The Purple Room

by Mauro Casiraghi

  “And when did I start walking? I mean, how did it happen?”

  “I can’t remember, Micky. It was so long ago, but I’m sure your mother knows.”

  “Jeez! You don’t remember anything! Do you at least know how you decided to have me? Whose idea was it?”

  “We decided together.”

  “Sure, but who thought of it first? You or Mom?”

  “It happened when we went to Milan for my father’s funeral. We were both in the bathroom, in your grandparents’ flat. We were getting ready for bed. Your mother wanted to brush her teeth, but in the rush to leave, we’d forgotten the toothpaste.”

  “You decided to have a baby while you were brushing your teeth?”

  “Well, sort of. I was looking for some toothpaste on a shelf full of jars and creams. You know how your grandmother never throws anything away. I found this half-empty tube of aftershave cream. My father used to put it on his cheeks after he shaved. To me, that smell had always been his smell. Seeing that tube, I remembered one time I hurt myself falling off my bike. I must have been about six or seven. I’d hit my chin on the handlebars. I ran inside crying and found my father shaving. ‘Don’t cry Sergio,’ he said. ‘This magic cream will make it all go away.’ He took his aftershave cream and rubbed it under my chin. Whether it was the thrill of having his cream on my face, or the fact that the bump hadn’t been that hard, I don’t know, but the pain went away that very instant. I ran back outside to play and I didn’t think about it again. It was right then, at that moment, with my father’s tube of cream in my hand, that I suddenly wished for a child of my own. I asked your mother if she wanted one, too, and she said yes.”

  I wait, expecting Michela to laugh or say something sarcastic. Instead, she just sits there in silence, stroking the sleeping Lucky.

  “Tell me something else,” she says, “something else about when I was little. Something that only you know about, though. Something you’ve never told anyone, not even Mom.”

  I’m about to tell her that I can’t think of anything. That it’s late, that it’s time to sleep. But that would be a lie, and I don’t lie to Michela anymore––even though I’m terribly ashamed to tell her this.

  “When you were ten or eleven months old, you cried all the time. You kept us awake with your screams. You had such a powerful voice, it was ear-splitting. Your mother and I took turns trying to get you to sleep. I had the second half of the night, because I went to work later. Usually I was very patient. I’d hold you, walking back and forth for hours. But there was this one night, I don’t know why, I had this temptation to throw you out the window.”

  “What? You’re joking!”

  “It’s true, unfortunately. I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d sung all the lullabies I knew. It was almost dawn and I could hardly stand up, but as soon as I sat down, or put you in your crib, you’d start screaming again. I was a nervous wreck, so, I opened the window and held you out over the windowsill. ‘Do you want to see what’s like to fly?’ I yelled, louder than you.”

  “Dad, do you hear what you’re saying?”

  “Wait until you have children of your own. Then we’ll talk about it again.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “You started laughing. Maybe you thought it was a game, I don’t know, but you were laughing. I closed the window and swung you around in my arms, saying ‘Fly, fly, fly.’ Then I kept walking and singing songs until you fell asleep. I remember you closed your eyes, little by little. I put you to bed. A moment later, I saw the sun come up.”

  Michela gets off the bed, indignant. “You’re a monster, Dad. It would have been better if you hadn’t told me anything.”

  She gets her pajamas out of her backpack, goes into the bathroom to change, then comes back to her bed. We turn off the lights without saying goodnight. After just a few minutes, I hear her breathing become steady.

  I can’t sleep. Up until now I’ve avoided thinking about what Gloria said. Now that I’m alone, in the dark, I can’t help but wonder how I could have been so wrong. Gloria’s room was never purple, she says. Does that mean I imagined it that color? That for all these years I’ve preserved a false recollection? Or else, maybe, when I woke up in that hospital bed, without realizing it I altered my memory of that room. Maybe I overlaid it with the image of another room I’ve been in, or one of the thousands of images I’ve used for my work.

