Silence is golden, p.2
Silence Is Golden, page 2
I feel a little thrill of joy when I see my new home again. While it’s small and quite shabby, it’s mine, and I don’t have to share the space with anyone else. There’s no one to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. No one can order me to clean or make food. I’ll cook if I’m hungry, I’ll clean for my own satisfaction, and I’ll stay up all night reading if I feel like it. I’m here to start over, and the fact that I found this perfect house in the woods on my first day here seems like a sign. I think once again that I’m letting a forbidden word into my mind, as I did yesterday with the word premonition.
For lunch I have a piece of the vegetable quiche, which is delicious, and then I smear a little jam on bread for dessert. I try to gaze out at the forest from my window, but it’s too dirty, just like the rest of the house. I have to get some cleaning products when I go back to the supermarket. Cleaning is one of the things I do best.
At my old house, even though it’s no longer my home (if it ever truly was), my mother and I were in charge of keeping the house clean. My father and my identical twin brothers, who shared my father’s ignorance and malice, thought that cleaning was the only thing worth learning for a woman. Fortunately, my mother disagreed, even if she never had the courage to openly oppose my father. I first snuck into his study when I was ten, and I was so afraid my father would find out that it felt like a spy mission. From then on, I would pick out a new book once a week, which I would hide inside my dresser, pulling it out only at night or when my father and brothers left for work. Over the past sixteen years, I’ve read hundreds of books in between doing my chores and housework. The books told me of the world outside my tiny room, leading me away from my gray hometown and from my family, who had already decided what I should do with my life. Looking back on all the books I’ve read, I think it would be great to start my own little collection. On the other hand, between my rent and groceries, the money that my mother gave me won’t last forever. I need to get a job. I can’t wait to test myself in the real world after living the way I did for so long. I decide that my visit to the bookstore won’t be just to look around.
That afternoon, dark, forbidding clouds block the sun, so I knot a scarf around my neck. I can’t afford to get sick. As I leave, I allow myself a long look at the forest, which is beautiful even with no sunlight. The wind has picked up since the morning, and the leaves rustle even louder. I’ve decided that they’re my trees and that’s their voice, so I’m not afraid.
I head back to the village, setting my sights on the bookstore. I walk along the main road, where I can see most of the shops. I realize that none of them sell furniture. Where am I going to buy a desk and bookshelf? All of a sudden, I see a carpenter’s sign down a side street. It’s such incredible timing that I’m almost suspicious; I’m usually not so lucky. I end up in front of the carpenter’s shop window, which is so dusty it could have come from my house. The lights are on, so I press my face to the glass and peer inside. It’s a huge space, full of wooden planks, tools, and what appear to be blueprints. My gaze falls on a blond man facing away from me. He’s so skinny that his clothes hang off him. He’s lifting up what looks like a wooden cube and trying to place it on one of the planks. I wonder if he’ll be able to, as he seems kind of frail. He succeeds and takes a moment to run his hands over the cube, as if testing its smoothness. Then, for some reason, he suddenly turns and sees me. For a moment I feel the urge to run away from the window, but his intense expression holds me in place. We stare at each other, not lowering our eyes, until I see a door open out of the edge of my vision. A woman enters, and the man whirls around. Our mutual gaze broken, my eyes close to preserve his image. When I force myself to open them, I pull back from the window and look in again. I realize she’s the same woman I saw at the supermarket that morning, the one who wondered why I’d strayed from my neck of the woods. I walk away abruptly, back to the main road. That woman scares me.
CHAPTER THREE
Leaving my hometown of twenty-six years was easy. With a rolling suitcase, a canvas bag, and the little money my mother set aside for me, I jumped on a train. Deciding where to go was slightly more difficult, but on the way to Rome, I was reminded that one of my mother’s greatest wishes was to return to the North, so the choice became simple. What does it take to make a person leave everything behind? I grew up in a place surrounded by rough, almost savage mountains, but the mountains around Bren are lush and hospitable. Unlike those other mountains, looming over me threateningly, these mountains surround me like an embrace.
Walking through the streets of Bren, I see that villagers are finally starting to notice me. Apparently the people here need time to process anything new, and I’m certainly a novelty. Perhaps they originally assumed that I was just passing through, but now that I’ve rented a house, they must have realized that I’m here to stay. I’m sure the woman from the supermarket has no desire to get to know me, and I have to say, the feeling is mutual. I want nothing to do with her. The person I’m most eager to get to know is the blond man, although I remember I almost felt intimidated when I was looking through the window.
I didn’t end up going to the bookstore yesterday. After leaving the carpenter’s shop, I decided to go home. I still feel emotionally fragile, and I needed some time to regain my composure and my courage. I briefly stopped at the supermarket to buy some rags and cleaning supplies. Once home, however, I decided not to clean and enjoyed my new freedom to make such a choice. Instead, I spent the evening reading in my chair. I’ve never had so much downtime; it seems like a miracle to me.
