The Laundress

by Barbara Sapienza

  Angela had a beautiful pregnancy. She remained joyful throughout. We would see her caressing her roundness, circling her fullness with her hands as if in some communion with you and your father.

  When her quickening came, Luciana helped to deliver you. It was an easy delivery, or that’s how it seemed to Emilia, the midwife, who said you slipped out smiling. You were so beautiful, just like your mother. No shriveled face like an old man, but bright like the dew on grass, with that Neaplolitan dimple on your chin. For sure you were one of us. We were all there at your birth—except, of course, Nonno Antonio. Your first cry went through the house, sending out a call like the quack of a duck looking for her mother. You were pink like the morning light, with the little chocolate mark above your lip. We all loved it. Your hair was already long and shiny and soft. You had your father’s brown eyes and her olive skin. Angela was so happy. She held you close to her breasts. You suckled immediately. Your little mouth searching, finding her nipple easily like a little bird. I’ll never forget!

  Angela stared at you with those same loving qualities she showed your father but even more. No words can describe it. “I’ll name her Lavinia,” Angela said. Your dad’s last name—Lavinia. “Her name is Lavinia Lavinia. That is how I can keep him close to me all the time. Every time I call her, she will hear her father’s name.” She repeated “Lavinia Lavinia” over and over again. As she caressed you, she rubbed your cheeks, tickled your mouth with her fingers, pinched at your nose, and massaged your soft eyebrows and your forehead and your little ears as you suckled. Sometimes she twirled your soft hair around her index finger, around and around.

  I decided to help Angela. We had a small apartment near the water—the place where you were born, Lavinia Lavinia. Angela lived with me and my wife, Luciana, God rest her soul, until Antonio saw you and fell in love with you on the spot. When you smiled at the old bearded man, he softened. Then you moved back to the family home with your mother.

  I want to let you digest this before leading you to the day she died. Little by little, you will know the truth. I promise.

  I hope I have not overwhelmed you, Lavinia Lavinia. I write what I remember so you will know you were born in love. You can expect another email in a week’s time.

  An old man,

  Giovanni Dellarosa

  Lavinia is bothered by something in Giovanni’s letter. She can’t put her finger on it. She experiences a quickening, a kind of rush of some idea, but it escapes her. She feels filled with an airy, yet an earthy, feeling. If it had a shape, it would be round—a circle, perhaps. But what is it? She touches her birthmark as if to make sure it’s there.

  Out on the patio, she sits by the fig tree and exclaims, “Oh shit!” aloud. It’s George, the sculptor. With a deep knowing, stronger than she’s ever had before, she knows the truth of it. He is her father.

  Chapter 19:

  FALLING INTO A GALAXY OF CONNECTION

  The letter makes Lavinia hungry for more of her story, but Giovanni said it would be yet another week before she’ll get it. She walks toward the Montoyas carrying her Italian pastries and a growing warmth at the center of her hunger, knowing Mercedes will feed her. When she arrives it’s almost 3:00 p.m., and she can see Mercedes through the window, fussing in the kitchen.

  What is she making?

  The gate is ajar, welcoming her inside the small front yard space.

  The round woman yells through the window, “Pasa adelante. Come in, Lavinia. I’m making tamales.”

  “I love them,” Lavinia exclaims as she enters through the front door. “I haven’t eaten today. Smells spicy in here.” She has already forgotten the devoured rum baba from earlier.

  “Pork shoulder and three kinds of chilis with garlic and onion.” Mercedes lifts the top off her Le Creuset. Enticing scents flow into the space from the magic pot. “Five hours it’s been slow roasting,” Mercedes says. “Kinky went to the store to get some queso.”

  “Can I help?” Lavinia asks, staring at the corn husks sitting in a steamer on the stove and a large bowl filled with corn masa.

  “You rest, mijita. Once we start filling this soft dough, you can help me.” Mercedes adds pureed chilis, broth, and melted lard into the soft corn mixture. With her small hands, she squeezes the yellow dough. It seeps, golden orange, through her strong fingers. Lavinia feels a pang of longing at the sight of this woman’s knowing hands—hands so strong that know what to do and seem born of the earth, hands that touch Lavinia’s heart.

