The Soul Room

by Corinna Edwards-Colledge

  I can hear them all talking on the terrace underneath my window. The men go rumble rumble rumble and the women go squeak squeak and my mum is laughing a lot. Then all of my room is lit up like it’s the inside of an orange and there’s a big crash of thunder. I’m not going to stay up here on my own, not now. I run downstairs and straight out onto the terrace. There’s another big flash and bang.

  ‘Come here tuppence, did the storm scare you? Come sit with me for a bit.’ Mum looks really pretty in her blue spotty dress. Her hair is up on top of her head like Collette does with her Barbie. I go over and cuddle up on her knee and the rain comes down, but we’re all safe under the patio roof and everyone goes quiet to listen to the rain. The air and my mum smell sweet, and she strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head. Dad is holding his hand out under the edge of the patio, watching the rain splash off his palm, then he looks at Mr Amarena and nods like there’s something good, a nice secret that they both know. Mr Amarena nods back then looks at my mum and her hand stops stroking my hair for a moment, presses gently against my ear, and the rain sounds like a whisper, and I can hear her heart beating and it seems to be going really fast. Climb King of the Cavallettas, the water is rising; get your people and your instruments and head for the high caves. The water is coming and I cannot stop it.

  Something’s happened but I don’t know what it is. Me and Collette were playing with the goats at her Nonna’s and suddenly dad appeared and said we had to go. We’re supposed to be here till the end of the week. Adults are stupid, they don’t tell you anything. I asked and asked but he just said mum wasn’t well. She seemed ok to me, her face was a bit puffy but she wasn’t coughing or anything. I cried and cried and so did Collette but they wouldn’t listen. Now we’re on the plane and I’m not even sat by the window. Mum is holding my hand too tight. I want to do my colouring book but it feels like she needs to hold my hand so I’m letting her. I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to the grasshopper king. My tummy feels funny deep inside, like somehow nothing is ever going to be the same again.

  Italy 2006

  I had arrived in the village of Terranima white-skinned, plump and exhausted. Within six weeks I was tanned, toned and utterly rested. During the day I gardened and swam in the mosaic-tiled pool. I ate fruit straight off the trees, tomatoes straight off the vine, and bread, cheese and salamis from the neighbouring farm. At night I sat on the patio, drank the vineyards own wine (a light white sparkling wine ‘Sonnetto’, so called because the local Vintners said drinking it was poetry in motion) and listened to the grasshoppers and the summer storms. Nothing I ate or drank was touched by any kind of chemical. If you didn’t eat the fruit within a day or two it didn’t shrivel, but disintegrated into an ecstasy of wet rotten flesh.

  I had never been so almost beautiful, or so healthy, and yet I was completely oblivious. I could go days – sometimes a couple of weeks - without saying more than a few words to another soul, and I became half wild. Sometimes I would laugh to myself, a little afraid, and a little excited, by the prospect that I might have forgotten how to have a conversation! My life had been stripped back down to the instincts I had been born with – the desire to eat, drink and sleep; and eat, drink and sleep was all I did - until the day the last of my depression finally lifted.

  I had just finished some weeding and picked some figs to eat with my lunch. It was an incredibly hot day and I decided I couldn’t face food without cooling down in the pool first. I did a few lengths, quickly and by now expertly (I must have swum the length of Britain over the last couple of months) and climbed out and sat with my feet dangling in the water, feeling the sun suck the droplets of water off my back.

  ‘You are a very good swimmer.’ I turned round sharply, a man was standing in one of the pale earthed channels between the vine groves on the edge of the terrace. Although it made sense that he would speak to me, it still caught me off guard. I hadn’t been addressed directly by another human being in a week; the builders and decorators got on with their work, merely grunting the odd 'grazie' if I brought them a drink or snack. The first thing I noticed about this man was the way he looked at me. It was clearly an approving look but it was honest, not leering. ‘I am Sergio Amarena.’ He said clearly. ‘Fabrizio’s son. I have just come back from working in Connegliano to look after the vineyard for a while as my father is away.’ I felt no compulsion to cover myself so I went and sat at the little patio table in my bikini and started to eat my lunch.

