The Soul Room

by Corinna Edwards-Colledge

  ‘Wow. I hope that gene passes on!’

  Nonna patted me on the cheek. ‘Si si. Most who have the gift and use it well live long.’ She glanced out of the window absently. ‘But poor Sergio, for him it was no protection. It is not magic sfortunatamente. But you know Maddie, people who use it malvagio, to punish, to make money; they get ill. For them it becomes like a cancer.’ I looked at her, hoping she would go on. She went over to the sink, started to rinse out our cups. ‘You are a gardener, you understand. Inside we are like the earth. If we look after the earth, have sunlight and water – many things will grow – many beautiful and useful things. If we leave the earth, do not tend it - we get wild-flowers, but chaos also. If we pollute the earth, have only darkness – then we get weeds and disease.’ Nonna stared distractedly out of the kitchen window, wringing the dish cloth tightly until the thin bones in the back of her hands stood out like twigs. Finally she came out of her reverie and turned and smiled at me brightly. ‘It is a beautiful day Tsoro. You should go and walk before the sun is too hot. The family are in town today and will not be back until dark so you have the estate to yourself. Go out, breathe in the air,’ she took hold of my hand and squeezed it, ‘have a good think. It will be good for you.’

  ‘You’re right, it will. And it will be good to go and look at the garden.’

  ‘And later when you return, rest and then we shall eat together and share some Sonnetto.' She winked. 'And I shall mix yours with grape juice so you can drink more and keep me company for longer.’

  I went over and held her tightly. She might not have been my blood relation, but I loved her no less for it. And I could feel the bond between her, and Sergio and my son – invisible but tangible. Running through me, and about me, and around this place like a living, trembling thread.

  She was right, it was a beautiful day. The rains had finally come in the night (though I had slept through it in the end) and the earth smelt sweet and the air was bright and washed clean. The full heat of the day was yet to come, but you could sense it like a force, loitering near the horizon, waiting for the sun to reach its zenith. August was the hottest month, but even in June it could top 35 degrees and I was wary of overheating. I wandered aimlessly, appreciating the opportunity to analyse and sort my thoughts. I walked through the vineyards, occasionally stopping to weigh a bunch of juvenile grapes, smooth and intensely green in my hand.

  Inexorably I found myself heading towards the main house, with the vague idea of having a proper look at the gardens. I had to take it slow, as the weight of my belly was considerable now, and it was easy for me to get out of breath. I found a fallen branch and made myself a staff. It helped to have something to lean on, and with it I managed to maintain a comfortable pace, and soon reached the guest house. The garden was maturing nicely, the Jasmine Officinalis had almost completely covered the west-facing trellis by the pool, and the Phormiums had grown half a metre at least since I had planted them. I felt a swell of satisfaction, the beauty of plants had always had the power to move me, whatever else was going on in my head.

  I carried on westward and twenty minutes later I was approaching the perimeter of the grounds of the main house. There was a more direct route, following the compacted earth track that Fabrizio had used to take me to Nonna’s, and which joined the road about half a mile east. But it was steep, so I took a flatter if more circuitous route west, where you could see the back of the house and grounds, tumbling in lush terraces down to the vineyards. I followed a little path that had sprung up after a clump of Olive trees, delicately silver against the dark leaves of a huge old Magnolia. It led around the base of the hill, and I hoped to find some path or gate that might lead to the lower grounds of the house. Sure enough, after about ten minutes, traces of a very old stone wall emerged, and eventually I came to a wooden door, half rotted, but still working on its hinges. I pushed it open gently and stepped into a small clearing.

  It looked as if it had once been cultivated – a kitchen garden perhaps – as there were ragged woody Rosemary and Lavender bushes here and there, and the traces of raised beds. I pottered through it, brushing my hands over the herbs and breathing in the scent from my fingers. The air was still and breathless and I felt a momentary thrill of peace.

