Silence Is Golden (5 page)

“What kind of bookshelf would you like?” he asks finally. He has a low, delicate voice. I get the feeling he’s pretty reticent, perhaps because his voice is so faint. I try to focus on answering his question.

“Well, I’d like three or four shelves, and I’d like to hang it on a wall. You decide the rest.”

Instead of responding, he approaches me, and I feel my stomach flip. He perches on the edge of the desk chair. Completely at ease, he takes out a blank sheet of paper and picks up one of the pencils scattered on the floor, then starts to draw. I’m still standing beside him, so I watch him sketch lines on the page. His golden hair almost reaches his shoulders and falls in his face, covering his eyes. I force myself to stop watching him and look at the picture he’s drawing. It’s just a sketch, but it seems to pop out from the page, like the spiral staircase. It’s definitely a bookshelf, but it’s more original than any other I’ve seen. It has rounded corners and soft, curved lines. I like it. I gaze back at him. His lips are parted. His face is intent. He clearly loves what he does. As he works he evokes a feeling of peace, as if there’s no rush, as if no one has ever been in a rush. The pencil barely touches the paper, and I’m surprised to see lines appear beneath it, because his touch is so delicate. Just before I’m completely hypnotized by the pencil’s movement, he pulls back from the paper and looks up at me. He doesn’t say anything, but his look says it all. He wants to know what I think.

“It’s beautiful,” I say with total sincerity.

He smiles, graciously accepting the compliment.

“You draw very well,” I add.

Another smile. What does this guy have against words?

“Do you draw other stuff, or just furniture?”

For a moment he seems dumbfounded, as if he’d never heard such a question before.

“Cats, sometimes,” he responds. “And buildings.”

“People?”

“No, not people.”

“Why not?”

“Not people.”

I realize that he won’t say any more. I guess I was too pushy with my questions.

“So, can you make me this bookshelf?” I say, pointing to the drawing.

“Sure.”

“How much will it cost me?”

He smiles again, waving off the question.

“I don’t know yet, but it won’t be more than you can afford.”

That’s probably the longest sentence I’ve heard him say so far, and it makes me smile. How does he know what I can afford? I don’t even care about the money. I’d do anything just to see him again.

“When will it be ready?”

“A couple of days?” he says, almost asking my permission.

“Okay,” I say, smiling.

He returns my smile, then stands up and holds out the page on which he drew the plans for my bookshelf.

“Can I keep this? Or do you need this to work from?”

He shakes his head, with a slight smile still on his lips that catches my eye. I force myself to look elsewhere as I take the sketch, thanking him. I reluctantly turn and head toward the door.

“Oh,” I add impulsively, “I’m Emilia.”

“Aris,” he says, still staring at me.

I raise my hand in an awkward farewell, and he bows his head in response. My heart is pounding in my chest, I’m having trouble breathing, and my cheeks are burning. I leave in a hurry.

Once I make it to the main road, I rest against the wall of a building and take deep breaths, trying to calm my pounding heart. Only then do I realize that I’m still holding the sketch. I loosen my grip, then smooth out and refold the crumpled paper and put it in my pocket. I can feel the sketch in my pocket the whole way home, spreading warmth to my heart.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Today during our lunch break, I tell Emma that I asked Aris to make me a bookshelf. She looks at me with raised eyebrows. I attempt my best poker face.

“Do you like his work?” she asks me skeptically. “It’s odd.”

“I think it’s beautiful and original.”

“Well, I think it’s weird, just like he is. I’ll tell you one thing, I would not be pleased if Giorgia’s romantic dreams were to come true,” she says, laughing.

Me neither.

“Did you tell him where you live?” she asks.

“No, why?”

“Well, Aris only uses joints, not nails. When he makes something to hang, he has to mount it directly on the wall.”

“I had no idea. He didn’t tell me that.”

“Well, you should figure out the timing of when he can come install the shelf. But I don’t know when, since you’re at work all day, between here and the bookstore.”

“You’re right. I guess he could come Saturday or Sunday afternoon.”

“I don’t think he ever really knows what day it is,” she says, laughing.

Everyone seems to think that Aris lives in his own world. But is that really so terrible? So he’ll be coming to my house for as long as it takes to assemble the bookshelf. I don’t know how to feel about this.

