“No. I’m just going up to see what it’s like.” This would never ever be allowed in the U.S., Julia thinks. But here, people make their own fates.
Julia scrapes her knee on the rocks, looks down. Already dizzying. At the top, four kids are standing around working up their courage. One says, “You have to leap way out.”
From above, the water is dazzlingly blue. If you jump and you’re not lucky, you could bust your head like a watermelon falling off a speeding truck.
Julia creeps up to the edge. How sublime the water looks. Limpid. Clear to the bottom. Fear rises in her like thermometer mercury from a feverish child. The girl who said it would be fun to jump backs off, after looking down. One boy goes, arms flailing. Just to test, Julia steps to the edge. She looks down at the small figures on the beach, out at the horizon. Via, via, one of the boys says. Go. Go. She feels a quick shock of surprise.
She rises on her toes. And jumps.
* * *
—
Camille and Susan find little new potatoes, huge juicy tomatoes, lustrous black eggplants to roast with peppers. Last, they pick up sorbet. Tonight, they get to stay “home.” The wine is a pain to lug back to the house but they manage everything, plus a jug of fresh orange juice and a bag of lemons.
Walking back, Camille says to Susan, “I’ve been sitting on that stupendous terrace imagining going back home in October. What that would be like.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not going anywhere. This is home now. My life is much more interesting than I could have imagined. We have fabulous friends. Look what happened to you here! Italy! Tonight we should talk, really talk.”
Susan has been searching online at comps for her house in Chapel Hill. Her girls agreed when she sold the beach house, but would they want to give up the house where they were raised? They love coming home to pound cake, peanut butter cookies, dinners on the screened porch, their rooms, one blue, one yellow. Even so, if Susan stays, they’ll love coming to Italy probably more: the new replacing nostalgia for the old. They’re in China now. No one yet has responded to the large ad they placed in the newspaper with the earliest photos of themselves, dates, where they were found, and the name of the orphanage, which still exists but will not release further information. Susan doubts they have any, since they did not at the times of the adoptions. Eva was left on a bus, Caroline outside a shrine. Both had their birthdates pinned to their blankets. Susan has always imagined the mothers writing those dates, preparing to leave the house, imagined them at the moments of abandonment. Fleeing the scene, what she must have felt. A crazed relief? If Eva and Caroline find out anything, it will be subject to DNA testing. How amazing if they locate some wide-eyed, tragic parents. Do people who abandon children out of whatever desperation come forth because of an ad? Can they read? Wouldn’t the shame keep them silent? Huge random chance, statistically against the girls. She thinks of their rooms, intact since college, the canopy beds from her grandmother’s house, a southern heritage tacked onto their origins, of their minimalist apartments in California, their devotion to their jobs. And each other. No other relationships seem to arise, a puzzling fact but Susan can’t intrude on their privacy. She stares out to sea. She’s their mother.
Susan could sell her home, buy a small condo for visits. She remembers the man with narcolepsy, the willowy Catherine who planned to leave the North. Why buy anything? Why not cut the cord? If she wants to go back, she can rent a temporary base. Bridges have burned.
* * *
—
Lauro likes it here. Who wouldn’t? The breeze makes you want to say halcyon. He’s peaceful, knocked out after nursing, a milky haze descending as he nods off. I parked him under a purple passion vine, a live mobile, while I worked, moving from one project to the other all day, pausing only for cheese and fruit. Meriggiare, to rest in shade on a hot day.
Nicolà has an enticing rental. At least the basic furniture is colorful. Sparseness suits Cinque Terre, where delivery of heavy items must be a nightmare. Susan plans to rearrange beds to capitalize on the views and to recommend updating the tiny showers and ’70s kitchen. More tumbling vines and pots of herbs. We’re all happy here. Such simplicity gives the feeling of unburdening. Blue is good for the soul. Florida girl, I’m always best when I can see open waters.