  Then the baby started to squirm. I put my hands to my belly, feeling knees, and elbows and back pressing, turning against me. ‘What’s up with you little one?’ I said, stroking the tautening skin. Instinctively I looked around – and then I saw it. Half-hidden behind a huge Chinaberry tree and crowd of untended Viburnums, there was another door. It reminded me of Tolkien’s sketches of Bilbo’s hobbit hole, because it appeared to be set in the side of the bank. I went over to take a closer look – the baby pressed his back so firmly against the inside of my womb that I could almost feel the bones of his spine against the palm of my hand.

  There was a section of wall, half-overgrown with straggly greenery about three feet either side of the door and a few feet above it. Then the wall disappeared into compacted earth, the roof of whatever lay beyond it seemingly made of the surrounding bank. I guessed that the bank had been built up to shelter the garden from the worst of the easterly Autumn winds.

  My heart jumped as I noticed that the earth in front of the door was worn clear of grass. Amongst the weeds at the foot of the bank, there were cigarette butts and a chewing-gum wrapper. I took a deep breath and tried the handle of the door. To my surprise it opened easily. A cloud of cool air drifted out towards me, dissipating almost instantly in the heat. I followed it gratefully into a sort of ante-room. There were thin windows on the far right and left-hand walls of the room, horizontal, and only a foot from the ceiling; so clearly the room wasn’t entirely underground. They let in a little light, but I also noticed a bare light bulb hanging from an old-fashioned woven cable. There was a switch on the wall behind me – I tried it and it worked. I turned it off again quickly – irrationally - fearing that even in the brightness outside someone might see it.

  There was a door on the opposite side of the room. This one was locked with a heavy padlock. There were cupboards along the left wall of the room which I found contained lots of tinned food and bottled water. There was also a couple of torn arm-chairs, and a radio. Was somebody living here, a tramp or local eccentric? In this part of Italy there was little middle-ground. You either conformed to the traditional life: job, wife, baby; or dropped out completely. If you made it to a big city you were lucky and had a chance to make it, if you didn’t – well, the sheds and back-streets were full of those that never got to leave, who remained lost and purposeless.

  This room didn’t feel that way though. It was organised; more like a store room than a living space, and there was no sign of a bed or bedding. Above the locked door on the far wall I saw a row of old bells, the kind that you see in the servant’s quarters of country houses. The ropes attached to them had pretty much rotted away, but you could still see the clouded glow of the brass of the bells through the dust.

  It dawned on me then what this room really was. My heart started to pound, so I sat down heavily in one of the old armchairs and worked to control my breathing – in through my nose, out slowly through my mouth, until I felt in control again. This was one of the rooms that Fabrizio had told me about – one that marked tunnels into the kitchens of the main house – used to bring in deliveries without disturbing the ‘VIPs’. Fabrizio hadn’t wanted me to see these rooms. I remembered the look on his face when I had tried the handle of the old oak door. I went back and inspected the padlock. You wouldn’t be able to cut through it without special equipment, but there was no deadlock on the door, and the bracket for the padlock was simply screwed into the door-frame. With a chill I imagined it was designed to keep things in rather than keep them out. I would have to come back. I inspected the lock again to see what size and type of screwdriver I would need – I hoped that Nonna was into DIY as well as technology, otherwise I’d have to wait until I could get into town to buy one and I didn’t wan
t to do that.

  I had a last quick look around and headed out. As I did so I heard the sound of voices. I crept as stealthily as I could to the door. There were two men at the far end of the walled garden. Strong looking young men, their shirt sleeves rolled up, cigarettes hanging nonchalantly out of the corners of their mouths. My heart hammered in my chest, what would I say to them? They would tell Fabrizio for sure, and all my efforts at nonchalance would be lost. I was a lone pregnant woman far from home, all I had in my armory was a psychic granny and the element of surprise! Fabrizio would panic if he knew that I knew, and if he had my brother now, he wouldn’t very soon after.

  I pressed myself against the door frame and worked out that because of the angle at which they were coming across the garden, I should be able to sneak out of the doorway and hide behind the Chinaberry tree and overgrown shrubbery that surrounded it without them seeing me. I took a deep breath, slid through and forced my way behind the bushes, hoping the movement wasn’t visible from the outside. There was no wind, and it would have given me away in an instant. It occurred to me that to explain away my presence in the store-room would have been difficult, but to explain hiding behind a tree would be nigh on impossible. I thanked god that I hadn’t put on my white dress as I’d planned, but had instead opted for a much more camouflaging beige smock-top and short black leggings.

