Silence Is Golden (9 page)

WINTER

CHAPTER TWELVE

Today is Saturday. I spend the morning at Emma’s, and at lunchtime I go to the café, as usual, to buy our sandwiches. Distracted by the thought of meeting up with Aris later, I don’t immediately notice that Dora is at the counter, talking with Benedetto. I can’t believe I’ve made such a foolish mistake, but now that I’m already inside, leaving would be awkward—especially since someone has already recognized me and nodded in greeting. So I walk up to other end of the counter from Dora, who’s here with her ridiculous friend Teresa.

“Yes, it was such a nice trip,” I hear her telling Benedetto. “Merano was really pretty. But it was so cold that I couldn’t wait to get home.”

“And it’s so far away,” Teresa interjects. “We didn’t get home until nine o’clock.”

That explains why she wasn’t in the carpenter’s shop yesterday as usual, and that also explains why Aris wanted to take me home at eight. He didn’t want me to run into Dora. Or was it that he didn’t want Dora to know that I’d been there? But that wouldn’t make sense, since I’m going over there today and I’ll keep going until he’s finished the desk. He must not want us to run into each other, but I’m guessing it’s to protect me, not to hide me from her. I wait for the two women to walk away before giving Benedetto my order. Fortunately, the café is so crowded that Dora doesn’t see me.

While we’re eating lunch, Emma asks me about my plans for the weekend. I tell her the truth. I’ve given up on lying to her and instead simply omit things when she asks me questions I can’t fully answer.

“I’m going to see Aris at the carpenter’s shop. He’s making me a desk, and he lets me watch him while he works.”

She raises her eyebrows, mildly dismayed, but doesn’t comment at first. I’m quiet, pretending that I didn’t just reveal something massive.

“Be careful with Dora,” she finally says. “It’s not just the teenagers like Giorgia. I don’t think she can stand anyone being around Aris.”

“His mother is very . . . protective,” I comment, although I should have said spiteful.

“She’s stifling,” Emma replies. “And she’s not
really
his mother,” she adds, pausing. She continues, as if she’s finally decided to tell me everything. “She was his father’s wife. Aris was sixteen when Tommaso died. The poor boy was overcome with grief. Dora, who had just lost her husband, began to act like she was really his mother. He was pretty much cornered. He practically has no family. His grandparents are dead, he has no brothers or sisters, and his real mother abandoned him on his father’s doorstep when he was a baby. Tommaso hadn’t even known he had a child.”

“Who was she?”

“A foreign girl. French. She and Tommaso had a fling while he was on vacation in a small town in Provence. A little over a year later, she showed up at Tommaso’s house with Aris, disappearing soon after.”

“So Tommaso raised Aris all by himself?”

“Pretty much. He married Dora when Aris was thirteen.”

“A lot of things make sense now,” I say.

Emma stops pouring coffee and looks at me.

“Like what, may I ask?”

“Well, about Aris, I mean.”

“Lucky you then. We’ve never really understood him around here. If you had known his father, you’d realize how different father and son were. I’ve never seen someone as reticent as Aris. Sometimes you don’t even notice he’s there.”

I know that there’s a complex person hiding behind his silence. I spend every waking moment hoping to see him, when I walk through the village, when I go into a shop, into the bookstore, into the café. And when we’re together, I feel an electric current running through my whole body, as if he were the cause.

“However, at the risk of repeating myself,” adds Emma, “you’d better be careful.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you, Dora doesn’t want to see anyone other than herself with Aris. I think she’d do just about anything to prevent another woman from getting her hands on him. Besides, you’re not exactly popular around here,” she concludes, eyeing me.

I give her my most innocent look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply. “We’re just friends. If that. I simply like the things he makes, and I like to watch him work. That’s it.”

I’m even learning to lie.

She returns to her sandwich.

“Anyway,” she says shortly, “how are things with Helga?” Her attempt to change the subject is glaringly obvious.

“The usual,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Well, I have to go now. See you on Monday.”

Emma gives me a curt nod in response. When it comes down to it, everyone in this town is exactly the same: a few words spoken through a mountain of deafening silence. Even if what Emma has said is something I’d rather not hear.

When I arrive at Aris’s, I’m practically trembling. What if Dora’s there? Well, whatever, I was invited, and I know that he’d never let her kick me out. So I take a deep breath and push open the door. Aris is sitting at the drawing board, but he gets up when he sees me.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say with a smile, although I’m gripped with anxiety.

