. Sergio Monti.”
“That’s right. And this is Michela.”
“Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” says Ettore. “I just passed by to bring you the wine.”
“You came at the right time,” says Gloria. “Sit with us.”
We make space for him at the table. Gloria adds a plate. Ettore opens a bottle and fills the glasses. He’s gallant and velvety, just like his Chianti.
“Ettore is the owner of the agritourism hotel,” Gloria explains. “We’ve known each other ever since I moved here.” She turns to him. “Do you have a room for S
ergio and Michela?”
“We’re almost full, but there’s a room for one night. It’s got two single beds.”
“That will be perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”
Ettore is looking at me like he’s wondering where I popped up from.
“Sergio and I went to high school together,” says Gloria. “We haven’t seen each other in thirty years.”
He keeps studying me. He seems like the kind of man who keeps two dueling pistols in his closet. Could be he’s thinking about dusting them off.
“Then this calls for a toast,” he says, raising his glass. “To the past returning. How about that?”
Gloria bursts out laughing. I don’t see what’s so funny, but Gloria’s splitting her sides. Ettore, Michela and even Mrs. Decesaris join in. The old woman’s crooked laugh only shows half of her teeth.
After the toast we go back to eating, but I’ve lost my appetite. Now it’s Gloria’s turn to ask Michela a bunch of questions. She wants to know everything about her. Her friends, school, the music she likes. About me—about us—nothing more is said. Ettore is watching Gloria, a warm smile on his face. Every now and then he shoots a glance my way, makes a comment about the wine, about the heat and the rain that everyone is waiting for, then his eyes go back to rest on Gloria. There’s something protective in his gaze, and in the way he pours her wine, too. The knots in my stomach aren’t going away. Instead, they’re getting worse. Just as Gloria only has eyes for Michela, and Ettore only for Gloria, Mrs. Decesaris never stops staring at me. It’s like she’s boring a hole in my forehead. I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s like the old woman wants to tell me, “We know why you’re here. We know what you want to do, but we won’t let you.”
I get up from the table with the excuse of making a phone call. I cross the garden and go all the way to the edge of the hill. The valley below me is dark and silent. I’d like to climb down there and get lost into the undergrowth. I wish I had claws and fangs, thick fur and a hole in the ground where no one could find me. I wish I were some nocturnal creature, hunting because I’m hungry, hiding when I’m afraid, searching in the darkness for the scent of another animal like me, driven by a mysterious force that I would obey without compromise. Instead, I have to be here, forced to act like a human being. Stuffed with food to the point of nausea. Terrified of myself. Searching for a fellow human being who doesn’t exist anymore, and maybe never did.
I turn on my phone and make a call to justify leaving the table.
“Hi, Roberto. How’s it going?”
“Where on Earth are you? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.”
“I’m at an agritourism place,” I say. “Is everything all right there at home?”
“I’m not at your place anymore. We’re at a restaurant on the lake, Loredana and I. We met up to talk. We’re fine now. We’re thinking about... Well, you know––of trying out this baby idea.”
I tell him I’m happy for them.
“What about you? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Me? Why?”
“The police came and woke me up this morning. They were looking for you and Michela. I told them I had no idea where you were. It took quite a while to convince them that I really didn’t know. What’s going on, Sergio?”
Alessandra. She actually called the cops on me. My first impulse is to call her right away and tell her what I think of her, but I don’t want to make a scene in front of Michela.
“It’s just something between me and Alessandra. Don’t worry about it. Enjoy your evening and say ‘hello’ to Loredana for me.”
After the call, I stand there in the dark, watching them sitting around the table under the trellis. Ettore is telling Michela something and she’s listening with bated breath. Mrs. Decesaris’ head has fallen back and her mouth is open. She’s fallen asleep. Gloria’s in the kitchen, doing the dishes. I can see her through the doorway. She’s leaning against the sink, washing the pan with slow circular movements. Her eyes are fixed on the stream of water coming out of the faucet. The fluorescent light bleaches the skin on her neck, but her face is hidden in gray shadow. It makes her look like one of those solitary women in a Hopper painting. The seconds go by, but Gloria keeps running the sponge around in the pan. She makes no sign of stopping, even if the pan is clean and more than well-scrubbed. I’d like to know what she’s thinking about.
Lucky comes over and sniffs at my shoes. The dog looks up at me and whines, as if it wants to tell me something.
“What do you want?”
It sneezes, shuffles its paws and whines again.
“I can’t understand you. You’re only a stupid dog.”
