Мадина Федосова – Signora Lucia’s Laundry (страница 6)
«For forty years people have come,» she said. «Each with their grief. I don’t carry it. I just see it. Just hear it. Just feel it when I take their things. But my eyes get tired.»
She looked up.
«I’ve lost everyone who walked through that door. Thousands of times.»
The old man nodded.
«I understand. Bricks are easier to carry than someone else’s pain.»
Lucia smiled wryly.
«Bricks – yes.»
She took the rolled-up shirt and went out into the courtyard.
The old man followed, slowly, holding onto doorframes.
The courtyard was flooded with sun.
It poured down from above, golden, thick as young wine. The ivy-covered walls seemed green, almost black in the shade, and bright, luminous where the light fell. This ivy had probably been growing here since before the war – its stems were thick, woody, twining around drainpipes, climbing towards the roof, covering the windows of the neighboring house.
The cobblestones underfoot, worn smooth, were mossy in places – bright green, velvety, damp. In the corner – the old stone well. It hadn’t worked for fifty years, but Lucia kept flowers in it. Geraniums – red, pink, white. Petunias – lush, cascading down like a waterfall. Other flowers whose names she didn’t know, but loved because they simply grew and pleased the eye.
Lines stretched across the courtyard – from wall to wall, from the well to the iron post. Some already held drying laundry. Striped towels – red, blue, yellow – hung like the flags of different nations. Baby onesies – funny, small, with embroidered bunnies. A man’s white shirt – someone else’s, unknown – flapped in the wind as if dancing.
Lucia took wooden hangers – old, heavy, her husband’s – put the shirt on them, straightened it, adjusted the collar. Hung it on the line – in the full sun, where there was no shade.
The shirt glowed.
The white fabric became almost transparent. Every thread stood out clearly, every fold cast a fine shadow. The collar stood up, the cuffs hung straight, the buttons gleamed, warmed by the sun.
The wind touched the shirt. It stirred, came to life – first a little, then more, then began to dance, as if someone were inside it, as if an invisible person had put it on and was moving to music.
The old man watched.
For a long time. A very long time. He stood, leaning on his stick, and watched his shirt – the very one he got married in seventy years ago – dance in the wind under the Roman sun.
His eyes grew moist, but he didn’t cry. He just watched.
«Beautiful,» he said finally. His voice was completely gone. «Like back then. She was like that too. White, glowing. I looked at her and couldn’t believe such a girl had agreed to marry me.»
Lucia stood beside him. Silent.
Somewhere in the alley, a fish seller shouted. His voice rose high, cutting through the hum of Vespas: «Pesca! Fresh pesca!» Somewhere a dog barked, then another, then a third – a roll call across the whole quarter. Somewhere a woman called a child: «Marco! Marco, come eat!» The child didn’t answer, probably ran off with a ball to the fountain.
Life went on as usual.
«What was her name?» Lucia asked.
«Lucia,» the old man said. And suddenly he smiled – brightly, youthfully. «Like you. That’s why I came. Not just for the shirt.»
Lucia nodded.
«A good name.»
«A good one. But mine is gone. And you are here. Maybe she sent you.»
«Maybe,» said Lucia.
They stood in the courtyard, watching the white shirt dance in the wind, the sun playing on the damp fabric, its shadow moving over the stones.
«I’ll come back in three hours,» the old man said.
«In three hours it will be ready.»
«How much do I owe you?»
Lucia looked at him. At his old jacket, at his hands trembling on his stick, at his eyes looking at the shirt with such love.
«Nothing,» she said.
The old man shook his head.
«No. I’ll pay. It’s important – to pay for the last thing.»
Lucia thought.
«Alright. Five euros.»
The old man took out his wallet, pulled out a crumpled banknote, placed it on the counter.
Then he turned towards the exit. Took a step. Stopped.
«Signora Lucia,» he said, not turning around. «Are you afraid?»
«Of what?»
«Of what’s… there.»
He pointed a finger at the sky.
Lucia looked up. The sky was blue, deep, with rare clouds on the horizon. Swallows circled high, tracing the air with their sharp wings.
«No,» she said. «I’m not afraid.»
«Why?»
She paused. Gathered her thoughts.
«Because every day I see people come with dirt. And every day I see it wash out. Not always the first time. Sometimes I have to wash it again and again. But it washes out. So it must be possible there too. I think there’s a laundry there as well. Only they don’t wash with water.»
The old man turned around.
«What with?»
She looked at the sun, at the shirt dancing in its rays, at the dust motes dancing in the air.
«Light,» she said. «I think they wash with light there.»
The old man nodded. Looked at her for a long time. Then smiled – completely youthful, completely bright.
«I hope so,» he said. «I hope so.»
And he left.
Slowly, shuffling, holding onto walls. Climbed the three steps – pausing after each. At the top he turned, looked at the shirt one last time. And disappeared around the corner.
Lucia stayed in the courtyard.
She stood, watching the shirt. The wind billowed it, and it flapped like a flag, like a banner, like a farewell greeting.
Then Lucia went closer. Straightened the collar. Stroked the sleeve – the fabric was almost dry, warm from the sun.
«Protect him,» she said quietly. «Protect him. He’s a good man.»
She went back into the laundry. Sat on the chair. Poured coffee. Took a sip.
Beyond the glass, a shadow flickered. Someone was coming down the steps.