The Purple Room (18 page)

“How do you do
that?” she asks.

“Come on, I’ll
teach you.”

Gloria shows
her how to do it. Michela puts her hands on her hips and tries to imitate her.
They dance together, without music, trying not to laugh. It’s not long before
they both burst out giggling like schoolgirls.

“If you feel
so young,” Gloria says, “you should take your daughter out dancing. She’s
good.”

“I didn’t mean
that I feel like I’m still sixteen,” I try to explain. “It’s just that the
things that I felt back then haven’t changed. They have a value
that––”

I don’t get a
chance to finish. Lucky, asleep under my chair, suddenly jumps up and starts
barking. We hear the sound of an engine and, a moment later, the headlights of a
jeep appear.

“Ettore’s here!”

Gloria picks
up the flashlight and goes to meet the newcomer. I sensed an eagerness in her
when she rose. Maybe it was relief at not having to go on listening to me wax
lyrical about the past. When she comes back, she’s with a slender man of about
fifty, with a carefully trimmed beard and an impeccable linen shirt. He’s
carrying a couple of bottles.

“A good
evening to you all,” he says, smiling. “How are you, Mrs. Decesaris?”

Gloria’s
mother murmurs a barely audible, “Fine.”

Gloria makes
the introductions. “Ettore Barbieri, this is Sergio…” she hesitates. “I’m
sorry, I don’t remember your last name.”

“Monti. Sergio
Monti.”

“That’s right.
And this is Michela.”

“Sorry to
interrupt your dinner,” says Ettore. “I just passed by to bring you the wine.”

“You came at
the right time,” says Gloria. “Sit with us.”

We make space
for him at the table. Gloria adds a plate. Ettore opens a bottle and fills the
glasses. He’s gallant and velvety, just like his Chianti.

“Ettore is the
owner of the agritourism hotel,” Gloria explains. “We’ve known each other ever
since I moved here.” She turns to him. “Do you have a room for Sergio and
Michela?”

“We’re almost
full, but there’s a room for one night. It’s got two single beds.”

“That will be
perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”

Ettore is
looking at me like he’s wondering where I popped up from.

“Sergio and I
went to high school together,” says Gloria. “We haven’t seen each other in
thirty years.”

He keeps
studying me. He seems like the kind of man who keeps two dueling pistols in his
closet. Could be he’s thinking about dusting them off.

“Then this
calls for a toast,” he says, raising his glass. “To the past returning. How
about that?”

Gloria bursts
out laughing. I don’t see what’s so funny, but Gloria’s splitting her sides.
Ettore, Michela and even Mrs. Decesaris join in. The old woman’s crooked laugh
only shows half of her teeth.

After the
toast we go back to eating, but I’ve lost my appetite. Now it’s Gloria’s turn
to ask Michela a bunch of questions. She wants to know everything about her.
Her friends, school, the music she likes. About me—about us—nothing
more is said. Ettore is watching Gloria, a warm smile on his face. Every now
and then he shoots a glance my way, makes a comment about the wine, about the
heat and the rain that everyone is waiting for, then his eyes go back to rest
on Gloria. There’s something protective in his gaze, and in the way he pours
her wine, too. The knots in my stomach aren’t going away. Instead, they’re
getting worse. Just as Gloria only has eyes for Michela, and Ettore only for
Gloria, Mrs. Decesaris never stops staring at me. It’s like she’s boring a hole
in my forehead. I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s like the old woman wants to
tell me, “
We know why you’re here. We
know what you want to do, but we won’t let you.
”

I get up from
the table with the excuse of making a phone call. I cross the garden and go all
the way to the edge of the hill. The valley below me is dark and silent. I’d
like to climb down there and get lost into the undergrowth. I wish I had claws
and fangs, thick fur and a hole in the ground where no one could find me. I
wish I were some nocturnal creature, hunting because I’m hungry, hiding when
I’m afraid, searching in the darkness for the scent of another animal like me,
driven by a mysterious force that I would obey without compromise. Instead, I
have to be here, forced to act like a human being. Stuffed with food to the
point of nausea. Terrified of myself. Searching for a fellow human being who
doesn’t exist anymore, and maybe never did.

