19

his second trip to the translator. Strolling into town and back late at night,

sometimes alone, sometimes with friends.

Then there are the exceptions: the stormy afternoon when we sat in the

living room, listening to the music and to the hail pelting every window in

the house. The lights would go out, the music would die, and all we had

was each other’s faces.

An aunt twittering away about her dreadful years in

St. Louis, Missouri, which she pronounced San Lui, Mother trailing the

scent of Earl Grey tea, and in the background, all the way from the kitchen

downstairs, the voices of Manfredi and Mafalda—spare whispers of a

couple bickering in loud hisses. In the rain, the lean, cloaked, hooded figure

of the gardener doing battle with the elements, always pulling up weeds

even in the rain, my father signaling with his arms from the living room

window, Go back, Anchise, go back.

“That man gives me the creeps,” my aunt would say.

“That creep has a heart of gold,” my father would say.

But all of these hours were strained by fear, as if fear were a brooding

specter, or a strange, lost bird trapped in our little town, whose sooty wing

flecked every living thing with a shadow that would never wash. I didn’t

know what I was afraid of, nor why I worried so much, nor why this thing

that could so easily cause panic felt like hope sometimes and, like hope in

the darkest moments, brought such joy, unreal joy, joy with a noose tied

around it. The thud my heart gave when I saw him unannounced both

terrified and thrilled me. I was afraid when he showed up, afraid when he

failed to, afraid when he looked at me, more frightened yet when he didn’t.

The agony wore me out in the end, and, on scalding afternoons, I’d simply

give out and fall asleep on the living room sofa and, though still dreaming,

know exactly who was in the room, who had tiptoed in and out, who was

standing there, who was looking at me and for how long, who was trying to

pick out today’s paper while making the least rustling sound, only to give

up and look for tonight’s film listings whether they woke me or not.

The fear never went away. I woke up to it, watched it turn to joy when I

heard him shower in the morning and knew he’d be downstairs with us for

breakfast, only to watch it curdle when, rather than have coffee, he would

dash through the house and right away set to work in the garden. By noon,

the agony of waiting to hear him say anything to me was more than I could

bear. I knew that the sofa awaited me in an hour or so. It made me hate myself for feeling so hapless, so thoroughly invisible, so smitten, so callow.

Just say something, just touch me, Oliver. Look at me long enough and

watch the tears well in my eyes. Knock at my door at night and see if I

haven’t already left it ajar for you. Walk inside. There’s always room in my

bed.

What I feared most were the days when I didn’t see him for stretches at

a time—entire afternoons and evenings sometimes without knowing where

he’d been. I’d sometimes spot him crossing the piazzetta or talking to

people I’d never seen there. But that didn’t count, because in the small

piazzetta where people gathered around closing time, he seldom gave me a

second look, just a nod which might have been intended less for me than for

my father, whose son I happened to be.

My parents, my father especially, couldn’t have been happier with him.

Oliver was working out better than most of our summer residents. He

helped my father organize his papers, managed a good deal of his foreign

correspondence, and was clearly coming along with his own book. What he

did in his private life and his time was his business—If youth must canter,

then who’ll do the galloping? was my father’s clumsy adage. In our

household, Oliver could do no wrong.

Since my parents never paid any attention to his absences, I thought it

was safer never to show that they caused me any anxiety. I mentioned his

absence only when one of them wondered where he’d been; I would

pretend to look as startled as they were. Oh, that’s right, he’s been gone so

long. No, no idea. And I had to worry not to look too startled either, for that

might ring false and alert them to what was eating at me. They’d know bad

faith as soon as they spotted it. I was surprised they hadn’t already. They

had always said I got too easily attached to people. This summer, though, I

finally realized what they meant by being too easily attached. Obviously, it

had happened before, and they must have already picked up on it when I

was probably too young to notice anything myself. It had sent alarming

ripples through their lives. They worried for me. I knew they were right to

worry. I just hoped they’d never know how far things stood beyond their

ordinary worries now. I knew they didn’t suspect a thing, and it bothered

me—though I wouldn’t have wanted it otherwise. It told me that if I were

no longer transparent and could disguise so much of my life, then I was finally safe from them, and from him—but at what price, and did I want to

be so safe from anyone?

There was no one to speak to. Whom could I tell? Mafalda? She’d leave

the house. My aunt? She’d probably tell everyone. Marzia, Chiara, my

friends? They’d desert me in a second. My cousins when they came? Never.

My father held the most liberal views—but on this? Who else? Write to one

of my teachers? See a doctor? Say I needed a shrink? Tell Oliver?

Tell Oliver. There is no one else to tell, Oliver, so I’m afraid it’s going

to have to be you…

to be continued

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