Ill look for you everywh.., p.11
I'll Look for You, Everywhere, page 11
As suspected, Papa agreed with a resigned sigh. A nonchalant shrug. I didn’t ask for much, so it felt like I had earned the right to choose this path. So I closed my door after dinner one night, quietly turned the key in the lock, and leafed through the pamphlets my guidance counsellor thrust at me when I mentioned literature, the turning point that sent me to Oxford.
The click of shoes draws me away from my thoughts and I look up. Maybe Theo has come back to apologize. To confess. But even as I think it, I know these are wishes. The Sinclairs do not apologize. To apologize would imply they could make mistakes! And the Sinclairs do not make mistakes. I turn my head to look, and see it’s definitely not Theo.
It’s his father.
Dexter Sinclair, much like his son, is an enigmatic figure I was cautious of even as a child. Perhaps it was his height. Standing at 6 foot 4, it felt like he lived on beanstalks and ate children for breakfast all the way up there. Or maybe it was how his face turned red and sweaty after every family dinner from too much drink, his arm snaking around my mother’s waist, a spot that I knew to be reserved only for my father’s hands. His Scottish accent was harsh, brute strength in his speech. He was opinionated, loud, never seen without a suit. But as I grew up, the fear dissipated and transitioned into cautionary respect. We were proud to live next to a man that had accomplished so much and looked that good doing it. In almost every way, Theo took after Dexter’s unnaturally good looks.
‘Good morning, Dexter,’ I say from the gallery. He looks up abruptly, his face full of irritation before registering it’s me and masking it with cool appraisal.
‘Good morning, Magdalen.’ His voice is smooth, and he halts in place when he sees me. It’s hard not to gawk as he sweeps a hand casually through his hair so similarly to Theo. He steps forward, one hand holding an expensive leather briefcase while the other finds the pocket of his trousers. In the dimly lit gallery, Theo and Dexter are almost identical and it makes my heart pang. So this is what he’ll grow up to be. Beautiful until the end, grey hair and all.
Dexter stands right above me so I have to crane my neck to look at him.
‘Did you catch Theo outside?’
His lips fall in a thin line, already failing to hide his agitation. What is it with the Sinclairs and their temper?
‘Yes,’ he sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose. ‘I forget how stubborn he is.’
Bending to place his briefcase on the floor, he silently asks for permission to sit next to me. I hesitate, pushing down the sickly feeling at his edging closeness. Don’t be ridiculous, my mind screams. He’s your father’s best friend.
I scoot over, suddenly wishing I’d never said good morning. Wishing I hadn’t asked Theo about things he’s too afraid to speak of. Sneaking one last glance at the stairwell, I slip a silent plea to Theo between the time it takes for the tip of Dexter’s shoe to graze the side of mine.
‘He’s just readjusting to Chivasso. Americans can be very different from Italians. Give him a minute.’ It feels like a vague enough thing to say that will both defend Theo and support Dexter.
He sighs for what feels like the tenth time since he’s arrived at the museum and I begin to feel bad for him. If he were an artefact in the museum, he would be titled Father in Pain, erected in Torino. Medium: spirit and flesh, failing heart. Loss of breath.
Both elbows rest on his knees as he hunches forward, the movement closing the gap between us so that his knee briefly grazes mine. My leg goes rigid as the expensive fabric of his trousers touches my skin. God, here is a man in so much distress he’s physically recoiling into himself, and I find a way to feel anxious. That’s my issue. I never know what other people are trying to say without words.
Feeling childish and brave, rebelling against no one but the painful throb of my heart, I place my hand on his shoulder and gently rub my palm back and forth. It’s how my father comforted me when I found the crab-apple pudding Anika and I made for faeries in the trash. ‘Life has a funny way of surprising us,’ and it was such a him thing to say that I closed the garbage lid and gave a throaty laugh.
When I touch Dexter’s shoulder, the warmth and stability that I know my papa to have is absent from the cool fabric of his suit. I remove my hand, lowering it onto my lap.