I feel stronger this morning. I push the door of the bookstore open, smiling and ready to cheerfully greet whoever’s inside. My smile is wasted, however, as no one’s there. The room is quite large, and wooden bookshelves rise up from the carpeted floor. At the center of the store, there’s a counter on which sits a tray with a dirty cup that must once have contained tea. There’s an empty chair behind the counter, off which a gray cardigan hangs. The owner of the cardigan must have stepped out, apparently unconcerned that someone could come in and steal something. Looking around, I note that books seem to be strewn about, and there’s a general air of disorder to the place. I walk over to a shelf, and I see that the books are arranged alphabetically, with no regard for literary genre. I sneeze twice; the place is really aggravating my dust allergies. It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. Where are the customers? As I continue to wander around, checking out book titles and authors, I hear the door open. Someone enters, their face hidden by the big box they’re carrying. Behind them follows a middle-aged woman with graying hair arranged in a bun.
“Put it on the floor, and then I’ll look at it,” the woman says, with no sign that she has seen me. Her accent is odd, as if she’s foreign.
Once the box is on the floor, I can see that a young man was carrying it. His gaze immediately shifts to me, causing the woman to do the same.
“Can I help you?” she asks without a trace of kindness in her voice.
Not a great sign.
“Good morning,” I say, trying to smile, though her grim expression stifles all my optimism. I wasn’t going to start with my request right off the bat, but she doesn’t seem like the type of person who enjoys casual conversation, so I forge ahead. “My name’s Emilia. I just moved here, and I was wondering if by any chance you need a little help in the store.”
She turns away from me and doesn’t answer, instead addressing the man.
“Thank you, Marco. I’ll figure it out.”
He nods and walks away. The woman sits in the chair behind the counter and eyes me suspiciously.
“Actually, I don’t need any help,” she says, finally answering my question. “I’m doing just fine on my own, thanks.”
But I can’t give up that easily.
“I could keep the books in order. I could dust—or you could perhaps consider any other needs you might have?”
“I handle the books, and a woman comes every day to clean, so . . .”
Perhaps this woman has a different concept of “cleaning” than I do. Just as I’m about to accept defeat, she gets up and opens the box that the young man brought in. There’s a computer inside.
“Damn, it’s so heavy!” she exclaims, trying to lift it out.
I go over to help, and she gives me a skeptical look.
“If you need a hand . . . ,” I venture.
She looks at me for a moment, and then nods, clearly annoyed. Together, we pull a heavily used desktop computer out of the box. Where the hell is she going to put it? I pull some cables out of the box and confidently say, “I’m great with computers.”
She sighs, and I begin to hope.
“Really? You know how to use a computer?”
“Yeah, really well.” I’m willing to bet that even if the only thing I knew about computers was how to turn them on, it’d be a whole lot more than she knows.
“I’m not sure,” she muses. “It can’t be that hard. It’s all about learning as you go.”
My expression is doubtful, but I remain silent. She turns the cables over in her hands. “What is all this stuff? Just one plug wasn’t enough?”
I laugh to myself.
“Look, miss,” she says, sitting back down behind the counter. “I can’t promise anything right now. I need to think about it. Anyway, I can’t pay much. As you can see, the business isn’t doing too well.”
“That wouldn’t be a problem for me at all,” I answer sincerely. “Can I leave you my cell phone number?”
She hands me a piece of paper and a pen, and I write down my name and number. She takes it and reads aloud. “Emilia Russo, who comes from the South.”
“Yes,” I answer emphatically.
She smiles, surprising me. “I once had a boyfriend who had the same last name. He was from Naples. Are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
Her smile disappears.
“That’s too bad. Beautiful place.”
Perhaps I should learn to fib.
She looks back at her book, then says without glancing up, “Maybe you’ll hear from me.”
“Thank you, Miss . . .”
“Kohler. Helga Kohler.”
I nod and smile. “Okay, bye then,” I say, exiting. She responds with a nod, just as the young man did earlier. Apparently, people around here aren’t too happy.
CHAPTER FOUR
It’s early on a sunny September morning, and I throw open the windows to let in some fresh air. I found a mop and bucket here, so today I’m going to clean the house and make it shine. I start by shaking out the two rugs in the courtyard and then sweep the floors. I clean the furniture with a rag and some soap, then carefully wash the bathroom. I pay special attention to the beautiful enamel bathtub, because a long, hot bath awaits when I’m done cleaning. I vigorously scrub the kitchen table and the oven. Then I empty the cabinets and clean each of them thoroughly. I wash all the dishes and pots and even clean the cans of tea and sugar. I then set to the windows with a big bucket of soapy water. The large window in the living room proves a challenge at first, but in the end, even that is shining. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s cleaning a house.
