A Veil of Glass and Rain

by Petra F. Bagnardi

  Sadness and loneliness killed Margherita's parents.

  My grandfather was a mechanic. After he married my grandmother, he lost his job. Unfortunately, he was unable to find work in Italy, so he left. He managed to obtain a position in the north of France.

  His wife was an elementary school teacher. She had a steady and secure occupation that she was unwilling to risk, therefore she and Margherita remained in Italy.

  My grandparents firmly believed in the strength of their bond.

  According to my mother, however, their love was also fierce and desperate. And it was nourished by constant physical touch. The distance became unbearable.

  My grandmother, gradually and inexorably, wilted and languished, like a flower deprived of water and sun.

  Margherita was forced to contact her father and tell him about his wife dire conditions.

  When he arrived home, it was too late. His wife was gone. He didn't utter a word to his crying daughter. He just went to sleep and he never woke up.

  When Jean saw Margherita for the first time, she was sitting on a bench outside a church. They were in Turin. It was a sunny and crisp day. Margherita was wearing a dark and demure dress, for she was mourning her parents' death.

  Upon resting his gaze on her pale skin and long, inky hair, Jean felt the irrational but undeniable impulse to divest the girl of the cloak of sadness she was clothed in, and replace it with his own skin, his own warmth, his own strength. So he decided to sit beside her. He remained quiet and just kept her company as she cried.

  Jean had grown up in a Swiss orphanage. When he was a child he had nothing, not even a family name. He was never adopted, in spite of that he developed into a strong and decisive man. As soon as he was old enough, he chose his own family name, Féau, which in French means “loyal”. Then he found a job. He became the assistant of an Italian photographer. He traveled all over the world with his new boss. Through the lenses of his camera, he witnessed human hunger, despair, but also resilience.

  When he saw Margherita for the first time, he was already pursuing an independent career.

  After Margherita's tears ebbed, Jean began to speak to her in Italian.

  “My name is Jean. I'm a photographer. I'm looking for an assistant,” he told her.

  Margherita glanced up at him with teary eyes and met kind blue eyes, that contained the immense sky.

  “I'm Margherita, and I have nothing,” she replied.

  “You can have me. If you want,” Jean declared.

  Then they became friends.

  Then they became lovers.

  Then they became complete.

  I can't stop thinking about him.

  Professor Sergio De Lauri, Miss Tessitori's friend, is a tall and lean man in his early fifties. He's bald and he has small, brown and intelligent eyes. He likes wearing T-shirts, jeans and combat-boots.

  He never meets his students in his office, but he prefers seeing us in small coffee shops scattered all over Berlin. The owners of these selected places are Italians; professor De Lauri, being a very curious mind, has collected the story of each one of them. He knows why and when they came to Germany. He knows how hard they struggled in the beginning. He knows how happy they are with their new lives. And he's aware of how much they still miss their country.

  As we nurse our coffees, the professor waits patiently for my brain and my mouth to express ideas, but nothing happens; I'm still unable to present a clear topic for my paper. So Mr. De Lauri advises me to visit the Film Haus, and to take a long walk afterward.

  “Pay attention,” he says. “Search for the scars. And then look for the rebirth.”

  His suggestion fills me with confusion and discouragement at first. But then, I curl my fingers into tight fists, I inhale deeply and I begin my brief journey.

  My exploration of the museum of cinema, through decades of European and German films, shows me that the movies made between the two World Wars are crowded with shadows. The pictures depict a distorted reality full of monstrous characters. The authors of these movies could not imagine that a new conflict was imminent, but they could probably perceive the threat hiding within the murkiness.

  My long strolls down the streets of Berlin reveal to me a city imbued with fresh energy and young minds. The modern and intricate buildings, made of glass and steel, reach toward the sky. At their feet, however, rest the fragments of a terrible past; the remains of the Berlin wall dispersed across the city.

  Rome and Berlin are similar and yet so different. During the war, Rome found the strength in its eternal history and foundations; Berlin survived the conflict through renovation and vitality.

  It takes me numerous meetings with professor De Lauri and interminable walks, but in the end I find the topic of my paper.

  I'm going to write about Rome, my home, and about Berlin, the city that is witnessing my own rebirth. I'm going to tell about two cities that faced a long war. And I'm going to show how the cinema portrayed their struggle and survival.

  I need him.

  I want to write to him, call him, talk to him, but I don't, because I'm certain that his words, either written or spoken, will shatter my resolve to change and to heal. If I hear his voice, I'm sure I'll implore him to come to me and take me home. I'll ask him to blanket me with his warmth and his solidity.

  I recline in my bed and stare at the ceiling; my active imagination transforms the thin and irregular chinks into Eagan's handsome features.

  Then I hear the twins' startled tones mingled with another slightly familiar voice.

  I ease out of bed and follow the words, until I step into our small living room.

  Ivan and Alessio are ogling appreciatively a tall, lean and fit man, who's standing in the middle of the room. He has dark eyes and chestnut hair. He's wearing a black suit, black shirt and vest, black elegant shoes, and a top-hat.

