Мадина Федосова – Signora Lucia’s Laundry (страница 4)
The courtyard was small, but bright. Stone walls, covered in ivy that had probably been growing there since before the war. Cobblestones underfoot, worn smooth by hundreds of feet and decades of rain. In the corner – an old stone well, long unused, but Lucia kept pots of flowers in it. Geraniums, petunias, other bright splashes whose names she didn’t know.
Lines stretched across the courtyard from wall to wall, from the old well to an iron post driven into the ground by Lucia’s husband forty years ago. On some, laundry was already drying: someone’s striped towels, bright as flags; baby onesies, funny and small; a man’s white shirt flapping in the wind as if dancing.
The sun was already high, but not yet scorching, just warming gently, as it does in the morning. It flooded the whole courtyard with a golden light in which dust motes floated.
Lucia took one sheet, shook it out with a single motion – and it soared, unfurled, as if alive, found its place on the line, lay flat, without a single wrinkle. Then the second.
«Look,» she said.
Valentina looked.
The sun shone through the white fabric. The sheets glowed like enormous screens. They were so clean, so white, they seemed unreal. The wind billowed them, and they sighed, flapped, lived their own separate life.
«Clean laundry is a new day,» Lucia said.
She stood next to Valentina, both watching the sheets dancing in the wind.
«You look at them and you don’t see what was there an hour ago. You only see white. Only clean. Only what is now. The water took the dirt. The sun took the moisture. The wind gives them life. Your choice is to lie down on them with him, or alone.»
Valentina stood and watched. For a long time. A very long time. The wind tousled her blonde hair, the sun dazzled her eyes, but she didn’t look away.
«Do you really think I should talk to him?»
Lucia shrugged. The gesture was simple, earthy, devoid of any pomposity.
«I don’t think anything. I wash clothes. I don’t know your man. I don’t know what’s in his head. I don’t know if he loves you or not. I only know one thing: until you ask, you’ll be asking yourself for the rest of your life.»
She turned and went back into the laundry. At the threshold, she stopped, without turning around.
«Come for the sheets this evening. Around six. They’ll be dry.»
And she disappeared behind the door.
Valentina remained alone in the courtyard.
She stood for a long time. Watched the wind play with the sheets. Watched the sunlight form an intricate pattern on one of them. Watched swallows circling high above the rooftops.
Then she took her phone out of her jacket pocket. The screen lit up. Her fingers found the right number. Paused for a second. Then pressed call.
A ring. Second. Third.
«Hello.»
The voice on the other end was sleepy, surprised.
«It’s me,» Valentina said. «We need to talk.»
Her voice didn’t tremble.
In the laundry, Lucia stood by the window, looking out into the courtyard. She saw Valentina talking on the phone, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. She saw her smile – for the first time that morning – at something she heard. Saw her put the phone back in her pocket and walk towards the exit from the courtyard, glancing back for a second at the sheets, waving her hand at them – unclear to whom, whether to the sheets or to Lucia behind the glass.
Lucia didn’t wave back. She just turned away and poured herself another coffee.
It was eight forty-five in the morning. A whole day ahead. New people ahead. New stains. New stories to be washed clean.
She sat down on her chair, took a sip. The coffee was hot, strong, bitter. Just the way she liked it.
Beyond the glass, a shadow flickered. Someone was coming down the steps.
Lucia put down her cup, straightened her apron, and turned towards the door.
Morning in Trastevere smells of bread.
This smell comes from the bakery on the corner, where Signor Alberto has been baking his bread since four in the morning. Warm, thick, yeasty smell of wheat and yeast floats through the narrow alleys, climbs into open windows, mingles with the smell of coffee being made in all the kitchens at once. By seven in the morning, the smell of fish is added – the merchants have already laid out their goods at the market, and the fresh sea breeze, which never actually reaches these streets, lives here in the form of gleaming tuna and silvery sardines on marble counters.
Lucia loves this time.
She’s already had two cups of coffee, sorted yesterday’s receipts, arranged the orders on the shelves. The first visitor left half an hour ago, taking her sheets, which now dry in the courtyard, white and light as a promise of a new day. The sun has risen higher, cleared the rooftops, and now the courtyard is flooded with gold.