“You’re pale.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

He presses his lips together, communicating that he knows that’s not true, but that he won’t force me to talk about it if I don’t want to. He goes over to the table he was working at yesterday, placing my chair a little closer to him. I sit, feeling very tired, and he raises his eyebrows, as if asking my permission to begin. I nod. To anyone else, the fact that we don’t speak would probably seem a little crazy.

Aris gets to work, and I forget about everything that isn’t him. He occasionally glances at me as his hands move over the wood, and his lips curl into a smile. He drinks from the water bottle again and then hands it to me. I don’t even know what time it is. I’m so content that I would stay here until tomorrow if I could. Aris finishes the last leg of the desk.

“Okay. We can start on the drawers now.”

The silence is interrupted by the tinkling of the shop door opening, and Dora enters. I remain motionless, virtually paralyzed by nerves. She sees me, opens her mouth to speak, then realizes Aris is watching, and closes it.

“I’ll make the dumplings for you,” she says, ignoring me.

He simply nods without replying or smiling, though she looks like she’s expecting a response. If he barely talks to me, I bet he never speaks to her. Who knows what kind of relationship they have, considering she’s not really his mother. She looks at him as if she wants to devour him, or lock him away and keep him to herself forever. I’ve never seen possessive lust on a mother’s face before. How does he stand it?

“It’ll be ready at seven. Don’t be late,” she adds.

This time he doesn’t even nod. He goes back to work, as if Dora weren’t here. Taking advantage of the fact that Aris’s back is now to her, she glares at me with a look that could kill. Finally, she leaves. I shudder, wincing, and immediately Aris’s eyes are on me.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“A little,” I answer.

It’s not like I can tell him the truth. It’s not his fault that his stepmother is like that. He certainly takes the brunt of her personality, I’m sure. He motions for me to wait and then disappears into the back room. A moment later I feel something warm wrap around my shoulders. It’s a wool jacket.

I thank him with smiling eyes. He smiles back and returns to his work. This must be a jacket that he wears often, because it smells like him. Though I’ve never been close enough to him to really tell, I know that’s what this is: a mixture of wood, rain-soaked earth, and maybe a trace of vanilla. I’ve unknowingly closed my eyes to picture those objects in my mind as I breathe in their scents, and when I open my eyes, Aris’s grinning face is a mere inch from mine.

“Were you asleep?”

I laugh nervously to mask my embarrassment.

“No, not at all . . . I was just resting my eyes.” And they’ll need their rest if he doesn’t stop staring at me with his deep-blue eyes. He smiles at me again and goes back to work, while I return to my favorite activity: watching him. He has a way of moving his hands around the wood, feeling how to shape it. His touch is gentle as he brushes away the sawdust. I can’t help but think about his hands touching me that way, and I hasten to move a short distance away. There’s not a lot of light since his hanging pendant lamp is focused on the countertop, but I bet there’s just enough to be able to see that my cheeks are on fire. We silently stay there together for at least another hour. It’s six thirty when Aris finally speaks.

“How about going out for a while? There’s a lot of sawdust here now. We’ll let it settle.”

I nod. Is there anything he could ask of me that I wouldn’t do? I realize that while his sentences are getting longer, mine are getting shorter, if not disappearing altogether in favor of nods and facial expressions. It’s like I feel the need to balance our dialogue.

Before leaving, I start to take off his jacket, but Aris motions for me to keep it on. He’s wearing his plaid shirt over his white T-shirt, and that’s it.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask as soon as we’re outside.

He shrugs, shaking his head. We walk side by side through the darkening village streets, and I feel cold even with Aris’s jacket on. The shops are all closed, but Benedetto’s café is open. Aris looks at me, asking with his eyes if I want to go in, and I nod. Inside, the heat is wonderful. I take off his jacket and drape it over my arm. Benedetto spots us from his place behind the counter.

“Well, I’ll be!” He laughs with his usual frankness. “Emilia the foreigner and Aris the silent one. Welcome, guys. What can I get you?”

“A beer,” I say, infected by his cheerfulness.

“For you too, Aris?” Benedetto asks.

He nods.

“You know, Emilia,” says Benedetto, setting our beers in front of us, “I’ve known this guy since he was this tall,” he says, gesturing to his knee, “and I’ve never heard more than ten words in a row from him.”

Aris smiles from behind his beer.

“But,” Benedetto adds, “other people can ramble on endlessly . . . I think you’re right to weigh your words, Aris. Once you’ve said them, you can’t take them back, and they can do serious damage. He doesn’t say much,” he comments to me while looking at Aris, “but when he does say something, it’s because he really means it.”

I smile, totally won over by Benedetto’s speech, by Aris’s gaze, by the heat of the café, and by the beer.

“I don’t mind that he doesn’t talk much,” I say. “Actions speak louder than words, right?”