‘Theo has always fought me at every turn. I say black, he says white. I want him to go to university in Sweden, he manages to go to Yale. I don’t know where I went wrong. When the moment he started hating me was, I just can’t figure it out.’ He grips the roots of his hair as if trying to physically pull the memory from his brain. ‘Every football game, every birthday, every award ceremony. I was there, front row, waiting and watching. I got him his first watch.’ He laughs, but it’s forced and awkward. ‘It was the only thing he didn’t take to college, left in the middle of his bed. Always ready to pick a fight.’ I could see the energy draining from him. His skin looking more translucent. The silver in his hair now a sad, dull grey.
This was new information to me. I had always assumed that the Sinclairs were a close-knit family judging by the smiles shared behind the cigarettes and caffè after dinner.
‘Have you tried talking to him about it?’ I say this because, what else do you say?
‘Theo prefers actions rather than words.’
I frown. What on earth does that mean?
Before I can even begin to try to muster something to say, Dexter places a hand on top of mine. The edges of his palm graze against my thigh and I stiffen involuntarily. ‘I’m sure he’ll come around eventually. Don’t worry yourself.’
My mind whirls. What an odd thing for him to say. Here I was believing I was comforting him, when in reality he was reassuring me?
‘Yeah, me too.’ I crack a smile that I hope is enough to end whatever heart to heart this is turning out to be. He briefly squeezes my hand before letting go.
‘Well, I guess I should try to get some work done. Busy days before the wedding. Your mother is calling our house non-stop in preparation.’ He nods to me one last time and then he’s gone.
My wrist twitches. What on earth just happened? One moment I was fighting with Theo, the next his father was confessing family secrets to me at eight in the morning. This entire interaction played out like I was a priest behind the confessional that Dexter offloaded his burdens to and then walked away. The spot on my hand where he touched me feels dirty. Dexter used me to forgive his own sins! My head swarms to find sympathy, replaying how his brows furrowed in pain at the mention of his son. Clearly the man is upset, and I should be concerned for him. But there’s a stronger, more potent feeling of aggravation for his blame on Theo alone. It’s pathetic, I realize. He’s a pussy.
18
THEO
After a few days of sunbathing and driving around Chivasso, soaking up everything I had missed, I decide it’s finally time to go see Giuseppe. The neon light flickers sporadically on the cafe’s window, tiredly screaming L’ESSENZA when it has the energy. Once, this place used to be where we came to feel like adults. I shift my glance to the table underneath the faded landscape of the Ligurian coastline. This was where the boys from school sat every Thursday afternoon. We’d hide our uniform ties in our backpacks. Enduring the bitter taste of espresso burning our throats, silently masking our grimaces after each sip. I would lick my gums to get rid of the aftertaste while eyeing the sugar, then look away because no one else would make the first move. The tired doorbell jingles as I enter and I stifle a smile. The cafe is small, with torn leather booths and scratched plastic tables, and the smell of freshly pressed coffee is strong enough to make me pause at the front door.
A patch of light warms the table in the back right; the laminated corner is chipped, revealing a cheap plastic interior. I slide into the booth of the table when I hear the familiar throaty voice of the owner, Giuseppe, yelling at one of the waitresses.
‘Questi biscotti sono grandi come me! Nessuno vuole una bocca piena di impasto. Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!’ These cookies are as big as me! Nobody wants a mouth full of dough. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I dip my head, silent laughter causing my shoulders to shake. Giuseppe comes barrelling through the cafe, a yellowed apron tied around his stomach. He’s bigger than I remember. Grey stubble covers his thick neck and face, and his cheeks are bright red, shiny from being in the hot kitchen. He coughs and the sound is painful, coming out more as a wheeze. I frown; that’s stronger than I remember, too.
Hearing the bell ring, he searches the place, which is empty besides the seat I occupy, hands on his hips, and I can see the anger resurfacing as he starts to think someone is playing a prank on him.
‘Lo sai che fai il peggior caffè di Torino?’ You know you make the worst coffee in Torino?
His head jerks towards the sound of my voice and his big belly ripples with the sudden movement. A dirty rag appears from his back pocket and he wipes his face with it.
‘Mio dio, Theo? Il re è tornato?’ My god, Theo? Has the king returned?
