The Infinite Now

by Mindy Tarquini

  “The curtain is at Don Sebastiano’s. Hanging in his attic. I can’t just produce it for you.”

  “Are you sure, little one? Have you ever had the curtain, then not had it?

  I had, once.

  “Then try.”

  Try. Sure. “How?”

  “You must imagine. Must think of all the reasons you want the curtain. Call to it, and it will appear.”

  Eyes squeezed shut, fingertips to my temples, I imagined the curtain hanging at its window, the upside-down market moving inexorably on the wall. I imagined the curtain here, in my hands.

  Nothing.

  I popped my eyes open. “You do it.”

  “I can’t, little one. The curtain has one master, the bearer of the burden. When your mamma left you, she passed that burden to you. You must try harder.”

  Something about her description niggled at me. But there was Benedetta writhing on the floor, whimpery moans escaping her lips and so like Fipo when he burned himself after his parents’ death. I couldn’t think, couldn’t argue, couldn’t consider anything much beyond my nose. So I tried again. Harder.

  And imagined the feel of the velvet, the soft comfort of the fabric, how it smelled of Mamma, of life, of the lavender she folded into her linens, of happy dinners around the table. I dreamed of all the curtain meant, of my disappointment in its constant five-minute forwardness, of my life now gone, the impossibility of its retrieval. Of what use was looking into the past, if nothing could be changed.

  I wasn’t sure what to do after that. Twitch of a wrist. Flick of a finger. Arms extended, the curtain resting across them in my mind’s eye. Would magic words help? “Abracadabra.”

  My arms remained empty.

  I stood taller, got hold of my attitude. “Alakazam.”

  Tizi popped in from behind the curtain, two steaming mugs in her hand. She handed me one. “Alakazam? That’s ridiculous. What are you doing?”

  Nothing. I was doing nothing. But I wasn’t ready to admit that. I sipped at the tea, luscious and calming, unwilling to give up, not ready to give in. With no idea how to proceed.

  I put down the cup. Once more. I could try once more. Third time the charm and all. “Open . . . sesame.”

  I’d expected nothing. I got nothing. Because I’d done nothing and the only thing that comes from nothing is nothing.

  The guaritrice’s face went icier than a puddle in winter. “Do you think this is funny, little one? A joke? You can create whole worlds inside the curtain. But for each thing you wish, you must pay a price. And if you do not imagine properly, you will not get the results you want. You do not have the curtain because you do not want to have it.”

  Mamma used to say a lie is the truth shrouded by fear. Fear of betrayal, of discovery, of being lost, of being found, of finding one’s dream, or seeing one’s dream destroyed. Of being together.

  Or alone.

  I didn’t want to give the guaritrice the curtain, didn’t want to let it go, didn’t want to sacrifice what little I had left of my mother, even if the sacrifice meant another could live. Not really, because I only believed in the price as one believes in God, as an abstract, a possibility, which was how I thought of Benedetta, and her baby. Because they belonged to Nicco, away at his war. Belonged to an aunt, living up in Coatesville. Even belonged to the old man, to the Lattanzis, to Fipo, and Etti, and Carlo. Glued by a shared history, a village they remembered, and a sense of family I began to doubt I’d ever had.

  The guaritrice clapped her hands. “Tizi, bring me the tea.”

  Tizi lifted the saucer carefully from the tray. She placed her hand along the side of the cup. “I should warm this, Mamma. It’s grown cold. It won’t take a minute.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine. Our time is growing short.”

  “But—”

  The guaritrice held out her hand. “Now.”

  Tizi brought her mother the cup, her steps slow and measured.

  The guaritrice took the tea. She waved Tizi away and turned her back on her. Tizi took a half step back. Then another. She looked to me, something in her face. A plea, a petition . . .

  The guaritrice handed the cup to Benedetta. “We will get that baby out of you somehow, my pretty. Drink.”

  . . . a warning.

  “No!” Tizi lunged for the cup and knocked it from Benedetta’s hand. The spray arced into the air, broke apart, and descended in droplets, landing on Benedetta in pinpricks so small, they almost looked like dust. Red dust. Head to toe and everywhere in between.

  I’d drunk that tea. Almost half a cup. The red covered me also. Inside.

