Silence Is Golden (7 page)

CHAPTER TEN

I’m in a rotten mood this morning. I get to the bookstore only to find Helga on the computer. Amazing! She usually doesn’t even go near the thing. Sometimes I think she’s afraid that it’s always on the verge of exploding. So what is it that made her overcome her mistrust?

“Emilia! There you are.”

She always greets me like this, as if I’m always late to work, which I never am. She just always gets here early. Maybe she camps out in the closet or something.

“You’ve got to help me use this thing,” she says firmly.

“Sure, Helga, that’s what I’m here for,” I say, taking off my coat. “But may I ask—what made you decide to use it?”

She presses her lips together, perhaps deciding how much to reveal to me.

“I want to expand my horizons,” she finally replies, almost whispering. “Paul—er—Mr. Moser,” she corrects, blushing, “showed me something on his office computer, a type of online place where people talk to each other, only they write instead of speaking . . .”

“A forum?” I offer.

“Yes! A forum for booksellers. I want to do that.”

I’m shocked. The things we do for love.

I hide a smile and sit down next to her. The only thing she knows is how to push the power button. I try to be patient as I start to explain.

After what seems like hundreds of failed explanations, it’s time for lunch. I grab my coat and head over to Emma’s. I’m grateful for the rush of cold air as I step into the street, and I empty all thoughts of the Internet, computer mice, and user accounts from my mind. I turn the corner just before the flower shop, and Aris appears out of nowhere. I start in surprise.

“Damn it! You scared me,” I exclaim. This time, my heart isn’t just pounding because of him. He seems mortified, and I immediately backpedal. “I’m sorry,” I add. “I was lost in thought, and you came out of nowhere—”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you always so quiet?”

He shrugs without answering and holds out a package.

“Is this for me?”

He nods and gestures for me to open it. I do so, and find myself clutching a tattered copy of
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce. I look up at Aris, and this time it’s my turn to be silent.

“I wanted to help you fill your new bookshelf. Have you read it?” he asks.

I shake my head and open the cover. There’s a dedication inside that reads “To Tommaso. Never forget,” and it’s signed “Adele.” I gaze at him questioningly.

“It was given to my father when he was my age, and he gave it to me before he died. He always said that he didn’t fully understand it, but that he really liked it and wanted me to read it.”

I’m shocked. I can’t believe he’s giving me something that belongs to him, and I can’t believe what he’s just said to me. It’s as if he’s stolen my words, because I can’t find any to say.

“I hope you’ll enjoy it,” he adds, turning to leave.

I finally find my voice after he’s taken a few steps. “Aris.”

He stops and looks at me without moving.

“I can’t accept this. It’s yours. Your father gave this to you.”

He shrugs, smiling. This drives me crazy, and I run up to him. His smile fades, and he seems almost scared of me.

“You can’t always do that,” I say, almost shouting. “Speak to me. Tell me why you want me to have this. It must mean a lot to you. Why are you giving it to me?”

He stares at the ground, looking trapped. He finally lifts his head. “Just read it.”

And then he’s gone.

I return to the bookstore later that afternoon and find a note from Helga, saying that she went to see Mr. Moser at the school and that she’ll see me tomorrow. Incredible! In the few months I’ve been working here, this is the first time that Helga has left me alone for a whole afternoon! I savor the pleasure of being alone, without her pointed gaze following me everywhere, although I must admit I’m almost fond of her by now. I bet we’ll have more customers without her scowl around. I position myself at the computer and fire it up to resume my previous day’s work on the catalog. I glance at my bag and resist the temptation to pull out Aris’s book. Once I’d gotten past my irritation at his behavior, I’d felt happy. This gift was an unexpected gesture, and I’m praying that it means my feelings are reciprocated and that our wires aren’t crossed. With Aris, however, nothing is ever certain. It wouldn’t surprise me if he tells me tomorrow that he really just intended for me to read the book and nothing more.

Then I remember that his father passed away. I wonder when and how old he was. And who was Adele? That’s a French name. Maybe she’s one of his father’s old flames? I can’t imagine I’ll ever find out. Or maybe Aris will end up telling me the whole story someday, as casually as if he’s talking about the weather. What I do know is that if I ask him directly, he’ll never say anything. At least I know that much now: he only does what he wants, when he wants. Or maybe he just does what he can.