  ‘If you’re hungry please come and join me.’

  He smiled and came and sat opposite, tore a chunk off a piece of bread and chewed it thoughtfully. My second impression of him was that he was like some kind of exquisite troll, very unlike the rest of his family who were all traditionally good-looking. His face was broad, square and intelligent. He had pretty, almond shaped eyes but an over-wide, full-lipped mouth. He was short – probably just an inch or two taller than me – but stocky. I guessed he was about a decade younger than me, in his mid twenties perhaps. He met my appraising gaze and held it.

  ‘I am sorry to invade your peace like this, I know you came here to have some – how do you say in English – some space, but you have been here several weeks now. They have heard nearly nothing from you at the house – I presume this means you are happy – but I thought I should come and see if there is anything you need.’

  ‘Your English is very good.’ I suspected it was better than my own; I’d had so little practice recently.

  ‘Thank you. I have just finished the final year of my degree at University in England.’ He looked at me again, unblinking. I noticed how far-apart his eyes were. It gave him an animal air. I nodded, a little flustered.

  ‘So is there anything you need?’

  ‘No, nothing, thank you.’

  He smiled, got up and looked out over the garden. ‘It looks lovely. You have done a very good job.’

  ‘It’s what I used to do. Back home.’

  ‘What is this grass here? The one with the wonderful silver seed-heads?’

  ‘Stipa gigantea. It's an evergreen so it’ll fill that space all year round, and those seed heads will last well into winter.'

  ‘I’ve always wished I could be good with plants but my skill lies with animals.’ He squinted a little then, as if he was thinking something over. It didn’t take him very long to make up his mind. ‘Will you let me come round tonight? We have a new wine we have been working on – a Rosé, and I would value your opinion. I wouldn’t expect you to come up to the house. It is so noisy and full of people and I am sure that is not right for you at this moment.’ This and his previous reference meant he must have been told something of my life before and I wasn’t sure how that made me feel. I didn’t know if I wanted him to come over or not either. Half of me wanted to be left alone, the other half was anxious to find out more about this odd looking young man.

  ‘Maybe…’

  ‘It’s decided then!’ he laughed. ‘I shall see you around eight. We have some particularly fine sirloin steaks that have been hanging for a few weeks now. I shall bring two. We can eat them on the Terrace!’ He walked lightly down to the gate, turned to salute me from the edge of the garden then disappeared back into the tangled green of the vine grove.

  For weeks I had lived a completely unselfconscious life. I had worn whatever was clean and suitable to the weather and my make-up bag had remained unopened. This evening though, I put on a flattering grey jersey dress with half-length arms and applied some mascara and a translucent red lipstick. I tried on various shoes and sandals in front of the mirror and was amazed by the woman who gazed back at me. I looked incredible; tanned, strong, and well and sexy. I almost giggled out loud with pleasure. I tried to remember the last time I had felt good about myself in this way, and realised it was probably over a decade before. I heard a call from the terrace below. I allowed myself one more glance in the mirror before going over to the window.

  ‘Signorina …’

  I felt hot and shud
dery and was glad for the breath of cool air that met me as I leant out of the window. There he was: crisp white shirt against the black shadows, a large bag in his hand that he raised triumphantly and shook. ‘I have it all Signorina Armstrong. Tastes you will never forget!’ He bristled like a mini-matador, and the energy and enthusiasm that radiated from him was so strong that it came up through the night air and made me laugh out loud with pleasure.

  ‘Maddie, call me Maddie!’

  ‘Can you smell it?’

  ‘Smell what?’

  ‘The Sea.’

  I sat back, my belly full, my senses happily softened by the superb Rosé, and took a deep slow breath.

  ‘Yes! I can – but how?’

  ‘We call it the ‘Messagero’ wind because it brings news of the ocean. Sometimes, at this time of the year, and only in the evening, it comes, straight from the Tyrrhenian.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to smell the sea again. It’s been so long.’