I turn on my
phone and make a call to justify leaving the table.

“Hi, Roberto. How’s
it going?”

“Where on
Earth are you? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.”

“I’m at an
agritourism place,” I say. “Is everything all right there at home?”

“I’m not at
your place anymore. We’re at a restaurant on the lake, Loredana and I. We met
up to talk. We’re fine now. We’re thinking about... Well, you
know––of trying out this baby idea.”

I tell him I’m
happy for them.

“What about
you? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Me? Why?”

“The police
came and woke me up this morning. They were looking for you and Michela. I told
them I had no idea where you were. It took quite a while to convince them that
I really didn’t know. What’s going on, Sergio?”

Alessandra.
She actually called the cops on me. My first impulse is to call her right away
and tell her what I think of her, but I don’t want to make a scene in front of
Michela.

“It’s just
something between me and Alessandra. Don’t worry about it. Enjoy your evening
and say ‘hello’ to Loredana for me.”

After the
call, I stand there in the dark, watching them sitting around the table under
the trellis. Ettore is telling Michela something and she’s listening with bated
breath. Mrs. Decesaris’ head has fallen back and her mouth is open. She’s
fallen asleep. Gloria’s in the kitchen, doing the dishes. I can see her through
the doorway. She’s leaning against the sink, washing the pan with slow circular
movements. Her eyes are fixed on the stream of water coming out of the faucet.
The fluorescent light bleaches the skin on her neck, but her face is hidden in
gray shadow. It makes her look like one of those solitary women in a Hopper
painting. The seconds go by, but Gloria keeps running the sponge around in the
pan. She makes no sign of stopping, even if the pan is clean and more than
well-scrubbed. I’d like to know what she’s thinking about.

Lucky comes over
and sniffs at my shoes. The dog looks up at me and whines, as if it wants to
tell me something.

“What do you
want?”

It sneezes,
shuffles its paws and whines again.

“I can’t
understand you. You’re only a stupid dog.”

I put out my
hand so it can lick my
frittata
-scented
fingers.

Michela’s
excited voice calls out, “Dad! Come and listen to this!”

I return to
the table, trying to put on a smile. “What’s up, Micky?”

“Ettore says
there are some caves haunted by the spirits of the Etruscans! And there’s a
hidden treasure, too! Is it really true?”

“Well, it
could be,” Ettore says. He goes on to tell us how, the year before, an Etruscan
tomb had been discovered, dug deep into the tufa stone on his property. A cave
with a tunnel and underground passages, many of which have never been explored.
To hear him tell it, he still hasn’t been able to find anyone willing to go in
there, even though there might be some very valuable artifacts.

“When you go
into the cave you feel a breath of air, a strange wind that takes your breath
away. Some say they’ve heard voices… Not that I believe such things, but I do
know that the Etruscans filled their tombs with booby traps, to stop them from
being plundered.”

“He says he’ll
take us to see them,” Michela chimes in. “We can go in the morning, right?”

“I don’t think
so, Micky. We have to go back to Rome.”

Michela’s
disappointed. Gloria, who has been following the conversation from the kitchen,
comes outside to console her. She strokes her hair tenderly.

“Maybe you
could visit the caves, and then leave,” she says, looking at me. “A couple of
hours won’t make much difference, will they?”

“Come on, Dad!
Please?”

“All right,” I
say in the end. “We’ll visit these Etruscan caves, but afterwards it’s back to
Rome. Agreed?”

“I promise.”

Gloria
whispers something in her mother’s ear. The old woman wakes up with a start and
looks around, lost.

“I have to
take her to bed,” says Gloria. “Will you excuse me?”

We agree that
tomorrow, after our visit to the caves, we’ll stop by to say our goodbyes.

“I’ll show you
the way to the agritourism,” says Ettore. He gives Gloria a kiss on the cheek and
makes his way towards his jeep. Michela and Lucky follow him.

Gloria and I
are left alone. There’s just enough time for a quick goodbye.

“I like your
daughter a lot,” Gloria says. “It’s been a nice evening.”

“It’s been
nice for me too, seeing you again.”

“A little
strange, maybe.”