Later I decide that I’m done working on the catalog. After this morning’s computer tutorial with Helga, I’m sick of staring at the computer screen. With only a twinge of guilt, I pull Aris’s book from my bag. Will reading it tell me more about him? Will it help me to understand him better? I don’t know. I just know that I have to try. After rereading the dedication, I’m about to turn to the first page when someone enters the store.

“Good afternoon, Emilia.”

“Hello, Mr. Ferrari.”

What the hell is he doing here?

“Didn’t we agree that you’d call me Marcello?” he replies, grinning as if he won the lottery. I quickly put the book away and step in front of the counter.

“Yes, of course. How can I help you, Marcello?”

“I wanted to apologize to you about yesterday.”

“I really should be the one to apologize,” I admit.

“Oh, no. It was my fault. See, Mr. Moser told me about you, that you were beautiful and kind, and so I wanted to meet you. My question about books by authors from Abruzzo was just an excuse to talk to you, I confess.”

“It did seem strange that you wanted information you must know that you could probably get from the Internet.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking down. “I should have been honest from the start. How can I make it up to you?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. It was my fault too.”

“So . . . friends?”

“Sure.”

“Then how about a nice cup of tea at the corner café? To celebrate our new friendship.”

Frankly, I find him even more boring than Mr. Moser, but I can’t be a jerk after he was so honest with me, especially after he apologized.

“Actually, Helga’s not here today, so I can’t really leave the store.”

“Ah yes, I saw her at school earlier. Perhaps you could just leave a note on the door. We won’t be gone longer than fifteen minutes, I promise.”

I agree and quickly scrawl a couple of lines on some paper, then tape it on the door. It shouldn’t be a problem; the bookstore isn’t exactly Bren’s most popular spot.

As we make our way to the café, Marcello talks nonstop. I suddenly feel a yearning for Aris’s silence.

“I started to reread Ovid’s lyrics. It’s been years since I’ve read them. They’re so beautiful and full of poetry.”

Well, duh, they’re poems. And what did he call them? Lyrics? This guy is such an airhead.

We enter the café and sit at a table. A waitress immediately greets us. I order a jasmine tea and Marcello orders a coffee.

“Coffee? Didn’t we come here for tea?” I ask.

“Actually, I can’t stand tea.”

“I couldn’t do without it. And I love the ritual of it. The kettle, the teapot, the teacups . . . And I love croissants and cookies—”

“I don’t eat sweets,” he replies.

Oh, my. How sad. I look down at the cup of tea that’s just been placed before me, and I pour in milk and sugar.

“Damn, if you always take your tea like that, you won’t stay skinny much longer,” Marcello comments.

A comparison between Aris and him pops into my head. Aris had said, “You like it sweet,” in his low, kind, nonjudgmental voice. What am I doing here with this asshole?

I’m still aware of him sitting next to me, blathering on about lessons, students, and other teachers, but I’m not really listening until I hear him say “Emma.” At that, I look up and ask him apologetically to repeat what he’s just said.

“I said that Emma, the florist, should pay more attention to her daughter’s behavior. She acts like her daughter’s beyond reproach, but I’ve heard that the girl’s been around . . .”

“Nonsense!” I reply in disgust. “That’s just cruel gossip. I know both of them, and Giorgia is simply a girl whose head is filled with romantic ideas.”

“Sorry, but haven’t you only been here for a few months? How can you be so sure?”

“I’m a good judge of character,” I say, feeling my anger grow.

“Seriously?” he replies sarcastically. “Aren’t you a little presumptuous, eh?”

“Better to be presumptuous than be a petty gossip like you!” I blurt out, abruptly rising and bumping the table in my haste. Marcello’s cup of coffee spills on his pants, and he cries out.

“Ah! It burns!”

As the waitress rushes over, I flee.

As I walk toward the bookstore, I see Aris far ahead of me. Damn it, he must have read my note. He wouldn’t be able to hear me even if I screamed his name, which wouldn’t be appropriate anyway. I watch him disappear down the road, and for a brief second, I imagine running and catching up to him, hugging him, asking him to come to my house, to stay with me, to hold me. Tears prick my eyes in a wave of self-pity. Then I remember the book he gave me, and I immediately calm down. Once I’ve returned to the bookstore, I sit behind the counter, pull the book from my bag, and begin to read.

