by Lina Simoni
He looked her in the eyes. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” he whispered, “even though I’m not even sure what that means.”
“Kiss me,” she said. “It’ll become clear.”
They went to the shack that same night, Rosa leading the way along the pier, Renato following docilely like a curious child. “This is it,” Rosa said, pointing at the sacks. “The place where you and I used to make love.”
Silently, Renato gazed about.
“Feel familiar?” Rosa asked.
“No,” Renato said, sitting down. He looked at Rosa. “Help me.”
She sat by him, put her arms around his neck. The rays of the lighthouse kissed them as they kissed each other. Then Rosa lay back on the sacks and drew Renato close, and in that motion she detected a slight resistance in his body. Surprised, she felt him lie on her almost inquisitively, cautiously tracing the contour of her neck with his fingers. Her gaze captured his face, and she saw in his blue eyes an unmistakable shadow of doubt. She noticed the wariness in his movements, the clumsiness of his limbs, and the controlled restraint with which he touched her. It never occurred to Rosa, who remembered vividly every moment of their tumultuous passion, that Renato’s tentative, passionless conduct was to be attributed to his inability to remember her as well as the experience of loving a woman. He was groping through ancestral instincts, but Rosa gave it a whole different interpretation. As her lips timidly grazed his chest, she realized that she had never considered the possibility that Renato might not fall in love with her again, or might not be physically attracted to her. There, entangled with him on the sacks, the fear of this possibility came to her in a hurry. She became as cautious as he was, as the prospect of losing him suddenly loomed. She loosened her hug and distanced herself from her beloved ever so slightly to have a better look at him, to read his expressions and the movements of his body. She began studying intently the look in his eyes, the shape of his mouth, the trajectories of his hands, looking for hints of rejection. She became an anguished observer with no spontaneity or warmth. Correspondingly, Renato’s insecurity grew, and she noticed it. Her stomach twisted. Her throat closed up. With her mind’s eye she saw herself living a life without Renato, fathoming at the same time the irrationality of her own thoughts and that by acting the way she was acting she was the one who pushed Renato away. She desperately tried not to stare at him, not to analyze him, not to judge him. She attempted a smile, realizing she was grimacing instead. She hugged him tightly, knowing the hug wasn’t tight at all. She was aware of being more awkward than she had been the first time they had made love and that the more awkwardly she acted, the more wary he became. I’ve lost him, she cried to herself, longing desperately for the old Renato, the one who had kissed her softly the first time on the pier, chased her all over town, held her tenderly during their carriage ride. She breathed deeply, trying to calm down; the deeper she breathed, the more anxious she became. Her lips quivered as she tried to speak, but no sound came out of her mouth. She tried to say his name; all she did instead was gurgle an indecipherable sound. Out of sorts, she erupted into sobs as a bewildered Renato unwove himself from her and came to a seated position. He looked at Rosa, still sunken into the sacks and shaking from her sobs. “Come here,” he said.
In tears, Rosa pushed herself up and sat next to him.
“I have no idea what it is we’re doing or what’s in your mind or what’s in mine,” he went on, “but I can see that you’re very agitated. Please tell me why.”
Rosa didn’t speak.
He lifted his arm, placed it around her shoulders. Gently, Rosa laid her head on his chest. They stayed there in perfect silence, facing the sea, and in that silence Rosa heard the strong, deep thumps of Renato’s heart. Her muscles started to relax, her throat to open. In Renato’s tender yet firm embrace, listening to the rhythmic throbs of his heart, she felt a soothing calm swelling inside her. In an instant, she grasped the extraordinary strength of her love for him and realized with clarity that she didn’t need the certainty of his love for her and that her fear of losing him was only the fruit of her imagination. Suddenly, nothing mattered to her anymore beyond the indisputable fact that she loved him. She lifted her head from his chest and kissed him deeply. He returned the kiss without restraint, and they fell on the sacks again. They made love with a slow buildup of passion, no longer watchful of each other, moving in unison as they always had, with Rosa lost in Renato’s embraces, not for a single moment aware that she was helping him and leading him as he had led her the first time they had been together.
