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Ortigia, Syracuse
We were walking in a white, blinding light...
The sky was blue. Cerulean blue. As in Michelangelo's "Last judgment".
I have always considered it an unreal colour. In my eyes, the sky has always been blue with a lavender tint. And yet, there it is: just like Michelangelo had painted it.
Well, one has to come to Italy to see colour in this light. Tante Liolia... She was right. And I did not understand how light could be different. How could light be different? Fascinated, I used to listen to her telling stories for hours on end. She had a spark in her eyes that seemed to change her age. She straightened her back and then looked around waving her right hand in the air as if she had painted all the characters and landscapes she was describing in thick touches. And she spoke Romanian with a heavy accent - there was no doubt she was Russian - and used to spice her stories with Russian, French, English or Italian words or sentences, translating whenever she sensed I did not understand.
She was right. The light is different. The heat is different. The sea has a different scent...
The heat engulfed us (asta-i de la mine !!!) with veils slowly dancing around us whenever we reached a street heading with both ends to the sea. It smelt of salt. We were close to the end of the island. The white stone on the roofs was scorching and you could feel it intensely irradiating heat, if it was in the sun. In the shade, it was warm and if you touched it hoping to cool yourself, you could feel disappointment slowing down your moves, as if gravitation changed around you... Lungomare... The afternoon breeze seemed to let you breathe more comfortably.
'Shall we go back for a coffee?'
'Yes. And for something to quench our thirst.'
I have turned around to the nearest street.
'Shall we go this way?'
'Yes, any idea?`
'No, but eventually we'll find something.'
We barely made a few steps when, all of a sudden, two small hands grabbed my knees. I look down: two big, black, shiny eyes (as shiny as two olives freshly removed from oil) were staring at me. A little round face, a high, curved forehead, a pug nose and a half-open mouth were waiting to answer back in case I had said something. He was so serious and numb that, for a moment, I did not know what to do. And I burst into laughter. Such a serious tot was holding my leg awaiting - this time intrigued - for me to say or do something. My laughter was not what he expected, I reckon... I can’t resist temptation. I stoop and take him in my arms, making space (for him) between my camera and my backpack. He could not be older than three. He was dark-haired, still got baby cheeks and long lashes that cast a shade on his extremely expressive eyes. He had put his tiny hands on the chest of his pique shirt and was cautiously studying me.
'Where are his parents?'
'I don’t know. I’ve accidentally bumped into him... or he bumped into me, I can’t tell.'
I was laughing, mesmerized by the scrutinizing figure of the child who had accepted me without hesitation.
The street was asleep and deserted. Four or five houses ahead, there was an obtuse angle that could hide a pair of worried parents. I point at the blind spot and ask: 'Mama?'
He looked at the direction I was pointing at and then at me. He tilted his head sideways and whispered: 'Mama!'
'Ok, let's go to mama!'
Radu looked at me, puzzled.
'What are you doing?'
'What am I doing?' Let’s find mama! I just can't leave him alone in Lungomare.'
Ortigia's contour street, Lungomare, was fortified ever since the Spaniards time - or even long before - and the level difference to the sea was considerable (nu stiu daca e corect!)
It did not seem like an area to leave a three year old walk by himself.
Looking at him I said, smiling:
'Let s find mama!'
'Do you think he speaks Romanian?', Radu asked me.
'When you’re only three, it doesn't matter. I’m sure we can understand each other.'
Radu smiled quietly.
'Ok, then. Let s go!'
We reach the last house hiding the rest of the street: there was a cafeteria at the ground floor and in the courtyard of a house elegantly restored. Behind the three tables with white umbrellas aligned at the facade, one could see an incredibly green garden, with grass, fully blossomed oleanders and palm trees. Somehow hidden, there were some more tables protected from sunlight by the same type of umbrellas.
'We've found our coffee place', I tell Radu.
'Mama first, coffee later on.'
A young, tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed man comes to us from the restaurant. His white shirt and bow tie recommend him as the local waiter. He notices the kid in my arms, smiles and then says:
'Where did you run away again? Why do you upset the lady?' He scrutinizes me and asks:
'You’re holding him. How did you manage that? He usually runs away from people. Do you speak Italian?'
'Yes, but I spoke to him in Romanian and we got along perfectly.'
'How come?' He raised his eyebrows in bewilderment which made me look at him attentively.
'I’ve asked him if this is where we can find mama, he answered with another mama, and here we are!'
He frowns in disbelief. He slightly raises his chin and utters in a particular way as if he wanted the child to understand him:
'But he doesn’t speak!'
I smile. I look at the kid, kiss him on the cheek and whisper in Romanian:
'Listen to him, he says you can't speak...'
The kid smiles and stretches his legs as a 'put me down' sign. I carefully obey, spruce up his navy shorts and white pique shirt. On his breast pocket there is a hand-embroidered "A", elegantly arched, in perfect harmony with the colour of his shorts. He runs away, tramping his white shoes and vanishes inside.
'Ado, where are you running to? Did you say thank you to the lady? Come back and apologize!'
