“So, we believed, so she had told us, only that she never landed. We’ve been trying to track her for weeks, but nobody has seen her anymore.”
I was getting more and more confused. “But she was here, I met her! How far ago she had disappeared?”
These words surprised both. “Did you see her, really? And when? Was she okay?”
I become reticent. “Since when she disappeared?”
Mrs. Bassi bowed her head. “Six months, it’s six months, we have no news.”
It was crazy, she disappeared before she steps foot in my shop. Something did not match, I though. I pointed to the shop window. “Those two mannequins, who brought them? What are they doing there?”
The women looked confused. “Why does that matter now?”
It was the heart of the whole affair. “Where did they come from? Who put them in the shop window? Who dressed them? Who chose that position?”
The confusion was total and the women talked to each other. “Was it you, Carla?”
“No, they were already there, I found them like that, I thought you’d put them in there”, replied the colleague.
Then they came back to me. Mrs. Bassi had understood. “It was Mrs. Scallis, is this what it means? Is she here? But we have never met her, why should she…”
She was confused, and so was I.
“Who is Mrs. Scallis? What does she do?”
I saw the suspect in her eyes. “I thought she was a friend of yours.”
I tried to fix it. “She doesn’t like to talk about her personal life, she’s always reticent.”
Mrs. Bassi sighed. “Poor Mrs. Scallis. Yes, I can understand it.”
“Is she married, does she have children?”
She shook her head. “No, she doesn’t have children, she had no time. She remained alone too soon. She lost her husband right after the wedding.”
“She loved him a great deal”, the other sales assistant added.
“She has closed in herself”, recalled Mrs Bassi. “We told her to go outside, to have fun, to forget. To return to life, basically.”
“Such a beautiful woman”, she continued. “She was a famous model, you know? They all admired her.”
It was not what I had expected, the absence of children, alive or dead, had misguided me.
Mrs. Bassi approached the shop window and studied the mannequins. “They are not ours”, she stated. “Certainly, they do not come from our usual supplier.”
This I knew very well.
She turned. “You’re saying that she brought them here? That she comes here when the store is closed? But why? Why didn’t she gave us any news? Why doesn’t she answer the phone if she has never left?”
I shook my head, because I did not have an answer. “Do you know where she lives?” I asked.
The sales women exchanged a strange look.
“I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing”, Mrs. Bassi said again.
“Did you never come here?”
“Why should I have?”
Mrs. Scallis’s house was a bit out of the way, an old chalet in a neoclassical style. The garden had been abandoned for some time.
“We should not be here”, Mrs. Bassi repeated. “I should not have this key either. Mrs. Scallis will get angry when she finds out what we’ve done, she values her privacy.”
“We do it for her own good, she might have felt sick, don’t you think?”
She did not believe it at all. Actually, the suspicion that Mrs. Scallis was still in town made her only more doubtful.
“Please”, I said.
My age played in my favor, Mrs. Bassi did not see a danger in me. “Let’s just take a look, just to be sure she is not here. Do not touch anything.”
I reassured her, and finally she turned the key.
We realized what happened as soon as we walked into the house and a nauseating smell surrounded us. We realized that that was the smell of death.
We did not go over and we called the police.
They found her in the bathroom, inside the tub. The water was evaporated all, after all it had been six months after the veins had been cut off.
She was naked, and of her beauty not much lasted. But this is what they told us, because we were not allowed to see her.
Mrs. Bassi was too upset to remember me, the strange incongruity of what I had told her, and that was in my favor.
What had happened was far too obvious, the police interrogated me briefly, then let me go.
Did I encounter a ghost?
It was beyond any doubt that she had already died when she came to visit me. Why she had come to me and what the dolls meant to her, it would certainly be a mystery. I tried not to think about it, forget it, because I was afraid that I would have gone mad if I did not.
That was my purpose, and maybe I would have succeeded if I did not receive an unexpected visit a couple of days later.
I had just closed the shop late in the evening when they came knocking two kids. I would have ignored anyone else, but I never wanted to disappoint a child. So I opened.
She was eight years old, with long black hair and beautiful green eyes. The little brother was younger, with a blond hair and two clear blue eyes.
“What can I do for you?”
The little girl spoke. “We want a doll.”
I sigh and I stepped aside. “Come in and have a look around.”
They came in, but they did not look to the exposed dolls. Again, the little girl spoke. “It’s a special doll. You have to make it.”
Not even this surprised me. “Special how? What do you have in mind?”
She smiled. “We want a dad.”
I froze, and only then I understood what my mind refused to see. It was not possible. No, it was not possible.
My voice trembled. “How do you want this dad?”
They exchanged a look, the kids, then the little girl winked at me. “Just like you, only a lot younger. Do you think you can do it?”
Could I do that? Could I make that doll for them? They were really two beautiful kids. “Why do you want a dad?”
“For mom. She suffers, she is always so alone. We are just not enough, you know?”
The little brother also spoke. “We want to give her this present, so she will be happy.”