  I stuck my fingers down my throat and retched. Over the chair, over the carpet, over the guaritrice’s shoes, then I pulled my hanky from my pocket, still stuffed with verbena, went to Benedetta and scrubbed, scrubbed, scrubbed. At her hair, her face, her hands.

  The guaritrice balled her fist and punched Tizi across the face. “Look what you did, you little troublemaker.”

  Tizi stumbled back, tears streaming. “Take her, Fiora. Go. Now.”

  The guaritrice’s face changed, in a shimmer, going from angry and arrogant to agreeable and kind. “No. Don’t take her. Here, she can have a fine and healthy baby. Outside the bubble, who knows what will happen. Go home. Get the curtain. I will wait. The curtain for a healthy baby. A healthy baby is all we want. Do not go to the hospital. She cannot wait, do you hear me? If you take her, you will kill her.”

  Benedetta pulled away from me, her eyes going vacant. “Perhaps she’s right. I can’t get all that way. The bubble is safer. See, the pains have stopped and we’re already here. I’ll wait in the chair. You get the curtain. Bring it here. Let her have her way. You said yourself, it’s only a piece of fabric.”

  “Yes, of course.” The guaritrice again put her arm around Benedetta’s shoulder. She gave it a squeeze. “See now? All friendly. And Tizi does not truly want you to go. The tea was special. A new blend, crafted especially for your friend. It takes time to brew. Tizi’s disappointed she has to redo her work. Isn’t that right, Tizi?”

  Tizi cowered by the counter, tea snot glistening across her mouth and her cheek already swelling. She ran her sleeve across it, stood up, and straightened her shoulders. “Yes, Mamma. That’s right.”

  I got in between the guaritrice and Benedetta, cranked my hip to the side, and barreled it into the guaritrice’s so hard, she fell sideways. I grabbed Benedetta, hustled her to the passage, found the end of my yarn. And ran.

  Twenty-Two

  We didn’t actually run. We more cantered in an awkward hobble, my arm around Benedetta’s waist.

  The guaritrice’s voice barreled after us, disjointed and desperate. “Get them, Tizi. Bring them back.”

  I hustled Benedetta faster, turning corner after corner in the darkening passage and gathering the yarn trail I’d left on my way in. Benedetta stumbled. I held on, got her steady. She sank against the sidewall. “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “Leave me. I’m a terrible mother. Awful. Ready to trade my child for a piece of fabric.”

  “It’s not a child yet. It starts as a baby. All you have to do now is give birth to it.” I pried her off the wall. “Then you’ll figure out the rest.”

  I dragged her along, turn after turn after turn, spiraling inner to outer, the passage feeling increasingly uphill, our collective will slackening. The passage widened, the cross-passages, webbing the labyrinth, grew broader. I gathered skein after skein, the yarn a hopeless tangle, circling our arms, clinging to my coat buttons, twining about my skirt. I struggled with the tendrils.

  Beside me, Benedetta thrashed. “Help me, Fiora. I can’t get it loose.”

  I felt for her waist, patted down along her hips and down her legs, feeling for the threads. I unwound, and yanked, using my teeth to bite through the fibers, my thoughts wild. I needed a knife, a machete. I was in a dream. No. A nightmare. Brought on by anxiety. And exhaustion. And the . . .

  I stopped m
y struggle. “Benedetta, listen to me. You must be calm. None of this is real. It’s the guaritrice’s tea, her medicine. It made us go to sleep. Not for real.” I tapped my temple. “In here.”

  “In where?”

  It was dark, pitch, she couldn’t see my movement. “In our heads. All of what we think is happening is in our heads.” I grabbed her hand, touched it to either side of the hollow. “Can you feel that? What do you think?”

  “For a way out?”

  “Yes.” A shortcut, a direct route. “There’s no thread, nothing entangling us. Believe me. Take a step. You will see.”

  She tightened her grip. And stepped with me.

  The yarn fell away. I felt the lines untie, then slither down my coat, and slide off my stockings.

  Benedetta squeezed my hand. “Fiora. It’s working.”

  We took another step, then two more, keeping our palms to the wall. A breeze fell fresh on my face, the sound of traffic rumbled in underfoot, a message from the outside. We were going to make it, to a world of sunshine, and blue skies, and a reason to continue.