  He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke twirl upwards and disperse the various candle-lit insects flying above our table.

  ‘It is Brighton you have come from, yes?’ He pronounced it ‘Bright-on’, as if it was a brand of cleaning fluid.

  ‘Yes. Well, Hove actually.’

  ‘My father said you had some kind of trouble, some sadness that you needed to get away from?’ Through politeness he made the statement a question but asked it unapologetically. I liked that. It was very un-English.

  ‘Yes. I was married, my husband had a daughter from a previous relationship. She died and a little after that my husband killed himself.’

  ‘That must have been terrible.’

  ‘For a long time I felt like I wanted to join them.’

  ‘I can imagine that.’

  Throughout the whole exchange he watched me closely, languorous yet alert, like a dozing cat with one eye open. I noticed that he would go long spells without blinking at all; particularly if he was interested or impassioned about something. It was wonderful to be listened to so intently. Without self-consciousness or pity or mock-concern. The look on his face stirred something in me. A long forgotten cog, or wheel started to creak into movement. I kept looking at him, giving it time to turn, for the memory to surface.

  ‘My god, you’re the little boy – the little boy with...‘ I managed to stop myself. I knew what it was I had been about to say, the little boy with the bomb in his head. ‘...you’re the little boy I played with, the last time I came to Terranima!’

  ‘Yes! Yes! I knew you would remember if I gave you time!’ He was clearly delighted.

  ‘I thought you were too young to be the boy I met on that holiday. I had forgotten your name.’

  ‘I never forgot yours Maddie, that was one of the most special weeks of my life.’

  ‘Really? I know I played with you, and that you had a lovely nature, you never got cross or shouted or had a tantrum, and you were only little really.’

  ‘I was four!’

  ‘Just four! God, and I must have been…’

  ‘You were 12 or 13 I believe, you are 35 now, yes?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Just last week in fact.’

  ‘And you spent it on your own. That is not right Maddie, you should have said.’

  ‘You might not believe this, but I’ve only just worked it out right now. I’ve lost track of time here, I’ve hardly looked at a clock or a calendar.’

  ‘Sometimes it is good to just be.’

  ‘It is, and that’s such a hard thing to do, especially in the life you’ve got used to.’

  He nodded and looked sad all of a sudden, I reached over and touched his hand. He put his other hand over mine and smiled. ‘Well this is your birthday Maddie Armstrong. A little late perhaps, but your party is here tonight and we have a thousand guests.’

  ‘A thousand?!’

  ‘Yes, the cavallettas, they are singing for you.’

  At that moment I realised, with a ferocity that took me by surprise, that I wanted him to kiss me. A small look or movement must have betrayed me because seconds after my realisation he leaned over the small table, his eyes lively with intent.

  ‘You are beautiful Maddie.’

  ‘So are you.’

  He laughed at that. ‘That is very kind of you. Collette calls me ‘Piccolo Folletto’, ‘little troll’ so you can see I am not used to flattery!’

  I laughed too. ‘That’s one of the things that makes you so attractive.’ I didn’t tell him that the same description had occurred to me the minute I had met him.

  He looked at me seriously and picked up my hand, stroked the fingers gently. ‘I hope you do not think that I have done this before – that I make a habit of talking to women in this way.’ The quaintness of his speech made me laugh again, though not unkindly.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t. Especially not ex-babysitters!’ I opened up his calloused hand and pressed his dark palm against my cheek. The shadows beyond the patio were so deep and utterly black you could almost imagine we were being sucked over the edge of the world. ‘Though I’m not sure if it would matter to me if you did. I’m just enjoying feeling like this so much.’ His other hand came up behind my neck and pulled me towards him. We kissed insatiably, our mouths locked, teeth grating.