It was difficult to keep talking. “Who are you? Where are you from? Who is your mother? And your father?”
They both laughed amused. “You know!” said the little girl. “You made us! You are our father!”
The boy continued to laugh. “So stupid!”
She lowered her voice. “But don’t tell mom, it must be a surprise!”
Somebody knocked on the glass of the door, making me jump. Ms. Scallis was there, looking at us, more beautiful than ever in her black dress.
She opened the door and came in. “Here you are, kids. Do not disturb the gentleman.” Then he smiled at me. “We don’t want to distract him from his job.”
The kids went back to giggle. The little girl took my hand and forced me to bend over. She kissed me on a cheek and whispered: “Remember!”
Then I saw them go, all three, holding hands. They were wonderful, a perfect family.
I started building the doll.
Children. Children that Mrs. Scallis couldn’t have. Children that me and Rosa have been waiting for in vain for a lifetime. Children who can fill a loneliness. Children who were only conceived by love. The love I put into each of the dolls I build, the love with which Mrs. Scallis was waiting for them.
Our children.
She doesn’t know, it must be a surprise, the kids have been clear.
In this doll, I put the best of me. I put what I wanted to be but I was not. I put in my whole soul.
I hope they remember to bring a dress for me too.
What will happen next when I’ll finish the doll? What shall I do? Will I go to the bathroom and cut my veins as well? Will it be painful? How is death, what is it?
What sensation wi
ll I try to look at the world from a window? To be observed, admired? Mrs. Scallis has always done it, and she obviously likes it. This is what she wished, alone in that bathroom, while life was flowing like blood from the veins: be that mannequin. But then it was not enough for her, even that couldn’t defeat loneliness.
I’ll get used to it, the important thing is to be close to my family.
I can not wait to finish this doll.
My last doll.
October 2010
DURGA’S TEARS
Translation by Alfio Loreto
I couldn’t turn the handle, I froze.
There was a recurring nightmare, and it was always the same. Beyond that door there was a bare bed. Only a mattress. The linen set on top, ready to be redone. No living human being, just an empty room.
A nightmare far too real, because soon it would become true.
No, I was kidding myself, it wouldn’t have been so easy, I wouldn’t find an empty bed. Diego would die in my arms after a long agony. He would just wear out. With a little luck, he could have lost consciousness before, and not even notice passing away. He would have stopped breathing, simply. And I would have waited and waited for his chest to move again.
To die at thirteen, it’s something I couldn’t conceive. Yet it happened, even too often.
I recovered my smile I put away the night before, and I stepped in.
The bed was really empty, unmade, but Diego was laughing. They were both at the other end of the room, opposite the window and they were playing. I bothered to get him a room with a sea view, there were not many at the Gaslini Pediatric Hospital but it has been a waste. He never looked outside the window.
The big screen was our but the games were Franco’s. By now we used to share everything.
Diego’s glossy bold head gave me a feeling of discomfort, though I should have been accustomed by now. It wasn’t the therapy’s side effect, it was his choice. He shaved before entering the hospital, he was sure he would have lost them anyway. In any case they never grew back.
Franco had still his hair, but who knows how long for. He lost them in strands even though he tried to hide it. They did not look alike, and yet they were identical. They shared the same fate: those two guys would never become adults.
I didn’t knock on the door, so they didn’t even hear me coming in. “That’s how you do the homework?”
He snorted. “Oh, mom!”
The role I impose myself was horrible. Useless and hateful. Homework for what? Diego would never go back to school. I knew it and he knew it also, and yet the acting continued. Wouldn’t be better if he had fun, as long as he had the strength to play?
He had already lost ten Kilograms, hollow cheek, a ghost. There was nothing left of his beauty. At times, he looked like a stranger. In those moments, I seemed to loose my mind: I wanted to grab him and shake him hard, ask him to give me my son back, my child.
“I brought you what you asked me”, I said, putting it on the bed.
He was too busy even to answer me, he was on track to compete in the Formula One Championship.
He would never get a license, never kiss a girl, he wouldn’t have made me a grandmother.
I was standing still in the inevitable loop. I didn’t want him to turn around and see me like that. Yet I couldn’t move.
Enrico thought of interrupting that momentum. He ran in the room screaming and slamming the door open. “Franco! Franco!”
The game was over, both realized. Yet there was no annoyance in their eyes. How could it have been? Enrico was the life, that life they were both dreaming of.
Seven years, Enrico was a force of nature. He wouldn’t be still for a moment and never stopped talking.
“Look! Look! I’ve drawn it! I did it for you! You are this one here, you see? And here’s the bed also.”
“How beautiful!” said Franco, even though it was a cobbler. It could be nothing else.
Sandra still didn’t show up. Perhaps Enrico outran her, running up the stairs, but she was more likely to be pursuing some doctors around. She had not yet given up. But maybe it was an excuse not to come in that room.
It was too painful.
