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“Can I ask for something, then?”
“A fourth thing, you mean.” My nostrils flare as all the air that was in my lungs is expelled through them.
“Can I continue working on housekeeping?”
“No.” I open my mouth to protest, his look, however, is as definitive as the only word that left his lips.
“What about my Italian classes? May I continue?”
“What will you give me in return?”
“What?”
“You're making a request of me, and I thought we'd already established that I'm not a generous man, Gabriella. If you want my permission to continue your Italian lessons, you need to give me something in return.”
“But I don't have anything that might interest you.”
“Then I suggest you find something, and I suggest you do it quickly, or my willingness to bargain may be lost” he declares simply, and I stare at the door from where he leaves without saying goodbye.
What could I give to a man like him?
***
The house is full.
I feel like I'm on a closed-in reality TV show while a much worse version of what happened in the hotel room unfolds around me and I can do nothing but remain still, like a doll.
Fabrics are placed on my skin, something about defining a color palette. What should this mean? Someone is lifting the ends of my hair and saying, horrified, that they have never seen anything in such a deplorable state. It's like the kitchen chaos multiplied a thousandfold, and I'm right in the middle of it.
Shortly after lunch, Luigia appeared here, followed by a crowd of professionals who brought with them endless racks of clothes, boxes, and suitcases. Since then, there has been a person taking care of every need I didn't know I had.
For some reason, Vittorio has decided to give me a makeover, just like he would an old house, and all I can do is watch, because even understanding everything that is being said is an impossible task. They all speak together and loudly. I'll probably end the day with a headache.
When the hairdresser holds up a box of blonde dye, I practically scream “no” in Italian, joining my voice to the cacophony of sounds exploding around me. I want Rafaella to be here so bad. One desire awakens another. The black box, in its traditional dance of opportunities, vibrates.
Raquel would hate it here. She would complain about everything, ask why she would go through all that just to have someone tell her she looked beautiful. Too late, I realize I opened a small crack to peer inside the box. The feelings trapped inside rebel, ricocheting in my chest, demanding as much freedom as the hypothetical situation in my head received.
I close my eyes and grind my teeth, take a deep breath, and clear my mind until there is no room in it for any thoughts. Not from the present, not from the past, not from a future that will never exist. The box is closed now.
I open my eyes and this time I look in the mirror, I watch my measurements being taken, my colors being chosen, and everything else that is involved in a person's makeover being done to my body. It doesn't seem as scary as I thought it would be.
As the hours pass and the changes are welcomed by my reflection, I don't know who the person staring back at me in the mirror is, but I was also anxious to no longer recognize the pitiful-looking girl who looked at me before, so there you have it. All good.
***
It's a stupid idea, I know it is, but I couldn't stop myself in time to avoid embarrassing myself. I look at the plate on the table, staring at the dark brown balls wrapped in chocolate sprinkles. The sweet smell is all over the house.
After two whole days racking my brains not knowing what I could give Vittorio in exchange for his permission to take my classes, I had the not-so-brilliant idea of giving him something that I don't think he has easy access to: ‘brigadeiro[73]’.
Vittorio's ward is completely empty of employees. Apart from the maids who come during the day, there are no cooks or housekeepers here, although the pantry is full. And after weeks in the kitchens, I know thatbrigadeirois not a common sweet onSignoraAnna's table. Since I arrived, at least, I've never seen it.
Now, as I anxiously wait for him to arrive from the traditional Cataneo family dinner, I stamp my feet incessantly against the floor, because I haven't seen Vittorio in the last two nights, so there's a strong possibility that my ridiculous attempt can't even be put into practice.
Time drags until he appears at the top of the stairs on the open floor plan. The change in his expression is just a narrowing of his eyes when he smells the aroma taking over every room in his house.
“Good evening,” I greet and Vittorio approaches, still suspicious, the kitchen with white cabinets and a glass ceiling.
“What is that?” He skips the polite greeting.