  “He says he knows you,” Alessio explains, as soon as he notices my presence.

  The man turns toward me and frowns.

  “Hello, Brina. You look dour this morning,” he comments. “The sun is shining. You should take a walk.”

  Before replying, I stare intently at him. His looks, his voice.

  She's fragile. She's dragging you down. Is she worth it?

  I know who he is.

  “You're Neal,” I tell him drily.

  He seems unfazed by my tone. His eyes scrutinize my features, even as he speaks.

  “The one and only,” he admits.

  I give the twin a reassuring smile. “I've got this.” When I turn my attention back to Neal, the smile fades away. “What do you want?”

  Neal doesn't respond. He shrugs briefly and begins to explore our small apartment. While Ivan and Alessio remain in the living room, I tread behind the unwanted visitor.

  “This place is tiny. And the furniture offends my sensitivity,” he remarks.

  I quickly glance at the sparse, modest but functional furniture.

  “This is all we can afford with our scholarships,” I explain. Then I add, “Why do you care?”

  The moment he enters into my bedroom I quicken my pace to step in front of him and arrest his path. Our gazes meet and hold.

  “Did Eagan ask you to check on me?”

  “Yes. He's worried. You never call. You never write.”

  I flinch but I don't say anything, because Neal doesn't deserve my explanations.

  “How do you know about my walks?” I ask instead.

  “I've been keeping an eye on you,” Neal answers.

  “Why?”

  “I want to help you. Eagan is family, therefore you are family,” he clarifies.

  “You think I'm not good for him. I heard your conversation.” My voice wavers, for images of my argument with Eagan crowd my mind.

  Neal leans toward me and considers my reaction. I glance up at his inappropriate and immovable top-hat, which appears to be an integral part of his head.

  “No, you're not good for him. I am not good for him. And my
sister is not good for him. Eagan is spirited, while the three of us are glum and desperate.”

  “I'm not giving up on him,” I tell him stubbornly.

  Neal gives me a sharp nod. “Good.”

  Then he leaves the room.

  I don't follow him immediately, for I need a few moments to placate my emotions.

  The moment we're all back in the living room, Neal's expression changes. Stark seriousness replaces his ironic frown.

  “I own a club. I need a band to entertain my clients. You're hired,” he says.

  “Don't you want to hear us play first?” I ask him, even as a surge of gratitude runs through my chest; we can really use the extra money.

  “The guy managing my club in Rome told me you're good. Eagan thinks you're good. I trust my manager. I trust Eagan. There's nothing else to say,” he declares.

  The club by the sea. Eagan's mysterious friend: Neal. David's big brother. The man who bought clubs all over Europe, to keep an eye on his wandering sister.

  “I have another question,” Ivan intervenes. “Why are wearing a top-hat?”

  Neal shrugs. “I like it.”

  “Weirdo,” Alessio mutters.

  I grin.

  Neal seems unaffected by the remark. He observes Ivan and Alessio for a long moment.

  “You two are twins,” he finally utters.

  “Yes,” Ivan says.

  “And you're both gay.”

  “Yes.”

  Neal nods. “I figured.”

  “How?” Alessio cuts in, his face guarded.

  Neal's gaze softens. “You're eating me up with your eyes.”

  Alessio blushes. Ivan laughs. And I beam. Neal glances at me; his eyes are surprisingly kind.

  “It sounds like a bizarre joke,” Neal continues. “The gay twins.”

  “It's not a joke,” Alessio tells him, but his tone is more relaxed.

  “Right. So what's the name of the band again?”

  “We're Awesome. And it's not a joke either,” Ivan retorts.

  Before leaving, Neal smiles shyly at me, taking me by surprise once more.

  “I meant what I said. You are family.”

  His parting words lodge a delicate seed of promise deep inside my soul.

  I long for him.

  The façade of Neal's club is white and nondescript. The interior, however, steals my breath. It's an intricate combination of marble, velvet and stucco.

  The ample stage is framed by red curtains made of opulent velvet; in the center stands a grand piano. Several rows of alcoves occupy the left wall and the right wall; arched entryways connect the niches to the main space. The alcoves create a semi-circle around the spacious dance floor, in the middle of which is located the bar. The ceiling is decorated with a fresco that portrays two white masks, one crying, one smirking, enclosed by bruised clouds.

  Neal bought a club and transformed it into “The Theater”.

  I glance at Ivan and Alessio and I glimpse my astonishment and awe reflected in their eyes. My gaze moves to Neal, who wears a yellow suit, a yellow top-hat and a timid smile; the frown is absent from his face and he looks almost anxious.

  Then the music begins and we all stare at the stage. A young woman is playing the grand piano. Her long, chestnut hair covers her shoulders and back like a wide cloak. Her agile fingers appear to barely graze the black and white keyboard; they produce a desperate and yet beautiful melody, shrouded with harsh longing.

