The Garden of Letters (19 page)

Portofino, Italy

N
OVEMBER
1935

As Angelo prepared to report for duty in Ethiopia, Dalia’s pregnancy was confirmed. She had missed two periods, and terrible bouts of morning sickness soon overtook her. Angelo’s mother brought her simple broths and loaves of bread to soothe her poor stomach, but Dalia could keep none of it down.

She wanted to enjoy as much time as possible with Angelo before he left, but she could hardly walk without vomiting. Pale and exhausted, she spent most of her time in bed. To be close to her, Angelo brought novels to her bedside.

The sound of him reading was still a sweet melody to her. He always kept his hand on top of hers, only taking it away when he needed to turn a page. Sometimes she would close her eyes and try to envision the characters with her and Angelo’s faces. Every romantic kiss depicted was one of theirs. Any mention of a small child evoked images of the baby who grew inside her womb. She imagined being just like the maternal character in a story, tying the strings of the embroidered baptism cap, or cradling the baby in her arms.

She was so grateful to have this educated man who had brought her into the magical world of books.

And now that she could read with great fluidity, the words were no longer an impossible code she could not understand. She had learned so many things she never knew existed through the novels he brought to her bedside.

She particularly adored the latest serialized novels in
libri gialli
, which introduced her to the first translations of authors from abroad, their stories exposing her to entirely different landscapes beyond her small fishing village.

“You will never be lonely with a book at your side,” he told her as he tucked his blooming wife into bed. From the collar of her nightdress, her breasts, now slightly swollen, peeked through. He had to do everything in his power to control himself, as he knew how fragile she was in the early weeks of pregnancy.

“Limonina
,” he whispered to her. “I think we’ve had enough reading today. Why don’t you try and get some sleep?” He took his hand away from hers and placed both of his palms on her belly. She wasn’t far enough along for him to feel even a soft bump let alone a kick, but just the thought of their baby growing inside her warmed his entire body.

“I’m going to miss you beyond words,” she said, tears filling her eyes.

“I will write you every day, just as I did when I was in medical school. Did I break my promise then?”

“No,” she said. “You sometimes wrote me twice a day, didn’t you?” A small smile found its way to her lips and she giggled.

“Yes, so now that you’re my wife, I will probably write you three times a day!”

“I can paper our bedroom with your letters,” she said wistfully.

He had no idea that she would take this sentence to heart. That would come much later, only after he had returned.

Angelo left for Ethiopia the following week with little more than an army bag and his doctor’s kit. In the latter, which he had purchased just out of medical school, he carried two sets of scissors, a roll of tape, a stethoscope, and a small hammer. He knew the doctors would be given more supplies once they set up camp, but he felt he needed to carry this bag with him to give him greater credibility with the soldiers.

Dalia had promised herself she wouldn’t cry when Angelo left. But seeing him standing there in his army uniform, grinning at her, tore her apart. And even though she was still weak from the morning sickness, she took all the energy she had inside of her and ran to embrace him one last time.

When his first letter arrived a few weeks later, she felt as if she had stepped back in time and was still the young girl waiting for a letter to arrive from her love, away at medical school. But now she was a married woman with a child growing inside her, and the letter felt more precious than ever to her. She studied his careful penmanship on the envelope and the colorful stamps from Africa. She took her finger to the strokes of ink and tried to feel his energy coursing through. After a few moments to savor the anticipation, Dalia took the envelope to their bedroom, sat down on the coverlet, and began to read slowly.

My dearest Dalia, my
limonina,

Every day, every hour, I think of you. We have just arrived in Tripoli, and will be moving toward Ethiopia in the next few weeks. I am keeping my spirits up thinking about you and our baby.

I have been keeping busy tending to small wounds, blisters, and infections. The men in my unit are an interesting bunch from all over Italy. My bunkmate, Carlo, also has a pregnant wife. We cross off the days on our calendars to reinforce that we are both one day closer to returning home.

I go to sleep, darling, dreaming of you. I imagine your belly growing bigger every day, and I wish I could place my palm on your skin and feel not just one heart, but two.