'There’s no need to. We got along perfectly. Do you serve coffee?'
'Sure. Please, come in!'
'Can we have it in the garden? It looks exquisite... and there aren't many gardens in the neighbourhood...'
'Of course. Two coffees?'
'Yes, an espresso and an americano, please!'
I look at Radu. He blinks affirmatively. I ask him:
'What table would you prefer?'
'The one with the best view.'
I smiled: we always chose the tables with the best view.
The table at the very end encompassed all the houses in the small square and it was placed in the sea-smelling breeze coming from the garden and continuing through an aisle-wide street. Most probably to the other shore. The warm oleander scent was enveloping us.
'Finding a table in the shade in a garden with natural ventilation! Now, this is what I call luck!'
'Do you think they’ll let me paint here?'
'I don’t know. Shall I ask him?'
'Let s drink our coffee first!'
'Is there anything else you’d fancy? I’m thirsty. I'd fancy some still water with a slice of lemon.'
'Just like young models, huh?'
I laugh and put my camera and backpack on the chair next to me. Radu had already sat down after previously having made the same move. Together, plus our 'luggage', we were occupying a table for four.
'I’m a bit confused. I don’t know exactly where we are.'
'And is it bad?, I say in my habitual ironic tone.
'Noooo..., I was just curious. This garden and the pleasant sensation of comfort it offers intrigue me... It s like a deja-vu. Except for the baroque palace across the street that doesn't allure me at all. But baroque is your passion, so I’m pleased I’ve found something to arouse your interest. I like the terrace though, and look at the superb wrought iron the banister is made of!'
'It doesn’t match the rest. Must be a later addition.'
Coffee was brought on a big, oval tray, once impeccably silvered, next to two already condensed big faceted-crystal glasses filled with cold water. Everything was nicely displayed in front of us, with elegant and studied gestures: china pieces, damask napkins and old silver cutlery - the 'ingredients' to make a perfect serving for a 6 pm coffee. Small cookies were overfilling two oval plates, one on top of the other, held together by a graceful metal structure that ended in a handle made of the same china.
We looked at each other... where were we? It's true, the table tops were made of white marble, but the wrought-iron garden furniture was old, mended, neatly painted. And the cushions were covered in white matador fabric.
Hmm...and yet... The sugar tongs placed over the brownish cubes, the mocha spoons - as my father used to call them - the white, shining china of the cups and plates adorned with almost faded silver rims and monograms...
'I feel like we're visiting distant relatives, discreetly grown poor, treating us with the same elegance and attention as if nothing of their golden age had changed.'
'And you enjoy it!', Radu smiled while attentively watching me put sugar in my cup and stir it without touching the china.
'Last time I saw a table set up as in the 30s was in Guimaraes, Portugal. Do you remember the butter knife?'
We both burst into laughter. Our hosts had placed a butter knife next to the butter dish and we had not even touched the butter. What a disappointment!
The tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee had started to work on me. Curious, I looked at Radu.
'How's the coffee?'
'Very tasty. And the cookies are good as well. Macaroons.'
I started to laugh.
'We re being spoiled!'
The waiter came to us, smiling.
'Everything ok?'
'Sure.'
'Is there anything else you d like to order?'
After a short, inquisitive glance at Radu, I say:
'No, thank you. Maybe another glass of water? With a slice of lemon in it, please!'
'Sure.'
So far, so good, I say to myself. Suspiciously good... What are these people after?! And where’s that cute kid? No more running to and fro?
I started to fidget in my chair and study in detail the small square as well as the garden. Radu had already taken his drawing book and was sketching with rapid but confident moves the baroque palace in front of us.
'Shall I ask them to clean the table and make room for your watercolours?'
'No way. I'm fine. You’ll see.'
He was sketching and every now and then leaned his head to the left, squinted his eyes (de la a miji ochii, zic), looked carefully at the sketch, straightened his head, checked with the image in front of him, tightened his lips a bit and then carried on. I was fascinated by the way he sketched with rapid and confident moves an image I could have never ever drawn. It always seemed a miracle. And it was also fun to watch the multitude of faces he made with respect to the result. He was, one by one, observant, concentrated, critical, annoyed, pensive, introspective, as if he tried to find something in his memory to help him. I would have taken pictures every time his mood changed, but I was afraid I might annoy him, so after fidgeting again in my chair, I opened my 'study materials'; I was reading and making notes on the left-hand pages/opposite pages (pe contrapagina) left blank on purpose. I was trying to imagine how people used to live in this place, what made them happy, what were their skills, what kept them going.
Our glasses were now empty. I'd fancied some more water. I was still thirsty...
'Want some more water?'
'No, thanks, I've had enough.'
'I'd fancy one more glass.'
'Ask for one!'
'I can’t see the waiter.'
'He’ll be here eventually.'
'You know something? I’ll go wash my hands and face. I might bump into him inside. Are you sure you don’t want anything else?'
'I'm fine for now. The macaroons were a manna from heaven.'
I smiled.
'I'm glad you liked them.'