“Well said!” Benedetto thunders. He’s far more ebullient than when I usually see him during the day. Perhaps it’s not just the customers who drink the beer.

“I’ll leave you in peace,” he concludes. “I’ve talked too much for Aris’s liking.”

All three of us, even Aris, laugh at his joke.

We drink our beers in silence, although it would be difficult to hear each other over the hubbub from the other customers. In time, I realize that more and more heads seem to be turning toward us. I finally get so uncomfortable that I finish my beer in one last gulp and glance at Aris, silently asking him if we can leave. Proving that I’m right to believe we don’t need words to communicate, he too downs the rest of his beer in one gulp and stands up. He nods at Benedetto, who grins back, and we leave. It’s even darker and colder outside, but I don’t care. I’m simply happy to be alone with Aris once more. I’d like to take his hand, but I don’t. Instead, I leave my hand dangling next to his, and occasionally our hands bump together. That’s perfect too.

“I’d better get home. I’m pretty tired,” I say once we’re in front of his shop.

“I’ll go with you. Would you rather walk or take the truck?”

“I’d rather walk, but that would make you late. It’s already seven,” I reply, realizing only too late that I should shut up. Aris’s lips press together, and his jaw stiffens.

“I have no plans tonight,” he says, his tone more serious than I’ve ever heard, “and I’m not hungry.”

“Okay then. I accept your offer. Thanks,” I say quickly.

We head toward the woods, but this time, our silence is different. It’s full of tension. I hate it, and I have to break it.

“You’re not going to go back and keep working on the desk, right?” I ask.

“Of course not. It can only grow while you’re watching,” he responds, smiling. Finally, I feel the tension melt away. I’m so delighted I want to scream. But instead, I’m quiet, and I continue to walk beside him with a grin that just won’t fade.

When we reach my house, I open the door, but this time I don’t invite him inside. I realize this is the right way to do things, and that’s fine.

“Thanks again. I had fun.”

“Me too,” he says, instead of simply smiling as he usually does. “So I’ll see you tomorrow? At ten?”

“Sure, ten’s fine,” I answer.

“Good night.”

“Night.”

I watch him disappear into the darkness. For a moment, the light from the streetlamp is reflected off his hair.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It’s a little before ten on Sunday morning, and I’m standing in front of the carpenter’s shop. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. The lights in the shop are off. I don’t have the courage to try the door, so I stay outside, hopping in place to keep warm. Aris said to meet him at ten, so I’m sure he’ll show up. I just hope I don’t freeze in the meantime. I turn to face the alley, and there he is, walking toward me, holding a thermos and a bag.

“I hope you haven’t eaten breakfast yet.” He smiles, and the only thing I can do is gaze at him in reply. How do I tell him that ever since I first met him, I’m almost never hungry? I smile, and his face instantly lights up. I hope he thinks it’s because he brought me breakfast.

We enter the shop, and Aris places his loot on the drawing board. There are already two cups, two plates, two spoons, a sugar bowl, a jug of milk, and napkins waiting. He fetches another chair from the back room. We sit at the table, and he pours tea. He puts sugar into one of the cups, milk in both, and then stirs them. Finally, he sets a cup in front of me. How could I possibly have thought that he had forgotten how I take my tea? He jumps up and disappears into the back room, returning with jam and honey. He pulls two croissants out of the bag, stuffing one with jam and spreading a veil of honey on the other, then passes me the one with jam. I can only stare, entranced, as he bites into his croissant. He raises his eyebrows, inviting me to eat. I bite into my croissant and sigh happily. We haven’t said a word to each other since we came in the shop, but we’ve communicated perfectly all the same.

My desk is still here, just as we left it the night before. As promised, Aris hasn’t touched it since then. Two of the drawers are ready, and he begins sanding wood to make the third. He works at his usual pace, slowly but without stopping, running his fingers over the newly fashioned wood, blowing away sawdust. I’m mesmerized by his hands, and my gaze flickers between them and his eyes. I realize I don’t know what his Sunday routine is. He must not go to church, but does he eat with Dora? Does he eat at all? He’s said he eats very little, and it must be true, judging by his thin frame. Personally, I don’t think I’ll be hungry today, although skipping meals makes me irritable. Well, I’ll have to take things as they come, despite all my questions.

The third drawer is ready within the hour. Aris invites me with his eyes to lean in closer so I can see it better. It’s perfect. I go to slide a finger along its contours, but Aris stops me with his hand.

“I haven’t polished it yet. You might get hurt,” he says.