They stopped much later, worn out and sweaty. Renato spoke first. “The scent of your skin,” he whispered in her ear, “is the most maddening odor I’ve ever smelled.”
Rosa sat up, pushing herself to the edge of the sacks. “I believe I have heard this before,” she said slyly.
He joined her. “Am I dreaming,” he asked, “or at the monastery, while I was seated on the bench, did you tell me that one of your oil’s ingredients came from Isabel’s grandmother?”
“You’re not dreaming. She and Isabel picked the herbs on a hill in Costa Rica, when Isabel was a child. I’m sure that’s the ingredient that drives people crazy.”
“In Vercelli,” Renato said, “your scent was the one thing that gave me the strength to keep going when my body wanted to drop to the ground. It was a strange feeling,” he continued. “I was exhausted from walking through those rice fields, and yet I needed to find the source of that odor. That’s why I couldn’t stop.”
“But you stopped at the monastery.”
“Only to rest. The monks took me by force, and then, when I was in their garden, I was confused as to which way to go, because I could smell your scent everywhere. So I sat on the bench and stayed there.”
“What would you have done if we hadn’t come to the monastery?” Rosa asked.
He thought a moment. “I would have gotten up,” he murmured, “and walked the earth until I found you.”
Slowly, a large transatlantic steamer made its way toward a pier. Renato said, “We could go on a boat ride sometime.”
Rosa stared at him with her large aquamarine eyes. “You mean it?”
“Yes,” he said. “I keep looking at these ships, and I’m fascinated. Have you ever been on a boat?”
“N-no,” Rosa stuttered, amazed at what he had said. “I’d love to do that with you.”
“Next week maybe,” Renato said. He gazed around him. “I deal with so many new things every day, so many emotions.”
Rosa was radiant when she walked through the distillery door that night. “He forgot!” she shouted at Isabel, who was dozing off on the rocking chair.
Startled, Isabel woke up. “Who forgot what?”
“Renato! He forgot he’s afraid of boats!”
“How lucky. And I bet you didn’t remind him.”
“Is it wrong? I mean, it’s not like I’m lying to him. It’s not my fault if he doesn’t remember.”
Isabel thought a moment. “I guess not, but I thought you were helping him remember his life.”
“I am.”
“Do you realize how much power you have over him?” Isabel asked. “You can’t decide what he should or shouldn’t remember. I thought you learned a lesson about truth and lies. I heard what you told Renato in this very room the night Giacomo was bleeding. You said, ‘I promise I’ll always tell the truth, no matter how difficult, no matter how painful.’ Remember?”
“Certain things are more important to remember than others,” Rosa argued.
“That’s your personal judgment,” Isabel said. “Let me see if I can get this straight. You are helping him remember his love for you, but not his fear of boats. A little self-serving, don’t you think?”
“Should I tell him?”
“Of course you should. But for now, let’s go to sleep. I feel tired”—Isabel closed her eyes—“like I’ve never felt before.”
Madam C, in the meantime, had again t
aken charge of the Luna. “Thank you,” she had told Margherita on the day she had arrived. “The place looks great. And guess who’s coming to lunch on Thursday.”
“Who?”
“Rosa. With Renato.”
Margherita smiled. “Back to normal. I’m so glad.” She turned to Stella. “Is Thursday a good day for a reconciliation?”
“As a matter-of-fact, yes,” Stella said. “Thursdays are good for relationships, and on this coming one the wind will be blowing from the south. Southern winds bring warmth. Everything will be all right.”
It was indeed a warm day when Rosa and Renato arrived at the Luna on Thursday around noon. “Have I been here before?” Renato asked as Rosa knocked on the door.
“No,” Rosa said. “You were never too fond of prostitutes. You’ll see now how nice they all are.”
Stella came to the door. “So this is the famous Renato,” she said as she moved aside to let them in. “Let’s see,” she continued, taking Renato’s hand and turning it palm up. “Deep, long lines. Few crossings.”
