The Purple Room (16 page)

The dog is
dying to get out of the car. I feel the same way. I get out to check the
damage. There’s nothing serious, except for the fact that the front wheels have
ended up in an irrigation ditch.

“I’m sorry,”
says Michela, abashed.

“It’s my
fault. I should have been paying more attention.”

We look
around. There’s not a living soul to be seen. I point out a huge oak tree in
the center of the field.

“Let’s go
where it’s shady.”

Michela takes
off running. Lucky follows at her heels, trying to bite at her shoelaces. They
get to the oak tree and start running circles around it. She’s laughing, while
the dog chases after her, barking. I’ve still got Michela’s phone in my pocket.
I get it out and take a few photos for my files. The beginning of Sergio
Monti’s new life.

“Come on,
Dad.”

We shoot more
photos, hugging each other, cheek to cheek. The dog comes up from behind,
thrusting its moist nose between us.

“Now I’m going
to make someone I know jealous,” Michela says. She selects the picture of
herself at the wheel, smiling, and sends it to Daniel. Just to let him know she
can be happy without him.

“Let’s send
one to your mother too,” I say.

We choose the
one where we’re hugging, pressed close with Lucky licking our cheeks. Michela
attaches a message, “
Woof! Woof!”
and
sends it off to Alessandra. She’ll be more pissed off than ever, but I don’t
give a damn.

“If you see
anyone coming, wake me up,” I tell Michela.

I lie down
under the oak and gaze at the horizon.

Down beyond
those hills somewhere, Gloria still doesn’t know I’m coming, but I feel like
she’s already waiting for me.

18

An hour later,
Michela shakes me. “Dad, wake up. There’s a guy with a tractor.”

A farmer’s
driving down the road, transporting a load of fertilizer. I dash over and stop
him to ask for help. The farmer unhooks his load, takes a strong-looking rope
and attaches it to the car. The tractor takes just moments to pull it out of
the field and put it back on the road. Throughout the operation Michela stands
there watching, holding her nose, disgusted by the smell of manure.

When we start
off again, it’s late afternoon. We pass Siena, and after about six miles we
turn off onto a secondary road that climbs up through the Chianti hills.

“Where are we
going, Dad?”

“A friend of
mine lives around here. I’d like to go and see her.”

“So, she’s not
someone you met in a chat room.”

“No. We went
to high school together. Her name’s Gloria.”

“How boring. I
thought it had all started with a blind date, in some hotel room…”

“Well, it’s
not so different from a blind date,” I say, “I haven’t seen Gloria in thirty
years.”

Michela does
some math. “You met her when you were about my age. Was she your first girlfriend?

“Sort of.”

“Were you in
love with her?”

“I think so.”

“How did you
know it was love?”

“It’s
something you just feel, Micky.”

“How long did
it take you to realize you were in love? To be sure, I mean.”

“I don’t
know,” I say uneasily. “Maybe I was only certain years later, when I thought
about her again.”

“Too late,
then.”

My neck’s damp
with sweat. I didn’t think that having a conversation with my daughter meant
being cornered, interrogated, skinned alive. I get ready for the next question,
expecting a knockout blow. Michela, however, has nothing more to ask. She looks
out the window and sighs.

“Do you think
you’re in love with Daniel?” I ask after a while.

“I don’t know.
I’d like to figure that out.”

“It takes
time. It’s important not to rush into things. When it’s the right moment, the
right person, you’ll realize it by yourself.”

“What do you
mean?”

“Falling in
love for the first time is a priceless experience. You have to think carefully
before taking certain steps.”

“You’re laying
it on pretty thick, Dad.”

“I just want
you to understand that it’ll be a memory you’ll carry around with you for a
long time. It’ll probably influence your future relationships.”

“You mean
that, if you make a mistake, if you make love to someone who isn’t the right
person, you’re screwed for the rest of your life?”

“I don’t mean
that. I’m just asking you to use your head while you’re still in time.”

Michela’s
silent for a moment. Then, without looking at me, she says, “Too late.”

“For what?”

“To have this
talk.”

“Why?”

“Daniel and I
have already done it. All right? Now you know. So stop giving me useless
advice.”