He can speak when it’s really necessary. His voice is not as weak as it was when I heard it the first time. Perhaps he just needs some practice, although I no longer crave words from him like I did before. I sit back down, and he begins to shape the top of the desk. I can still feel his brief touch on my hand. I watch him work, and time slips away from me again. When Aris stops, I realize that my body has gone numb from being in the same position for too long. I get up and take a few cautious steps.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer sincerely.

He laughs. He doesn’t question my strange answer or ask for an explanation. Instead, he hands me my coat, and while I slip it on, he puts on his shirt. Once outside, we head straight for Benedetto’s, as if by tacit agreement. When we get there, we realize that Benedetto isn’t in. A waitress recognizes us and nods. Aris shows me the day’s menu, written in chalk on a slate. I choose my usual prosciutto and cucumber sandwich, and he orders the same. There aren’t many other customers. It must be too early for lunch, or maybe it’s too late; I have no concept of time today. While we’re eating, two people enter the café. I recognize Dora’s friend Teresa with a bored-looking man with a large nose and a flushed face who must be her husband. She openly stares at us, then nudges her husband. He gawps at Aris, amazed, and gives me a look that I prefer not to interpret. They reach the counter and keep staring. Aris eventually turns and stares Teresa right in the eye, and she lowers her gaze. I feel oddly proud of him, as if we were in the Middle Ages and he’s defended my virtue. I stand up, almost nauseated by the sandwich I usually happily devour. I grab my coat, and Aris is immediately at my side. We leave together.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s not your fault. I’m used to those kinds of looks. I’m basically foreign to these people.”

“Last time I checked, Abruzzo was part of Italy,” he says.

“It is?” I reply, pretending to be surprised.

We both burst out laughing, and we keep laughing as we walk toward the carpenter’s shop. For the rest of the afternoon, nothing happens to disturb our little bubble of contentment. There is only silence, except for the sound of Aris’s tools, and the dialogue of the looks that we share.

Occasionally I get up and walk around the workbench to better see what’s happening and to stretch my legs. Aris stops working so that he doesn’t accidentally hurt me with his tools. I carefully examine the drawers, all waiting to be attached to the rest of the desk. Aris has filed them down so that I can now touch them. I run a finger along their rounded, funny shapes that make me smile. He stands behind me, and reaches out as if to touch my hand, but his fingers instead rest against the wood. I catch my breath in surprise. His hand is uniquely delicate, as suits him. His skin is a little rough, but his fingers are long and slender, with knuckles that highlight his thinness. His touch is so light that I hardly notice when he starts to caress my hand. He slowly runs his fingertips back and forth on my skin, as if to test its grain. I keep my hand completely still, as if it doesn’t belong to me. The tips of his fingers pass over the back of my hand, then over my fingers, one by one, and then over the back of my hand again in an almost rhythmic movement, just as I’ve watched him gauge the smoothness of wood. He doesn’t look at me, but instead only watches his hand caressing mine. His blond hair falls in front of his eyes so that I can only see his lips, slightly parted. The silence around us is full and absolute. Neither of us says a word. He strokes my hand, and I stare at his lips. We could stay like this forever, or at least I know I could. His touch is velvety and ever so slight, but my skin acutely feels his every move. I am briefly struck with the urge to brush his hair out of his eyes, but I let go of that feeling. I’m scared of ending this. I fear that he’ll stop if I move away.

The shop door opens with a clang. His hand flies from me, and I already miss his gentle caress. I head back to my chair.

“Aris, are you still here? Dinner’s on the table!”

I hate her high, shrill voice. It fills my ears, attacks my lungs, and slams into my heart. I hate her voice, her awful gaze, and her body invading my space.

I hate her.

Aris doesn’t respond. In fact, he seems to be flaunting his indifference to her. I hope she’ll leave again, but she seems rooted to the spot. I look at Aris, and he returns my gaze. I read an apology in his eyes. I understand that we’ve had our day together and that it’s now time for me to go. Dora looks only at him, pretending not to see me, but I’m not afraid of her anymore. I grab my coat and head toward the door. I’m curious whether she’ll move out of my way or whether she’ll keep pretending that she doesn’t see me.

“Oh, you’re here too,” she’s forced to say, shifting aside. I slip by her without looking at her and without answering her. “You’re always here,” she continues. “Don’t you have a home?” I remain silent and leave the shop. Her words are lost in the evening wind. It begins to drizzle as I slowly make my way home. I occasionally turn around, foolishly hoping that Aris has followed me, but I know that he hasn’t. Maybe these two days together proved too much for him. I press my lips together to keep from crying. His caresses are like his words—laden with meaning and carefully chosen. I trust him. I think.