I stood up cautiously, trying not to touch the table and ruin all the setting and 'compromise' myself, as my father would have said smiling... Dear father! I’ll never forget his semi-acerbic remarks. He and his semi-acerbic remarks... The light was now milder and the shades were elongating.
In the restaurant, the hallway stretched from the street to the back garden. The room was not straight, it had some angles, giving the impression that there were four rooms in a row, specially opened to create a single piece. The pavement was old and the slabs were worn on the most trodden routes, but otherwise, the Spanish style Majolica patterns looked as new. A rainbow of colours: dark red, gold, blue and white. How come they were here?! Oh, yes! Spaniards used to live here for hundreds of years. Plenty of time for them to bring their own things and make themselves at home.
The old furniture, three dining-room sets, was elegantly displayed and all the pieces were skillfully arranged to stand out. The sculptures, the intarsia and the brocade and old-fashioned silk tapestry were all minutely restored. Each set's cupboard and sideboard was???? full of silverware and china matching their age and style.
All tables were covered in white, heavy damask. I felt as if I was sneaking into someone s house without asking for permission.
All of a sudden, a slim, brunette young lady joined me from a lateral door. Her black eyes looked very familiar, as if I had seen them before... She was smiling.
'How may I help you?'
'Ladies room?'
'This way, please.'
She was silently walking in front of me. She opened a door to an aisle and pointed at another door to the right. Blue and white Majolica tiles were decorating the floor. Sicilian ones. The walls were lavender blue and white frames were ornamenting the doors. A discreet scent of orange flowers was tickling my nostrils (asta-i de la mine!). And it was chilly. It reminded me of an old, thick-walled Sicilian house in which temperatures between summer and winter did not vary a lot.
'I felt like lingering inside the house. It s nice and chilly. You should go and admire the interior of the restaurant. It's very interesting!'
'Well...'
'I mean it. The only place where I saw furniture displayed like this was the Jewish neighbourhood in Krakow. Maria took us to a restaurant opened in a once inhabited ordinary house, restored exactly as it used to be, where they served Jewish food. It was a bit strange, as if we were in someone's house, but all rooms had dining-room sets. The only things missing from here are the heavy macrame curtains and the velvet drapes... other than that ... Are you following me?'
Again, he stops for a moment, tilts his head to the left, shrinks his eyes, checks on the result, distances and then approaches his drawing book, takes a deep breath, puts the book on the table, raises his eyes and looks at me.
'Rooms with distinct dining rooms? That’s an interesting approach. I’ll go get some water in my watercolour glass.' He takes two steps and then turns to me:
'Where do I go?'
'You enter the first room, then the second and on the left side wall there is a door which opens to a hall. This left door is the one that you’re looking for. While there, have a look at the pavements as well.' As if I hadn’t known that he noticed all the details and memorized them better than me...
I raised my brows and sighed. If only I could draw like that... I smiled. Eh, never mind! I’m good at writing. I burst into laughter. Listen to me, 'I write!' I have never considered the poems I wrote to him as genuine writing.
But, from now on, I will take it very seriously!!! I make travel notes, don’t I???
I nested comfortably in my chair and looked around. In my absence, an old lady had sat down at the table next to us, partially hidden by an oleander bush full of burgundy flowers. She was chic and slim and was wearing a black linen robe manteau with the collar and lapels up, doubled on top by a white, batiste collar. She was wearing a unique, short pearl necklace around her neck and a black, wide-brim straw hat on her head. Every now and then she bent her head a little, making it impossible for us to see her face. She sat on a chair similar to mine, but in an upright, graceful position, with her forearms on the edge of the table, displaying her hands covered in white, short gloves. In front of her - a complete tea set made of china silvered on the outside, but with only one cup. The waiter - the same man - was pouring tea with slow and precise gestures, adding milk, sugar and a transparent slice of lemon.
I have straightened my position and arranged my white linen shirt, a bit untidy after a roaming day in Syracuse. There was nothing I could do about my navy linen trousers though. I put my knees together and crossed my ankles under the chair; I could not cross my legs, though, the table was too low for me. I sighed again. Hopefully, I was not looking like a vagrant. Well... that’s it! I’m on holiday...
I have suddenly remembered my grandmother’s cold stare: 'And this is a reason to look so scruffy?'
Of course, she would never finish her sentence if father was around. She usually stopped at the word 'reason', but her reprimanding glance said everything in detail, only by a discreet move of her eyelids and two seconds of her pupils' immobility.
I shook my head to chase the memory away.
I peeked at the Lady in Black.
She raised her tea cup, took it to her burgundy lips and sipped silently.
Then I noticed that she was wearing white batiste cuffs over the black sleeves, buttoned with men’s cufflinks, adorned, each, with a round-shaped burgundy ruby???? (fatetat mare pe rotund – zic ca merge!)
The very next moment, she looked at me with her deep, dark eyes. Caught red-handed, I plucked up the courage and answered back with my eyes, half smiling, bowing my head. She smiled and bowed back.
Radu came back to the table with his watercolour glass full. I took a deep breath.
'What's the matter?' A little worried, a little circumspect, he read in my eyes that something was going on.
