Silence Is Golden (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

I think the house is delightful, especially given what I’m paying for it. Sure, it’s a little isolated, but I don’t mind the walk to the village, and I like being on my own. I’d hate to live in a place where there are a million eyes on me the second I step outside, or where the whole town knows if I have a visitor.

I didn’t sleep much last night. I’m going to have to get used to the bed and the noises the house makes, but I’m sure I’ll feel at home soon. Indeed, this is my first real home, the first place I’ve chosen, and the first time I’ve lived on my own. The place looks better in the morning light. There’s a kitchen, a small living room with a big window overlooking the forest, a bedroom, and a bathroom. There’s even a tiny closet. It’s clear that the place has been neglected, but it’s solidly built out of stone and made to last. It just needs to be cleaned up and it’ll be perfect.

The decor is limited to only the essentials, so I’ll have to buy some furniture. There’s not even a desk or a bookshelf. I can use the kitchen table as my desk for a while, and I suppose I can use the dresser in the bedroom as a bookshelf. But I want to be comfortable here, so I’ll need to get both of those things. Though the money from my mother should be enough to tide me over for a couple of months, I ought to find a job as soon as possible. I poke around in the fridge and the cupboard, but like Valerio said, everything’s empty. I do find a dead cockroach in the credenza, however. The previous tenant clearly didn’t pay much attention to housekeeping. But I’ll have time to clean later; right now, filling my stomach seems more important. I grab my jacket and go outside, locking the door behind me.

In the morning light, the forest looks even more beautiful than it did yesterday afternoon. I don’t know the names of the trees, but I note at least five different kinds. There are groups of brown and white fungi scattered about the ground and on tree trunks. Everywhere I look, there are bushes full of flowers in every imaginable color. I close my eyes for a moment and listen to the sounds of the forest: the birds chirping, the leaves rustling, and, a little farther away, the sound of water flowing. The stream!

I let the sound guide me and follow a path leading inside the forest until I find the source of the sound. Growing along the shore are the only trees I know by name—tall willow trees, with their leaves immersed in water. I sit down on a large white stone. I can see the little pebbles on the bottom of the stream. The water rushes, creating a murmuring sound that has always captivated me. When I was younger and feeling frightened, I would turn on the bathroom faucet, sit on the floor, close my eyes, and just listen to the noise of the flowing water. It always calmed me down. However, if I wasn’t alone in the house, that small pleasure never lasted long, for my parents would immediately knock on the door and tell me to stop wasting water.

I tear my mind away from the image of the childhood house I left behind and instead focus on the sound of the water. I was right: I share a connection with the stream, and I am free to come here whenever I want. After a few minutes, I reluctantly get up and head back toward the main road. There are no sidewalks, but the street is deserted. A car passes me just as I reach the first houses in the village.

There aren’t many people around. I slowly make my way through the village, checking out the shops as I walk. There’s a baker, a butcher, a small perfume shop, a market, a shoemaker, and a tobacco shop that also sells newspapers and magazines. A gray church with a bell tower sits at the end of the tiny downtown. A little past the church is a public garden with a small playground, some benches, and a small statue of the Madonna. A fountain, surrounded by low-hanging saplings, centers the space. There are no children around, perhaps because it’s nine in the morning and they’re all just starting their school day. I eventually end up standing in front of a café. Looking through the front windows, I can see that there’s a nice wooden countertop and tables with cushioned benches inside.

Sooner or later I’ll come back for a cup of tea, and I’ll sit at one of those tables and watch people passing by. Maybe I’ll even bring a book. I’ve always wanted to sit in a café, reading and drinking tea as I wait for a friend, but I’ve never really had friends before. And judging from how people are basically ignoring me now, I’m afraid it will take me a long time to make friends here. But I was prepared for this, and I’m a patient person. Suddenly I realize that the barista is looking at me from behind the counter. He’s a middle-aged man with a round face and short hair. We exchange smiles. I decide that I’ll definitely come back. We wave at each other, and I continue on my way. I absolutely must go shopping.

I discover a supermarket run by two sisters of indeterminable age. I’m sure they’re sisters because they look so much alike. Wandering between the only two aisles in the store, basket in hand, I accidentally run into two middle-aged women, interrupting their conversation. I quickly move out of their way and apologize, but they reproachfully stare at me as if I had offended them. The larger of the two women, who’s wearing a floral dress that looks like old sofa upholstery, waits until I’m a bit farther away but still within earshot to remark, “Why can’t they stay in their neck of the woods?”

Though I understand what she’s saying, I wonder if she really thinks she can tell where I’m from. I’m wearing jeans, like most local women I’ve seen, with a simple white blouse, leather shoes, and a cotton jacket. The only thing that sets me apart is my red hair. Maybe they assume I’m Irish. Luckily, I know that no one can tell who I really am just by looking at me, which is good, since I don’t wish for my new neighbors to know what I escaped.