Michela and
Daniel kissing in the car. I think back to that kiss and how much it shocked
me, but they weren’t just two kids making out. They were a man and a woman
taking their leave of each other after making love. It was Michela’s birthday
that day. She’d woken up early, excited about the sunny day and the blue sky.
She’d told lies to both Alessandra and me to carve out a free morning for
herself. I imagine her excitement while she put on her make-up in front of the
mirror, before going out––and then they met. Where? In his room, the
one with the tennis racket hanging on the wall? Or maybe in that ridiculous
microcar, parked on some deserted road.

“Daniel’s been
a real coward,” I say. “He deserves a lesson.”

Michela
rummages around in her backpack and pulls out her earphones. “Don’t worry, I’ve
already told him exactly what I think of him.”

“I’m sorry
Michela. I wish I could do something to make you feel better.”

Michela
doesn’t hear me. She reclines her seat and closes her eyes, the music at full
volume in her ears.

Ahead of us,
the shadows of the cypress trees stretch like fingers down the hillsides.

Montemori is a
small Medieval town with a tower and encircling walls. Access is reserved for
pedestrians. We park the car and walk up the narrow shaded streets. The flower
pots on the windowsills are full of geraniums. Lucky pees on the corner of
every house.

We go into the
only open café to ask for directions. Behind the counter there’s a guy with
long hair. Michela has a Coke with ice. I order a draft beer. Who knows how
many times Gloria has been in here to get something to drink and sat on this
very stool?

I ask the
barman how to get to the suburb called Uliveto-Lesi.

“Take the
gravel road that runs around outside the walls. Go straight for three––three
and a half––miles, then turn left. There’s a sign, ‘I.H. Uliveto.’
I.H. stands for ‘Isolated Houses.’ Keep on driving up the hill. After a couple
more miles, there’s a fork in the road. Right will take you to Lesi. It’s easy
to get to the agritourism place from there. You’ll see the signs.”

He thinks
we’re tourists. I let him believe it and thank him for his help. As we’re
leaving, I notice an oil painting on the wall. A landscape of vineyards at
dusk. The signature on the bottom right reads “G. Decesaris.”

“This must be
Gloria’s,” I say to Michela.

“Is she a
painter?”

“Maybe as a
hobby. I’d say this is the work of an amateur.”

“What does she
do, then?”

“I have no
idea.”

“She must have
told you why she came out here to the middle of nowhere.”

“Actually, I
haven’t spoken to Gloria yet.”

Michela stares
at me in disbelief. “You mean she doesn’t know we’re coming?”

“No.”

“And you’re
going to show up just like that, after thirty years without seeing each other?”

“It’ll be a
surprise, Micky.”

“Uh-huh. You
bet it will.”

We leave the
cafe and head back to the car. We follow the barman’s directions and take the
gravel road. After nearly four miles there’s the intersection with the sign for
Uliveto. We go left and keep on climbing. Every once in a while a pothole
jounces us up and down in our seats. Lucky bumps around the most.

“Where on
earth did your friend go to live?” Michela complains, clinging onto the door
handle.

At the fork in
the road we turn right towards Lesi. We pass by the agritourism place. It’s a
big old stone farmhouse, completely renovated. Green lawns, flower gardens,
outdoor swimming pool. The cars parked outside have English and Dutch license
plates.

“We’re not
going to stop and ask for directions?” asks Michela.

“No.”

The road
narrows as we drive on. The bushes start brushing up against the car.

“Maybe we
should walk from here, Dad.”

We reach a
humble little house. On a blue tile outside the gate is the number five. Gloria
is at number six. We’re very close. I keep driving until the road forks again.

“What now?”
asks Michela.

There’s a
narrow passage to the right. It looks like a path through the woods. To the
left, the gravel road curves. It’s impossible to see what’s beyond.

“This way,” I
say, turning left on instinct.

After the
curve, we find our way blocked by a gate bearing a sign that reads, “Private
property.” It’s a farm equipment depot.

“Great choice,
Dad.”

There’s no
room to turn the car around. I have to back up. The first part is easy, but at
the curve I make a mistake and run into a tree. A tail-light breaks.

Michela throws
me a wry look. “Hey,” she says, “it’s your car.”

“Fine, you
win.”