'Nothing. I’ve just greeted the lady I was spying on, and she caught me.' I smiled, feeling guilty.
'And?'
'And nothing. She greeted me back... and then you showed up with the water and saved me.'
He was already smiling.
'If I knew, I would have brought more.'
'!?'
We both burst into laughter. The moment had dissipated.
'Will you start colouring?'
'Yes.'
He had opened his watercolour box, took the brush out of its case and, with a droplet of water, made a grey-beige mixture for the baroque facade background. In his left hand, he was holding his drawing book and the small watercolour box in the lid of which he was mixing the colours. He was painting on his knee, close to the table.
'Shall I ask them to clean the table?'
'Do you want them to kick us out?'
'Think so?'
'I don't know. Just saying...'
'Well, we don’t want to find out until you finish colouring.'
I leaned back on the back of the chair, imagining how comfortable it would be If I could lie down. I laughed in sourdine.
'What's the matter?'
'I'd like to lie down. My back hurts.'
'Well then, do it!'
'And definitively and irrevocably compromise myself in the eyes of the local aristocracy?
He looked at me in disbelief.
'Since when do you care?'
'Well, since I’ve noticed the lady close to the dark red oleander sitting and sipping her tea. The only person here, actually... And since we’ve been served as if we were at grandma's.
'Grandma...grandmaaa... grandmaaaaa.' He laughs in sourdine. I guess you're right, you should behave.'
'Indeed.'
The following moment, the waiter came to ask whether there was something else we would like to order. I turned to Radu.
'Is there?'
'There is. More water, please!'
'Lemon as well?'
'Yes.'
'Please, two more glasses of water. And some lemon.'
'Certainly.'
He is about to leave, when the Lady in Black waves at him discreetly and makes him take a detour. They whisper. He turns and looks at me. She raises her eyebrows and points at me with her chin. He puts on a more affable smile than the one before and comes to me. The first thought that comes to mind is: 'what did I do?'
The waiter comes to us, leans towards me and says:
'If you have the pleasure to, the lady would like to invite you to a cup of tea or coffee, whichever you prefer, until the gentleman finishes to colour.'
'?!' I stare at him and turn to Radu.
'What is he saying?'
'That the lady is inviting me to tea until you finish colouring.'
Intrigued, he looked at the waiter and then at me. He shrugged one shoulder.
'Well, you can go if you want to. Position yourself so that you can see me and if I sense you’re desperate, I’ll ask him to bring you back. Or save you.' He was smiling.
'Well, I’ll go.' I take a deep breath, saying to myself: bear in mind not to shake the lady’s hand like a gawk as this is not a comrade’s meeting... of course unless she wants to shake yours first; if not, 'fingers on your trousers braid!'. Father, dear father, your comments... Grandma used to tell him: 'You’ve got Military Academy written all over you, my dear...'
I stand up and try to walk as gracefully as possible in my holiday trainers. When I reach the Lady in Black's table, the waiter holds the chair for me so that I can easily sit.
To her right, I can see Radu, so I’m fine. It's all good. She did not try to shake my hand, so I’m fine! She puts out her hand and utters loudly and clearly (I’ve heard all the double consonants, by the way):
'Donna de Reggi !'
I slowly take her hand and say loud(ly) and clear(ly) myself (I can do it myself, can’t I?):
'Alexandra Vereanu.'
'Alexandra?'
'Yes, Romanian for Alessandra.'
'I see. Beautiful name!'
'Thank you!'
I was waiting, trying to put on a relaxed and discreetly smiling face - well, I was on holiday, wasn’t I?! Honestly, I wasn’t good at it, but that’s it. Why did she invite me to tea? Why did I accept it?
She was gazing at me with her deep blue eyes, slightly curious as if she were intrigued... I was wondering: what on earth have I done to make her curious?
The waiter shows up with a cup of tea on a saucer and with a chubby teapot - all baroque, obviously! - fresh tea, all placed on the same tray, once covered in silver, now - after years of venerable duty.
He asks:
'Milk? Sugar? Lemon?'
"No! Yes, one! Yes! I look him in the eyes and thank him with half a smile. He leaves. I take the teaspoon and stir carefully, trying not to make any noise. She watches me, waiting for me to finish. I put the teaspoon on the saucer, trying to imagine her face if I had shaken it against the rim.
I make an effort not to smile. I look at her. Her left eyebrow was slightly raised: she had guessed I had thought of something inappropriate... I patiently wait for her to start the conversation. Weather, heat, where we were from - it was obvious we were tourists - when we arrived, if we enjoy our trip or what we have visited so far... What topic would she choose?
'How long have you been married?'
'?!'
I look at Radu and the night he asked 'When do you want us to get married?' popped to my mind. Smiling, I say:
'Thirty-three years.'
'And have you always been so close, like two accomplices?'
'Yes.'
She made a gesture as if she wanted to cover my hand with hers.
'It's been a long time since I saw a couple like yours. I like watching you. I hope you don’t mind.'
'Not at all. We have not even noticed it.'
