Her phone is blowing up with texts from Mario and Kinky. She texts, “I’m okay. I want to be alone. Thanks for understanding.” Then comes a voice message from Zack: “Hello, Lavinia. How are you? I jus-s-s-t wanted to check in on you.”
She lies on the floor, smelling her Raggedy and the dirt she hasn’t washed off from her fingers. The thin layer of clay she rubbed on her face flakes off onto her doll, leaving a layer of dust.
When she wakes up, the street is quiet. It’s the middle of the night.
She gets up off the floor and puts on her flannel pajamas, then gets under the covers, hugging herself under the warm blankets. Scared and yearning, she reaches for Raggedy, smells her, holding steady in her querencia, and falls asleep.
When she finally gets up, the pink morning sun is shining through the fig tree. She feels hungry and makes herself a breakfast of tuna salad with crackers and green olives and takes it to the patio, where she eats in the company of the warming sun and the fig tree. She drinks an old bottle of ginger ale she finds in the small outdoor fridge. Satisfied, she sits listening to the cadence of the birdsong, steady and sweetly flitting in the sun of a new day.
She sits outdoors most of the day, soothed by the birds and the whispering wind in the tree, listening to the neighborhood sounds and watching the changing light. Then the new moon rises on the low horizon, a sliver of a laughing moon. It smiles with her as she makes an intention to visit George tomorrow.
Chapter 22:
THE REVELATION
Lavinia leaves her house and walks quickly down 16th Street past small groups of people chatting and drinking outside restaurants. A man with a grocery cart filled with bottles and cans stops to poke in a recycle bin on the sidewalk. Wearing her bomber jacket and a fresh pair of jeans, Lavinia feels confident, like she’s gone through a dark tunnel and come out the other side. She crosses South Van Ness and heads to George’s place. When she gets there at 8:45 a.m., she waits, knowing that he goes out for coffee around nine. She doesn’t want to see him yet, not before she sees the statues. She positions herself in an alcove of a building diagonal from his so she can see him leave. She waits with her hand on her upper lip.
When he opens the front gate, he takes a look around before closing it. His eyes skim past her hideaway.
George turns right and walks toward the neighborhood café. She watches him walk away. His hips shimmy slightly, and his large hands sway gently by his side. She waits until he’s far down the block before crossing the street.
She reaches inside her small purse to find the key to his studio. The door opens into the dark vestibule. A familiar feeling surrounds her. She takes the two flights of stairs, slips inside, and turns on the lights. The lighting is similar to that in a theatre, with different zones. As she walks she tips off sensors that light her path. It’s as if she’s starring in a magic play, with the spotlight on her. The indirect lighting is soft on the cinnabar walls, reflecting pale green and gold flecks of color. Has she ever noticed this before?
She walks through the studio space to where a sliding door is pulled shut. She knocks and waits. Convinced that she’s alone, she opens the door and walks through. This alerts another sensor, which lights another large space.
Stacks of shelves hold ten-pound bags of white, rust, and dark brown colored clays, but it’s the smell of wet earth substance, reminding her of rain and growth, that stirs her senses. She eyes the brown clay he prefers, Cassius Clay. The industrial-size kiln faces her from the farthest wall. As she passes she feels its warmth, but there are no figures on the drying racks.
She sees another door off the kiln room that opens into a display room. Again the magic lighting. Here, on white pedestals, Lavinia sees her own face.
She walks up to the statue and faces it squarely. The bust standing on a tall pedestal looks into her eyes. It’s as if they’re both alive, communicating, yet no words pass. Two beings fashioned of clay look at each other. She feels prickly, like electrical wave sensations are passing through her, generating a warmth on her skin, waking her up. If she touches the other, will she also be warm?
She walks toward the face of the young woman, marveling at how realistic she is. She closes her eyes and runs her hand over the hair, the forehead, and then down the slope of the nose, over to the cheek, stopping at the raised bump. The raised mark is on the statue’s cheek.
“Oh my god!” she exclaims. “It’s true.” She pulls her hand away to her own face, stopping on her upper lip. She remembers Giovanni’s recounting that Angela’s birthmark was on her cheek, but still she is shocked. She rushes toward the other busts in the room and sees that all of them have a birthmark on their cheek. She feels stunned by this recognition. It’s as though she is in the presence of her own soul, but it is the spirit of her dearly deceased mother. As she stands there touching her own heartbeat, she feels a double strand of heartbeat flossing through her. She waits, letting the fullness of the moment seep into her veins, and then she moves toward the other pieces.
More torsos, these with arms truncated, like you might see any museum or in Greek or Roman ruins. The full figure studies are as tall as Michelangelo’s David. A beautiful woman stands naked. Her waist turns gracefully, her neck extends as if she is looking at something. The circular movement of the piece begs Lavinia to walk around the beautiful naked woman. Stunning! All she can do is keep spiraling this incredible statue of the central woman, Angela, her mother.
Beauty! She’s in the presence of Beauty, and she can’t breathe.