  The men drew nearer. A broken branch was pressing painfully against my stomach, I moved it gingerly and to my dismay, found it was dead wood and made a clear snapping noise; I held my breath. One of the men turned sharply, but was soon back in deep conversation with his friend. The smaller of the two men reached over and opened the door of the store-room. He was only eight or so feet from where I was hiding. I tried to will myself invisible, but luckily his friend strolled over to him and stood, with his back to me, blocking any view he might have had.

  The sweet smell of the fading Chinaberry tree blossom was overwhelming and made me feel slightly sick. I concentrated, and managed to catch the odd word or two of what the men were saying. The taller guy was called Stefano the other, Lorenzo. They seemed to be recounting a particularly wild evening the night before, and the story was embellished with a lot of gesturing and laughter. For a moment I was lulled into thinking them harmless, probably just local lads who worked for Fabrizio and used this room as a place to have lunch, or catch a quick siesta on hot days. Then I saw the knife in Lorenzo’s pocket. It wasn’t like the knives they would use to prune and pick the grapes (the Amarena's prided themselves on the fact that their fruit was still manually harvested) this was a long, thin mean looking flick-type knife. The top of it poked out of his back jeans pocket, the rest was outlined through the tight denim.

  I sensed a change in the topic of conversation too. The laughter and gesturing had abated, and both men lowered their voices. This made me even more aware of not making any noise myself. My legs were trembling with the effort of staying upright in such an awkward position. I was scared of even leaning against the wall behind me in case I moved against any dry leaves or twigs. I did my breathing again – long controlled out breaths, trying to stay calm. ‘Maybe Tomorrow.’ I heard Stefano say. Then the other man, ‘Difficult…much noise.’ I wished I had put more effort into my Italian.

  ‘Bastardo.’ Lorenzo grunted, and ground his cigarette stub into the soil in front of him. Stefano nodded. I couldn’t catch any more. To my great relief they both moved into the room. I heard one of them scrabbling around in the cupboard, the other moved to the far end of the room. There was the sound of metal on metal and I guessed with a little fizz of excitement and anxiety, that he had opened the padlock.

  I waited a few seconds, until I was sure I had heard them both move through the door at the back of the room and close it. Then I summoned all my courage and extracted myself from the Chinaberry bush and peeked around the open doorway. With a flush of relief I saw that they had gone, and the back door was shut securely though the padlock was hanging unlocked through a metal loop on the door-frame. For one crazy moment I thought of going and opening the door, seeing what was behind it, but I reminded myself that one of them had a knife, not to mention that I was pregnant, and the deal I had made with myself and my son was that I would be as careful as possible. That meant coming back at night, when these two young men would be safely ensconced in a local bar, or at home being cooked a three-course meal by their devoted Mammas.

  The sensible part of me remonstrated that it was madness to go out again that day – that I should rest properly, plan properly, think it through. But the dominant part of me, the desperate sister, couldn’t bear to wait any longer to see if it was Dan that Fabrizio’s men were guarding. I managed to nap for a couple of hours (I was relieved that I didn’t see my boy, I was worried he wouldn’t approve of the risks I would be taking) before phoning Dad. It was getting harder to hide things from him. He could tell from my voice that something was up, but I managed to fob him off – it was upsetting visiting Sergio’s grave, being reminded of him here – that he didn’t need to worry, Nonna was taking very good care of me. I knew he was suspicious, and I had to fight a strong impulse to give in and tell him everything, to sit back and watch the authorities take over. I resisted, partly through the fear that I would be a coward for doing so, but also because a deeper part of me sensed that telling could jeopardise everything.

  'He asks about you every day you know.'

  My tummy fluttered. 'Who?'

  'That policeman, John. You seemed very friendly before you left, are you calling him too?'

  'I don't need to, he's talking to you.'

  Dad sighed but decided to let it go. 'All right sweetheart. Please look after yourself. Nicholas is so worried about you too. He wants you back. He thinks he's lost Dan, and that he's in danger of losing you too.'