“Is that good or bad?” Renato asked, smiling.
“It’s all good,” Stella said, “or I wouldn’t let you anywhere close to Rosa. Come in, dear. Meet the rest of the family.”
In the parlor, Rosa and Madam C introduced Renato to the girls, who after only a few moments of awkwardness warmed up to him and treated him as if they had known him all their lives. Next, they introduced him to Antonia, who had prepared a sumptuous banquet for the occasion. Before sitting down to lunch, Rosa gave Renato a grand tour. First, she brought him to her bedroom behind the kitchen. The wrought-iron bed was still there, as were the batiste sheets and the white bedspread filled with goose feathers. It was the first time Rosa had set foot in that room since she and Madam C had had their big fight. The memories of her sixteenth-birthday party overwhelmed her, and for a moment she thought she saw the silhouette of Cesare Cortimiglia’s naked body curled up on her sheets. “I slept here from the day I was born,” she told Renato in a soft voice. “Something happened in this room that changed my life. One day I’ll tell you the story.”
“I’m glad you decided to bring me here,” Renato said. “Seeing this room, where you slept and lived, is like peeking into the past. It’s a treat, given that in my condition the word past has no meaning.”
“Let’s go see the rest of the Luna,” Rosa said, chasing away the vision of the naked mayor. “There’s history there, too.”
They climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked the girls’ corridor as Renato looked right and left with some uneasiness. “It’s all right,” Rosa said. “I used to play in these rooms every day when I was little. I loved to hide in the closets. And upstairs are Madam C’s rooms. Things happened there as well.”
Quietly, Renato followed Rosa from room to room and then up the stairs to Madam C’s quarters. He stood in front of the unlit fireplace and gazed about, looking hesitant, almost afraid to walk through Madam C’s bedroom door. Behind him, Rosa thought of him in the monastery garden, seated on the bench, lost in his thoughts, looking scared, so unlike the magnetic Renato who could stand tall at a podium and readily bewitch a crowd. And yet, that day at the monastery, she had instantly loved the new Renato as well, perhaps more than she had loved the unharmed Renato. She took his hand and squeezed it, pointed at the half-open door of Madam C’s bedroom, which revealed the edge of the bed and part of the yellow curtains. “I never felt comfortable going in there, either,” she said. “I guess a mother is…a special matter.” She paused. “They’re waiting for us downstairs.”
Everyone was at the kitchen table when Renato and Rosa returned to the first floor. They sat down, and as they all savored the first of Antonia’s specialties of that day, stoccafisso in umido con patate, the girls began telling Renato the stories of Rosa’s childhood: the games on the second floor, the evenings in the kitchen, the school adventures. They were stories they had heard from their predecessors, so they felt free to embellish them for the occasion. Madam C, who knew exactly where the line was between fantasy and truth, said nothing to undermine the girls’ efforts. Renato was in awe of everyone, especially of Rosa. “I feel like I know you now,” he said once the lunch was over. He, Rosa, and Madam C were seated in the parlor. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget this day.”
Madam C turned to Rosa. “Your room is still your room, as you noticed,” she said. “Everything in it is exactly as you left it. Why don’t come live here while you and Renato sort out your lives?”
“My home is in Isabel’s booth now,” Rosa replied. “I want to stay with her. She doesn’t look good these days. She’s always tired. I haven’t seen her distill a single oil since we came back to town.”
“Take care of her,” Madam C said. “As for me, there’s someone I need to take care of right now.”
A few hours after Rosa and Renato had left the Luna, Madam C was knocking on Cesare Cortimiglia’s door. Roberto Passalacqua let her in.
“How is he?” she asked.
“See for yourself,” he replied. “He’s in the living room.”
She found Cesare seated on the floor surrounded by books. His beard was down to his chest, and his eyes were red and dry from having spilled all their tears. In one hand, he was holding Rosa’s handkerchief, which had by then lost its odor. On his lap he had an open book and was reading it aloud. “What are you reading?” Madam C asked, picking up one book from a pile and examining it front and back a few times.