Behind the standing figure is yet another statue of the younger Angela. Lavinia walks toward the figure. As she gets closer she sees that the woman is pregnant, her body full and sensual. Clasping both hands over her belly, her chin rests on her chest. She’s looking down. Lavinia circles her again, knowing that this is her mother, carrying her yet to be born child. She wants to jump up and caress her belly, the watery place of her querencia, the place where she once lived in an oceanic state, attached to her mother. She sees her life pass from in utero to nursing when she finds another loving statue of Angela with full breasts, nursing a baby Lavinia. She brushes against the suckling infant but her eyes are gazing at the mother. Lavinia stands in front of the loving dyad in a state of awe and stillness, watching for some time in the quiet room with the soft lighting. She touches the baby’s puckered mouth. That’s me. She’s overwhelmed by emotion.
She is drawn to another sculpture, a hexagonal piece of stone in the shape of a large basket, different from the others. Horizontal, massive, it rests alone near the far wall of the studio. It’s carved with Roman or Grecian urns; a ribbon of people six inches high graces the perimeter of the slab.
Lavinia walks carefully to the edge of the piece and finds a sleeping woman, her mother, among the figures. Her eyes, little smiling half moons, are fringed with fine eyelashes. He’s made each one. Which tool did he use? She touches the cold face, resting her fingers on the cheek with the little bump—her connection to this woman, their coupling. Kneeling on the knee rest George has made, Lavinia focuses on the bouquet of roses in her mother’s slender fingers. She follows the bent arm on up to her mouth with a slight upturn of her lips. Lavinia pulls her fingers away from Angela’s cheek and covers her eyes, letting the warm tears wash over her own dissolving feelings—the ones she has carried for so long, which are now melting. She cries, letting the love drench her.
That George has been sculpting Angela and not Lavinia sinks in all the way. She doesn’t know what to do with this revelation, and she realizes she needs to leave. But as soon as she turns around, she sees a man’s form.
George stands opposite her, keeping his space, not coming too close. She looks at his face, his day-old beard. He’s holding one hand in his sport jacket pocket. His woolen scarf drapes in perfect folds around his neck for warmth. Lavinia remains stunned, in disbelief, that he is her father.
“Hello, Lavinia. I’ve been hoping I’d see you again.”
She remains silent. No w
ords come to her but she doesn’t avoid his eyes, which are warm and intense.
“You know,” he says.
“I know.”
“What a shock this must be for you. I’m sorry.”
“I’d say an earthquake.” Her throat tightens.
“I understand.”
She looks at his eyes. Black pools reflecting the morning light. “Sorry I lost your tarps.”
He smiles. “You’re forgiven.”
They stand in silence, facing each other. Time has stopped. What if she could go back in time and live a different life? Live as a child with her mother and father in New York City? She thinks of Zack Luce, who wants to go forward in time, to know that when he stops breathing, Time will still move forward into the next generations for 10,000 years.
She looks at her father. “I need time to process this, George. Should I call you George?”
“Yes, of course, Lavinia Lavinia.” He smiles. “I love your name. It makes me happy to know you have carried me in that way. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth.”
“Yes. That’s for sure,” she says, with mixed feelings. She looks at his face with its day-old beard. His eyes are deep and sincere, and bespeak his love for her mother. He has created a prayer in clay.
“I can wait a bit longer. Take your time to get to know me and love me. I know you will. I’ve always known we would be reunited. I have had this glorious year to get to know you.” He reaches a hand toward her, then brings it back to his chest.
She loves what he’s said, but she can’t let herself take his hand. More than all her imaginings, he is generous, allowing her to take her time. And then the part about his knowing that she will grow to love him. Will I? Do I? “I don’t know where to start.”
“A coffee?” he offers.
“Thank you, but no. I’m on my way to North Beach to see a friend. I came here to see Angela’s face.” She touches her birthmark. “She’s beautiful. I thought she was me.”
“She is,” he says, smiling. “May I walk with you, then, a short way?”
She nods, and they leave the studio. They walk silently down Folsom. When she takes a left at South Van Ness, they say goodbye. He takes her hand in a small handshake, and this time she lets him. They part and Lavinia continues on her way—then stops and turns, wondering why he doesn’t follow her. She feels giddy inside. How can he just leave like that? She walks in the opposite direction a bit longer, stops again and gingerly turns to watch him go.
Then she yells, “Don’t leave! I don’t want to lose you the way Mamma lost you.”
He’s too far to hear her. She doesn’t go after him. Instead, she walks toward her house, following her feet, step by step, feeling the pavement, knowing that something more awaits her at home.
She opens her door and rushes to her computer, and there it is: an email from Giovanni Dellarosa. She ponders the address, counting the days since the last email. She opens it.
Cara Lavinia Lavinia,
But before diving in, my hope is that the love story of your mother and father has given you a feeling of their love for you. A child born out of love is love herself. And you were a precious and adored child. Even if Antonio raged at Angela’s condition, he melted when he saw you with your sweet face and loving nature, your curiosity for life. You used to wake up in your crib and laugh at the reflection of the early-morning sunlight dancing on the ceiling. It was a pure joy to see. Your mother would come into your room and find you smiling, your eyes twinkling. Oh how she loved you. She took you to the water baths and let you watch and listen to the water as she did the family laundry. As you got older, you played and splashed in the water, and then you began to help her. First, she gave you little socks to wash.