Julia returns last. Susan and Camille lugged food up all those steps and decided to read in their rooms. I suspect they are sleeping. Julia opens the fridge and takes out melon and cheese and a leg of the roast chicken we had last night. “I’m famished,” she says, bringing a plate out to the terrace. Her hair hangs in salt-dried clumps, her shoulders the color of plums, painfully blistered. I offer some after-sun lotion. “I’m fine, thanks. I think I fell asleep on the beach for a few minutes. You won’t believe what I did but I’ll tell everyone later.” She falls on the chicken, smiling and licking her fingers. “This is good-good. Want some?” She spears another piece. “What I need is a shower and a nap. Something good happened to me today. I’ll not only tell you, I’ll show you. How is our sweetie over there?”
Lauro makes little sounds as though he’s talking back to the mourning doves that coo in the pergola next door. The woman there sunbathes nude. Through the grapevines, I can’t help but glimpse her impressive breasts like two rounds of pizza dough rising.
A bit surreal. I just hope she doesn’t burn into the color of a sweet potato. Her husband (clothed) reads the newspaper, then lets it drop over his face when he falls into a snoring sleep. Part of the panorama! Julia and I giggle. Why is snoring always funny? Is he lying at the opening of the cave, scaring away bears? Below us, a woman hangs out wash, flowered sheets fluttering. This village is a hive, each house a honeyed cell.
* * *
—
Julia keeps it simple. She’s the maestro, directing Susan to sauté the potatoes, me to set the terrace table. (Let’s hope our neighbor doesn’t dine nude.) Camille is one of those who peels tomatoes. In Liguria, the Genovese basil grows huge and pungent, with curly leaves. Susan found fresh burrata in Vernazza on her hike. Little clams over pasta shells to start, then the fish baked with thyme, olive oil, and lemon.
The wine is light and easy. Out on the terrace while the fish bakes, Julia empties a bottle into a glass carafe she sets in ice. “Quaffable, don’t you love that word? Chris never says quaffable.” Everyone’s showered, wet hair, fresh shorts, and barefoot; Lauro sleeps, snug in his small bed. Julia takes out her phone and searches for a photo. Camille pours and passes the glasses around.
“Here’s my news.” Julia holds up a photo of a woman falling straight as an arrow from a cliff into water. She’s midway down, toes pointed, arms tight by her sides. They pass it around.
“Scary,” Susan says. “That’s, who is it? That’s not you, Julia?” She hands the phone to Camille, who looks closely.
“That’s your bathing suit or at least it’s blue like yours.”
I’m leaning into Camille to see. “Julia. I know that cliff. Did you jump? You wild thing.”
“I did. I can’t explain it. I just found myself climbing up, looking down. I did it. Maybe I wanted to do something to shake me out of the state I’ve been in since waltzing into town and finding my whole past sitting there in the piazza. It was all unconscious, but…” She pauses and sips some wine. “Oh, it felt good. Going down I thought I might fall forever, plunge to the bottom and surface on the other side of the world. It must have been only a moment but it felt long, falling. Then to hit the water like a pane of glass. I went way under but somehow had remembered to take a breath at the last instant. Coming up, up through the water, I had my eyes open. The water was so transparent that I felt I could breathe it like air. The biggest shock—shooting up, breaking the surface, taking a big gulp of air, then swimming to shore. The two women who sat beside my towel applauded. One of them had watched me. She took the picture. I’m glad to have it!”
“Send it to Lizzie!”
“Hell, paste it on your résumé.”
“No big deal, you all. Those kids were doing it without thinking.”
“Yes, but you were thinking!”
“I came up feeling washed clean. Well, I’ll just say it—spiritually. The fear was intense but the leap was renewing. I felt buoyant—oxygenated. When I walked out of the water, I shed a skin there.”
“Is it the southern thing, immersion? Like baptism in the river?” Susan pauses at the kitchen door, the oven timer buzzing.
“Honey, it means time to move on,” Camille says.
“Again? We just did that.” Julia leans against the wall, facing her friends.
“Julia, Miss Icarus, this looks delicious. I’m starving. Are you all?”
The caprese may be the paradigm example of caprese for all time. The pasta with clams tastes like a milder version of the sea. Julia closes her eyes and savors the briny succulence, wishing briefly that she could give a bite to Chris.