“Yes. A little
strange,” I admit.

“Good night,
Sergio.” Gloria leans forward and brushes my cheek with her lips. After thirty
years, I feel her soft mouth again, smell the scent of her hair. I close my
eyes and ask myself whether it would be so hard to be happy again. Everything
we need is here, within reach. All we have to do is reach out and grasp it.
Could I be wrong?

“Gloria,” I
say, in a low voice, “I have to ask you something very important.”

“What is it?”

“Do you ever
think back to that afternoon we spent together, in your purple room?”

Gloria looks
at me, confused. “What purple room?”

“Your bedroom.
The one in your house in Pantigliate. Do you remember how the walls were
painted purple? The curtains were purple, the lamp, the pillows... Don’t you
remember?”

“Of course I
remember my room in Pantigliate. I shared it with my sister. But you’re
mistaken. It wasn’t purple. It couldn’t have been. Purple is a color I’ve never
liked. I’ve never had a purple room in my life.”

20

I clung to the
steering wheel and followed the tail lights of Ettore’s jeep. I felt like I was
swerving out of control. I was afraid I’d veer off the road and end up at the
bottom of the escarpment. I was this close to asking Michela to get out and
ride with Ettore, but she was so calm, as if there were nothing strange about the
way I was driving. The idea that I was just imagining things frightened me even
more.

When I got out
of the car, I suddenly felt so dizzy that I had to lean on the hood.

“What’s wrong,
Dad? Don’t you feel well?”

“It’s nothing,
just a little too much wine.”

Ettore took us
to our room and gave us the keys.

“So, tomorrow
morning we’re off to the caves?” he asked, cheerful.

I tried to say
I didn’t feel like it at all, but Michela was so happy that I couldn’t
disappoint her. Ettore’s said he’s going to wake us at eight.

Hurray. I
can’t wait.

I rinse my
face, put on a clean T-shirt and slip between the cool sheets. Michela has
pulled out the first volume of Proust and is sitting cross-legged on the bed,
reading. Lucky is curled up, dozing at her feet. I wonder how far into the book
she’ll get before she puts it aside.

“How’s the
book?”

“Not bad.
There are a few things that remind me of when I was little.”

“Like what?”

“Did you
always come to give me a goodnight kiss?”

“Yes, of
course.”

“Always,
always? Or did you forget sometimes?”

“Sometimes your
mother would give it to you for me. Why?”

Michela
shrugs. She reads another page, then, “What was my first word?”

I think about
that for quite a while. “Maybe it was ‘Mamma,’ like most children, but I’m not
really sure.”

“And when did
I start walking? I mean, how did it happen?”

“I can’t
remember, Micky. It was so long ago, but I’m sure your mother knows.”

“Jeez! You
don’t remember anything! Do you at least know how you decided to have me? Whose
idea was it?”

“We decided
together.”

“Sure, but who
thought of it first? You or Mom?”

“It happened
when we went to Milan for my father’s funeral. We were both in the bathroom, in
your grandparents’ flat. We were getting ready for bed. Your mother wanted to
brush her teeth, but in the rush to leave, we’d forgotten the toothpaste.”

“You decided
to have a baby while you were brushing your teeth?”

“Well, sort
of. I was looking for some toothpaste on a shelf full of jars and creams. You
know how your grandmother never throws anything away. I found this half-empty
tube of aftershave cream. My father used to put it on his cheeks after he
shaved. To me, that smell had always been his smell. Seeing that tube, I
remembered one time I hurt myself falling off my bike. I must have been about
six or seven. I’d hit my chin on the handlebars. I ran inside crying and found
my father shaving. ‘Don’t cry Sergio,’ he said. ‘This magic cream will make it
all go away.’ He took his aftershave cream and rubbed it under my chin. Whether
it was the thrill of having his cream on my face, or the fact that the bump
hadn’t been that hard, I don’t know, but the pain went away that very instant.
I ran back outside to play and I didn’t think about it again. It was right
then, at that moment, with my father’s tube of cream in my hand, that I suddenly
wished for a child of my own. I asked your mother if she wanted one, too, and
she said yes.”

