Мадина Федосова – Signora Lucia’s Laundry (страница 7)
Lucia sighed, straightened her apron, and prepared to listen again.
Chapter 3
The Coat That Remembered the War
After noon, the sun in Trastevere becomes heavy.
It’s no longer golden as in the morning, but white, dense, almost tangible. It lies on the stones, on the walls, on the faded shutters, on the laundry drying in the courtyards, and because of it the laundry seems not just fabric, but something alive, breathing, warmed to the temperature of the human body.
At this hour, Lucia’s laundry is always quiet. People have lunch, then sleep their siesta, then slowly wake, drink coffee, smoke at open windows, call across the street. The city freezes, only to explode again in two hours with shouts, laughter, swearing, the clatter of dishes, the hum of Vespas.
Lucia rests too.
She sits on her chair by the counter, drinking her fourth cup of coffee, looking out the window. Beyond the cloudy glass, shadows drift by – rarely, slowly. Who would go to the laundry during siesta? Only someone who absolutely can’t wait. Someone with such a storm inside them that no heat can scare them.
She saw him half a block away.
Tall, thin, in a coat. In August. In the Roman heat, when stone melts and the air shimmers over the pavement – in a coat. Dark gray, long, clearly not his size, hanging on him like on a hanger. He walked slowly, but not like an old man – like someone carrying something heavy. Not in his hands, but inside.
Lucia put down her cup and went to the door.
He came down the steps – three steps, pause, another step, another. Stopped before the door, not daring to enter. Then raised his hand and knocked.
The knock was quiet, uncertain, almost childish.
Lucia opened it.
A man. About forty, maybe a little more. An emaciated face, dark circles under his eyes, unshaven for several days. Eyes – empty, looking through, somewhere far away where no one was. Hair light brown, long, unkempt, falling over his forehead. Dressed poorly, but not like a beggar – just tiredly, just indifferent to himself.
The coat. Old, worn, from someone else’s shoulder. On the lapel – a tiny hole, the trace of a badge or brooch long removed. The coat smelled – Lucia caught the scent immediately, as soon as he crossed the threshold. The smell of dampness, of train stations, of a long journey, and something else she couldn’t immediately identify.
«Signora,» the man said. His voice was hoarse, broken, as if he hadn’t spoken at all for a long time. «I need to get something washed.»
Lucia nodded towards the counter.
«Come in.»
He entered. Stopped in the middle of the laundry, looked around – but not like the old man from the previous chapter, not with interest, but just to understand where he was. Then he approached the counter, stood, let his shoulders drop.
«Can you wash a coat?» he asked.
Lucia looked at the coat. It was dirty, yes. But that wasn’t the main thing. The main thing was how he wore it. How it had become part of him, a second skin he hadn’t taken off for months.
«I can,» Lucia said. «Will you take it off?»
The man froze. Looked at his hands, as if only now realizing he had something on.
«I…» he began, and faltered.
Lucia waited.
«I can’t take it off,» he said finally. «You understand? I can’t. It’s like… it’s grown onto me.»
His voice wavered.
«Then why wash it?» Lucia asked.
He raised his eyes to her. There was so much pain in them that Lucia looked away first.
«Because it’s dirty,» he said. «Very dirty. And I can’t take it off. I try. Every night I try. And I can’t.»
Lucia was silent.
«I’ve slept in it for three months,» he said. «Three months without taking it off. I have nothing else on. Only this coat. And it’s dirty. It stinks. I stink. I went to church, it smells of incense and cleanness there, and I stink, and people turn away. I went to the station, wanted to get on a train, go somewhere, but they wouldn’t let me on because I’m dirty and frightening. I went to the sea, thought the water would wash it off, but the water doesn’t wash it off, it only gets the surface, but inside…»
He fell silent because his voice cracked into a rasp.
Lucia went to the stove. Poured coffee. Set it before him.
«Drink.»
He took the cup. His hands shook so violently that coffee splashed over the rim, but he drank, burning himself, not feeling it.
«When did you last eat?» Lucia asked.
He shook his head.
«Three days. Maybe four. I don’t remember.»
Lucia went into the small room behind the laundry where she had a stove and a refrigerator. Returned a minute later with a plate. Pasta, yesterday’s, but still good, with tomato sauce and basil. Set it before him.
«Eat.»
He looked at the plate as if it were a miracle.
«I have no money,» he said.
«I’m not asking for money. Eat.»
He ate. First cautiously, as if afraid the food would disappear, then greedily, hurriedly, choking, spilling sauce on the coat.
Lucia watched.
Outside the window, a Vespa passed. Somewhere a child cried. A woman called her husband to lunch. An ordinary day in Trastevere.
The man finished. Wiped the plate with a piece of bread, ate the bread too. Looked at Lucia.
«Thank you,» he said. «I’ll repay you. I definitely will.»
«No need,» Lucia said. «Tell me.»
He looked at her for a long moment.
«Tell you what?»
«Everything. Or nothing. As you wish. But if you want me to wash the coat, you’ll have to take it off. And to take it off, you have to understand why it’s stuck.»
The man was silent for a long time. Looked at the wall, the window, the cup of cold coffee. Then he began to speak.
«My name is Andrea. I’m from Udine, up north. Mountains there, cold, snow. I had a family. Wife, daughter. My daughter was five. She loved it when I put her on my shoulders and walked around the room. She laughed so hard the windows rattled.»
He paused. Caught his breath.
«A year ago, they went to my mother’s. To the mountains. By car. I didn’t go, I had work. I said: go, I’ll come later. They went. And at the pass… a truck. The driver fell asleep. Swerved into oncoming traffic.»
Lucia closed her eyes. She knew what was coming.
«They’re gone,» Andrea said. His voice was horribly flat. «Both of them. Immediately. The truck driver survived. Served six months in prison, got out. But mine are gone.»
He looked at his hands.
«I didn’t go to the funeral. I couldn’t. Sat in the apartment for three days staring at the wall. Then I went out. Walked wherever my eyes took me. Walked and walked and walked. Ended up in Milan. Then Genoa. Then here, in Rome. I don’t remember how I walked. I just walked.»
He stroked the sleeve of the coat.
«This coat, I found it at the station in Milan. Someone forgot it, or threw it away, or died – I don’t know. It was big, warm. I put it on and haven’t taken it off since. You understand? I can’t take it off because if I do, I’ll have to take off everything. Everything inside. And what’s inside… it’s…»
He fell silent.