  When the performance ends, the young woman stands and turns toward us; she glances at our faces without truly perceiving our presence. Her gaze wanders, searches, but never rests.

  Finally, she exits stage left.

  “That was my sister, Felia,” Neal announces.

  I crave him.

  Working for Neal turns out to be a satisfying and engaging experience.

  The acoustics in the club are perfect. During the shows our battered and well-used instruments rejoice and hum with fresh vigor.

  The audience is always benevolent and enthusiastic; nevertheless, I'm still unable to let myself go completely and repay their generosity with my trust. Technique and experience are yet my favorite puppeteers.

  Neal is a beloved boss. His employees adore him and they all have a story about him.

  Neal helped Cora, one of the waitresses, find a trustworthy nanny for her daughter. Neal helped Hans, the bartender, find a nice and affordable apartment.

  Whenever his sister calls for him, Neal runs to her.

  The twins and I spend the majority of our nights at the club. When we're not playing, we enjoy the other performances. Neal doesn't hire only musicians to entertain his clients, but also actors and dancers. The house is continually full. The audience is ever pleased.

  Neal is a good boss, still I'm weary around him. When we meet, however, our lips curl into tentative, but sincere smiles, that nurture the seed of promise within my soul.

  I can't sleep without him.

  Tonight, for the first time, I have the apartment all to myself; Ivan and Alessio are enjoying a fancy dinner with their new boys.

  The twins met their young men a few nights ago. The two charming and sophisticated German guys came backstage after our show, to compliment and congratulate us. Then they asked Ivan and Alessio out. Ivan accepted right away, while Alessio hesitated, but only for a brief moment. When he nodded his agreement, pride swelled and unfurled in my chest.

  So, tonight I'm all alone and my appetite is absent.

  I've been trying hard to eat regularly. Every time they can, the twins cook and eat with me, to make certain I ingest a sufficient amount of food.

  But it's not nourishment I truly crave. And my mind is crowded with memories and doubts.

  I hope I've made the right choice.

  I hope Eagan doesn't detest me for it.

  Clém writes to us plenty of emails, and we write her just as many in return. She tells us about her show and about how much she likes the funny and lively Enrico. Then she adds that Eagan's smiles, when she happens to see him, never reach his eyes. Upon reading her words, my breath breaks, my heart stutters and my throat burns.

  As I'm unable to rest, I grab my blue guitar and I begin to sing about him.

  21.

  Eagan

  The road is an infinite and convoluted path.

  The trees sliding by on either side of the car are long and murky shapes.

  My fingers grip the steering wheel with vicious vigor. My knuckles turn white.

  David occupies the passenger seat. I glance at him.

  “Why am I dreaming about you? I only dream about you on the day of your death,” I tell him.

  The dark shadows of the deformed tress carve his young features.

  “You're lonely. You miss Brina. And you also miss Neal and Felia. They're your family. You should go to them. And I should be the one driving,” David says.

  Then obscurity swallows the car. And the noise of metal bending and glass breaking splinters my ears.

  Then I'm swimming in an ocean of fractured limbs: My limbs.

  Then the phone rings. The tone yanks me out of my nightmare.

  Panting and sweating with cold horror, I blindly grope across the nightstand surface, until I find the source of the noise. I touch the screen with my thumb and place the cellphone close to my ear.

  “What?”

  “Good-afternoon, Eagan. You sound awful.”

  “Neal?” I growl.

  “The one and only,” he replies.

  I sit up abruptly, fully awake. “Something happened to Brina?”

  “No. Relax. She's fine. She's eating all her vegetables. She's spending some healthy time outdoors. And she's working for me.”

  “Good. “ A part of me is happy for her. But I'm also a selfish bastard. I don't want her to be fine without me.

  “She's also writing a song. And she's going to play it. Soon. For my audience. You should come.”

  “I can't,” I say through clenched teeth. I'm sel
fish, but I'm also very proud of her. And I want to listen to her song.

  “Why not?” Neal demands.

  “She asked me for six weeks. And it's only been a month,” I explain.

  “Who cares! Take control of the situation. Be an alpha guy. Instead of—Hell, I don't know which letter of the Greek alphabet you're now, but it's not a good one.”

  “Thanks for the boost, pal,” I tell him flatly.

  “She needs you. It's written all over her face. And I miss you. And Felia misses you.”

  As he mentions his sister, Neal's voice fills with heavy sadness.

  “How is she?”

  “I don't know. Felia's always so desperate and distant. She needs me, but she never really lets me in,” Neal admits, then he lets out a broken breath. For a moment his mask of detachment slips away and I'm allowed to catch a glimpse of his grief.

  “I'll be there tomorrow.” For him. For Felia. And for my Brina.

  “Good. My studio apartment is all yours. You and your lady need a private place,” relief floods Neal's words.

  “Where will you stay?”

  “I own a theater with numerous, cozy alcoves. Remember?” A hint of pride marks his tone.

  Crazy, generous Neal.

  22.

  Eagan and Brina