I wait,
expecting Michela to laugh or say something sarcastic. Instead, she just sits
there in silence, stroking the sleeping Lucky.

“Tell me
something else,” she says, “something else about when I was little. Something
that only you know about, though. Something you’ve never told anyone, not even
Mom.”

I’m about to
tell her that I can’t think of anything. That it’s late, that it’s time to
sleep. But that would be a lie, and I don’t lie to Michela
anymore––even though I’m terribly ashamed to tell her this.

“When you were
ten or eleven months old, you cried all the time. You kept us awake with your
screams. You had such a powerful voice, it was ear-splitting. Your mother and I
took turns trying to get you to sleep. I had the second half of the night,
because I went to work later. Usually I was very patient. I’d hold you, walking
back and forth for hours. But there was this one night, I don’t know why, I had
this temptation to throw you out the window.”

“What? You’re
joking!”

“It’s true,
unfortunately. I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d sung all the lullabies I knew.
It was almost dawn and I could hardly stand up, but as soon as I sat down, or
put you in your crib, you’d start screaming again. I was a nervous wreck, so, I
opened the window and held you out over the windowsill. ‘Do you want to see
what’s like to fly?’ I yelled, louder than you.”

“Dad, do you
hear what you’re saying?”

“Wait until you
have children of your own. Then we’ll talk about it again.”

“Then what
happened?”

“You started
laughing. Maybe you thought it was a game, I don’t know, but you were laughing.
I closed the window and swung you around in my arms, saying ‘Fly, fly, fly.’
Then I kept walking and singing songs until you fell asleep. I remember you
closed your eyes, little by little. I put you to bed. A moment later, I saw the
sun come up.”

Michela gets
off the bed, indignant. “You’re a monster, Dad. It would have been better if
you hadn’t told me anything.”

She gets her
pajamas out of her backpack, goes into the bathroom to change, then comes back
to her bed. We turn off the lights without saying goodnight. After just a few
minutes, I hear her breathing become steady.

I can’t sleep.
Up until now I’ve avoided thinking about what Gloria said. Now that I’m alone,
in the dark, I can’t help but wonder how I could have been so wrong. Gloria’s
room was never purple, she says. Does that mean I imagined it that color? That
for all these years I’ve preserved a false recollection? Or else, maybe, when I
woke up in that hospital bed, without realizing it I altered my memory of that
room. Maybe I overlaid it with the image of another room I’ve been in, or one
of the thousands of images I’ve used for my work.

These thoughts
alone are enough to make my headache come back, but there’s something else, too.
As long as it’s just the color of Gloria’s room that’s been called into
question, it’s not the end of the world. Whether the walls were purple, blue or
Pompeian red, it doesn’t make much difference. The fundamental thing is what
happened in that bedroom. The happiness I experienced there with Gloria is the
only thing that counts. However, if I could be wrong about the color of her
room, which I was so sure about, if I just imagined that it was purple,
couldn’t it be possible that I’m mistaken about the rest, too? For instance,
did I only imagine Gloria pulling the pencil out of her hair, so that it fell down
over her shoulders? Maybe it didn’t happen like that at all. Maybe her hair was
already down. It could be that we didn’t get completely undressed. Perhaps we
weren’t even lying on the bed. Maybe Gloria never leaned out of the window to
close the shutters. At this rate, why rule out the possibility that I invented
that entire afternoon in her room? Maybe I never went to her place at all.
After all, what proof do I have that it ever really happened? Who can say that
I didn’t just dream it? The only person who could erase all my doubts is
Gloria, but it was she who told me there never was a purple room. Isn’t this
proof in itself that my memory has played a terrible trick on me?

I get up to
open the window. Outside, it’s almost daybreak. Without making a noise, I put
my clothes back on. Lucky wakes up and comes over, tail wagging. The dog’s
convinced we’re going somewhere. I make it lie down and I leave the room.

The morning
air is crisp and clear. There’s no one around. I walk out onto the lawn,
breathing deeply. I go as far as the swimming pool. The water is a still blue
mirror, reflecting the dark hills. I think I’ll go for a swim. I’m all alone, I
could even do it without swim trunks. I put my hand in to feel the temperature.
It’s colder than I expected. I realize that, since the accident, I haven’t gone
swimming once. I don’t really want to at all. I get a deckchair and sit down to
watch the sky grow lighter. After ten minutes a tall blond man of about forty
shows up. He’s wearing a bathrobe.

