Silence Is Golden (8 page)

“Thanks for coming.”

He guides me by the hand to his design table, where he seems sad to let go of my hand. With a nod, he invites me to watch what he’s doing. He explains that the sketch of the desk that’s on the board is identical to the one I have in my bag. It’s a desk with small drawers on one side, but they’re not uniformly stacked on top of each other. Instead, they’re arranged asymmetrically, to form what looks like a wave. The top of the desk is rounded and shaped like a bean. It looks like the kind of desk a gnome would have in his forest home. Aris has shaded the design so that it appears as if it’s about to pop out from the page.

“I don’t know which I like better—the picture or what it represents,” I say, hoping that he understands what I’m really saying.

His renewed smile tells me that he understands.

“I’ll make it for you, if you want.”

“It’s beautiful, but I can’t—”

“Don’t pay me anything. I’ve pictured it in my mind for a while, and I want to see how it turns out. But I wouldn’t know where to put it. It should be in a home. Let’s just say you’re doing me a favor by hosting it.”

“Sure,” I laugh. “Just like I did you a favor by asking you to build me a bookshelf.”

“That’s right. I love to invent and build things, and you’re offering me a space where I can keep the things I make that I don’t want to sell.”

“Why not your house?”

“Because it’s not really my house. Not anymore at least.”

I bite my tongue to keep from asking him what he means by this. I have to learn not to push him. He tells me what he wants and what he can, and it’s not my place to ask for anything more. I think back to the way I treated him when he gave me his book, and I flush with shame.

“Aris, I wanted to apologize for yesterday. You were so kind to give me your book, and in return, I bit your head off. Please forgive me.”

He shakes his head, and I know he’s saying that I don’t need to apologize, that he understands, and that he’s not angry with me.

“So, would you like the desk?”

“Of course I would. Thank you! But I’d like to watch you make it, if that’s possible?”

For a split second, that same trapped expression he had yesterday reappears in his eyes. I’m afraid that I’ve made yet another mistake that has spooked him.

“You can come and watch whenever you want,” he responds quietly.

“Even every night, after six?”

“And weekends too, if you’re not working.”

“And you’ll only work on it when I’m here, so I can watch you create it?”

He doesn’t laugh at my words, only smiles sweetly in response. I’m sure he thinks of his creations as somehow being alive.

“It will only grow and come into being while you are watching,” he responds.

“Okay then.”

“You can come Friday if you want. The wood will be ready then.”

We are so close that I could just lean in and kiss him. But I stop myself and instead walk toward the door. I don’t want to mess this up. The last thing I want is to scare him and have him run away.

“All right, Friday evening at six. I have to go now. I have a book to finish tonight,” I say. Our simple words speak volumes. I know he understands which book I mean, and his expression tells me that he’s happy I’m reading it.

“Thank you, Aris,” I say as I leave.

“Thank
you
,” he replies.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I feel like I’m on autopilot for the next few days. I do nothing but go to work and hope to run into Aris, but to no avail. My life feels purposeless, but for his book, which I finished. I muse that if Aris identifies with a young James Joyce, then he must have had a very troubled life indeed until now. I hope that sooner or later we’ll have the opportunity to talk about his past but that may not be the case. I’ve promised myself that I won’t bombard him with questions anymore. I will respect his silence. It’s enough for me simply to be with him. I can’t stop thinking about going to his shop tomorrow and finding him there. He’ll be waiting for me, and I’ll be able to watch him work on my desk. I feel so unsettled that I can hardly sleep.

As I arrive at the bookstore and place my coat on the coat rack this morning, I know that waiting for six o’clock is not going to be easy. Helga is becoming more and more distracted with each passing day. Sometimes I even catch her staring at me as if wondering who I am and what I’m doing there. I can only imagine what’s going on in her head, but I’m sure her thoughts have to do with Mr. Moser, though I haven’t seen him in the store lately. Fortunately, Marcello Ferrari seems to have also disappeared. I was afraid he was going to return to ask about my behavior in the café the other evening, but he never came back. I certainly don’t miss him. One thing is certain: if he talks about poor Giorgia like that, God only knows what he says about me. I’m sure my fan club has enough to go on, however, especially after my run-in with Dora, so whatever damage Marcello might do to my reputation is likely already limited. Imitating Aris, I shrug and try to forget about it.