  These thoughts alone are enough to make my headache come back, but there’s something else, too. As long as it’s just the color of Gloria’s room that’s been called into question, it’s not the end of the world. Whether the walls were purple, blue or Pompeian red, it doesn’t make much difference. The fundamental thing is what happened in that bedroom. The happiness I experienced there with Gloria is the only thing that counts. However, if I could be wrong about the color of her room, which I was so sure about, if I just imagined that it was purple, couldn’t it be possible that I’m mistaken about the rest, too? For instance, did I only imagine Gloria pulling the pencil out of her hair, so that it fell down over her shoulders? Maybe it didn’t happen like that at all. Maybe her hair was already down. It could be that we didn’t get completely undressed. Perhaps we weren’t even lying on the bed. Maybe Gloria never leaned out of the window to close the shutters. At this rate, why rule out the possibility that I invented that entire afternoon in her room? Maybe I never went to her place at all. After all, what proof do I have that it ever really happened? Who can say that I didn’t just dream it? The only person who could erase all my doubts is Gloria, but it was she who told me there never was a purple room. Isn’t this proof in itself that my memory has played a terrible trick on me?

  I get up to open the window. Outside, it’s almost daybreak. Without making a noise, I put my clothes back on. Lucky wakes up and comes over, tail wagging. The dog’s convinced we’re going somewhere. I make it lie down and I leave the room.

  The morning air is crisp and clear. There’s no one around. I walk out onto the lawn, breathing deeply. I go as far as the swimming pool. The water is a still blue mirror, reflecting the dark hills. I think I’ll go for a swim. I’m all alone, I could even do it without swim trunks. I put my hand in to feel the temperature. It’s colder than I expected. I realize that, since the accident, I haven’t gone swimming once. I don’t really want to at all. I get a deckchair and sit down to watch the sky grow lighter. After ten minutes a tall blond man of about forty shows up. He’s wearing a bathrobe.

  “Good morning,” he says with a heavy accent. He must be Dutch.

  He takes off his robe and dives into the water without batting an eye. He does about ten laps, as rhythmic as a pendulum, then turns over and floats on his back. After a while, two kids arrive, just as blond and slim. They slip into the water and start playing quietly with their father, no splashing. Last of all, the mother arrives. She’s wearing a one piece bathing suit and a swimming cap. Long legs, straight back. She looks like an Olympic swimmer. She offers me a polite, dazzling smile, then dives in and swims over to her husband and children. They’re as beautiful as a family of swans.

  I open my eyes suddenly. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep. I’m covered in sweat. The sun is high and it’s burning my face. The Dutch family is sitting under an umbrella, chatting in English with another foreign couple. The children are taking turns rubbing sunscreen on each other’s backs.

  I get up and stagger back towards our room. As I’m crossing the lawn, I see Michela striding back from the road. Lucky is trotting along behind her.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she says when she gets up to me. “I’ve been looking for you for an hour!”

  “I fell asleep by the pool. What time is it?”

  “It’s ten o’clock. You have to take me straight to Siena. I want to catch the train to Rome.”

  “Why the train? We said we’d go back together.”

  “I’m going back by myself. You have to stay here.”

  “Why?”

&nbs
p; “What do you mean, why? Have you forgotten about Gloria? What did you come this far for?”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself.”

  “Fine, that’s your problem. I want to leave now.”

  “Would you explain why you’re in such a hurry? Did you talk to your mother?”

  “Yes… She wants me to go home.”

  “Micky, is that true or are you only saying it to persuade me?”

  Michela looks elsewhere and doesn’t answer.

  “All right, we can’t always tell the truth, but every now and again maybe...”

  Michela puffs out her cheeks and plants her hands on her hips. “Daniel called me, okay?”

  “Ah,” I say, “and?”

  “He saw the photos I sent him yesterday and… I don’t know. He said something clicked.”

  “Sure, okay. And then?”

  “He said he’s sorry for the things he said and he didn’t leave for Paris. He missed the flight on purpose. He says he doesn’t want to go without me.”