  Mercedes spends ten minutes squeezing the corn masa, her hands working, glistening with the oil. It reminds Lavinia of the clay she kneaded at George’s, and she’s overcome by her revelation from earlier—but she doesn’t tell Mercedes.

  Mercedes’s eyes look to the corn husks. “Now, mijita, take one of these corn husks and follow me.” She rinses off her hands and swipes them on her apron, then takes the rough side of a husk in her hand and, with a spatula, spreads the soft masa on the smooth side of the leaf, then heaps the carnitas in the middle. Lavinia picks up a husk and follows, her own hands bumbling, juggling the warm husk in her palm as she spreads the corn mixture on top.

  “Fold the husk over and once under.”

  Mercedes makes two tamales to every one Lavinia manages, and soon they are through the mixtures and the tamales are safe in the steamer.

  “We can put the dishes on the table now,” Mercedes tells her. She walks barefoot to the fridge. With her hair tied back with a red ribbon, lips naturally pink, and arms bare, she looks to Lavinia like a young girl. “And to drink? Agua fresca? Sandia?”

  “Yes, I love watermelon.” Lavinia helps herself to the pink juice from a cool glass pitcher, pouring a glass for Mercedes as well. They sit at the table and sip the refreshing drink while waiting for Kinky. Quiet now, Lavinia sits contentedly, comfortable in the presence of this great mamacita, thinking as she often does of her own mother, Angela. Angela of the well; Angela of the wind; Angela, who named her Lavinia Lavinia out of love; Angela, who lives in the sky or the clouds, as far as Lavinia can see.

  “You’re dreaming. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I’m dreaming of my mother and my father.”

  Mercedes gives her a compassionate look and takes her hands.

  “I almost feel they exist, that I can touch them,” Lavinia says, and tells her of Giovanni’s letter. She longs to tell her that she knows who her father is, but she doesn’t. She wants to absorb this loving moment, and the thought of it being George, of all people, is too much for her to bear right now.

  Mercedes wraps her arms around Lavinia, who rests her head on the woman’s bosom, feeling loved as she might have been a long time ago by her own mother. Lavinia cries and Mercedes rocks her. The warm woman hums, “Ay ay ay ay ay,” she was singing, “ay ay ay ay ay.” The sounds of this song, though sad, are like a lullaby for Lavinia, who nestles deeper into her awareness of her lost family being complemented by a new family. Feeling the warm pillow of Mamacita’s bosom, smelling her, she is overcome by what she’s lost in not having a mother all these years.

  Mercedes sings, about a sad bird.

  Kinky comes home and Mercedes releases Lavinia gently. She keeps humming, holding the compassion in the room. Kinky gives her mother and Lavinia a big hug, and then joins in her mother’s humming. “Ay ay ay ay ay,” repeats on her lips.

  Kinky is still singing the refrain as Lavinia reenters present time. The tamales from the steaming pot are ready. The salsa and beans are held as side dishes on the table, the half glass of agua fresca is in front of her. They eat quietly. Lavinia feels wrapped in a tamale of love.

  After dinner, Lavinia urges Kinky to come with her to the club. “Come on, Kinky, you can meet Mario.”

  Kinky readily agrees, and soon the two friends are on their way to the bus stop. Lavinia explains the rules of the dance—the five rhythms, the DJ’s offering, the weird costumes, the strangeness of it, and the commitment not to talk.

  “Two hours witho
ut talking?” Kinky says to Lavinia as they reach the bus stop.

  “Yeah, that’s part of it.”

  “What kind of dance is it?” The bus arrives and Kinky pushes herself next to Lavinia on the double seat. “Isn’t that what you do at home?”

  “Yeah, but only with my shadow. At the club there are at least a hundred dancers.” Then she tells Kinky how Mario asked her today to spend the night with him.

  “So it’s time for you to do the dance with him?” Kinky smiles.

  “Yeah.” Lavinia grins, too shy to talk about the specifics of what she hopes will happen.