She smiled graciously. The breeze coming from the sea had now become stronger. I’ve tucked a rebellious strand of hair behind my ear, watching her hand covered in the white glove grabbing a macaroon and taking it to the mouth. She was now elegantly nibbling it even if it was just the size of a bite.
She then invited me to help myself to a cookie. I politely said no. On the table, close to a notebook and a fountain pen, there was a black clutch bag. She took a cigarette case and a silver lighter out of it. Same design. With the letters D and A monogrammed, one over the other. Her cigarettes were handmade, with a filter and very thin paper. She offered me the open cigarette case with a simple gesture, as if we had shared our cigarettes for ages. I looked at it with sadness in my eyes...
'Thank you, but I quit.'
'When?'
'About a year ago. And I regret it.'
'?'
'I no longer enjoy it. The flavour is no longer the same... I don’t know, something is missing.'
'I see...'
She had lit her cigarette with difficulty. Every time she made some effort, one could clearly see that her fingers' joints were deformed. Probably this is why she was wearing gloves.
How old is she?, I wonder.
She took a drag (vezi daca merge) and let the smoke out both on her nostrils and mouth, enjoying it in a gentle exhale. The tobacco was discreetly smelling of vanilla. Her fine-boned face was hidden by a grey, non-uniform veil. She must have been a raving beauty in her youth, I say to myself. A lethal one. Her make up was discreet, but skillfully done. Every detail worth highlighting was striking: her eyes of an unusual dark blue, as the ones of new-born babies before turning hazel, the graceful arcades on which her white eyebrows were accentuated by a black-grey pencil, a similar mascara to colour her eyelids...Her arched lips were contoured with a red pencil and a dark red lipstick that perfectly matched her complexion, her eyes, her dress... and a subtle, floral perfume that I could not identify. Not that I was a connaisseuse, but the scent seemed familiar and at the same time - a mystery.
She kept smoking and ashed her cigarette in a small silver ashtray; a one-person ashtray.
She fascinated me. She was like a novel full of mysteries and obsolete passions, written between the two world wars, bound in Cordovan leather by a collector-owner and placed in a library with a glass door. Displayed but inaccessible.
She was silent. Why did she invite me there?
'How did you make Ado talk?'
'I’ve just asked him where mama was. And he repeated: mama. I did not actually make him talk.'
She had a poker face, with a stare interested in an irrelevant curiosity.
The whole situation started to annoy me.
'Don’t get angry. No one has ever heard him talk until now, only his mother insists that he talks. I just wanted to know whether he talks or not.'
'You’ve asked me how I made him talk. Maybe he doesn’t talk to people he doesn’t like.'
'Did you have a grandmother you didn’t talk to as well?'
'I was too old to pretend I couldn’t talk. Most probably she didn’t like what she was hearing.'
'Do you always speak your mind?'
'It s just a chronic habit of mine. If it couldn’t be cured until now, I don’t think this will ever happen. But I don’t always speak my mind...'
'You’re right. But it's good to speak your mind. You don’t burden yourself with other people’s hypocrisy. I’ve noticed that you write. And that he draws and paints. What do you write?'
'I’ve started with poetry and moved on to short stories. And I quit. As a child, my dream was to become a writer. But some - who persuaded me - altered it. The new dream wasn’t that bad, though. It was a good and generous one. I’ve only suffered because of it when I had to sacrifice it. Then, I got stuck in other things I had to do (that kept accumulating) and writing became a 'some other time' option.
Occasionally, I had some fun with office mails and letters. Meant for those who understood and appreciated it. Not many were worth of it.
A tramping shoe noise announced Ado. A little bit sleepy, with two marks left on his face by the pillow he slept on, dressed as correctly and elegantly as before, he hastily approached the edge of the garden. When he reached the oleander bush, he stopped abruptly. He was staring at me curiously but also suspiciously.
At me and me only. It seemed we weren’t friends anymore. Must have been the fault of the person sitting next to me.
I smiled at him. No reaction...I winked at him... All of a sudden he became curious. Cautiously, he came close to me. I made space between the chair and the table and I leaned over so that we could see each other. With his finger, he touched my eyelid that had already closed itself. I blinked with both eyes and he seemed calmer; everything was ok. I stretched my hands, palms up, towards him and then asked in Romanian: 'Wanna come to my arms?'
He was staring at me pensively. He reached his little hands and, cautiously, placed them into mine. It was not exactly the "take me into your arms" gesture, but it was a start. I bent down and kissed his forearms. Then, I helped him sit. He nested in my arms and pressed his cheek against my breast. He was looking upwards, at me. I had noticed that he had placed himself with his back at the lady close to me, but pretended not to understand. I leaned backwards and he cuddled more comfortably with a sigh of satisfaction. I was counting. When I reached nine, he started to move and raised his head to scrutinize the surroundings. Nothing new or interesting. Then, I slowly turned his body and showed him the ruby cufflink of the lady next to me. He was looking inquisitively both at the red stone and me.
'Let's touch it with one finger. Would you like to?' The temptation was strong, but his fists were clenched and hidden behind his back. I slowly took one fist and unclenched his forefinger. And then I made him touch the stone. He giggled, thrilled with emotion.