I buy bread, eggs, jam, tea, coffee, sugar, and a piece of vegetable quiche that the person behind the counter assured me would be great at home. I had wanted to get some pastries for breakfast and a bottle of wine, but the sweets and alcohol are right in front of the two gossiping women, and I don’t want to get in the middle of them again. As I check out, I decide that I’ll come back this afternoon. I need pasta, rice, and oil, but I can’t carry the weight of all those groceries at once.

On my way home, I see the café again and am tempted to go in, but refrain. Then I glimpse a bookstore across the street, and my heart leaps. I long to go in and look around, but I have to get my groceries home. Browsing for books is something I like to do when I’m not pressed for time, even if the bookstore is calling me like the Sirens of Ulysses. I laugh to myself, enchanted at the idea of diving between the pages of a book as if they were the arms of a beautiful man. My smile lingers on my lips until a woman walking toward me eyes me warily, and my smile fades away.

I feel a little thrill of joy when I see my new home again. While it’s small and quite shabby, it’s mine, and I don’t have to share the space with anyone else. There’s no one to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. No one can order me to clean or make food. I’ll cook if I’m hungry, I’ll clean for my own satisfaction, and I’ll stay up all night reading if I feel like it. I’m here to start over, and the fact that I found this perfect house in the woods on my first day here seems like a sign. I think once again that I’m letting a forbidden word into my mind, as I did yesterday with the word
premonition
.

For lunch I have a piece of the vegetable quiche, which is delicious, and then I smear a little jam on bread for dessert. I try to gaze out at the forest from my window, but it’s too dirty, just like the rest of the house. I have to get some cleaning products when I go back to the supermarket. Cleaning is one of the things I do best.

At my old house, even though it’s no longer my home (if it ever truly was), my mother and I were in charge of keeping the house clean. My father and my identical twin brothers, who shared my father’s ignorance and malice, thought that cleaning was the only thing worth learning for a woman. Fortunately, my mother disagreed, even if she never had the courage to openly oppose my father. I first snuck into his study when I was ten, and I was so afraid my father would find out that it felt like a spy mission. From then on, I would pick out a new book once a week, which I would hide inside my dresser, pulling it out only at night or when my father and brothers left for work. Over the past sixteen years, I’ve read hundreds of books in between doing my chores and housework. The books told me of the world outside my tiny room, leading me away from my gray hometown and from my family, who had already decided what I should do with my life. Looking back on all the books I’ve read, I think it would be great to start my own little collection. On the other hand, between my rent and groceries, the money that my mother gave me won’t last forever. I need to get a job. I can’t wait to test myself in the real world after living the way I did for so long. I decide that my visit to the bookstore won’t be just to look around.

That afternoon, dark, forbidding clouds block the sun, so I knot a scarf around my neck. I can’t afford to get sick. As I leave, I allow myself a long look at the forest, which is beautiful even with no sunlight. The wind has picked up since the morning, and the leaves rustle even louder. I’ve decided that they’re my trees and that’s their voice, so I’m not afraid.

I head back to the village, setting my sights on the bookstore. I walk along the main road, where I can see most of the shops. I realize that none of them sell furniture. Where am I going to buy a desk and bookshelf? All of a sudden, I see a carpenter’s sign down a side street. It’s such incredible timing that I’m almost suspicious; I’m usually not so lucky. I end up in front of the carpenter’s shop window, which is so dusty it could have come from my house. The lights are on, so I press my face to the glass and peer inside. It’s a huge space, full of wooden planks, tools, and what appear to be blueprints. My gaze falls on a blond man facing away from me. He’s so skinny that his clothes hang off him. He’s lifting up what looks like a wooden cube and trying to place it on one of the planks. I wonder if he’ll be able to, as he seems kind of frail. He succeeds and takes a moment to run his hands over the cube, as if testing its smoothness. Then, for some reason, he suddenly turns and sees me. For a moment I feel the urge to run away from the window, but his intense expression holds me in place. We stare at each other, not lowering our eyes, until I see a door open out of the edge of my vision. A woman enters, and the man whirls around. Our mutual gaze broken, my eyes close to preserve his image. When I force myself to open them, I pull back from the window and look in again. I realize she’s the same woman I saw at the supermarket that morning, the one who wondered why I’d strayed from my neck of the woods. I walk away abruptly, back to the main road. That woman scares me.

CHAPTER THREE

Leaving my hometown of twenty-six years was easy. With a rolling suitcase, a canvas bag, and the little money my mother set aside for me, I jumped on a train. Deciding where to go was slightly more difficult, but on the way to Rome, I was reminded that one of my mother’s greatest wishes was to return to the North, so the choice became simple. What does it take to make a person leave everything behind? I grew up in a place surrounded by rough, almost savage mountains, but the mountains around Bren are lush and hospitable. Unlike those other mountains, looming over me threateningly, these mountains surround me like an embrace.