  Kinky looks at her, seeming to want to broach another topic, and Lavinia braces herself. After all, Kinky came home to Lavinia being held in her mother’s arms like a baby. “Something on your mind?” she asks.

  “Yeah, so much today. A letter from Sal and an email from his friend, Giovanni.” Lavinia takes a deep breath. “Kinky, my father lives in San Francisco. And he’s a sculptor.”

  Kinky’s face becomes alert. She grabs Lavinia’s arm and pulls her in close to her and says, “Oh shit! It’s George.”

  Lavinia watches her friend’s face go from an open-mouthed gawk to eyes filling to the brim, shining with tears. This brings tears to Lavinia’s eyes, too, but then she breaks it with a laugh. It’s almost too absurd to be true. The stalker, the man who comes to her house at night to drop mail in the slot, the man who for one year has been letting her into his house and observing her through a lens, without telling her she is his daughter, the man who never came for her in all the years she lived with Sal. What in hell possessed him to live such lies? George the liar, the betrayer, the ant who lives around the corner from her, is her father. All the time he knew and she didn’t. It pisses her off.

  Kinky slips her arm through Lavinia’s. Lavinia feels held by her as the bus travels through the downtown traffic.

  The bus drops them on Columbus. They walk the few blocks to the café as the cable car pulls up and stops at Powell. Lavinia freezes.

  “What’s wrong?” Kinky asks.

  “My mother got hit by a trolley.”

  “Oh my God!”

  Lavinia stands in a frozen pose, not moving, until the cable car releases its brakes and rolls down the track away from them. “She died on the tracks.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Kinky says, wrapping her arm around Lavinia, holding her up as Lavinia takes one step forward, and then another.

  After a block of this, just from feeling Kinky’s support and unleashing the feelings she’s been keeping inside of her all day, she feels lighter.

  “There’s a twenty-dollar entrance fee,” Lavinia remembers.

  Kinky pulls out a check from her pocket, her paycheck from San Francisco Unified School District, and waves it around. “Maybe I should deposit this before I lose it.”

  Lavinia feels a little envious, until she remembers the five thousand dollars from Zack. And she’s grateful to have a friend like Kinky—someone who rolls with the punches, who’s not angry with her for forgetting about the fee, who listens and cries and laughs with her.

  They stop at the bank. As Kinky finishes making the deposit, she looks at Lavinia, eyes gleaming. “I get to meet Mario tonight.” She smiles.

  “You’ll love him.” Lavinia increases her pace, pulling Kinky toward the café. “He’s a steady person, not full of himself like Andy. That’s the key for me now.”

  When they reach the café, Mario’s eyes light on Lavinia and he offers a warm smile. He comes up to them and grabs her hand, giving it a little squeeze. Then he looks at Kinky. “You must be Kinky,” he says.

  The two friends look at each other—sizing each other up, it seems to Lavinia. Then she notices that Carmine is there, and Mario introduces him to Kinky. Carmine gives Lavinia a quick smile.

  “Is Kinky your real name?” he asks.

  “Since I was a toddler and my hair started getting long,” Kinky says, pinching her tight curls.

  Carmine smiles and tells them he and Mario have been dancing together once a week for three years. Kinky and Lavinia eye each other, and Lavinia can see that Kinky approves of her new friends.

  They walk the few blocks to the dance hall, Carmine keeping pace with Kinky, talking to her. Lavinia hears Kinky telling him how they went to State together. “And you?” she asks.

  “I work with Mario at the café. He hired me as the late-night staff. He’s the best boss, gives me nights off on Fridays. We met in barista school.”

  “Barista school?” Kinky seems as surprised as Lavinia to hear of such a school, to hear that Mario hired Carmine. Mario catches up to them and listens.

  “From roasting beans to steaming milk,” Carmine says. “We learned to maintain machines, grind coffee in a hundred different ways for our customers. Like an Americano and espresso—they have different principles, different grinds.” Carmine seems proud of himself as he explains, and Lavinia finds this endearing. “We went for advanced training and technique for preparing specialty coffees. I bet you never knew Mario’s specialty is the double espresso and mine is frothing cappuccino.” Carmine looks at Lavinia for the first time since they left the café.

