Мадина Федосова – Signora Lucia’s Laundry (страница 9)
They went out.
The courtyard in the evening was special. The sun no longer burned, but caressed. It lay on the walls in golden patches, kissed the flowers in the well, played in the ivy leaves. The lines with laundry cast long shadows, and these shadows moved, lived, breathed.
Lucia hung the coat on the longest line. It hung heavily, but beautifully – dark against the gold.
«Look,» she said.
Andrea looked.
The wind played with the coat. It moved, as if alive. The sleeves rose and fell, as if the coat were embracing someone. The tails flapped, as if it wanted to fly away.
«Clean,» Andrea said. «Really clean.»
«Clean,» Lucia confirmed. «Now it’s your turn.»
«My turn?»
«You. Clean on the outside. Inside – not yet. But inside is harder. Inside, you have to do it yourself.»
Andrea stood, looking at the coat. Then he shifted his gaze to the sky.
«Elena,» he said quietly. «Forgive me. I didn’t come. I couldn’t. I didn’t say goodbye.»
His voice wavered.
«I love you. I’ll always love you. And I’ll try. I’ll try to live. For you. For her. For myself.»
Lucia stood beside him and was silent. This wasn’t her conversation.
When he fell silent, she said:
«Come tomorrow morning. The coat will be dry. And you’ll take it.»
Andrea nodded.
«How much do I owe you?»
«Nothing,» Lucia said. «But if you want – come by. Tell me how things are going.»
He looked at her for a long moment.
«I will,» he said. «I definitely will.»
And he went towards the exit. Without the coat. In a single dirty shirt. But he walked differently now. Straighter. Lighter.
Lucia watched him go.
Then she went to the coat, adjusted it on the line. Stroked the sleeve.
«Protect him,» she said to the wind. «And her too. Protect them all.»
She returned to the laundry. Sat on the chair. Poured coffee.
Outside, it was getting dark. Lights were coming on. Somewhere music played – a neighbor had turned on the radio. It smelled of evening, of food, of flowers, of life.
Beyond the glass, a shadow flickered.
Lucia sighed, straightened her apron, and prepared to listen again.
The day in Trastevere is never quiet.
Lucia knew this for certain. Even during siesta, when the city freezes and seems deserted, somewhere someone will definitely shout, laugh, drop a pot, turn the radio up full blast, and then a tenor will float through the alley, belting out an aria from Tosca, mixed with the smell of fried onions and the exhaust of a passing Vespa.
After Andrea left, Lucia went out into the courtyard to check the laundry. Valentina’s sheets were already dry and lay in a neat pile on the bench by the well – Lucia had taken them down an hour ago, when the wind grew too strong and started whipping the fabric. The old man’s shirt hung on the hanger, almost dry, only the collar still slightly damp – Lucia touched it, decided it could be taken down and ironed in an hour.
Andrea’s coat dried on the far line. Dark, heavy, it swayed in the wind, and Lucia caught herself thinking of it as a living creature, just washed, fed, and now resting.
«Lucia! Lucia, are you there?»
Signora Maria’s voice burst into the courtyard, as always, without knocking, without warning. Signora Maria – the neighbor from the third floor, sixty-eight years old, three chins, five cats, and a tongue that never stopped – was already coming down the steps to the laundry, though Lucia hadn’t even opened the door.
«I’m here, I’m here,» Lucia called back, coming out of the courtyard.
Signora Maria burst into the laundry like a hurricane. A red flowery dress stretched over her ample figure, curlers covered by a kerchief on her head, in her hands a huge bag from which something striped protruded.
«You won’t believe it! You simply won’t believe what happened!» she rattled off, without even saying hello. «That idiot, that cretin, that… that…»
«Who?» Lucia asked calmly, accustomed to Signora Maria always starting at the end.
«Mine! My precious husband!» Signora Maria threw the bag onto the counter. «Look! Look at this!»
She shook out the contents of the bag. Sheets tumbled out. White, with lace, clearly expensive. And on them – stains.
Many stains.
Red wine, that was obvious. And something greasy. And something else brown, like chocolate. And another one, completely incomprehensible.
«What’s this?» Lucia asked, examining the stains.
«This is him, the parasite, having a romantic dinner!» Signora Maria shrieked. «Yesterday, when I went to my sister’s! Can you imagine? I was gone for one evening, just one evening, and he… he…»
«With whom?» Lucia asked.
«How should I know with whom?» Signora Maria yelled. «If I knew with whom, I’d be there already! I’d tear all her hair out! I’d… I’d…»
She fell silent, because she didn’t know what she’d do to him, but clearly something terrible.
«And what does he say?»
«He says he ate alone!» Signora Maria threw up her hands. «Alone! Can you imagine? One person, one dinner, and stains like these? He poured wine on himself? Smeared himself with chocolate? Spread grease all over the sheet?»
Lucia struggled to suppress a smile.
«And why was he eating on the sheet?»
«He was eating on the bed!» Signora Maria was almost shouting now. «On our marital bed! With someone! Or alone, in which case he’s simply crazy! Either way, it’s bad!»
At that moment, Signor Enzo entered the laundry.
Signor Enzo lived one floor down, was nearly seventy, wore old suspenders and an invariable cap which he never removed even indoors, and for about ten years had been trying to court Signora Maria, despite her having a husband and him having a sick wife who hadn’t left her bed for the last five years.
«What’s all the noise?» he asked, entering. «I heard Signora Maria shouting, thought there was a fire or a murder.»
«There will be a murder!» Signora Maria snapped. «I’m about to kill my husband!»
«And what did he do?» Signor Enzo came closer, looked with interest at the sheets. «Whoa. That was quite a dinner.»
«You think he wasn’t alone?» Signora Maria asked hopefully.
«I think,» Signor Enzo scratched the back of his head under his cap, «that if he was alone, he has coordination problems. Or he was celebrating something very important.»
«What could he be celebrating?» Signora Maria wailed. «He has nothing important! He’s retired! He sits at home all day watching TV!»
«Maybe he won the lottery?» Signor Enzo suggested. «Or an old friend called? Or he just felt like a celebration?»