You’re probably wondering if your mother ever saw your father again, or whether he ever saw you as an infant or toddler. Sorry to say, he never did. Your mother was planning to take you with her to New York City to live there with him, all of you together as a family. Angela had been in touch with my sister Laura and her husband, Gregorio, Senior, and they had sent two tickets. Your father, George Lavinia, was named after his father, Gregorio, but the teachers called him George. I may have told you this already. Pardon the faulty memory of an old man.
Your mother was so excited to move across the sea to New York City. That day, she went to buy a beautiful dress for you in the center of Napoli, something for you to wear the first time you met your father. But she never came home from her shopping. When she was crossing the street, a trolley hit her. She died instantly. I told you that. But the strangest part of the story is that your Papa Antonio died the same day, in the same way, under the same trolley.
I’ll stop a moment to think how to say this.
He was a vindictive man. He wouldn’t let her leave. “On my grave,” he ranted. But she was determined to leave with you. She told him not to worry. At the trolley, they argued. Some heard her say she refused to stay. Enraged, he grabbed her. They struggled. He pushed. She tripped onto the track. He grabbed to keep her from falling and then went down with her. It was a sad and strange day here in Naples—for you, for us, for your nonna. But also for the other people here. You see, we are superstitious and believe easily in the curse. It was said that someone had cast a spell on your mother and her love for the young man from so far away; otherwise, how could this all be explained?
Some went so far as to say that I had set the curse in motion by inviting my nephew to come to Naples. People here like to explain away the mystery of life and death as curses by someone jealous or envious. Nonetheless, we were humbled and silenced by the tragedy. Our penance was to never speak of it—partly out of fear of angering the gods, but more to protect the name of your proud grandfather.
You see, Lavinia Lavinia, loyalty is at the base of our not telling you. We were being loyal to your grandfather’s honor. We were paying respect to the old man’s memory by not talking about their death, not talking about how his rage killed her. I think your uncle Sal was being loyal to his father as his first and only son. How can a son tell someone about the awful atrocity of his own father? So it was easier for him to blame your father for what happened.
And your father may have believed it was his fault in some way. Crazy, I know, but that is the way we lived. Poor George devoted his whole life to his love for Angela, as a way to keep her alive, and to do penance. His love for her lives in clay for eternity.
Forgive an old man for overloading you.
You were with your nonna Caterina when they died. Instead of sending you to your father, we called your uncle Sal, who came here to mourn his sister and father and then to take you home with him to San Francisco. Your nonna complained, but she was in no shape to take care of you. Sal wanted to keep you safe from the curse, maybe. He adopted you on the spot, loved you. Salvatore and Rosa Compana became your parents. He let you keep the name Lavinia Lavinia, the name your mother had given you. I praise him for that generosity. But he could not be generous to your father, because he, like the village people, blamed him for the curse. They said, if only the boy named George hadn’t come here and gotten her pregnant, both Angela and Antonio would be alive.
Not until Rose died did Sal decide to contact your father.
My nephew is a good boy—I should say man—and a great artist. I would like to see him again. When George heard you were released from Sal’s grip, he moved immediately to San Francisco to be near you. How can he make up to you for all those lost years?
I regret that my friend Sal could not be honest with you and tell you your story, but then, who am I to stand in another man’s shoes?
Telling you this shocking truth makes me feel more real and lighter, more than I’ve felt in all these years. Please know our home awaits you should you want to return to Naples.
With love from an old man,
Giovanni Dellarosa
Chapter 23:
NEW EYES
Lavinia leaves her house with an aliveness that makes no sense in lig
ht of Giovanni’s sordid tale. But his letter has freed her. The news, the discoveries, and his explanations give her a lightness much like the one he described feeling at the end of his email. It’s as if she’s never really walked this way before; something vital has taken hold of her, similar to how she feels when Mario smiles, or she loses herself in dance, or Mercedes rocks her.
The waltz in her step takes her across the avenues and over the streets, reminding her of her first playful dance with George. A bounce propels her through the Mission. She dances as she walks, connected to the new beat in her heart. I’ve found my beat runs through her like a song. Everyone who passes looks at her and nods or smiles. She can’t believe this connection she feels with them. Before she knew the truth of the secret, they were strangers or ghosts. Now they are people with smiling eyes! A shade has lifted from her eyes, and now she can see others. She wonders if she’s been walking around like a ghost herself—or just sleepwalking, not seeing or being seen? Maybe she has been fashioned of clay all this time, like her mother.
Lavinia walks and walks the miles to North Beach. As soon as she reaches the restaurants and smells the food cooking, her stomach growls. She rushes toward Mario’s café, walks inside, and sees his joyful smile, that wide grin from ear to ear, so pure and loving, bubbling like a giant balloon.
He leaves his espresso, walks over to her, and kisses her hard. “I missed you. I called your cell.”
“I went on silent mode. You got my text, didn’t you?”
He nods.
“I needed to be alone. Zack called when I didn’t show up.”
“I figured something was up when you didn’t pop in for your double espresso. No gum, either. Or dancing?”
The Laundress Page 17