I raised my eyes at Donna. She was watching him in amusement and, at the same time, in an endless pain. I thought that she would start crying. I let Ado down, hold his hand and took him to the red oleander. I showed him the flower and asked him to smell it. I discreetly looked at Donna; she had managed to pull herself together. I took an oleander flower and put it into Ado's palm; then, I turned his body so that he could see Donna and whispered while showing him the cuff.
'Let's give her the flower. See? It matches the cufflink.' Holding my hand, he slowly walked towards her and offered her the flower.
He was staring at the flower, avoiding to look up. Donna took it, smelt it and then said:
'Thank you!'
'You see? She liked it. You gave her a beautiful flower. What else would you like to do now?' I patted him on his head and showed him Radu.
'Aren't you curious to see what Radu is doing over there? I think he's drawing something nice.'
He left treading his feet, without looking back. When he reached Radu, he pulled his trousers and, with his fingers, indicated him that he wanted to see the drawing. Radu took him into his arms and kept drawing looking every now and then at us. Ado was excited. He kept moving his gaze from the drawing book to us and then back to the drawing book again. I started to count. When I reached ten, he stretched his feet as a 'put me down' sign and Radu let him slowly slip onto the grass. He started to run towards the restaurant. All of a sudden, he stopped, raised his hand and showed me the door:
'Mama!'
And he vanished.
Donna had a blank stare.
'I've lost a child his age.'
I felt a pain in my stomach. She could not expect me to make any comment, could she? There was nothing intelligent to say.
'She took him and gave him away. To someone else.' She had an equal and neutral tone, as if she was saying something boring/harmless about the weather.
'I couldn't do anything. I wasn't clever enough... Now, if I could turn back time, I would kill her without hesitation/blinking.
There ! She pointed with her chin at the (Acolo. - a indicat din barbie spre capatul gradinii dinspre mare fara sa isi mute privirea din punctul fix din fata ei, unde numai ea stia ce vedea...)
'Then, I swore I would never love someone like this.' She slowly turned her head and gave me a poker face look/a motionless look, as if she were dead. She took a deep breath. And came back to life again.
She smiled.
'I'm a bad hostess, but I had to tell you why Ado stays away from me. I've always avoided him.'
'Ado ? Short from ?'
'Alessandro. But his mother calls him Ado: this is what he says his name is. I've tried to isolate myself from him. I was overwhelmed with fear. Completely irrational, I know. Preposterous...
'He'll come back. I've made him curious. Maybe he'll come after the cufflink.'
'Do you think so? Ado bears grudge... He does not forget.'
'We can make him forget.'
'How?'
'Draw him something. His favourite toy. Do it quickly, he won't stand still for more than ten seconds. Don't do it in detail. Then give him the paper and tell him to show it to his mother. There are many things you can do and if you persuade him to pay attention to them, you'll keep him busy. He won't pay attention to anything else.'
'To me, that is... Are you sure?'
'No, but anything is better than nothing. Now we're at zero.'
'Did you work in Sales ?' She had an inquisitive stare.
'Not only...' I took a deep breath and straightened my position. 'Glad to meet you! Thank you for the tea. And congratulations on this exquisite place!' I then put the damask serviette folded in its original shape/state next to the the saucer with the teacup on it. I stood up.
'Thank you for the visit. If you spend more time in Syracuse and would fancy another coffee break, we'd be delighted to see you again.
Why was I in such a hurry to get rid of her? Never mind, I was on holiday and wanted to spend more time with Radu! That's it!
'What's wrong? What is it that you don't like?'
'Nothing, I don't know. I like the kid. And the garden. And the coffee. It has a peculiar flavour, did you notice?'
He was smiling. It was that 'what is it that you're not saying?, because you're not saying it, you don't want to' smile.
'What did you draw?'
He gave me his sketch book. A watercolour: the baroque palace and a sketch: Donna and I sitting at the table, two silhouettes covered by the white umbrella and surrounded by plants. Behind us - a cylinder shaped stone building with a conical roof. I went next to him and leaned over so that I could see the view from the same angle/level. Yes, it was a cylinder-shaped tower. A quite big one. I had not even noticed it before. No windows. It did not look like a campanile. It was way too big to be a campanile, anyway. It had the diameter of a sturdy cathedral apsis.
'What's this?'
'I don't know. Probably an old part of a structure that doesn't exist anymore. Or everything here has been so altered that one can not recognize anything. The tower is made of stone. Cut and nicely shaped. I see no opening from here. Might have been a storage place.'
'A silo?'
'I don't know.'
'We'll ask.'
'Not we, YOU will ask. We were already laughing heartily.
Again, a very familiar noise: loud footsteps. Ado had come again to see us. He clung to my arms as if it was something he had always done. He was looking for the drawings. I showed him the sketch with those two silhouettes sitting at the table in the garden. I took his forefinger again and placed it on the drawing, moving it from one character to the other.
'Donna and Alex!'
'A?'