“Poetry,” Cesare Cortimiglia replied.
“Mother of God!” Madam C exclaimed. “You are out of your mind!”
“This poetry,” he said in a ranting voice, “and this”—he waved Rosa’s handkerchief—“are what are keeping me alive.”
“I have a better idea for keeping you alive,” Madam C said, helping him off the floor. “Come live at the Luna.” She paused. “I have your briar pipe.”
The former mayor looked at her with his weary eyes. “Why would you want me to live at the Luna? I thought you hated me.”
Madam C became thoughtful for a moment. “Life is a circle,” she said. “Your adult life started in a brothel, and it’s only fitting that it should end in one. Does this answer your question, dear?”
CHAPTER 12
The evening shadows were lengthening all over downtown when Isabel, who was arranging bottles on the shelf, stopped her hands in midair.
“What’s the matter?” Rosa asked. She was by the stove, dropping tea leaves into a pot of boiling water.
Wearily, Isabel shuffled to her rocking chair. “You don’t need me anymore, Tramonto,” she said, sitting down. The chair rocked gently back and forth, squeaking. “I’m ready to leave.”
“What are you talking about?” Rosa asked in a worried voice.
“I’ve been dreaming of Azul and the hill every night. I think they’re calling me. And I want to go there.”
“I’ll take you there. We’ll buy tickets with the money I made selling your oils. Remember? My dream has always been to cross the ocean.”
“There’s no time,” Isabel said. “And it doesn’t matter. Where I’ll die is only a geographical detail. I’ll always be on that hill. I’ve always been.”
“You’re not going to die,” Rosa said.
“Oh yes, I will,” Isabel said. “You will, too, one hundred years from now.”
“Then you’ll have to stay alive another one hundred years.”
“I would if I could,” Isabel sighed. “But I haven’t been feeling well these days.”
“I noticed. Let me take care of you my way.”
Upon Rosa’s request, Michele Merega came to the distillery the next day. “I don’t like to be touched by strangers,” Isabel grumbled as soon as the doctor stepped in and approached her. “And I don’t like doctors at all. Go away.”
Michele Merega, who for many years had treated prostitutes, thugs, and various other members of the Genoese underworld, was not the shy type. “I’ll go after I visit
you,” he replied firmly. “I suggest we do this the easy way, madam. My hard way is something you’ll never want to see.” Isabel gave him a very hard stare.
The examination was far from easy with Isabel fencing the doctor away and mumbling and tossing and turning, but in the end he was able to come to a conclusion. “She’s weak, but not truly ill,” he told Rosa. “Give her these,” he added, holding out a bottle. “These pills should help her gain strength. And for sure she could use a breath of fresh air. This place stinks.”
Isabel made her position clear after the doctor had left. “I never took medicines, not once in my life, and I’m not going to start now.”
“You will take these medicines,” Rosa said firmly. “I’ll force them down your throat if I have to. And I’ll find you a different place to stay.”
“You may be able to force these pills down my throat,” Isabel stated, “but you’ll never be able to make me leave these rooms.”
“We’ll see,” Rosa said. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
She followed the doctor down the street. “Can Isabel take a trip on a boat across the ocean?” she asked him.
“Old people react to changes in unpredictable ways,” he said. “For sure the air of the sea would be better for her than the air of that booth. But being on a ship for a long time may be hard on her body. Which would be better, I can’t tell you.”
“If I brought her with me on a trip to Costa Rica, do you think I would be killing her?” Rosa asked.
“Like I told you, she’s not sick. If she should die here sometime soon, it would be because of her old age. And if you took her across the ocean, I don’t know which would be stronger, the stress of the trip or the benefits of the sea air.”
“I can’t make this decision by myself,” Rosa told Madam C later that day. They had met for lunch at the Corona, a homey trattoria two blocks from the Luna, busy as usual and brimming with the unmistakable odors of pesto and farinata.
“What does Isabel say?” Madam C asked, pouring white wine.