  Something moved, shuffley, then skittery.

  Benedetta pull me back. “What . . . is that?”

  Something dark. Something hungry. Something unaccustomed to being challenged.

  Keeping us in. Keeping us from getting out.

  I stuck my hands into my coat pockets and pulled out wads of verbena and held them over my head. I didn’t know why. All I knew was the old man put it in my pocket because I’d never know when it was needed. I directed my attention to what waited, and spoke in the most deep and menacing voice I could muster. “Stay back. I’m warning you.”

  “Fiora?” A voice, pitiful and plaintive echoed from the hollow. “Help me. I lost my lamp and the passage is so dark.”

  Benedetta let out a sigh, long and whooshy and full of relief. “It’s only Tizi.”

  I held her back, a dreadful certainty gathering in my gut.

  She pulled forward. “We have to help her. She helped us.”

  “Benedetta, stop. That’s not Tizi.”

  The verbena warmed in my palms. The skitter-shuffle grew closer. I strained to see, strained to know what lay in my path, what prevented me from my purpose. The image filled my mind’s eye, then resolved.

  Eyes. Too large to be human, globular and glowing and galvanized on us.

  I cranked back and catapulted the verbena forward. It spread out in tiny glimmers and coated the menace, revealing a bulk, bizarre and buglike, which sparked at each point of contact. Like fairy lights.

  A hiss, spitting and spiteful, faded into the shadows.

  Benedetta gasped.

  I got hold of her shoulder and hauled her back, out of the hollow, back into the passage. I groped along the floor, seeking the yarn. We were close, we were always close, we were never as far as we thought we’d been. I just needed something to guide me.

  Or someone.

  Thud. Thud. Thud. “Fiora. Benedetta. Open up.”

  Carlo.

  Just ahead, another ten feet, maybe twenty. On the other side of the door.

  We followed his voice and made a dash for it. I put a hand on the knob, turned it, and gave the door a heave.

  And ducked with Benedetta to avoid Carlo’s fist, already descending to land another blow to the freshly opened door.

  I pushed past him, Benedetta in tow.

  “Fiora. Don’t leave me.” Not Carlo. The Tizi Voice.

  I turned. “Carlo. Let’s go.”

  He gazed through the open doorway.

  The Tizi Voice’s plea came again.

  I grabbed him, grabbed Benedetta, and heaved. “I. Said. Go.”

  Like a cork popped from a bottle, we cannonballed to the corner.

  The Tizi Voice came again, whining and wailing. “Pleeeeeaassse.”

  Carlo stopped us. “We must go back. Can’t you hear that?”

  I took his collar. “You must not. None of us should. If you do, it will be the last thing you do.”

  “That sounds pretty final.” He hesitated, but I guess something in my face told him I meant it. He pried my fingers off his collar and tossed Benedetta’s coat about her shoulders. “Here. I found this outside the door. What are all those red stains? You were only inside a minute.”

  We’d been there for hours. Days. Maybe years. We’d been in a bubble inside the bubble. A bubble created by the guaritrice, meant to confuse, to entrap. We were out of it, we’d escaped. And now we had to leave mine. Had to get on a trolley and cross the barrier. Because . . . “Benedetta’s having the baby.” I adjusted her mask back over her mouth and nose. “We gotta go.”

  I don’t know why I was in such a hurry. We got to the hospital, the doors were shut, and a line snaked around the building.

  “There’s no room,” a tired-looking man in a white mask told us.

  Carlo spoke up. “We’re not sick. The signora is having a baby. What should we do?”

  The man checked Benedetta’s eyes. He felt her forehead. He made her put her tongue out. “Take her to the Holy Sisters. They’re set up for people who do not have the influenza. It’s just a little farther.”

  A little farther. Benedetta looked ready to drop.

  “The exercise will help her progress. Is this her first?” the man asked.

  I nodded.

  “Then she has plenty of time.” He turned his back on us, moving to the next person in line.

  Outside the bubble, a little farther wasn’t far. With a pregnant woman in the midst of another contraction, it was an eternity. Carlo scooped Benedetta into his arms and carried her.