We were so similar, me and Sandra, we too shared the same fate. Both widows, twice affected by the same misfortune. We never talked to each other, even that was painful.
Diego had reached me, he left them alone.
“Are we going to have a drink?”
I started searching my bag. “I brought something.”
“No, let’s go to the vending machine. I want something fresh.”
“But…”
Yes, he was right, he wanted to get out from that room. From the hospital, if it was possible, but it wasn’t.
My fear was that he couldn’t make it, every day he was weaker. The wheelchair spectrum was getting closer and closer. They already brought it to us, but we hid it in the bathroom.
“As you wish.”
He clenched my arm, but it was not affection, he too was afraid to fall.
What can say to whom you are going to lose? Especially when it represents your whole life? I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing at all. I was just a mother, I was immersed in my role as if it was a shell.
“What a pity”, I said, just to make a conversation. “If I had a son like him I would go crazy.”
He understood immediately that I was talking about Franco and Enrico. He smirked. “He couldn’t stand him before.”
I was not sure I understood. “Enrico?”
“No! Enrico loves his brother. Forever! It’s Franco who couldn’t stand him, he drove him crazy.”
“To see them together I wouldn’t have guessed it.”
“Everything changed. When he realized he was dying… he wanted to leave a good memory of himself. He wants Enrico to remember a better brother. Try to be as he sees him.” He sighed and shook his head. “It’s all worthless, Enrico is too young. In a few years, he will be forgotten anyway. Whatever he’ll do the memory won’t last. It’ll fade away.”
It hunted me to hear him so cynical, but that’s the way I raised him. I gave him my philosophy.
My role also made me decide what he could drink and what he couldn’t, but that day I didn’t do it. I let him choose. He noticed it and took advantage.
“Am I already so severe?”
I snorted. “As soon as I’ll go away you’ll go back to study, do you understand? You already played enough.”
I badly wanted to know how to cry, but I never did. Not that I remembered, at least. Not even as a child.
Seated in the kitchen I looked at the empty table. I crashed back into my loop. Diego would not be sitting there anymore. I wouldn’t cook for him, I wouldn’t serve him breakfast anymore. There was no longer a bed to be done, laundry to wash. There was nothing, only an infinite emptiness.
I heard Indira enter but I didn’t even move. She went to the grocery store. She snorted, maybe the elevator was broken again. I easily pictured all her actions, even without seeing her: lay the coat and the keys, change the shoes, go to the room to leave the purse, bring the bags in the kitchen.
“Are you already back, ma’am? How is Diego?”
“You should come and see him sometimes. He always asks for you.”
“I will do it.”
No, she wouldn’t, she was like that. Many people can’t stand the hospitals, especially the sick people. I was one of them.
Indira was with us for ten years now. Since my husband died I’ve been left with a child to rise and a job that didn’t leave me few seconds to relax. It wasn’t long since she moved to Genova, and at the beginning she spoke a shaky Italian. She raised Diego, practically they studied together. She loved him like a son. Maybe that’s why she didn’t want to see him die.
She was very well integrated, dressed like western people, though she often carried the veil. But her veils were colorful, cheerful, covering only her head, in the end I liked them too.
She sto
ked away the food she bought, but in the meantime, she spied on me. She misunderstood my stillness.
“Are you praying, madam? Do you want me to leave?”
I flinched, but I was bitter. I never had a conversation about religion with her, but after many years I was surprised to find out she had not yet understood how was I feeling about it.
“Who should I pray?”
“Don’t you trust your God?”
I shook my head. “There is no God.”
Maybe I disappointed her but, tough pity, I played my part enough.
She understood my weakness and sat down in front of me. She had beautiful eyes, black and big like a fawn. “Yet miracles exist, there have been many. They documented them. Even your God makes miracles.”
That discussion was hateful, it wasn’t what I needed: other illusions. “I don’t believe in any God. Does that hurt you?”
She said no. “Believe it or not, these things happen.”
It wasn’t the time to talk about the power of suggestion. “Diego is dying. He only has few days left.”
She bowed her head. “Yes, I knew it.”
“No miracle can stop it.”
“It already happened.”
“It might have happened before, I don’t know. But it won’t happen this time.”
“You must believe it to make it happen.”
I didn’t want to argue with her, but I was too stressed to stand her any longer. “I don’t believe in God. Any God.”
She shrugged. “You may not even believe him, but he exists anyway.”
I blew out. “He doesn’t exist and doesn’t do miracles! He’ll never do it for my son! Do you understand it?”
“Then it is not the right God.”
No, I couldn’t stand that. Now, right now, she tried to convert me. “I don’t believe in God and I don’t believe in Allah, are you happy now? I don’t care if I hurt you, you should understand that this is the wrong time.”
“What does Allah have to do with it?”
I was surprised. “Don’t you come from Pakistan?”
“My husband. I grew up in New Delhi.”
Indian? I had never realized it. Yet it was evident that she didn’t follow the laws of the Koran. “I don’t even believe in Buddha, okay?”
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