I love you.

Angelo

Dalia held the letter in her hands and closed her eyes. She could feel his presence through his words, and the distance between them fell away. In that rare moment of peace, Dalia suddenly knew exactly what she was going to do. She would make her passing remark to Angelo a reality. She stood up and placed the letter on the bed. Then, with newfound energy and a sheer will of determination, Dalia went into the kitchen in search of some flour and water.

The kitchen had many ceramic bowls. Dalia eyed each of them before settling on one no bigger than the size of her palm. With a few deft steps, she made a simple paste out of some flour and water, stirring until the consistency was pliable and sticky. Then with a small pastry brush in hand, she returned to the bedroom.

Dalia knew immediately where in the room she would begin. She kneeled on the mattress, and there just above her nightlight, pressed Angelo’s letter onto the wall, its back now sticky with glue.

Every day, Dalia waited for a new letter to arrive. When she had finished reading it, she took scissors and carefully cut around the edges to create small, unusual shapes. Sometimes, two or three of them arrived in one day. Each one she cut and then glued, so that eventually, a beautiful vine of love letters grew along her wall.

After several months, she had nearly covered the bedroom walls. She made small bursts of clouds with some of the letters and even a patch of flowers to accompany the vines. But she still left a few distinct pockets within the walls and ceiling, as if these were the moments of breath or heartbeat, that rested between them like two sleeping souls separated by the continents. In these patches of space, she took a brush and dabbed in bits of mica dust from the crushed stones of her village of San Fruttuoso, the one she kept in a jar beside her bed.

The bedroom was her special secret, for Dalia closed its door whenever family came to check in on her. She instead always received visitors on the terrace or in the little dining room near the kitchen.

Dalia was treated like a queen by everyone around her. To all those who gazed upon her, she was a beautiful woman with a life blooming inside her. She was told not to lift anything or strain herself in any way. If she expressed a craving, it was accommodated almost as soon as the mere suggestion of the food came from her lips. If she mentioned a cannoli, there would be an entire tray for her the following morning. If she wanted chicken, it was promptly prepared three different ways for her liking.

The coastal superstitions also applied in full force. No one was allowed to touch her face, for fear it would cause the baby to have an unseemly birthmark on the same place. And an amulet was waved in front of her belly to predict the child’s sex.

She had seen this attentiveness to pregnant women throughout her own childhood. It enabled Dalia to spend the day doing as she pleased. She spent a few minutes each day pasting Angelo’s most recent letter and also enjoyed crocheting with her mother-in-law for the newborn baby’s clothes or helping her with the cooking for the extended family.

Her most cherished part of the day, however, was once she retired to her bedroom for the evening. There she felt as though she were reconnecting with Angelo, even though he was now thousands of miles away. She savored lying on her bed and seeing his words everywhere. She knew if she rolled to her right, she could read his first letter, which was now just above the discussion of his travels and days in the desert. The letters near her headboard talked about a boy who had come to live in the camp and had become a special friend to Angelo. To the left of her bed was a poem he had written, one that never ceased to bring tears to her eyes:

You sleep with life inside you, your brightness illuminated in your eyes.

I dream of your face, your smile, the clasp of your hand.

You are the waters between us, gentle, your own harmonious tide.

I am in the clouds, the wind that kisses you every night

A whisper of breath that hovers just above your sleeping lids.

By the last month of her pregnancy, she had papered all four walls of the room with six months’ worth of Angelo’s words. Dalia looked up at the ceiling and decided to decorate that as well. With her taut stomach now as large as a dome, she slowly made her way onto a ladder and began to glue Angelo’s latest letters on the ceiling. She knew it was dangerous, so she moved as carefully and as slowly as she could. When she had also filled the ceiling, Dalia felt a sense of completion that welled inside her and fed both her own spirit and that of the baby. For all she had to do now was lie in her bed and look to any part of the room and there was Angelo’s love. Written as if it were torn pages from a novel, spread like wings across every inch of their room
.