I keep checking behind me on my way home that night, hoping Aris is following me, but I don’t see him and I don’t hear the sound of other footsteps. Since I’m not hungry, I take a hot bath and then settle into the chair in front of the woodstove to read. I fall asleep there around two in the morning. As a result, I don’t hear my alarm go off to get me up for work, because it’s on the nightstand next to my bed.

I skip breakfast and get dressed quickly so I’m not late to the bookstore. As I rush out the door, I fling it open wide, and a letter flies out. It must have been tucked between the door and the jamb. It’s addressed to me, but I don’t have time to open it, so I stick it in my bag and run. Somehow I manage to arrive at the same time as Helga, who’s just getting in.

“Emilia, what’s wrong? Is the devil after you?”

“No,” I say anxiously. “It’s just that I didn’t hear my alarm this morning, and I was afraid of being late.”

“Oh, well, that wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

Okay, what’s happened? Have aliens kidnapped the Helga I know and replaced her with a clone?

We enter the store together and take off our coats. I go sit behind the counter, expecting her to disappear in the back room as she often does. Instead, she lingers in front of me, a dreamy expression on her face.

“Have you ever really wanted to do something, even though you know that it might not be entirely appropriate? And so you decide not to do it, but you still want to?”

Oh, geez. Her infatuation with Mr. Moser must be more serious than I thought. Before I can answer, she continues, not looking at me as she speaks.

“It’s one of those things you know you shouldn’t do, but just thinking about it makes you feel so happy that in the end, not doing it makes you feel terrible. You know?”

“Well, yeah, that happens sometimes,” I answer.

“So what do you end up doing?”

“Usually I go for it,” I reply. “I much prefer remorse to regret.”

She stares at me as though I’ve just said something inconceivable, but quickly recovers her normal expression of self-importance.

“I’m afraid you won’t get very far in life with that attitude, my dear.”

After she’s disappeared into the back room, I think to myself that she’s definitely right.

As usual, I run over to Emma’s at noon. She’s preparing flowers for a wedding. We have so much to do that we don’t even have time to grab lunch before I’m due back at the bookstore at three o’clock, and I rush back and pick up where I left off this morning with the book catalog. We’ve received a lot of new volumes, and while I’m glad that Helga has decided to stock some good contemporary authors, there’s a ton of work to do. Most of it can only be done on the computer, so it all falls to me. At five o’clock I start to feel pangs of hunger. I skipped breakfast and lunch, and if I don’t eat something soon, I’m afraid I’ll pass out. I dare to ask Helga for a quick break so that I can grab something at the café. She’s so wrapped up in her thoughts that my question barely seems to register with her, but she tells me to go ahead.

Seizing the opportunity, I grab my coat and bag and head over to the café. I order some tea and a slice of pecan pie to go. When I open my bag to pay the bill, I come across the letter I received this morning. I’d forgotten about it in all of today’s chaos. Inside the envelope is a sheet of paper, folded four times. I unfold it to see one of Aris’s drawings, this time, of a desk. It’s strange and beautiful, like all his creations. A note written on the back of the drawing says
“Meet me at my shop when you can?”
There’s no signature, but there’s no need for one. Now the butterflies in my stomach have nothing to do with hunger, which I’ve forgotten completely. I head back to the bookstore, where I drink my tea without tasting it and nibble at the slice of pie, throwing most of it in the trash. I stare at the clock, willing its hands to turn faster. As soon as it strikes six, I grab my coat, bid Helga good night without waiting for a response, and make my way to Aris’s.

I don’t go in his shop right away, but instead I stop at the window and look inside. The idea of coming face-to-face with Dora again doesn’t even bother me. I catch a glimpse of Aris shaping a piece of wood with some sort of tool. I allow myself a minute just to look at him. He’s alarmingly thin, but I think he’s perfect. Once again, as if he felt me watching him, he turns suddenly. He sees me and smiles, and I feel dizzy. I push open the door with a clang, and he walks over to meet me. He holds out both hands, and I take them in mine.