It’s a quiet morning, and I work on the computer. Helga keeps busy in the stockroom; I’m realizing that’s where she spends most of her time. A few loyal customers come in and buy copies of
Pride and Prejudice
. Even now, in 2013, Jane Austen never fails to amaze me. It’s quite simple, really: love is love, and though our ways of feeling and expressing it might change, love is what compels human beings, for better or worse. Or maybe I’m just becoming a hopeless romantic since I’m in love with Aris.

Yet how I can call it love? For all I know, it might very well be the same kind of infatuation that Giorgia feels. After all, what do I know about love? I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before. The only guys I knew were my classmates, and none of them ever dreamed of facing the wrath of the men in my family by asking me out. I never dated anyone after I graduated from school either. I was eighteen and I stayed home to cook and clean. The few times I could get away, I walked around the city, frightened by the thought of someone telling my father that they saw me loitering on the streets. Everything I know about love I learned from books and from the movies that my mother and I secretly watched on TV before my father and brothers came home from work.

When my mother first began feeling sick, she went to our family doctor, who quickly realized the seriousness of the situation and advised her to go to the hospital. After that, I took her to her increasingly frequent appointments, since she was afraid of not understanding what the doctors were telling her and because my father was afraid that the doctors would try to take advantage of her. He’s never missed an opportunity to flirt with other women, and some of them even gave him what he wanted. So he’s convinced that all men are like him. He wasn’t jealous because he loved my mother; he was just annoyed at the idea that another man could even think of taking something that was his. He’s the kind of guy who’s always thinking about how to screw over the next guy, imagining that everyone else is likewise out to get him. I had therefore been unofficially appointed as the guardian of my mother’s virtue, which is amusing considering that in my twenty years I had never even kissed a man, apart from one brief peck from a classmate during a dark film screening. And when the lights had come back on, we’d both ignored each other. I had been ashamed, but I think he just didn’t want anyone to know that he had kissed Mr. Russo’s daughter.

My mother and I began to go to the hospital at least once a week, and she received injections that were supposed to help her. They didn’t help at all, though. Every time, I waited outside her ward with a book, and she’d emerge an hour later. One particular morning, however, we had been late, and I had forgotten my book. Sitting on my usual gray plastic chair, I looked around to pass the time. I ended up catching the eye of a doctor who seemed way too young to be wearing a white coat, and he smiled. I smiled back, and that was enough for him to approach me. He introduced himself as Francesco and told me he’d noticed me sitting there reading before.

“I forgot my book today,” I had said.

“Lucky for me, so I could meet you.”

His words were enough to make me blush, and I think it was the first compliment I’d ever received from a man. We chatted for a bit, and then he was paged and had to leave, but not before flashing me another smile, as if our encounter had made his day. Then I was back home, next to my mother growing ever weaker and more distressed, while my heart pounded and my imagination ran wild. The next time we went to the hospital, I purposely left my book at home. Francesco joined me and asked if I wanted to see something beautiful. I accepted, and together we rode the elevator up to the hospital roof.

“This is where I come when I want to be alone,” he said.

We were both leaning on the railing, and the view of the city rooftops was charming. Though I avoided his gaze, he put his arm around my shoulders. I stiffened without saying anything, but after a while I enjoyed the weight of his arm. He kissed me, and I loved the sweet taste of his lips and the feel of his hands running through my hair. That had been one of the most exciting moments of my life. Then we went back downstairs in a hurry, and I sat down in my chair just as my mother came out of the ward. The trip home that day was both beautiful and awful. I was daydreaming while my mother leaned against walls to keep herself from falling. Though I was racked with guilt, it wasn’t enough to stop me. After that, every time I returned to the hospital, I went up to the rooftop with Francesco, where we kissed and touched. He never asked me to go anyplace else, and he never took advantage of my inexperience. We didn’t talk, we just stood there, kissing, and he never even knew why I was there every week. Then my mother took a turn for the worse, and the doctor came to our house and told us that there was no point in continuing our hospital visits, that it would be best for her to stay at home.