I feel a blush creep up my neck at that word again. King. What the fuck about me is royal?
‘Alright, alright. How are you, Giuseppe?’ I go to stand up and greet him but he immediately shoves me back into the booth with surprising force.
‘Enough of this bullshit. You sit while I make you our new caffè. You’re going to love it. Imported. From fucking Egypt. And the tourists love that shit, like it’s part of the museum. Cost me half my dick but you’ve never tasted anything like it. It’s like drinking from a woman’s tit.’ He laughs and claps his hands together, his body wiggling with delight as he squeezes himself behind the counter. His back is turned, fingers grinding coffee beans while steaming milk with the other hand and the back of his shirt is covered in sweat.
‘So cut the bullshit, little man. Right now, on the spot, how are the women? I’ve been fucking stuck here in this bullshit cafe my whole life and it looks like I’m never going to fucking leave. People want coffee on fucking Christmas Eve. Jesus Christ was born and you can’t make your own cup of goddamn coffee with your family? Losers. This town is absolute trash, I’ll tell you. Jesus, fuck. But from the movies I imagine the woman, you know . . . blonde wig, blue spandex bathing suit, long fucking legs. Did you meet anyone who looks like her?’
‘You’re asking if I fucked Julia Roberts?’
‘Yeah, or anyone who looks like her. Giuseppe doesn’t exclude.’
‘I was pleasantly surprised with the extra-curricular activities.’ A smirk pulls the corner of my mouth, recalling the long nights at Yale’s resident campus bar. Well, I’m not going to lie.
‘Oh, you little fucker,’ Giuseppe screeches. ‘I should poison this coffee right now, this is so unfair.’ His mumbles become intelligible as he begins the sacred process of assembling the cappuccino. A priest of steamed milk and espresso beans, we witness something holy when Giuseppe makes a drink.
Head bent down in concentration, Giuseppe rotates the cup several times while pouring milk from the pitcher, cursing every few seconds.
Just when I’m about to ask if he plans on putting this cappuccino on display at the museum, Giuseppe grunts happily. With a loud exhale, he leans his elbows on the bar in exhaustion, and pushes the cappuccino towards the edge, beckoning me to come look. I step across the black and white tile of the cafe and approach the cup that sits before me. Peering down at it, my breath catches in my throat.
A crown.
Giuseppe stands with one arm on his hip waiting for me to laugh or applaud his work but I can’t do anything but stare. When I left Chivasso, I knew that I had cultivated a certain reputation. From the moment people started telling me I looked like my father, I knew parts of my life would be easy. I could get away with more. Like early-morning driving on the interstate with the sound of liquor bottles sloshing in the back. A makeshift ladder to the tree in front of my bedroom window for girls to leave through. I was reckless and angry but, regrettably, smart. Too smart. So, when I had to wake up those early mornings to travel an hour to school in Torino, writing essays on the back of the school bus minutes before they were due and then having those essays win awards, no one had the right to tell me I wasn’t living up to my potential. They were scared. Scared that I could do both so fucking well.
Somewhere between puberty and college applications, there was never a shortage of pleasure just waiting for me to dip my fingers into. Besides my father, the only person to ever call me on my bullshit was Dr Savoy. But even he couldn’t shout stop loud enough. So I pretended I didn’t hear, and eventually he stopped shouting.
‘I’m retired from that life, Giuseppe.’
I mean it to come out light-hearted but it sounds more like a plea. Please don’t call me that . . . I’m trying to not be that person any more.
I can feel it coming. How easy it would be to slip back into that role, to know exactly what to say to get who I want.
Giuseppe pushes the saucer closer to me, waving his hands in nonchalance. ‘Kings can’t retire. They can only die.’
‘That hardly seems fair,’ I say, looking down at the drink, feeling hollow.
‘Nothing ever is. Now try my fucking cappuccino.’