  “Micky, you’re a smart girl. You don’t need me to tell you that that boy is a––”

  “I know,” she interrupts, “I’ve been thinking about that, too. I’ve been thinking it over for an hour. I’ve made up my mind. It’s up to me now. So are you going to give me a ride or do I have to hitchhike?”

  We stand there staring at each other for a full minute, Michela and I. Her question is hanging in the air between us. She doesn’t look away. Her eyes are full of such certainty. I wonder if I ever had that at her age or, for that matter, in my whole life.

  “Get your stuff,” I say. “I’ll take you to the station.”

  The train for Rome is leaving in just a few minutes. We race to get to the platform. Lucky is frightened, surrounded by so many people. The dog plants its paws and I have to drag it along by the leash. I finally lift it up and carry it as far as the train.

  “Do you think the two of you will be all right?” Michela asks as she’s boarding the train. I don’t know whether she’s more worried about me or the dog. Or about the dog with me.

  “Lucky and I have learned to get along well. Right, Lucky?” The dog wags its tail and tries to lick me on the mouth. I put it down. “How about you? Are you sure about this?”

  “No, I’m not. So don’t you go making me second guess myself, okay?”

  Michela starts to get on, then she remembers something else she wants to say. “Look, you don’t have to worry about Ettore. He likes Gloria, but to her he’s just a friend.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He’s not her type. Too skinny. Too neat and clean.”

  “And that makes me what, a fat slob?”

  “Cut it out, Dad. You know as well as I do that Gloria’s single. It’s obvious. But that doesn’t mean you can expect to arrive here after thirty years and hope she’s still crazy about you. You have to take some initiative!”

  “So what do you think I should do? Let’s hear it.”

  “Tell her everything. Tell her about how you nearly died, how alone you are, that you came here on purpose to find her… whatever… but you have to tell her how you feel.”

  “My daughter’s giving me advice about my love life. It’s weird.”

  “I have a feeling I understand these things better than you do, Dad.”

  “Maybe you’re right. After all, I have one broken marriage behind me. You don’t.”

  The train’s about to leave. Michela strokes Lucky. Then she throws her arms around my neck and gives me a kiss.

  “Do the right thing, okay, Dad?”

  She gets on board, then turns around to wave at Lucky and me. The doors close and the train pulls away. The dog barks until the last carriage has disappeared down the track.

  21

  When I get to Gloria’s, the sun is at its peak. Getting out of the car, I regret leaving my sun glasses at home. Squinting, I make my way towards the house. The dog follows along with its tongue hanging out.

  Mrs. Decesaris is sitting under the portico, cooling herself with a fan. As I get closer, her eye hones in on me. It’s not easy to guess what’s going through her mind. She doesn’t seem to know who I am. It’s as if she suffers from some sort of amnesia, too, that makes her forget things from one day to the next.

  “Hello, Mrs. Decesaris. Hot today, isn’t it?”

  The old woman rocks her head backwards and forwards in a nod. She fans herself faster.

  “Is Gloria home?”

  “There,” she says, pointing to the path that leads to the olive grove.

  I find Gloria behind the old olive press, hoeing a strip of earth. She’s wearing a sun hat. Her T-shirt is sweaty and sticks to her back. She’s not wearing a bra. A dozen lavender plants are lined up beside her, along with a wheelbarrow of soil.

  “Hi!” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “You’re hard at work, I see.”

  Gloria takes off her hat and dries the sweat with her arm.

  “Weren’t you going to the caves?”

  “Michela caught a train back to Rome. She’s got a boyfriend. You know how that is.”

  “What about you? How come you didn’t go back with her?”

  “That was the plan, but then I decided to stick around. I want to enjoy my vacation, take a few pictures.”

  “Are you a photographer?”

  “It’s just a hobby. I’m a graphic artist. Advertisements, posters, things like that.”

  “That’s interesting,” says Gloria. She puts her hat back on and picks up the hoe. “Sorry, but I have to finish this before lunch.”