That same evening I decide to go see Aris to discuss mounting my bookshelf, as Emma suggested. The fact that he didn’t fill me in on the installation details gives me a valid excuse to go see him. Once I’ve finished work, I practically skip to the carpenter’s shop. I don’t even check through the window to see if he’s there, and instead, I go right in. A mistake that I immediately regret.

The doorbell rings as I open the door, and I expect to see Aris, but instead I find myself face-to-face with Dora. She has entered the store from the back room and silently stares at me.

“Good evening,” I say. “I am looking for Aris.”

“He’s not here,” she answers, without a hint of courtesy.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“I don’t. Did you need something from him?” She’s trying to intimidate me, but I’m not having it.

“I asked him to build me a bookshelf,” I say, head held high. “I wanted to know if he’s finished yet.”

“I don’t know anything about his work. Come back tomorrow.”

“All right.”

I’m about to leave when I hear a voice that’s not quite soft enough to be a whisper.

“You could at least come up with a better excuse . . .”

“Excuse me?” I turn around.

“I know why you’re here, you know,” she says without any hesitation. “I saw you looking in the window a long time ago.”

“So what? I was curious about the shop. I wasn’t watching him. Anyway, I think you should be more concerned about curious teenagers than me.” I can tell that she understands that I’m talking about Giorgia. She’s the one who should feel ashamed, not Giorgia.

“You’re unbelievable. Go back to where you came from!”

“I live here now.”

“Who are you kidding?” she yells. “Aris is not interested in tramps!”

I just can’t argue anymore. Her words bowl me over. She is so openly offensive that she frightens me. I get the feeling that she could lash out at any moment. My heart pounding, I turn to leave just as Aris walks through the door. He looks like an angel, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to hide behind him for protection. He stares at us both, and I can tell he’s guessed what’s happened, because he immediately ignores her and looks me right in the eye.

“Hi,” he says. “Were you looking for me?”

I nod, too shaken up to speak.

“Your bookshelf is ready. I forgot to tell you that I have to mount it directly in your house. Sorry.”

I can feel Dora’s eyes boring into me from behind, and I lower my voice.

“It’s okay, someone else told me. I work until six every weekday, and I also work Saturday mornings, so would Saturday afternoon be okay?”

“How about Saturday at three?”

I nod again.

“I live—”

“I know where you live,” he interrupts, smiling. I’ve completely forgotten that Dora’s still standing behind me, and I smile too.

We continue to stare at each other for a moment, and then I open the door. Before I leave, I turn around and see him still looking at me with that same reassuring smile on his face. I deliberately ignore Dora. The temptation to peek in the window for one last look at him is so strong, but I resist. The pavement is illuminated by the dim glow of the street lamps. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, my heart pounding, with Aris’s face fixed in my mind.

Over the next three days, I vacillate between elation and anguish waiting for Saturday to arrive. Even Helga, who never picks up on anything, must have noticed my tortured state. On Friday, she asks me if the “weird machine” is broken, since I’m staring blankly at the screen.

“No, Helga, it’s all right.”

After a full month of “Ms. Kohler,” she has eventually decided that I can call her Helga. I can’t say I’ve earned her trust, because I don’t think anyone really can. But I do think I’ve earned her respect, and that pleases me.

I’m building a network of commonplace relationships here in Bren that I never had in the city where I grew up. I’m not ready to take the risk of calling these relationships friendships, as I’m afraid that I’ll wake up tomorrow and find that everyone has begun to ignore me or look at me with suspicion again. But I’m optimistic, or at least trying to be.

“It looked like you didn’t understand what you were seeing,” Helga continues, referring to the computer, “and if you don’t know what’s going on, we’re in big trouble.”

“Don’t worry. I’m just a little tired. I didn’t sleep well.”

“You’re not stretching yourself too thin, are you? I know you work for Emma during your lunch break.”

I knew it wouldn’t be long before word got out. After all, if I’d wanted to disappear into anonymity, I would’ve moved to a big city.

“Well, I had been working for her for a while before you hired me, so I didn’t have the heart to simply abandon her.”

“I understand,” Helga responds, as usual sounding as though she doesn’t really understand.

I sneak a peek at the edge of the computer screen. Still five o’clock. I want to go home, slip into a warm bath, and think about Aris. I decide that the only solution is to throw myself into my work in the hopes that this will help the time pass quickly. Shortly thereafter, Helga leaves the bookstore, saying she has to run some errands. When she returns, she’s accompanied by a man I’ve never seen before.

“Miss Russo?” she asks, attempting to wink (although it looks more like a grimace of pain).

