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“One problem at a time, Gabi,” I say aloud in an attempt to organize myself. “The stain, then.”
Exhausted, alert and with my nerves on edge, I turn on the tap again and run the bar of soap over the stain. After almost fifteen minutes of endless scrubbing, I give up, soap isn't going to solve my problem. Whatever this stain is from, I need something more potent than the flower-scented bar I have here. And in the laundry room, I could use the dryer.
I look at the soaked jumpsuit, then at myself and, finally, at the mirror, the sweat already dry on my body is more than enough answer to the question I didn't ask. There is no way Ican wear wet clothes to go from here to the laundry, I'm going to get sick, and I can't afford that luxury. Not with Raquel about to return home after almost a month in the hospital. I lower my head, thinking about how scared my little sister must have been spending all those nights alone in the hospital. I should have been there; I wish I had been there.
God knows how I spent every hour I could trying to earn enough money to buy her medication when she finally came home. If Fernanda collaborated... If she cared about something other than her own navel... If our father tried, if he, at least, tried... I exhale forcefully, suddenly, feeling my mind as exhausted as my body. I close my eyes, interrupting the path my thoughts were starting to go down on and forcing myself to focus on the here and now. It's just after four-thirty in the morning.
The owner of the apartment has been sleeping since I arrived yesterday, early in the evening, to start cleaning. And even though he gave me until five to finish cleaning, I highly doubt he'll wake up to check. If the level of filth the house was in is directly proportional to the quality of the party he threw, I can understand why the handsome one is so tired.
And besides, the laundry room is right there. As unlucky as I am, there's no way a three-meter walk, inside a huge apartment, could go wrong. I decide. I twist my overalls a few times so that they don't drip all the way down, then I roll them up into a ball of fabric and quickly walk out of the maid's quarters. The air conditioning becomes even stronger, and a shiver runs through my entire body. I pass through the gourmet area, then through the kitchen and, finally, I arrive at the laundry room. Wavering in my own certainty, I breathe a sigh of relief, but I don't give myself much time for it. I look for the stain remover in the cleaning supplies pantry and, when I find it, I take it to the tank.
With the right product, the stain comes out easily. I rinse the uniform and torso as best I can before putting it in the dryer. The clock hanging on the wall tells me that it is already five past five in the morning. Well, technically, the landlord told me to finish cleaning by five, he didn't tell me to get out of here by five. I shrug after programming the dryer. Another fifteen minutes and I'm out of here.
I lean on the counter and cross my arms, waiting. My foot starts tapping impatiently on the floor and my dry throat hurts as I struggle to swallow. I look at the open laundry room door and stare at the huge refrigerator in front of me. I take a few steps towards the exit and peek through the doorway, first one side of the corridor, then the other, everything empty.
It's just a glass of water.
I leave the laundry room and, moving as quickly as I can, I pour myself a glass of water and am already washing to put it back in its place when I am surprised by a woman's voice.
“I don’t believe this!”
The glass slips from my hand and falls into the sink, but I don't know if it breaks, because I turn around with wide eyes and find a blonde woman shooting daggers at me.
“I-I...” I start, but I stutter and don't have the chance to complete my thoughts, because she interrupts me.
“You're going to get out of here now!” she hisses. “I’ve already told Guilherme that I don't want his sluts in my house!” I blink, stunned, as I realize what she thinks is happening here and I open my mouth to explain, but no sound comes out. This woman is crazy! Does she really think I'm sleeping with the owner of this apartment? “Are you deaf, girl? Out now!” she demands and, when I don't move or defend, she starts walking towards me, waking me up.
“That's not what you're thinking at all!” That makes the woman laugh.
“You don't even have the decency to be creative with your excuses.” She mocks as she closes her fingers tightly around my arm. The woman practically drags me towards the door, refusing to listen to my attempts at explanations, and the next thing I know, I'm in the hallway of the building, half naked, without a bag or ID.
I was ridiculously wrong. A less than three-meter-walk inside an apartment can definitely go very wrong.
CHAPTER 3
________
Vittorio Cataneo
Buckets, extinguishers and hoses wielded by men coming from different directions try, at all costs, to put out the fire, while women run, fleeing the flames, pushing children and animals away and trying to preserve everything they can from the flames eager to devour the hundreds of rows of flower plantations up to the main house of the Castellani farm.
From a distance, the heat of the fire is no match for the high Sicilian sun that makes me sweat under my well-tailored suit. With one hand stuck in my pants pocket and the other twirling a white carnation between my fingers, I observe the chaos that has ensued: tears, screams, walls, and roofs collapsing.Il dio della Sicilia[5], they say. Pluto[6] was also a god, after all.
I look at the flower in my hands, a souvenir that I asked my men to bring me before abandoning a lit lighter in the plantation already soaked in gasoline, a job done by a small plane, earlier today.
Most people have affective memories evoked by the smells of kitchens, the feeling of wind on their face or dew on their skin. I, however, find myself unable to hold back one of mine as I look at the same flower that was once given to me as a promise of death.
(...)
“Mio marito![7]” Nonna[8]cries loudly, and I look at her immediately, as soon as I walk through the door of her house. I like coming here, but I don't like it when others come too.
I tilt my head, frowning at my nonna's red face and the tears she keeps shedding.
She didn't even look at me, and she always kisses my face, then Tizziano, and now, my mamma[9]'s belly, but today she does nothing but hide her face in her hands and continue to cry. She's not the only one.
My aunts are crying too. The capos' wives are crying. There are many women crying and men are here too. My mamma hands over my brother, who is sleeping, because he is a baby, and sleeping is all babies know how to do, to Francesca, my nonna's cook.
Afterwards, she hugs my papà[10]'s mamma and that only seems to make my nonna cry more. The house is the way I don't like it, full of others like on many Sundays after mass, but it's not Sunday and we didn't go to mass, except the priest is here too. Why is the priest here?