  “Can I give you a hand? You know, I live in the country, too.”

  “Really? I had you pegged for a city guy.”

  “I don’t grow vegetables like you, but I do have quite a big garden.”

  “You’ll get dirty.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “If you really want to help, you take over on hoeing.”

  I take off my shirt, pick up the hoe and get to work. I try to suck in my gut every time I bend over.

  “Go easy,” says Gloria. “The holes don’t have to be that deep. A few inches are enough.”

  “Sorry, I have to get a feel for it.”

  I start again, trying to be less zealous and more precise. I have this feeling that my future with Gloria depends on how I handle the hoe.

  “That’s better. You see, the idea is to make a border along the path.”

  “Yes, ma’am. One border, coming up.”

  I throw myself into the work, hoeing as carefully as I can. Gloria follows me as I go along. She puts the lavender plants in the turned earth and fills the holes back in with soil from the wheelbarrow. Lucky sniffs at every clod of dirt. Whenever the dog finds an insect, it whisks it into its mouth, chews on it, then spits it back out.

  When I get to the end of the path, I’m bathed in sweat. My back hurts and my hands are covered in blisters. I’m so tired I can’t hold my stomach in any longer. I relax my muscles and let my belly hang over my belt.

  “Good,” Gloria says. She hasn’t quite caught up with me yet. “Now, you can help me finish the planting.”

  I like this part of the work better. Gloria shows me the right way to lay the roots in the earth and how much soil to cover them with. We’re very close. We brush up against each other. I can smell her skin. I want to kiss her.

  When we finish, we step back to admire our handiwork. The plants are all in a row, straight and well-spaced. The smell of the lavender is heady.

  “I think we deserve something to drink,” says Gloria, satisfied.

  We go back towards the house. I push the wheelbarrow with the gardening tools, while Gloria fans herself with her hat.

  “You can put everything in there.”

  I put the wheelbarrow in the old shed housing the olive press, which Gloria uses to store tools, then I join her under the portico. Mrs. Decesaris is still there, fanning herself.

  “I want the
electric fan,” she says to Gloria. “I want to go upstairs.”

  “All right, Mom, I’ll take you up now.” Gloria turns to me. “There’s a wash basin out here. I’ll be right back.”

  She helps her mother to stand. She supports her with an arm around the waist as they go up the staircase, one step at a time.

  Behind the house I find one of those wide and shallow wash basins, with a sloping surface for washing clothes. I fill up a bowl of water for Lucky. Then I scrub myself with Castile soap, using a brush to get the earth out from under my nails. I rinse off with cold water. Dripping, I go and sit in the sun. In this heat, it won’t take a moment to dry.

  I wonder what it would be like to live here. First of all, I’d have to change jobs. But that wouldn’t be a problem. I wouldn’t miss what I’m doing now. The point is, would I know how to do anything else? Gloria could teach me how to look after the vegetable garden. I could pick olives, give a hand during the grape harvest, do the heavy work. Or I could become a real photographer. I could put together websites for local organic products or old farm houses that are up for rent. It’s not a bad idea at all.

  I’m thirsty. I put my shirt back on and go into the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of water instead of wine and gulp it down. I pour another one and drink that, too, then I go back out and move the chair under the trellis. Lucky stretches out next to me, as eager for shade as I am. It shifts, looking for a comfortable position for a nap. The air has become so hot it’s suffocating. The cicadas drone on without a pause. The trees are motionless, like they’re carved out of marble.

  The blinding white light of the sun turns everything to stone.

  I don’t know how long it’s been. It seems like only a moment, but I must have gotten lost in my thoughts, because when Gloria comes down, she’s washed and changed. She comes outside and sits down across the table from me. I can smell the scent of soap again. She’s wearing a tank top and shorts that show her thighs. I watch her as she gathers her hair up and secures it at the nape of her neck with a pencil. A shiver runs through me, in spite of the heat.