I raise my head, still perplexed about why she won’t call me Emilia.

“Meet Mr. Moser, the director of the school here in Bren,” she announces, as if she had just presented the Italian prime minister himself.

Respectfully, I stand up, hoping admiration shows on my face as I bow my head in greeting.

“Mr. Moser is looking for a book written by an author from your neck of the woods, so I thought perhaps you might be useful,” she says with an odd smile. It’s as if I’m from some exotic foreign country instead of just a few hundred miles south of here.

“Of course,” I reply. “Which author?”

Mr. Moser studies me as if he were an entomologist faced with a rare species of insect. Finally, he speaks, enunciating very clearly.

“Ignazio Silone.”

Practically one of the fathers of Italian literature
, I think to myself.
Why does he feel the need to ask me?

“But of course. He’s one of my favorite writers. Please, allow me to escort you to where we house his works,” I say, hoping that my antiquated speech is to both Helga’s and Mr. Moser’s liking. He smiles at me, and I even see a smile on the ineffable Helga’s face. Wow, did that really work?

On my way home later, I can finally laugh. What with Helga’s haughty demeanor and Mr. Moser’s complacency oozing from every pore, I wouldn’t be surprised if those two were having an affair. Or maybe Helga just has a soft spot for him. As if he were royalty. Still chuckling to myself, I almost miss the sound of footsteps behind me. I turn suddenly. It’s dark, but all the same, I glimpse a flash of golden hair as it disappears behind a tree. Can that really be Aris? And if so, does he really follow me every day? At least I don’t have to worry that it’s some creep. I keep walking calmly toward my house. Once inside, I peer out the window, but I only see the forest.

The next morning, I drag my feet on my way to Emma’s. I would love to have stayed home to clean and air out the rooms today, but instead I got dressed and went to work as usual. I could’ve come up with an excuse, but I can’t lie to Emma. After all, she’s been so kind to me. I arrive at her shop with a smile and settle in to arrange flowers, water the plants, and chat. I briefly consider telling her about the confrontation I had the other day with Dora, but on second thought, I don’t want to risk mentioning Aris. I might slip up and clue her in as to how I feel about him. However, she brings Dora up before I can.

“I ran into Dora yesterday at the post office,” she says. “I told her that if she ever dares speak to my daughter like that again, she’ll regret it.”

“What did she say?”

“She’s not so easily intimidated. She said I should pay more attention to my daughter and where she’s headed. I don’t know how I kept myself from slapping her.”

“You did the right thing by controlling yourself,” I reply. “She probably hoped your talk would come to blows. She seems to love causing a scene. It makes her feel like the center of attention.”

“You’re right. But I don’t think confronting her like that was smart. I’m sure she’ll tell her friends, and they’ll tell other people, and then news will have spread. And that’s exactly what I didn’t want. It’s just that when I saw her, I couldn’t hold my tongue.”

I give her a sympathetic look in reply. After seeing what she did to Emma, I realize that staying away from Dora is my best course of action where she’s concerned.

I eat lunch with Emma, trying not to let her see how anxious I am to leave. Afterward, I’m almost out the door when she stops me.

“When are you seeing Aris?”

“Soon. At three o’clock.” I blush in spite of myself, then smile nervously, but the damage is done. Emma is too smart. The expression on her face speaks volumes.

“Have a nice weekend then,” she says, looking down. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“You too.”

Once I turn the street corner, I break into a run. I decide to push what just happened with Emma into a corner of my mind for now. I’m not ready to think about it. I arrive home completely out of breath. Within five minutes I’ve opened all the windows and grabbed the dusting rag. An hour later, and just before three o’clock, the house is fragrant and clean, and I even have enough time to shower and change.

At three o’clock I hear a knock at the door, and I rush to open it. At first, I only see an old pickup truck that I’ve spotted before parked in front of the carpenter’s. There are a lot of curved wooden boards in the truck bed, which I assume will become my bookshelf. Then Aris appears from behind the vehicle, with his lanky frame in his baggy jeans, and his smile is the sun that this cold, gray day has been missing. We say hello, and he begins to hoist the boards onto his shoulders. I don’t know how he can lift all that weight. I show him into my house and take him into the bedroom, pointing out the wall where I would like my bookshelf to go. It takes him three trips back to the truck to bring all the wood into my room. He takes off his overshirt so that he’s just in a T-shirt.