Мадина Федосова – Signora Lucia’s Laundry (страница 5)
Lucia listened. Didn’t interrupt.
«In ’54, I’d saved enough. I put aside every lira, sometimes didn’t eat just to save. Bought this shirt – the most expensive I could find. And I went to ask her father for her hand.»
He chuckled.
«I was so nervous the shirt was soaked through. I stand before him, wet as a mouse, and he looks at me and says nothing. A minute of silence, two, three. I thought – that’s it, he’ll throw me out. Then he got up, came over to me, and said: „Take care of her. She’s my only one.“»
The old man fell silent. The laundry was quiet, only the machines humming and the coffee maker hissing.
«The wedding was in June. Hot as hell. All the neighbors came out into the courtyard, set up tables, each brought what they could – chicken, wine, bread. Her uncle played the accordion, we danced until dawn. And I was wearing this shirt. New. White. Happy.»
He looked at Lucia.
«I never wore it again. Saved it. For a special occasion. But the special occasion never came. Children were born – I thought, now I’ll wear it. No, I was shy. Grandchildren were born – again, I didn’t wear it. Anniversaries – forty years, fifty, sixty – each time I took it out, looked at it, stroked it, and put it back.»
He shook his head.
«And now it’s too late. I won’t fit into it. And there’s nowhere to wear it. Everyone I would have wanted to wear it for is already… up there.»
He pointed a finger upwards.
Lucia nodded.
«You want me to wash it?»
«I want you to wash it,» the old man said. «And iron it. Well, the way you do. So it’s like new.»
«For what?»
The old man paused. Looked at the shirt for a long moment.
«For me,» he said quietly. «To be buried in it.»
His voice didn’t falter. He said it simply, like talking about the weather, or needing to buy bread.
Lucia took the shirt in her hands. The fabric was thin, old, but strong – good work, done right. It smelled of mothballs, dust, and something else elusive – time, perhaps, or memory.
«How long has it been stored?»
«Forty years. After my wife died, I didn’t open the wardrobe. I thought let it lie there until I go too. But yesterday I opened it. Took it out. Smelled it. It smells…»
He faltered.
«What does it smell of?» Lucia asked.
«Youth,» the old man said. «It smells of youth, Signora. And of her.»
He turned to the window so Lucia wouldn’t see his eyes.
She went to the stove, poured coffee into a clean cup. Set it before him.
«Drink. I’ll have a look while you do.»
The old man took the cup. His hands trembled; coffee sloshed over the rim, dripped onto the counter. He took a sip, closed his eyes.
«Good coffee,» he said. «Just like my wife used to make. She was from the south, near Naples. There, coffee is sacred.»
Lucia spread the shirt on the counter, inspected every seam, every button. One was hanging by a thread, about to fall off. Another was sewn on crookedly, by a man’s hand.
«The buttons need restitching,» she said. «And the collar needs starching, so it stands up. Like on that day.»
«Do what needs to be done,» the old man nodded. «I was told you understand.»
«Who told you?»
«People. We old folks have our own network. Sara on the corner said, she has you wash her towels. Signor Enzo from the third floor – he brings his pillowcases. They all say: go to Lucia. She doesn’t just wash. She listens.»
Lucia shook her head.
«I wash. People imagine the rest for themselves.»
The old man smiled.
«Let them. But I came.»
Lucia took the shirt, went to the sink. Ran water – warm, not hot, not cold, exactly what old fabric needs. Her hand remembered the temperature by itself, without a thermometer.
Added mild soap – the kind she made once a month from old recipes, with almond scent. Lowered the shirt in.
«You’re washing it by hand?» the old man asked in surprise.
«By hand,» Lucia said. «A machine could tear such old fabric. And it still has work to do.»
«Where?»
Lucia looked at him.
«Where you’re going. It needs to be beautiful.»
The old man watched her hands – work-worn, with prominent veins – gently submerge in the water, carefully move over the fabric, washing away forty years of dust.
«How long have you been here?» he asked.
«Forty years.»
«Alone?»
«Alone. My husband died.»
«Long ago?»
«Twenty years.»
The old man was silent. He drank his coffee in small sips.
«Is it hard, alone?»
Lucia shrugged.
«I’m used to it.»
«Children?»
«No.»
The old man sighed. Deeply, with a whistle.
«I buried my daughter,» he said. «Five years ago. She was over sixty, but still my daughter. The worst thing – burying your own children.»
Lucia didn’t answer. She rinsed the shirt, changed the water. First the water was murky, gray – the years, the dust, the mothballs were leaving. Then lighter. Then clear.
«I know,» she said finally. «I haven’t buried any, but I know.»
The old man looked at her.
«How?»
She turned off the water. Squeezed the shirt – not wringing, just pressing, letting the water drain.