  'Maybe he's not lost anyone. Dan could still just turn up.'

  ‘The longer this goes on, the harder it is to believe that. Remember, if you stay there longer than a week they won't let you fly back!'

  'Yes, I know. Don't worry I'm going to leave in a couple of days. I've nearly done what I came here to do.'

  I asked Nonna for a screwdriver on the pretext of needing to open the battery compartment on my camera, and I was relieved when instead of fetching one for me, she directed me to one of her crumbling outbuildings, where I was able to have a good look through all her tools and select a few. I took one into the house and hid the others under a bush by the garden gate. I managed to stay composed for the rest of the evening (my skills in deception were developing well with all the practice) and Nonna didn’t seem to pick up on anything, and kissed me good night with her customary cheerfulness. By the time I heard her go to bed my nerves were resonating like harp strings. Every sense was in an agony of alertness, and I had to keep repressing the mental image of possibly finding Dan at last - of the relief and wonder of that moment.

  After hearing Nonna go to bed, I sat on the edge of the bed in my black clothes and hat, my rucksack packed and on my back, and managed to wait another half-hour so I could be absolutely sure that she was asleep. Eventually I tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the boards that I knew creaked when they were stepped on, and let myself out into the night. The garden seemed to hold its breath as I crept down the path and retrieved the tools I had hidden earlier. It was impossibly silent, even the cicadas had stopped their trilling, and it felt like the sound of my trainers on the dirt path must echo for miles.

  Luckily there was a bright full moon, so I was able to find my way without the torch, navigating the deep indigo shadows of the olive trees and the pale earth of the track. I wasn’t scared, in fact I was almost ashamed to discover I was a little excited. I felt incredibly alive, alive because I had something truly important to do. I was on a mission, and it was bigger than me. It willed me on, it powered me. And then, a feral cat stopped on the path ahead, turned its big bright eyes on me and stared. It struck me, strangely, that we were like two miniature universes, passing in the ni
ght. Each of us had pressing and secret things to do, but we were experiencing this place and moment in completely different ways. I was a human; full of history and angst and analysis. It was an animal, ruled by instinct and able to translate the myriad languages of sound and smell that came at it out of the dark.

  Still the cat looked at me. The moon reflected creamily in its yellow eyes, and I felt that it was expressing some kind of intelligence that I couldn’t grasp. I knelt down and called to it softly, rubbing my thumb and forefinger together. It turned and made to come toward me and as it did so I saw that its belly was swollen and lumpy and I gasped. The sound checked the cat and it turned quickly off the path and dissolved into the darkness. I thought of all the little lives growing inside her dark fur, and suddenly I was scared. I wasn't just one universe, this wasn’t just about me. There was my baby too, complete in his little world - the warmth and redness of my womb; his only company the perpetual beat of my heart and whooshes of my digestion. I was in an ‘outside’ he couldn’t even dream of, I was worlds apart - under a canopy of distant stars, soft air on my cheek. Without me, his whole universe would crash into oblivion. The heartbeat would stop, the warmth turn chill, his own heart stop pumping…I gagged and reached for a nearby tree for support. How could I do this? How could I risk my baby in this way? I leant my forehead against the cool bark.

  But he had helped me – why would he help me if he didn’t want me to find Dan? Of course he isn’t really helping you, my internal voice argued back. He’s just responding to hormone releases, the trace of ancient human instincts that have survived all our civilising forces -‘woman’s intuition’ – whatever you want to call it. When you suspect something you may not even realise it consciously, but your senses pick up on it, you release a tiny amount of adrenalin, the baby responds. I pressed my hand against the hardness of the tree-trunk and felt tears well up in my eyes. No, that wasn’t all it was. It couldn’t be all it was. Something perplexing and wonderful had happened to me since I had become pregnant, and it didn’t make sense that I should just sit back and wait for the birth. Surely this was happening for a reason? And how could I find out what that reason was if I didn’t act? I kissed my hand and laid it on my tummy. ‘My darling boy,’ I whispered, ‘I love you more than anything in the world but I’ve got to do this. Please forgive me.’