I bring the edge of the cup to my lips; the ceramic feels cool against the airless heat of the cafe. The foam is thick and warm and as I tilt the cup to reach the coffee, an image flashes of middle schoolers kneeling in pews, giggling over stupid jokes inside the echoing silence of the cathedral. This feels like a sacrament. A tiny cafe with flickering lights, coffee poured like it’s the blood of Christ. The liquid hits my tongue and the heat startles me. I continue drinking, the espresso initially bitter, but like a smooth dark chocolate. And, when I swallow, I’m left with an aftertaste of pure sweetness. I’ve never tasted anything like it.
‘Giuseppe, what the fuck?’ I have to actively hold in a moan.
‘I know.’ He bows, bouncing from foot to foot.
‘How the fuck did you make it taste it like that?’
‘My dick, I told you. Very flavourful.’
‘Wow.’ I pause to finish the rest in a single sip, slamming the cup back into the saucer. ‘Give me more.’
Giuseppe shrugs, obviously aware of his genius. ‘Coming up, your highness.’
‘By the way,’ I ask. ‘Does Chiara still work here?’
Giuseppe claps his hands. ‘She’s in the back. Let me go get her.’
I roll my eyes and ease into one of the bar stools. My descent has begun. The script brands itself into the back of my skull, forcing me to slip into the role I had quit. I stare down at the empty cup, a few foam bubbles popping at the edge of the bowl. It hits me that I no longer pretend to like the taste.
19
MAGDALEN
My feet begin walking before my brain realizes where we’re going. Memory is a funny thing. It morphs and expands, adding colours and scents to keep the memories fresh after years of dormancy. But the foundation will always remain the same. Even if the street signs have been worn down and the fountain no longer holds any water, my body knows to turn where the splotch of yellow paint slid onto the sidewalk. That the corner I pass used to smell like baked bread. Further down the avenue, a pink awning that has been faded by the sunlight prompts me to make another right. The coffee shop to my left with the flickering sign in the window indicates that in exactly two metres Marta’s boutique will be in front of me.
My stomach flips.
I’ve known Marta since secondary school and yet the anxiety never gets easier. Despite being Dante’s age, she wasn’t afraid to talk to me and Anika growing up. Even back then, she was poking and probing at us. Trying to get us to try on something neon. My heartbeat lurches one final time as my hands close around the doorknob. I’m jealous of people who like to chit-chat.
It’s warm inside the boutique. The windows haven’t been opened yet and the white floors have absorbed the daylight. Smiling to myself, I see the wire rack on the far-left corner that Marta left because she accidentally spilled a gallon of glue on the floor and could never get it all the way off. Good to know some things never change.
Fabrics of tie-dye and leopard print surround the store. There is nothing but sparkles and shades of neon from what I can tell and I instantly regret coming into the store. As much as I love Marta, I will not be wearing anything bejewelled. It’s simply not in my nature.
‘Cazzo.’ The nasal voice comes from behind the counter. ‘Who let models in my store?’ A throaty laugh fills the small space and I instantly regret not wanting to come in. Marta is colour. Strength in studded stilettos.
I sigh. ‘Marta, I know you want me to buy the zebra corset, but sucking up won’t get me anywhere near it’.
‘First off, that would look good on a fucking horse. Second off, I don’t lie. If I say you look like a model, take the compliment and fuck off.’
I can’t help it. A snort of laughter fills me, and I turn to look at her. The tension from this past week leaves me.
From what I learned in England, Marta would be considered the stereotypical Italian. As if she poured the sun onto herself, skin becoming so dark it’s almost reflective. Layers of gold jewellery cover her neck and wrists, and her bleached hair is piled high on the crown of her head with no hair tie in sight. And, of course, she is not wearing a bra. I smirk; maybe I’m more Italian than I care to admit.
‘So you’re fucking back.’ She raises her hands in delight, her bracelets creating a cacophony of clashing metal that rings in my ears.
‘Yes, and I’m in desperate need of something to wear. England is in a perpetual rainstorm, and I have nothing for above ten degrees.’
‘That’s what you get for choosing the literal most depressing country in the entire world.’
‘Yes, Marta. I know.’
‘Does the Queen execute you if you wear colour?’
‘Oh my god, Marta, you’re so dramatic.’
She circles around me, scrutinizing everything from the colour of my nail polish to my split ends, making me feel exposed and immediately less feminine. As if I’m being a woman wrong.
