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“E grazie anche a te, Luigia[56],” I thank the housekeeper too. Her gaze meets mine, surprised.“Grazie mille.”[57]I emphasize slowly after taking a look at the notes on forms of gratitude.
She doesn't respond to me with anything other than a disinterested look, and it may be that my interpretation is affected by my mood, but I'm almost certain to see her eyes light up with satisfaction.
CHAPTER 20
________
Gabriella Matos
The sky is a riot of orange and pink as the sun is setting, hiding in plain sight on the other side of the world on the horizon. From my bedroom window I admire the kilometers of vineyards full of grapes almost ready to be harvested.
At some point in the last three weeks, doing this became a habit. After I'm left alone in my room at the end of the day, I sit here until the sky is dark, which is when I get into the bathtub and stay there, watching the saint in the window long enough for my eyes to get heavy and I can get out of the shower, put on some clothes and, soon after, lie down on the floor covered with sheets and sleep.
From inside my room, I can't hear the soft sound of leaves rustling in the wind, nor smell the aroma of wine spreading through the air, but I imagine them. Just as I also imagine the feeling of peace and tranquility that would invade me when I felt them if I were just one of the many workers who are arriving in the last few days for the grape harvest that will begin in a few weeks.
I also imagine the feeling of gratitude that would be in my chest for being here, in this beautiful place, far from my problems and painful memories. I imagine the feeling of renewal, like I'm starting a new life, and I imagine the feeling ofhope growing inside me, because I know that the feelings in my chest can't be real, they have to be imaginary.
I started a new game with myself. I sit here and ask myself, day after day, the same questions. I replay, over and over again, the last moments I lived in Brazil. In them, there is no one but Vittorio, his words and me in the shack I used to call home.
He said that my life was worthless to him and that I would only stay alive because I hadn't earned the right to die. The fact that he simply left me here, without expecting anything from me other than that I keep breathing, exemplifies this more than any action he could have taken against my life.
I expected a cell and mistreatment, however, he would need to care to give me that, I realized. He didn't need to give me anything other than the sentence to stay alive to make me suffer. But I wonder if he knows how disloyal I am. If he has any idea that it only took a few weeks of punishment for my skin to gain color, for my body to gain weight and for my soul to vibrate, saying that my spirit was not broken as I had believed for years, that it was. It was just exhausted and in need of an outlet.
When night comes and there is no color but deep blue to see in the sky, I get up from the cushion under the window and walk to the bathroom for another step in what has become my ritual. I turn on the lights and approach the saint, my hands splayed out millimeters away from hers, and it's almost as if she's asking me to give her all the pain and violence that exists in me.
I stand still, moving just enough to breathe, for minutes at a time. I look up at her face, the welcoming look is the same as every day since the first, almost as if she had been waiting for me all this time, as if she was still waiting for me. I let out a long sigh before taking two steps back, walking away without touching her hands.
***
“Luigia,mia cara![58]”I immediately stiffen when I hear the male voice, and Rafaella, next to me, doesn't react much better.
Sitting in what has become our marked place in recent weeks, we observe the unusual scene: a man entering the kitchen. It's not that I've never seen this happen before, I have. There are suppliers who, from time to time, come in to drop off supplies, there are some workers who visit their families and even some of Vittorio's men, who I learned from Rafa are called soldiers, who have already entered the kitchen, but their visits are isolated occurrences.
The man stops shortly after passing through the access corridor, looking for Luigia with his eyes and, if the grandeur in his voice put my senses on alert, his image immediately makes me catch my breath. He's one of Vittorio's brothers, I'm sure.
But while the image of my captor is lethal seriousness, this man, with his arms and hands covered in tattoos that escape from the collar of his shirt to his neck, is frightening in every inch, not just in his posture and in the gaze that meets my friend and I with interest before narrowing. This can only be Tizziano Cataneo.
His lips curve into an awkward smile and he walks towards us. Rafaella scratches her throat, but I don't dare turn my face to ask her what that reaction should mean.
Not when, seconds later, one ofSignoraAnna's sons is standing right in front of me. He shamelessly analyzes me for long seconds during which I feel extremely uncomfortable. My cheeks heat up, and I lower my eyes.
“Devi essere il nuovo animale domestico[59],” he says, and I don't understand all his words.
However, after two weeks of daily Italian lessons and more than a month of hearing no other language than that, I can understand the general concept of it. He thinks I'm the new pet. It doesn’t require a genius to understand whose.
The comment makes me feel even more embarrassed, and I shrink back against my chair. I don't answer, I have no intention of doing so, but Rafaella thinks differently.
“Lei non è l’animale domestico di nessuno[60]” My friend defends me, saying that I'm not a pet just to be scolded by her mother.
“Rafaella!” The cook's voice sounds loud, coming from the other side of the kitchen, while her eyes stare at her daughter, even from a distance.
SignoraSofia never mistreated me or tried to keep Rafaella away from me, but, after the last minute, I have my doubts whether things will continue like this. After all, her daughter just defied her boss because of me. Tizziano, however, seems to be having fun with it.
“And you? Who are you?” he asks Rafa in Italian, and I can understand every word.
Before the blonde gives the bold answer that I'm sure was on the tip of her tongue, Sofia has already crossed the kitchen and is facing the table where her daughter and I are sitting, standing next to Tizziano and answering herself the question addressed to her daughter.
“Questa è mia figlia Rafaella, signor Tizziano[61].” Sofia says, and the boss's eyebrows rise in surprise.