I decide to broach the subject. “I am going to miss you all. If you travel back, come down to Coral Gables. I think you’d love my mother’s kitchen, Julia. My dad cooked. My mom sat at the counter with a Mojito and they talked. We listened to José Feliciano, ‘Light My Fire,’ over and over. Mexican tile floors, dated maybe by now, but really open to the outdoors and a screened porch—the only way you can eat outside without mosquitoes lifting you out of your chair and depositing you in an alligator pond. We could grill some great seafood—as good as Italy!”
“It will be strange without you—even just walking into town in the mornings.”
“My table at the bar is your table.” (As it was Margaret’s.) I venture, “Isn’t your lease up soon? Will you try to extend?”
Susan speaks unequivocally. “I want to stay. I love it here. The adventures we’ve had! The villa is out of a dream. I’ve made a garden that…that defines me, who I am. Or, who I want to be. Everything’s unexpected! I’ve never had a better experience.”
“Camille, you’re modest, and most spectacularly successful. You earned it! Now are we going to acknowledge the dead cat on the table? What do you want to happen?”
“I’ve thought about it all day. I know we’ve been skirting the subject for a while. I think we were waiting for you to settle into yourself again, Julia. You all know I have a terrible lack of confidence, but the sheer fact of being chosen for the American museum exhibits keeps knocking down my throwback once-rejected-by-arts-council responses. It’s clear to me—I’m involved with Rowan—but, really, we’re going to forge ahead with a relationship that suits us. He has ties in California, business and family. I’d like to visit now and then. What we three decide about the villa isn’t going to be an influence or deal-breaker. One pleasure of being old, I realize, is that you’re free. Beyond caring what the neighbors might think.”
“I’m the same with Chris,” Julia says. “He’s dear. Fun. And thoughtful, like no man I’ve known except my dad. But ‘I do’ and all that—no. I was squashed like a frog in the road when I left Wade. I never ever expected I could love being independent. Love it! I think a mature love can be different. Kit, you must feel that being with Colin is a freedom, not a binding.”
I nod. I do. He’s my lux mundi, light of my world.
“Getting off topic.” Susan serves the fish and passes around the carafe. “Take a vote, talk more? I say we buy the villa. It’s not that drastic—speaking as a real estate broker!”
“Seems drastic to me,” Camille laughs, “but many things seem drastic to me.”
“We can always sell if we decide to move on to Thailand! Ask Nicolà. They’re not making these villas anymore. They’re one-offs. They’ll always be valuable. Not to talk you into it—the decision is really, really personal.”
“My divorce settlement will soon be sitting in the bank. I could do it. My dad’s keeping the house for Lizzie if she moves back to Savannah. I have my savings, too.”
“Nicolà and Brian said they’ll negotiate with Grazia for us. I don’t think my Italian is up to it.” Susan already has investigated all costs and procedures. She’s surprised at how straightforward the process is when there are no required inspections or lawyers involved.
“Invite Grazia and her aunt to dinner,” I advise. “Most San Rocco transactions occur with a handshake.”
“Wait, don’t race ahead. I don’t want a handshake yet! I’m nervous about this. I should think about it, talk to Charlie.”
“Take your time, sweetie. Ha! Take a week. Then we have to decide.”
“I have a toast, if I can remember it. Get some vino. It’s a couple of stanzas from a poem by W. H. Auden.
The sense of danger must not disappear:
The way is certainly both short and steep,
However gradual it looks from here;
Look if you like, but you will have to leap.
A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear:
Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.
Julia blinks back hot tears, her eyes already red from salt water. “I did leap.” She smiles. “I can leap.”
That “leap” grabs attention in the last stanza, but what strikes me is the profound realization: the lovers lie on ten thousand fathoms of solitude. Yes, we do. Love and friendship are the mitigators.
Camille puts her arm around Julia’s shoulders. “Hey, we can do what we want.”
Charles rises viscerally through her body, his solid presence. Always the first image to surface: her mouth against his shoulder in bed, the immense security of his body. The image hurts and she knows why. She is leaving him behind, a colossus in memory. A resin urn of ashes that she must scatter in Spit Creek and among his wild cyclamen.
“Sleep on it, you three,” I say. “Gloria Steinem said dreaming is a form of planning. What’s the plan? Let’s have some of that lemon sorbetto. And Julia, you have gifts to open.”