The second visitor came at a quarter to nine.
Lucia heard him long before he came down the steps. First – a pause at the top. The man stood, looked at the sign, made up his mind. Then – a step. Slow, cautious, with a pause before the next. Old people walk like that – every step requires effort, every step is a test.
She went to the door and opened it herself, without waiting for him to start yanking the handle.
An old man stood on the threshold, squinting in the sun. About eighty-five, maybe even ninety. Small, thin, bent by the years so much that you had to look not at his eyes but somewhere in the region of his chest. Sparse gray hair, combed to the side, revealing pink scalp with brown spots. Eyes – faded, blue, with a yellowish tinge around the pupils, but alive, very alive, with a hint of cunning.
Dressed poorly, but with dignity. An old jacket, made of wool no longer worn, wide lapels, shiny at the elbows. The shirt underneath was gray from many washings, but clean. Tie – thin as a shoelace, tied in a knot you couldn’t untie, only cut off.
In his hands – a bundle. Not a bag, not a suitcase, but a proper bundle, wrapped in old newspaper, tied crosswise with string. The newspaper had yellowed to brown, the edges frayed, crumbling into fine dust. The string was wound carefully, turn by turn, a double knot, tightened as if it held all the wealth in the world.
«Signora,» the old man said. His voice was hoarse, raspy, with that particular tremor that comes to people who have smoked hundreds of packs in their lifetime.
«Come in,» Lucia said, and stepped back to let him pass.
He entered. Stopped. Looked around. Long, carefully, as if checking if this was the right place. Machines along the walls – old, round, with cloudy windows behind which laundry tumbled. Shelves with neatly stacked piles – whites, colors, delicates. The tall counter of darkened wood, with jars of detergent and boxes of stain remover on it. The old chair by the wall with the worn seat. The coffee maker on the stove – hissing, releasing steam.
«Did I come to the right place?» he asked. «Do you do washing here?»
«Yes,» Lucia said. «Sit down.»
He shook his head.
«Business first.»
He approached the counter, placed the bundle on it. His hands trembled with a fine old man’s tremor, but his movements were precise, honed by years of habit. He untied the string – slowly, carefully, without hurrying. His fingers didn’t obey well, the knot wouldn’t give, but the old man patiently picked at it again and again.
Then he unfolded the newspaper. The edges crumbled, yellow dust scattering onto the counter. He smoothed the newspaper with his palm – gently, as if it were not old paper but something precious. Folded back the edge.
Inside lay a shirt.
White. Of heavy cotton, the kind woven half a century ago. Expensive, you could see it immediately – in the density of the fabric, the fine stitching, the mother-of-pearl buttons yellowed with age. The shirt was old, very old, but unworn. No stains, no wear on the cuffs, no greasy collar. It had hardly been worn. It had been kept.
Lucia looked at the shirt, at the old man, at his hands trembling over the fabric.
«Beautiful,» she said.
The old man nodded. Stroked the shirt with his palm – tenderly, as one strokes something alive. His fingers, crooked with arthritis, with knobby joints, moved over the fabric with surprising gentleness.
«Seventy years,» he said. «Seventy years, Signora. I bought it in ’54. The year I got married.»
He fell silent. Looked at the shirt, but saw something else. Youth. His bride. The church. Relatives long gone.
«Tell me,» Lucia said.
She wasn’t asking – she was giving permission. The old man needed to talk. Needed someone to listen, while there was still time.
He looked up. Smiled – for the first time. The smile was rare, almost transparent, like people who have forgotten how to smile.
«We met in ’48. I came back from the war, worked on a construction site. She lived two houses down from me. Every morning I saw her hanging laundry in the courtyard. White sheets, as white as this shirt. I looked at her and couldn’t breathe.»
He paused, caught his breath.
«I courted her for six years. Six years, Signora. She was strict, from a good family. Her father, God rest his soul, checked me out like a spy at the border. And she would look at me from the window and smile.»