Walking through the streets of Bren, I see that villagers are finally starting to notice me. Apparently the people here need time to process anything new, and I’m certainly a novelty. Perhaps they originally assumed that I was just passing through, but now that I’ve rented a house, they must have realized that I’m here to stay. I’m sure the woman from the supermarket has no desire to get to know me, and I have to say, the feeling is mutual. I want nothing to do with her. The person I’m most eager to get to know is the blond man, although I remember I almost felt intimidated when I was looking through the window.

I didn’t end up going to the bookstore yesterday. After leaving the carpenter’s shop, I decided to go home. I still feel emotionally fragile, and I needed some time to regain my composure and my courage. I briefly stopped at the supermarket to buy some rags and cleaning supplies. Once home, however, I decided not to clean and enjoyed my new freedom to make such a choice. Instead, I spent the evening reading in my chair. I’ve never had so much downtime; it seems like a miracle to me.

I feel stronger this morning. I push the door of the bookstore open, smiling and ready to cheerfully greet whoever’s inside. My smile is wasted, however, as no one’s there. The room is quite large, and wooden bookshelves rise up from the carpeted floor. At the center of the store, there’s a counter on which sits a tray with a dirty cup that must once have contained tea. There’s an empty chair behind the counter, off which a gray cardigan hangs. The owner of the cardigan must have stepped out, apparently unconcerned that someone could come in and steal something. Looking around, I note that books seem to be strewn about, and there’s a general air of disorder to the place. I walk over to a shelf, and I see that the books are arranged alphabetically, with no regard for literary genre. I sneeze twice; the place is really aggravating my dust allergies. It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. Where are the customers? As I continue to wander around, checking out book titles and authors, I hear the door open. Someone enters, their face hidden by the big box they’re carrying. Behind them follows a middle-aged woman with graying hair arranged in a bun.

“Put it on the floor, and then I’ll look at it,” the woman says, with no sign that she has seen me. Her accent is odd, as if she’s foreign.

Once the box is on the floor, I can see that a young man was carrying it. His gaze immediately shifts to me, causing the woman to do the same.

“Can I help you?” she asks without a trace of kindness in her voice.

Not a great sign.

“Good morning,” I say, trying to smile, though her grim expression stifles all my optimism. I wasn’t going to start with my request right off the bat, but she doesn’t seem like the type of person who enjoys casual conversation, so I forge ahead. “My name’s Emilia. I just moved here, and I was wondering if by any chance you need a little help in the store.”

She turns away from me and doesn’t answer, instead addressing the man.

“Thank you, Marco. I’ll figure it out.”

He nods and walks away. The woman sits in the chair behind the counter and eyes me suspiciously.

“Actually, I don’t need any help,” she says, finally answering my question. “I’m doing just fine on my own, thanks.”

But I can’t give up that easily.

“I could keep the books in order. I could dust—or you could perhaps consider any other needs you might have?”

“I handle the books, and a woman comes every day to clean, so . . .”

Perhaps this woman has a different concept of “cleaning” than I do. Just as I’m about to accept defeat, she gets up and opens the box that the young man brought in. There’s a computer inside.

“Damn, it’s so heavy!” she exclaims, trying to lift it out.

I go over to help, and she gives me a skeptical look.

“If you need a hand . . . ,” I venture.

She looks at me for a moment, and then nods, clearly annoyed. Together, we pull a heavily used desktop computer out of the box. Where the hell is she going to put it? I pull some cables out of the box and confidently say, “I’m great with computers.”

She sighs, and I begin to hope.

“Really? You know how to use a computer?”

“Yeah, really well.” I’m willing to bet that even if the only thing I knew about computers was how to turn them on, it’d be a whole lot more than she knows.

“I’m not sure,” she muses. “It can’t be that hard. It’s all about learning as you go.”

My expression is doubtful, but I remain silent. She turns the cables over in her hands. “What is all this stuff? Just one plug wasn’t enough?”

I laugh to myself.

“Look, miss,” she says, sitting back down behind the counter. “I can’t promise anything right now. I need to think about it. Anyway, I can’t pay much. As you can see, the business isn’t doing too well.”

“That wouldn’t be a problem for me at all,” I answer sincerely. “Can I leave you my cell phone number?”

She hands me a piece of paper and a pen, and I write down my name and number. She takes it and reads aloud. “Emilia Russo, who comes from the South.”

“Yes,” I answer emphatically.

She smiles, surprising me. “I once had a boyfriend who had the same last name. He was from Naples. Are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

Her smile disappears.

“That’s too bad. Beautiful place.”

Perhaps I should learn to fib.

She looks back at her book, then says without glancing up, “Maybe you’ll hear from me.”

“Thank you, Miss . . .”

“Kohler. Helga Kohler.”

I nod and smile. “Okay, bye then,” I say, exiting. She responds with a nod, just as the young man did earlier. Apparently, people around here aren’t too happy.