“Good
morning,” he says with a heavy accent. He must be Dutch.

He takes off
his robe and dives into the water without batting an eye. He does about ten
laps, as rhythmic as a pendulum, then turns over and floats on his back. After
a while, two kids arrive, just as blond and slim. They slip into the water and
start playing quietly with their father, no splashing. Last of all, the mother
arrives. She’s wearing a one piece bathing suit and a swimming cap. Long legs,
straight back. She looks like an Olympic swimmer. She offers me a polite,
dazzling smile, then dives in and swims over to her husband and children.
They’re as beautiful as a family of swans.

I open my eyes
suddenly. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep. I’m covered in sweat. The sun
is high and it’s burning my face. The Dutch family is sitting under an
umbrella, chatting in English with another foreign couple. The children are
taking turns rubbing sunscreen on each other’s backs.

I get up and
stagger back towards our room. As I’m crossing the lawn, I see Michela striding
back from the road. Lucky is trotting along behind her.

“Where the
hell have you been?” she says when she gets up to me. “I’ve been looking for
you for an hour!”

“I fell asleep
by the pool. What time is it?”

“It’s ten
o’clock. You have to take me straight to Siena. I want to catch the train to Rome.”

“Why the
train? We said we’d go back together.”

“I’m going
back by myself. You have to stay here.”

“Why?”

“What do you
mean, why? Have you forgotten about Gloria? What did you come this far for?”

“I’ve been
wondering that myself.”

“Fine, that’s
your problem. I want to leave now.”

“Would you
explain why you’re in such a hurry? Did you talk to your mother?”

“Yes… She
wants me to go home.”

“Micky, is
that true or are you only saying it to persuade me?”

Michela looks
elsewhere and doesn’t answer.

“All right, we
can’t always tell the truth, but every now and again maybe...”

Michela puffs
out her cheeks and plants her hands on her hips. “Daniel called me, okay?”

“Ah,” I say,
“and?”

“He saw the
photos I sent him yesterday and… I don’t know. He said something clicked.”

“Sure, okay.
And then?”

“He said he’s
sorry for the things he said and he didn’t leave for Paris. He missed the
flight on purpose. He says he doesn’t want to go without me.”

“Micky, you’re
a smart girl. You don’t need me to tell you that that boy is a––”

“I know,” she
interrupts, “I’ve been thinking about that, too. I’ve been thinking it over for
an hour. I’ve made up my mind. It’s up to me now. So are you going to give me a
ride or do I have to hitchhike?”

We stand there
staring at each other for a full minute, Michela and I. Her question is hanging
in the air between us. She doesn’t look away. Her eyes are full of such
certainty. I wonder if I ever had that at her age or, for that matter, in my
whole life.

“Get your
stuff,” I say. “I’ll take you to the station.”

The train for
Rome is leaving in just a few minutes. We race to get to the platform. Lucky is
frightened, surrounded by so many people. The dog plants its paws and I have to
drag it along by the leash. I finally lift it up and carry it as far as the
train.

“Do you think
the two of you will be all right?” Michela asks as she’s boarding the train. I
don’t know whether she’s more worried about me or the dog. Or about the dog
with
me.

“Lucky and I
have learned to get along well. Right, Lucky?” The dog wags its tail and tries
to lick me on the mouth. I put it down. “How about you? Are you sure about
this?”

“No, I’m not.
So don’t you go making me second guess myself, okay?”

Michela starts
to get on, then she remembers something else she wants to say. “Look, you don’t
have to worry about Ettore. He likes Gloria, but to her he’s just a friend.”

“How do you
know that?”

“He’s not her
type. Too skinny. Too neat and clean.”

“And that
makes me what, a fat slob?”

“Cut it out,
Dad. You know as well as I do that Gloria’s single. It’s obvious. But that
doesn’t mean you can expect to arrive here after thirty years and hope she’s
still crazy about you. You have to take some initiative!”