  The white-masked sister put a pen to her clipboard. “How far apart are the pains?”

  I didn’t know. A minute, an hour, never-ending. I’d done my part. I’d gotten Benedetta there. The professionals could take over.

  The nurse sat Benedetta in a wheelchair. Carlo and I headed toward a room with a makeshift sign labeled FAMILIES.

  “Young lady?” The sister’s voice followed me. “We’re going to need your help.”

  I turned. “But—”

  “We’re understaffed. Somebody has to stay with her.”

  Carlo knocked on the jamb. The jamb edging the door to the room marked for families. The room where I could sit quietly while people who knew what they were doing did what they were supposed to do. He flicked his head toward the sister. “Go ahead. Come get me when you’re finished.” He tapped me under the chin. “Don’t forget I’m here.”

  Stay with her. Keep her company. Help her into the hospital gown. Hold her hand.

  Sure, I could do that. I’d heard it could take a long time to have a baby. One of Mamma’s clients once complained she was in labor for two days.

  Maybe I should have brought a snack.

  The nuns assigned us a curtained space, with a bed and a chair. The space was one of six in a large room which was really a schoolroom, with a chalkboard on which somebody had listed the stages of labor, complete with illustrations. A pencil sharpener was screwed to the wall beside the heavy wood door.

  On the other side of Benedetta’s privacy drapes, people grumbled and adjusted, snored and sniffled. I wondered if they were here to have babies, or tonsils removed, or maybe get a broken bone fixed.

  Benedetta and I should be quiet. Speak in low, polite voices, about topics suitable for public display. I perched on the edge of the chair. “So. How are you feeling?”

  Benedetta bent over the mattress, her belly hanging under her, and let loose a cry. Squawky and scratchy. Like a parrot at the zoo.

  The sister rushed in, bearing a tray of instruments. “Sounds like we’re getting close. Into the stirrups, young lady.” She nodded to me, now glued to my place. “Stay there.”

  Another nurse bustled in. She thrust her hand between Benedetta’s open knees. “All right now, dearie, deep breath.”

  I couldn’t imagine, would never have guessed. Benedetta clasped my hand throughout, the touch neither gentle, nor soft, n
or even particularly friendly. She held tight, near crushing my bones while the nurses poked and prodded and told Benedetta it would all be over soon, if she’d only just breathe.

  This was what it meant to be with a man. It was ludicrous. Why would anybody put themselves in that position willingly? I imagined Carlo and I together, the actual mechanics of love fuzzy, and fanciful and, I was convinced, painful. I clamped on Benedetta’s hand as hard as she clamped on mine, unable to watch those instruments disappearing beneath the sheet the nurses had draped across Benedetta’s knees. Benedetta writhed beside me, eyes crazed. “I’m going to die, Fiora Vicente. I feel it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I told her. “Nobody is dying today. You’re having a baby.” Then I remembered something Mamma told me once. “It’s all perfectly natural.”

  If natural meant rearing like a whipped horse, eyes bulged and all the neck veins stretched like piano strings. Sweat poured down Benedetta’s face. She pressed her lips together and arched, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. “She’s not dying, is she?” I asked the nurse.

  “Hush,” she told me. Then to Benedetta: “Get your breath, young lady. I’m going to need you to push.”

  Benedetta didn’t respond. She was too busy panting.

  “She speaks English, doesn’t she?” the nurse asked.

  I nodded, repeating the instructions in Italian anyway and adding, “Don’t frown, or the baby will come out frowning, too.”

  “I don’t care.” Benedetta grabbed my waistband. “If I die, tell Nicco I am never ever doing this for him again. Do you understand me? Tell him, just like that. Never.”

  “Shhh, relax. Tell Nicco yourself. You’re not going to die.” I gazed at the chalkboard illustration, at the chalk-drawn baby, grown to the size of a porpoise sliding down a passage expanded enough to accommodate it. I thought of my own anatomy, with which I only had a passing acquaintance. The illustration went blurry.

  “You.” The sister’s voice came out of the fuzz. “If you are going to faint. Leave the room.”

  Leave the room? Oh how I wanted to follow that instruction. And if I did, it likely would be the only instruction I ever followed willingly in my life. I even took a step in the direction of the door.