  Sergio came to see me every day. God knows what excuses he made to his family and workers at the main house but it didn’t seem to concern him and no other members of the Amarena clan came to disturb my peace, or more accurately now our peace. Fabrizio Amarena was away on business, his daughter Collette living in London with her English husband; Rosa, seemingly uninterested in me or absorbed in her duties running the domestic side of the Amarena estate. So as usual, the only other people to make the slow climb through the vineyards to the farm house were the occasional plumber or stonemason and these had got used to seeing Sergio by now and got on with their work.

  We spent most of our time talking or making love. I’m not sure if I’d say I was ‘in love’ but I was definitely ‘in-passion’ and these feelings were matched by equally intense feelings of friendship. Maybe I would have fallen in love if I had stayed there longer. I wondered sometimes why I hadn’t fallen in love immediately, as on the face of it everything was perfect. Perhaps my heart was still too raw to give itself completely. Perhaps the emerging memories I was having of him as a little boy made me a little awkward. It wasn’t the same for him though, the week I had spent there just before I turned 13 seemed to have left an indelible mark on him, made me his ‘lover in waiting’.

  But these doubts were small, and I would still get a little jolt of pleasure no matter how many times I saw him stride up through the vineyards, their stems now nodding with fruit. One time he even rode up the dirt track by the side of the house on a beautiful Bay mare to take me riding. I almost never thought of my life back in England. I was a person without a history, or a future; a sun-lit island where my past, and all the people in it, were thousands of miles away across dark seas.

  One evening we were on one of our long rambling walks through the local countryside. The sun was low, casting the trees and scrub in a saffron light that created vivid violet shadows. We’d always walk first thing, through the dawn mists, or in the evening when the greatest excesses of the sun had been spent. It always filled me with wonder that what looked like such a scorched landscape could be so fertile. I reached out and touched the glossy leaf of a Bay tree, I felt sad. Sergio squeezed my hand.

  ‘Are you OK Tsoro?’

  ‘It's so beautiful here, I wish I never had to leave.’

  He laughed. ‘Then don’t!’

  ‘I wish it was that simple.’

  ‘Why isn’t it simple? You want to stay – so stay.’

  He stopped, looked at me shyly and held my hands.

  ‘Marry me. Then a part of all this will be yours and you would have to stay.’

  ‘Darling Sergio. You can’t mean it. What about your family, my family…’ I trailed off and shrugged with the impossibili
ty of it.

  He looked forlorn. I felt a wave of tenderness for him and held his face gently. ‘Sergio. Il mio Piccolo Principe. I'm not the one for you. Your family don’t want to see you tied to a 35 year-old English woman with mental health issues! They want to see you with a beautiful young Italian woman with glossy black hair and big brown eyes who can bear you lots of beautiful Italian children with glossy black hair and big brown eyes. And to be honest, so do I!’

  ‘You are laughing at me.’

  ‘No! No I would never do that! I’m just not what you need.’

  ‘I know what I need, I need you. We could have children – you’re not old.’

  I felt the sadness grow, undigested in the pit of my stomach. I walked away from him a little and looked out at the beautiful valley below; the architectural rows of vineyards, the terracotta soil, the deep olive green of trees shimmering as the evening air pulled the day’s heat from the earth around them. I imagined the heat rising, evolving into soft winds that would eventually warm some country hundreds of miles away. Maybe even the city by the sea that I had left. ‘I told you we didn’t need to use anything – contraception I mean - because I’m on the pill, but that’s not actually true. The truth is I can’t have children. I have a hormonal imbalance. I found out five years ago when my husband and I started trying for a child of our own.’

  ‘You don’t know, Maddie, it may not always be so.’ He came up behind me and rested his head on my shoulder. ‘Either way, it makes no difference to me.’

  I felt terrible then because although, I now realised, I loved him, it wasn’t in the same way that he loved me. I felt the walls of my castle start to crumble. The beauty of the view in front of me flattened, as if I was looking at something in a picture book.

  ‘I know you mean that, and that, like everything about you, is part of what makes you such a wonderful, beautiful man. But it does make a difference to me. I couldn’t take that future away from you. You will be such a wonderful father one day.’