Today is a brighter day. The sun has driven away all the clouds, though it’s even colder than yesterday. I carefully check my front door, hoping that maybe Aris has left me another note asking me to join him tonight. But I don’t see anything, and the serenity that I woke up with disappears, giving way to despair. I don’t want to go to the bookstore. I’d much prefer to take the path to the river and reminisce about the past two days I’ve spent with Aris. But I’m late, so I pick up my pace. I can’t afford to miss work.

“Emilia! You’re finally here.”

“I’m not late,” I say, taking off my coat.

“Really? I think you are.”

“Your grandmother’s clock is a little fast, isn’t it?”

Helga purses her lips, not wanting to admit that she’s wrong. After working here for several months now, I’ve got her act down pat. I don’t say anything more and go to my desk. I’m waiting for an email from a book distributor, so I turn on the computer. After waiting for the ancient operating system to start up, I connect to the Internet. Or at least I try.

“Is the Internet not working today?” I ask Helga without taking my eyes off the screen. She doesn’t answer, so I’m forced to look at her. She returns my gaze with a helpless, indifferent shrug. It seems that her initial enthusiasm for learning how to use the computer has waned. Now she delegates anything having to do with “that absurd machine” to me.

I haven’t seen Mr. Moser in the store since that memorable afternoon, and Helga has since become more serious and melancholy than ever. I watch her pulling books out of a box with disgust. I find it baffling as to why she’d open a bookstore. Indeed, I discovered that Helga doesn’t actually read much at all. I first figured this out one day when I saw her unpacking a new box of books, gingerly holding them with only her fingertips as she shelved them. By glancing at her face, I realized that rather than treating them this way out of respect, she was filled with utter disgust toward the books, as if she were childless yet being forced to handle dirty diapers. Then I dug a little deeper. If I asked what she’d thought about a recent novel, she’d invariably reply, “It wasn’t bad.” If I probed further, asking more questions, she would invent some excuse to leave the room. I’d often ask her to hand me books when I was up on the ladder, watching as she touched them with that same look of disgust. The relief on her face was evident when there were no more books to pass me and she could run away to do the one task she loves: checking the delivery record.

Helga adores it when one of the distributors is late with a delivery. She’ll call them and gleefully reproach them in a self-important voice, as if she is personally offended by their behavior. Her look of satisfaction tells me that the distributor has apologized. One time, however, I was surprised to see a shocked expression appear on her face in response to her usual phrase: “You realize this is bad for business, don’t you?” The person on the other end of the line must have insulted her in response, since she immediately turned beet red and went on the offensive. When I’d asked her what they said, she tightened her lips and gulped, then jumped up and ran to the bathroom. Poor Helga.

I head to Emma’s at lunchtime, although today marks the first time I don’t want to see her. I’m afraid she’ll ask me questions about my weekend, and concealing my emotions is beginning to feel like a Herculean effort. Just for a moment, I think about confiding in her, sharing my feelings for Aris, but I immediately cast that idea aside. She’s already made her thoughts clear on that front, and then there’s Giorgia’s infatuation to consider.

I’m used to keeping my worries and my joys to myself, even though it would be nice to have a friend. Someone who I know will always listen, who won’t judge me, and who will always give good advice. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance to make this kind of friend, if I can ever really let myself be honest with someone. Certainly, coming to live here wasn’t the best way to find a friend like this. I may as well have stayed in my hometown; while I didn’t have any friends there either, at least they didn’t eye me with suspicion. But no, I realize coming here was the right choice. It was fate.

After all, I found Aris here.

Emma, who always surprises me, greets me with a big smile and doesn’t even ask about my weekend. Instead, she tells me all about her weekend. She and Giorgia went to visit a new florist’s shop near Bren on a clandestine fact-finding mission. They had a lot of fun and left their competitor’s shop feeling satisfied that Emma’s shop has a better and more beautiful variety of offerings.

“I ended up buying a hibiscus,” she says, laughing. “I couldn’t leave empty-handed.”

I listen, I smile, I laugh at her jokes, but my mind is elsewhere.

At lunchtime, I buy sandwiches at Benedetto’s, hoping beyond hope to find Aris there. At least Dora isn’t there either. After last night’s scene, I’m afraid the sight of her would make me lose whatever appetite I have left. I wonder if Aris continued to work on my desk after I went home, but I’m sure he didn’t.

As I pay for the sandwiches, Benedetto says softly to me, “You and the silent guy are a joy to behold together.”

This moves me so much that I have to swallow so as not to start crying, but I know he’s seen my reaction. He puts his hand on mine, which is suspended in midair with surprise.