  “I know from experience,” Lavinia pipes in. “Mario makes a mean double espresso.” She winks at him, recalling the one he so lovingly placed in her shivering hands earlier today.

  Now they’re standing in the line, still talking coffee.

  “You forgot to tell her about plant cultivation and fair trade coffees,” Mario urges his friend. “You better get the story out before the music starts.”

  Kinky looks at Lavinia, bends toward her ear, and whispers that she thinks Carmine is nervous. Lavinia considers that he must think Kinky is cute. Who wouldn’t, though?

  They walk up a long, narrow stairway to the anteroom, where they check their coats. Lavinia knows the drill now, and leaves her tuxedo jacket in the cloakroom, exposing a slender-fitting tee. Then they enter a large dancehall. The open space, once a meeting assembly hall with an appointed podium, has now been converted into a dance hall with hardwood floors and high windows. Slow music is playing. Kinky stands close to Lavinia, who moves toward the left corner, across from the DJ. “No talking,” Lavinia mouths silently, making eye contact with Kinky.

  She scans the room, fascinated by all the dancers in various positions. A woman lies on the floor doing back exercises; another curls in infant’s pose; another “salutes the sun.” Others stand by the wall doing yoga stretches or just bobbing. But most, as before, move slowly to the beat, their heads swaying softly on their shoulders and their hands waving. Beside her, a woman slides along the polished floor, doing what looks like slow breakdancing, while another man slices through the emerging crowd with purpose. Lavinia looks toward Kinky, silently wondering what she thinks. Her friend’s expression is blank.

  By the start time, five minutes later, the room is filled to capacity. Some know each other and hug, while others have soft eyes and move alone. Heads bob rhythmically on fluid necks, creating a sea of flowing waves. One man wears what looks like string pajamas and ballet slippers; a woman waltzes through the space with her arms raised above her head, floating a green scarf behind her. The costumes flow like colored banners and start to blend in with the music, an easy sound that flows around them.

  Lavinia and Kinky stay close to each other as Mario and Carmine slowly migrate toward the center, finding their own way. Other dancers ease past them, weaving their own threads. Some dancers move quicker than others; all have their own unique pattern, as if each dance is a signature. Kinky and Lavinia face each other, moving in sync, gently bouncing their hips and arms, admiring all the costumes.

  A woman in harem pants and a corset-like top that laces up her back dances beside Lavinia. Lavinia watches an older women, about eighty, doing intricate yoga poses. But what really stands out to her is the wave she experiences here, an oceanic feeling, as if all the dancers swim in one body of water.

  Awesome. Being in this sea of p
eople making waves, creating swells, makes her feel happy. Between each musical cut, just as last time, there’s a transition where the last rhythm and the new rhythm interact, leaving her with a sense of suspension, like she’s between two poles in a kind of uncertainty. Most of the music is unfamiliar.

  “Consider the air as living space to join us in the dance of the greater space. Have a relationship with this space and dance the dance of life with gratitude,” the DJ says.

  “Kind of new age,” Kinky whispers.

  Lavinia puts her hands over her lips, reminding her to be quiet. The music begins again, and they each dance. Lavinia feels freer to explore the greater space, and she moves around the periphery of the room.

  Mario dances by Lavinia in a serpentine light, his hands above his head, his bare feet grounded. He poses directly in front of Lavinia, and his hips rotate while his arms and hands invite her to join him. As he moves closer to her, she can smell his sweat. She inches toward him, and together they move as if connected by a great vibration.

  The beat is building in a kind of crescendo where together they dance, bounce, gyrate, and sway their waists and torsos, but their eyes always face each other. Lavinia is so engrossed in Mario that she loses track of everyone else. Their two bodies and eyes long for each other. They pause. Then they dance toward the center of the room, where Carmine and Kinky dance wildly, joy in their faces. Lavinia feels laughter in her heart, and when someone hoots and hollers she joins in with her own voice. Joy feels to her a new emotion, precious and free. They play, splashing and diving into the music, swimming through the space like slithering fish flapping their tails. She hears her fellow dancers’ silent voices sing of love.