'Yes, Donna and Alex!'
He turned around to look for Donna. I saw her drawing with rapid, firm moves in the notebook. Ado turned back to me and pointed Donna's figure in the drawing.
'A?'
'Donna!'
Preoccupied, he was gently rubbing his little hands. He let himself slide down to the ground and then took a couple of steps to Donna. He stopped and turned. He pulled my hand to show me the table we sat around/at earlier.
'Ok, let's go to Donna!'
When we reached the table, Donna handed him a sheet of paper on which she had drawn a dishevelled teddy bear with one eye up and one eye down/with one eye upper than the other one (un ursulet cam ciufulit si cu un ochi mai sus si unul mai jos). Ado's face brightened up.
'Take the teddy to your mother! Go!'
Ado smiled at her and so were his eyes. He delicately took the paper with two fingers and left making the same stamping noise.
We were idly heading back to the flat. It was not far away. The twilight was changing the colours on the streets. The houses, white during the day, were now beige-pink. And still warm...
'Everything has a price in this world...'
'How come? You don't want to go upstairs?'
'Will you carry me in your arms?', I smiled playfully.
'Not today', he smiled in his debonair way.
'Okkk... but you'll make the salad!'
'And you?'
'I'll pour the wine and make the ice-cream!'
We were both laughing. There was nothing to do, but it was an impressive promise, wasn't it?'
The old wood door, restored, let you inside a quite big room which in days of yore had exits to other spaces/areas, now fully walled. Only the access to the stairway was still there. A stairway ornamented with a banister made of grey stone, a 'piedra serena' that did not belong to that place. And a quite generous stairway for a better fate... All walls were white. The roof on top was actually a metal structure fitted with glass - the only place that let natural light in/the only source of natural light. The twilight was now colouring everything into orange-grey shades. Downstairs, there was once a former interior yard, but now it was fully covered.
The flat that we had rented had been built on the terraced-roof (roof-terrace) of the house, between some old walls. I could not imagine what that place used to be, but now it led into a room that was both a dining-room, a living room and a kitchen, out of which one could get into the bedroom and bathroom or on the terrace... Extremely handy/comfortable for two persons.
We went out on the magnificent terrace with a view over the gulf and the faraway mountain... a round table with a mosaic top in bright colours, a garland of fruits and flowers, two chairs with arms (doua scaune cu brate cu perne) with comfortable cushions under a white umbrella and two lounge chairs with mattresses tucked in navy and white striped covers and a small table between them were warmly greeting us (asta-i de la mine!). The magnificent terrace was not that big, but the perfect match between the decor (the way things were arranged) and the scenery made you want to linger there for your entire holiday.
The sun was melting into the water. The breeze coming from the two shores could easily convince you that you were on the upper deck of a ship. Somewhere between land and waters. Radu had brought white wine in two long stem glasses. He had put them onto the table and arranged the chair so that I could easily sit/sit down comfortably.
'Another glorious day', thank you!, I've really enjoyed it!!!' The clinking of the glasses and the flavoured cold-sour taste... The fresh breeze... It was night already...
'Are you tired?'
'Not really. Why? Do you want to go out?'
'No. We have everything that we need here, right?'
'Yes, it's perfect! I sat on the chair and stretched my legs with a sigh of relief.
'So, cisternino, right?... Interesting!'
'Yes, this is what he said, that it used to be a small tank for the summer palace of the Duke of Toledo and Ortigia. A local love child of a Naples viceroy. Such a crazy story, isn't it?'
'Yes, crazy indeed...'
'Like in those movies where characters wear long dresses and white shirts with balloon sleeves and black leggings. Can you imagine how catastrophic it must have been to be a man and have ugly legs?!'
'Just like today with hot girls: ugly legs, tough luck. No more long crinoline dresses to hide everything underneath.
I frowned.
'Is there someone knocking on the door?'
'How could this be possible? Who has the key to the door downstairs?'
'The landlord?'
'I don't know, let me see.'
'I'll come with you.'
Radu opened the door widely. He always did that, like a person who still had faith in this world. Waiting on the threshold, the landlord was breathing heavily, carrying an old-stitched leather suitcase (o valiza de piele cu cusatura veche) in one hand and a bunch of burgundy oleander flowers in the other.
'I'm sorry, but I have an urgent errand to run for you. Signora de Reggi sent the suitcase and these flowers to the lady. She deliberately called me and gave clear, precise instructions. There's a letter for you as well.'
'Come in, please, and take your breath! Take a seat! A glass of water?' I did not like to see him so agitated.
'I don't want to disturb you.' He was preoccupied and slightly worried. Now, If I'm here, is everything ok? Is there anything you'd like that we failed to provide?' (uita-te si tu cat de complicat l-am tradus pe 'va lipseste ceva?') Would you like anything in particular?
'Everything is perfect, thank you! No problem whatsoever.'
I saw his face relaxing. He straightened his shoulders and smiled.
Radu had already taken the suitcase - quite heavy by the way his hand fell - and the flowers.