I’m sure that God will punish me for this, but even though I was truly heartbroken that my mother’s end was near, some of my tears were for Francesco. I knew that I would never see him again. Can you really call that love? Those shy kisses and my first sexual encounter with a man? I don’t think so, and whenever I think of that time, I still always feel a deep sense of shame, accompanied by an inevitable frisson of pleasure.

As I’m trying not to let my mind wander to thoughts of Aris and instead attempt to focus on work, Mr. Moser enters the store. He greets me and hurriedly asks about Helga.

“She’s back there, but I don’t know if—” I reply, but before I can finish, he’s already gone into the stockroom. There’s no point going after him, so I stay behind the counter. Right before lunchtime, a customer comes in the store, nodding at me and heading right to the mystery section near the door to the storeroom. I step out from behind the counter and call out, “How can I help you?” The poor customer shoots me a look of surprise, and as I block the entrance to the storeroom, I cast a look inside. Helga looks visibly upset, and Mr. Moser seems guiltily breathless. I wasn’t wrong about them then. Lucky that I managed to warn her about the customer! I stay put while the customer browses the shelves, throwing questioning glances my way. I return to my spot behind the counter only when Helga emerges from the storeroom. I sit back down without saying anything.

“Thank you, Emilia,” she murmurs, her face a deeper shade of red than my hair.

“Don’t mention it,” I say, as if I hadn’t seen anything.

Mr. Moser emerges shortly thereafter and passes by the appalled customer, then waves good-bye and leaves. After the customer also leaves, with a new book, I put on my coat and tell Helga I’ll see her later. She sits down heavily on the bench and nods without answering.

On my way to Emma’s shop, I wonder what’s going on between those two. I noticed a ring on his left hand, so I think he’s married. I can hardly believe that he committed adultery for poor, neglected Helga. I just hope he’s not taking advantage of her simply to have some fun.

That endless workday finally comes to an end, and I arrive at the carpenter’s a few minutes after six o’clock. The lights are turned off, which alarms me, but shortly after I arrive, I hear the sound of a pickup truck. Aris pulls up, and I spot axes and pieces of wood in the truck bed. He’s wearing his usual outfit: a plaid shirt left open over a white T-shirt and jeans that are too big for his frame. Isn’t he cold? We wave, smiling, and I approach him without speaking. He unlocks the shop and turns on the lights. I go inside while he unloads the material in his truck. I pull out his sketch of my desk and wonder aloud where I can put it.

“Wherever you want” is his answer.

When all the wood is inside, Aris closes the shop door and turns the sign to “Closed.” I hope the message also applies to Dora, but I doubt it. He removes his plaid shirt, as he did at my house, then gets to work. He lifts a board onto a table then takes out a tool. I sit in a chair next to him, keeping my distance so that I don’t disturb his movements. He works, and I watch both him and the board’s transformation. From time to time our eyes meet.

We continue like this, without even feeling the need to speak, for at least an hour. Occasionally Aris stops and looks over his work, probably considering whether the result is what he expected, then drinks from a water bottle. After his second swig, he offers it to me. I accept, placing my lips on the neck of the bottle the same way he did. I’m not thirsty, but his lips were just there. I’d happily watch him all night, oblivious to my hunger or fatigue. At eight o’clock, however, Aris stops.

“I’d better walk you home now. It’s getting late,” he says.

Reluctantly, I stand up. “No need. I can get home on my own.”

But he shakes his head decidedly. So once he’s put his shirt back on, we leave. It’s achingly cold outside, and I wonder why it hasn’t snowed yet. Our breath forms puffy white clouds in the cold air, and Aris walks me to his truck. The village streets are deserted as he slowly drives to my house. I wish I lived farther away so I could spend more time tucked next to him in the warm passenger seat. But before long, we’re in front of my house.

“Thanks for letting me watch you work,” I say before climbing down.

“You spend two hours motionless and silent on an uncomfortable chair, and you’re thanking me?” Aris replies, laughing.

“I could’ve stayed there even longer.” I smile before getting out. I must have said the wrong thing again, because he looks at me with astonishment on his face. I wave good-bye and open my front door. When I close it, staring out at the pickup truck lost in the night shadows, I hear that the engine hasn’t yet restarted.