The air is full of sounds; the sky of tokens; the ground is all memoranda and signatures; and every object covered with hints…So wrote Emerson and he is right. The world is at all points sentient. That’s my religion. Pagan, I guess. I imagine him writing this beside a window in his Concord study on a sweet early autumn day. Maple leaves are falling and mockingbirds call through the brilliant trees. Someone has left him a gold-lettered book with a gray cover. As a reader (and I suppose cooks, architects, musicians, or furniture makers reach back to their predecessors like this, too), I often feel a synaptic connection (beyond meaning) with words I am reading. Not just, Mr. Emerson, an I’m with you. More, I know you. I read of his sounds, tokens, signatures, as alive today as on that faraway morning. I feel the pulse of I rise up as a poem (Marina Tsvetaeva), or even reaching way back: Flectere si nequeo superos Acheronta movebo: If I cannot move heaven, I will raise hell (Virgil, Aeneid).
The leaping poem by Auden I quoted that night in Cinque Terre came whole, right out of my mouth. I was in the ink that flowed from his pen. A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep / Sustains the bed on which we lie…You feel that at the cellular level—but try to articulate how, and you can’t.
Writing their pilgrims’ progress story, I came to know that precise same link with Julia, Camille, and Susan.
For how many people do you feel such a connection? Not just I’ve got your back and you have mine. I bring this up near the end because I want to express what real friendship is like. Also, it’s what I hope for if on a summer day someone reads this story I’ve told in the yellow flowered blank book (not much blank space now) with the vellum spine (now a little soiled). May some voltage run through the words so the reader feels I’m with you.
Remember, this book began long ago on a fall day when I was gathering twigs for a fire. As the year carried us in its arc, I wrote our stories. (
Margaret still waiting for her book.) That the novel is true, not fiction, only I know. Colin hasn’t seen a word. (Someday maybe they’ll tell me how I did with imagining their thoughts.)
What have I failed to say? The whole of everything is never told. (Henry James.) And shouldn’t be, I might add. This is where the last pages of the book can be torn out by someone who doesn’t want to know the ending (or perhaps by a collector who is making a book only of last pages).
But if I can plant a few small flowers into the crevices of my stone wall, here’s where I’ll add:
* Their whole names? Mary Camille Acton Trowbridge. Susan Anne Frost Ware. Julia Lee Hadley. As a child, Camille was called Mary Camille. Susan was called Suze, and Julia was ever only Julia. Mine? I am Catherine Elizabeth Raine, Kit since Cathy didn’t work out even at two months.
* San Rocco is unrelentingly beautiful. (I didn’t say that enough.) On the town hall clock face, a tinny skeleton holding a scythe taps at the passing hours, a not-subtle reminder that time will overtake everyone. Chiseled below in 1600: VOLAT HORA PER ORBEM, time wings through the world. At the other end of the piazza, the bank in an ancient palazzo has two clocks—one marks hours, the other minutes. This I prefer. Try to keep both small and large time in mind, I think it means. The inscription there is the old “time flies,” but in Virgil’s more profound original phrase FUGIT INREPARABILE TEMPUS, meaning irretrievable time flees. (Time presses against this story, since the women are older than those who usually star in books.)
San Rocco is made of gold-hued stone, thin Roman bricks, and stuccoed façades with grand windows. Because of the oversized piazza, sky plays an active part. Not chopped or angled off by buildings, the long blue dome completes the whole. Late afternoon, sitting out with your aperitivo, you’re aware of sky not as backdrop but as the miraculous event of clouds, shifting and re-forming all day; you’re aware of weather coming, sun scraping over stones, and the play of light shadowing and revealing doors, passageways, ghost outlines of former windows and arches. Rays highlight a hand pulling back a curtain, the silver glint of cutlery as Stefano brings out lunch, the electric field around the fur of a ginger cat sleeping by the post office door. How the sky is part of architecture, Colin. Have we ever discussed that? Martyrs and saints were found to have precious stones in their hearts. Rubies, I think, with intaglio images carved into the surface. For those of us who live here, each carries close the jeweled silhouette of San Rocco.
Women in Sunlight Page 38