Eventually I find myself wandering through the rooms, breathing in their clean scent. But instead of feeling satisfied, I feel as though none of this makes sense. What am I doing here by myself? What am I doing in this house that isn’t mine, far from the only city I’ve ever known, far from my family, or at least what’s left of it? I fill the bathtub with hot water, then climb in, sinking into the water until it’s up to my chin. I tell myself that I had no choice, that without my mother, it didn’t make any sense to stay in that house. I had to save myself, and I was right to escape. This last thought finally appeases me. My mother’s face fades back into the swirling fog in my mind, and the knot in my throat melts. I think about the blond carpenter and imagine having the courage to enter his shop and ask him to build me a bookshelf, and I slowly relax.
After finishing my bath and getting dressed, I wander through my spotless house and realize that I have nothing more to do. I’m losing time. Should the ineffable Ms. Kohler decide that she can use her computer without me, I’ll have to find another solution to my job problem, but that won’t be easy. I feel like a foreigner here, and I get the feeling that people are wary of me. But what other choice do I have? I must at least try. I decide to wait until the afternoon since it’s almost midday and the shops will be closing for lunch. So after having something to eat, I go for a walk in the woods.
By now I know the way, and I head straight for my stream. It’s silly, I know, but it seems as if the water is talking to me, telling me that everything will be fine, one way or another. I decide to believe the water’s message. Lost in thought, I somehow find myself back in front of my house. Instead of taking the path that leads to the main road, however, I walk along a tree-lined path leading into the woods. It’s so beautiful that I decide to continue following it, even though it’s leading me farther away from home. By the time I consider where I am, I catch a glimpse of the end of the path. It has taken me directly into the village, practically across from the church. I’ve stumbled upon another way to get here, and now even this seems like a sign.
By now I’m determined to find a job. I traipse up and down the streets in search of shops where I could make myself useful. I’m again struck by the realization that I don’t know anyone here, but I summon my courage and do my best to ignore the negative thoughts that threaten to bring me down. My red hair, which I see reflected in a shop window, certainly isn’t helping me to blend in. Maybe I should dye it, or let it grow so I can tie it up in a manner that screams “I’m a good girl just looking for a husband.” Perhaps it would be easier to find a husband than a job. But I’m not looking for a husband. I don’t want one, ever. I don’t want to become a slave like my mother.
The sudden flash of anger that overwhelms me at the thought of my mother’s lot in life makes me pick up my pace, and I almost miss the last shop on the street corner, a florist. I stop. I love flowers, but only when they’re growing out of the earth. I can’t stand that cut flowers are destined to die prematurely. Even houseplants bother me, with their roots trapped inside cramped pots. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I am in desperate need of an income. Determined, I enter the store. There’s no help-wanted sign, but I decide to try anyway.
Inside, the scent of flowers is almost suffocating. It’s expansive inside despite the modest entryway. The room is dotted with potted plants and bouquets of flowers in big iron buckets. On the far side of the room, a woman in her thirties is arranging a bouquet behind a counter. I smile, and she gives me the famous Bren nod. There are three bouquets of different-colored roses on the counter, and she seems to be deciding which of the three would go best with the blue flowers she’s holding. I think the flowers in her hand are gentians, but I’m not really sure. My late aunt was obsessed with flowers and knew them all, and she told me once that the blue flowers on her dining room table were gentians. They’re pretty much the only flowers, besides roses and daisies, whose name I remember.
“Those gentians are beautiful,” I venture. “I think they’d look great with the red roses. Two bold colors.”
Much to my disbelief, the woman smiles.
“I never thought of that. I usually complement dark colors with light tones. Blue flowers and white roses, for example.”
“That’s what is most commonly seen.” I agree. “Want to try something new?”
She looks at the flowers in her hands and replies, “Sure, let’s try it.”
She quickly gathers together a bunch of blue gentians and red roses, then assesses the bouquet.
“What do you know. You’re right,” she says finally.
Bingo!
“It’s an odd combination, but it’s eye-catching,” she adds. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say, trying to figure out how to ask if I could work here.
In the meantime, another woman enters the store and approaches the counter.
“Emma, I need a bouquet of flowers.”
“What for, Teresa?”
“I’m having my knitting club over, and I want something to put on the dining room table. Something that’s ready to go.”
I look around the shop, and without even glancing at the customer, I know that I’ve seen her before. She’s the other woman from the supermarket, the one who was chatting with the woman from the carpenter’s. Middle-aged, dyed hair, old-fashioned clothes. I take a few steps away from the counter, pretending to be interested in a potted plant. I don’t want the woman to remember me.
“How about this one?” Emma proposes, offering her my bouquet.
“That looks ridiculous! What an eyesore.”
“You said you wanted a prearranged bouquet. You can’t help but notice this.”
“Do you think so? Perhaps . . .”
“And it’s an original,” the florist adds. “You’d be the first to do something so bold,” she says, winking at me.
Pairing blue and red flowers is their idea of bold?
The woman giggles in delight. “All right, I’m sold. I’ll take it!”
Emma is pretty smart. Finally, some liveliness in this sleepy town.
While she wraps the bouquet, Emma shoots me a knowing look, and I smile. After paying and gathering up her strange bouquet, the other woman leaves, but not before giving me a look that makes it clear that she remembers me too. Damn it.