I put out my hand so it can lick my frittata-scented fingers.
Michela’s excited voice calls out, “Dad! Come and listen to this!”
I return to the table, trying to put on a smile. “What’s up, Micky?”
“Ettore says there are some caves haunted by the spirits of the Etruscans! And there’s a hidden treasure, too! Is it really true?”
“Well, it could be,” Ettore says. He goes on to tell us how, the year before, an Etruscan tomb had been discovered, dug deep into the tufa stone on his property. A cave with a tunnel and underground passages, many of which have never been explored. To hear him tell it, he still hasn’t been able to find anyone willing to go in there, even though there might be some very valuable artifacts.
“When you go into the cave you feel a breath of air, a strange wind that takes your breath away. Some say they’ve heard voices… Not that I believe such things, but I do know that the Etruscans filled their tombs with booby traps, to stop them from being plundered.”
“He says he’ll take us to see them,” Michela chimes in. “We can go in the morning, right?”
“I don’t think so, Micky. We have to go back to Rome.”
Michela’s disappointed. Gloria, who has been following the conversation from the kitchen, comes outside to console her. She strokes her hair tenderly.
“Maybe you could visit the caves, and then leave,” she says, looking at me. “A couple of hours won’t make much difference, will they?”
“Come on, Dad! Please?”
“All right,” I say in the end. “We’ll visit these Etruscan caves, but afterwards it’s back to Rome. Agreed?”
“I promise.”
Gloria whispers something in her mother’s ear. The old woman wakes up with a start and looks around, lost.
“I have to take her to bed,” says Gloria. “Will you excuse me?”
We agree that tomorrow, after our visit to the caves, we’ll stop by to say our goodbyes.
“I’ll show you the way to the agritourism,” says Ettore. He gives Gloria a kiss on the cheek and makes his way towards his jeep. Michela and Lucky follow him.
Gloria and I are left alone. There’s just enough time for a quick goodbye.
“I like your daughter a lot,” Gloria says. “It’s been a nice evening.”
“It’s been nice for me too, seeing you again.”
“A little strange, maybe.”
“Yes. A little strange,” I admit.
“Good night, Sergio.” Gloria leans forward and brushes my cheek with her lips. After thirty years, I feel her soft mouth again, smell the scent of her hair. I close my eyes and ask myself whether it would be so hard to be happy again. Everything we need is here, within reach. All we have to do is reach out and grasp it. Could I be wrong?
“Gloria,” I say, in a low voice, “I have to ask you something very important.”
“What is it?”
“Do you ever think back to that afternoon we spent together, in your purple room?”
Gloria looks at me, confused. “What purple room?”
“Your bedroom. The one in your house in Pantigliate. Do you remember how the walls were painted purple? The curtains were purple, the lamp, the pillows... Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I remember my room in Pantigliate. I shared it wit
h my sister. But you’re mistaken. It wasn’t purple. It couldn’t have been. Purple is a color I’ve never liked. I’ve never had a purple room in my life.”
20
I clung to the steering wheel and followed the tail lights of Ettore’s jeep. I felt like I was swerving out of control. I was afraid I’d veer off the road and end up at the bottom of the escarpment. I was this close to asking Michela to get out and ride with Ettore, but she was so calm, as if there were nothing strange about the way I was driving. The idea that I was just imagining things frightened me even more.
When I got out of the car, I suddenly felt so dizzy that I had to lean on the hood.
“What’s wrong, Dad? Don’t you feel well?”
“It’s nothing, just a little too much wine.”
Ettore took us to our room and gave us the keys.
“So, tomorrow morning we’re off to the caves?” he asked, cheerful.
I tried to say I didn’t feel like it at all, but Michela was so happy that I couldn’t disappoint her. Ettore’s said he’s going to wake us at eight.
Hurray. I can’t wait.
I rinse my face, put on a clean T-shirt and slip between the cool sheets. Michela has pulled out the first volume of Proust and is sitting cross-legged on the bed, reading. Lucky is curled up, dozing at her feet. I wonder how far into the book she’ll get before she puts it aside.
“How’s the book?”
“Not bad. There are a few things that remind me of when I was little.”
“Like what?”
“Did you always come to give me a goodnight kiss?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Always, always? Or did you forget sometimes?”
“Sometimes your mother would give it to you for me. Why?”
Michela shrugs. She reads another page, then, “What was my first word?”
I think about that for quite a while. “Maybe it was ‘Mamma,’ like most children, but I’m not really sure.”
The Purple Room Page 17