'If you need anything, give me a call. I live nearby, you know. My number is on the fridge. Anyway, tomorrow, after you leave, my daughter will come to replenish the fridge and do some cleaning.'
'Sure, thanks for everything. You're very kind, but I don't think she needs to clean.'
'She knows what she has to do.' His tone was polite, but firm. Good night! He smiled satisfied and left.
'Good night!', I said, relieved. I had sent him home relaxed. Why was he so worried?, I wondered.
I closed the door and turned to Radu.
'What's this?'
'No idea. Read the letter and open the suitcase. I'll put the flowers in a glass.'
I opened the envelope and took out the letter: it was handwritten. A neat handwriting, with oval letters and an old-fashioned page layout/arrangement: place, date, alignments, paragraphs... I started to read out loud:
"Lungomare del Duque
Ortigia, Syracuse
September 2, 2015
My dear lady,
I saw that you write. And you told me that you want to write. That this has always been your dream and hence I took the liberty to offer you a vast material to stir and, at the same time, trouble your imagination.
What would you have done if you were part of my family?
How would you have judged us?
There was a time when I thought I could use all this material myself. But I wrote enough. And my writing was a healing/curative one. I no longer want to write the history of my family, as much as it can be written from these old documents and journals. There were troubled times and dramatic destinies that hurt too much to give me the strength to do it.
I cannot write as I should: "sine ira et studio" - without hatred and passion.
But I have not yet forgotten and I have not yet forgiven.
I don't know if I will ever be able to forgive and forget.
Seen from the perspective of someone who is not part of the family, maybe things look really different.
I shall leave it to you to decide what to do with all these materials. I have no future claim on them or on anything that you will write about them. You will have complete exclusiveness/The story will be entirely yours/will belong to you exclusively, because this is how you saw and understood it.
I can honestly say that I am utterly relieved now that I passed them on. Far from me and my family members, the ones that are still living/among us.
If you enjoy it, you are always welcome in our home. As of today, the day when I was gifted a burgundy oleander flower and gifted, in my turn, a teddy bear drawing, you are part of my family.
Enjoy the rest of your holiday!
Donna de Reggi
PS - The flowers are a gift from Ado."
'What's this?'
'Are you serious?' We were staring at each other, confused, rather than stunned.
'Let's open the suitcase!'
The key to the two latches was attached to the handle with a short chain having a lock itself.
"The key to the two latches was attached to the handle by a short chain, which itself had a lock"
"On the opposite side of the handle, there was an envelope made of the same leather as the suitcase that was attached to a tiny belt that once used to be golden."
Cut on one side, it held, under a celluloid sheet, an ivory visit card displaying oval handwriting: 'Mariam Cortes'. "
"The chestnut thick leather was scratched and stained from many voyages and was soft to the touch. Stitched in big steps with golden thread were the words 'cusuta in pas mare cu ata aurie'."
On the opposite side of the handle, attached with a tiny belt that once used to be golden, there was an envelope made of the same leather as the suitcase. Cut on one side, it held, under a celluloid sheet, an ivory visit card displaying an oval handwriting: 'Mariam Cortes'.
The chestnut thick leather scratched and stained from so many voyages, stitched in big steps with golden thread (cusuta in pas mare cu ata aurie), was soft to touch. The latches clicked open with a dull snap. Inside, in contrast with the beige moire lining, there were several leather envelopes worn out on the edges and corners, notebooks of different shapes and widths bound in leather with patterns and monograms minutely engraved and leather tubes tied with peculiar laces. It smelt of amber and patchouli, just like our grandparents wardrobe. In the compartments of the suitcase s cover there were heaps of paper envelopes tied with old, faded ribbons. Obviously, all organized by size, to fit in compactly and efficiently.
I sat with my legs crossed next to the suitcase, studying the stamped imprints and the monograms made of several overlapped letters. There was also a bible, bound in black leather, quite thin...Its pages were golden on the edges. I took the Bible and started to browse it. The pages were very thin, the font was very small and there were two columns on each page. At the end, several white pages had a long list of names and dates in years. The same handwriting with oval, equal letters...
'If there are Spaniards in the family, the names are going to be very long and complicated.'
'Why?'
'Because they can cumulate the surnames of both parents... not to mention the important grandparents...I don't think I can handle it...
'No one asks you to handle anything. You are not forced to do anything. Why are you frowning?
'Because...', I sighed, 'I don't know...'
'Close the suitcase and let's go on the terrace. We'll have another glass of wine and gaze at the sky. We're on holiday. We don't have to do anything and we have no obligation. No obligation was imposed to you.
'Think so?'
'I know so.'
Holding a glass of wine in my hand and comfortably nested in my chair, I felt as if I had left a dream to sleep on the living-room couch. Radu was scrutinizing me.
'What next?'
'I don't know... It tempts me... But it also terrifies me...'
'We can think about it tomorrow. Or in ten days time, when we leave this place. If you don't want to do it, you can always send her suitcase back.
'?! I don't think I can... She wanted to get rid of them. I can't give her back all this burden that doesn't let her live/breathe.
'We'll see...'
'So we will...'
brush strokes, expressive
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