We leave the
car and walk back to the little house. I ring the door bell. An old woman
appears at the window.

“Who is it?”

“Excuse me,
ma’am, we’re looking for number six.”

 
“Decesaris?”

“Yes.”

“You have to
drive up another half a mile, then you’ll get there.”

“Can we go in
the car?”

“You can, you
can. Just drive very slowly.”

Michela stays
on the road, giving directions while I back up. Once we’re back at the fork, I
manage to get the car pointed the right way. Michela hops in and we start up
the road the old woman told us to take. The trees get thicker and thicker the
further we drive into the woods. After a stretch that seems to go on forever,
we come out on the other side of the hill. The road opens up suddenly. The sun
has gone down behind the hills and the sky is orange. The vineyards laden with
grapes go on as far as the eye can see. It’s the same view as in Gloria’s
painting.

“Why are we
stopping?” asks Michela.

I turn off the
engine and watch the swallows darting through the air. The light is perfect,
but I don’t feel any desire to take photographs. I’d feel like a thief. This
road, these vineyards, even this light and these colors, have been absorbed by
Gloria’s eyes, have remained imprinted on her memory. They belong to her. The
same is true of the rustling of the trees, the smell of dust and grass, the
humidity that sticks to your skin. It’s all Gloria’s. This is her domain.

I start up the
engine again and we drive on, while my stomach knots up like I’m about to enter
into a fight to the death. We arrive at the top of the hill. There’s a Fiat
Panda parked on an open sweep of grass. I stop and we get out.

At the end of
the path stands a solitary house. It’s a little renovated farmhouse, long and
narrow, with two floors. The walls are yellow tufa stone. Along the front of
the house runs a trellised portico with a hammock suspended between its posts.

“You’d have to
go live on a rock in the middle of the sea to be more isolated than this,”
Michela says. She takes hold of Lucky and starts towards the house.

“What are you
doing?” she asks. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Yes, I’m
coming.”

We cross the
garden. The number on the wall of the house is the right one.

“Anyone home?”
I call in a trembling voice.

No one
answers. Lucky starts sniffing around and pees on a pot of flowers.

“Micky, curb
that dog, will you?”

Under the
trellis there’s a table, four chairs, burnt down candles and a few empty
bottles. I take a step back and look up. The upstairs window is dark.

“No one’s
home.”

“The door’s
open, though,” says Michela. “Your friend can’t have gone far.”

It’s true. The
door is wide open, with only a sliding screen to keep the insects out.

I open it.

“What are you
doing?”

“I’m taking a
look around. You wait here.”

“It’s not your
house, Dad.”

“Just a
minute. Warn me if anyone’s coming.”

I enter,
sliding the screen door closed again behind me. On the ground floor there’s the
kitchen and a bathroom. An old repainted table, a gas stove with a refillable
tank attached and a refrigerator. No dishwasher. The walls are bare. On a piece
of paper is a shopping list: milk, bread, soap, sanitary pads. It’s Gloria’s
handwriting. Under the list there’s a doctor’s prescription, but I can’t make
out what medicine it’s for.

I go up to the
second floor, where I find yet another staircase leading to a loft, but I
remain where I am. In the growing darkness I can make out a sofa and an old
armchair facing towards the window. Outside, one strip of light still lingers
in the pink sky, while the hills have already faded into black smudges. I’m
about to sit down and wait for the darkness to become complete, when I notice
something on the chair’s armrest. I squint, trying to figure out what it is.
There’s a central body with long, narrow things sticking out like spokes. They
look like legs. Spider legs. Could it be? I mean, sure, we’re in the
countryside, but I’ve never seen a spider that big. It stays still, motionless,
as if it knows I’m watching it. I think of Silvia, the entomologist. If she
were here, I could ask her for help. Do spiders that big exist in Tuscany?
Tarantulas? Black widows? Whatever it is, I can’t leave it here in Gloria’s
house. There’s a magazine on the sofa. I roll it up and creep slowly forward.
The spider doesn’t move. As soon as I’m near enough, I raise my arm to strike.
I’m about to bring my arm down when I realize my mistake. That thing on the
armrest isn’t a spider. It’s a
hand.
A bony hand, covered in dark spots, stiff as a claw. I’m so shocked that I drop
the magazine.