The Purple Room Read online

  I don’t dare say anything else. I pay and we leave, loaded down like mules.

  Michela sucks up her milkshake with a straw and flicks through the Paris guidebook. She’s totally absorbed in it, marking things that interest her with a felt tip pen. Every so often, she says, “Wow!” but never tells me why.

  “How did it go this morning?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “The checkup.”

  “Oh, yeah… Everything’s fine.”

  “Just a routine check, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you have lunch with your mom and Ugo afterward?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where’d they take you?”

  She shrugs.

  “You don’t know the name of the restaurant?”

  “No… I mean, we ate at home.”

  Bullshit. What a load of bullshit. And how easily it comes to her.

  “Did they leave to make their usual round of antique shops?”

  “Yep.”

  “When did they go?”

  “Around two thirty.”

  “That’s odd,” I say. “They were already in San Gimignano a little while ago.”

  Michela’s head snaps up.

  “You talked to Mom?”

  “I called her, yeah. I had to ask her something. They were on one of those long road trips that Ugo likes. You know, the ones that start early, like around the time you woke me up this morning.”

  Michela goes back to sucking up her milkshake like nothing’s the matter.

  “What’s his name?” I ask.

  “Whose?”

  “The guy who dropped you off. I saw you before, in his car.”

  Michela narrows her eyes at me. She looks exactly like her mother, ready to defend herself tooth and nail.

  “You spied on me?”

  “I happened to be there,” I say. “Why did you lie to me? If you had something better to do this morning, you could have just told me.”

  Silence. Michela goes back to flipping though the city guide. She somehow manages to be hostile just by turning pages.

  “Okay. You did something wrong, and you know it. But I get why you would do it. It’s your birthday, and you didn’t want to spend all day shopping with me or driving around with your mom and Ugo looking for banged up end tables, right?”

  No reaction. She’s studying a map of the Paris metro.

  “I only asked his name.”

  Michela completely drains her milkshake, making that slurping noise I must have told her a thousand times not to make when she was a little kid.

  “Daniel,” she says after an endless pause.

  “He’s the one who gave you the necklace?”

  Michela nods and touches the Japanese pendant to make sure it’s still there.

  “Yu. It means ‘peace.’ ”

  “How long have you and Daniel known each other?”

  “Almost a month.”

  “Do you go to school together?”

  “No. He goes to a private school.”

  “Is he into books?”

  “His house is full of them. His mom’s French. She’s a translator.”

  “And I bet Daniel is spending his summer in France.”

  “They have a house in Paris,” Michela admits.

  It all makes sense now.

  “Have you told your mother?”

  “No way. She has no idea Daniel even exists. And she can’t find out.”

  “That doesn’t seem right.”

  “If I tell her, she won’t let me go! You can’t do this to me!”

  Her eyes get huge, damp, bright. For a moment, she’s my little girl again. But just for a moment.

  “Fine. We won’t tell her.”

  “Thanks, Dad!”

  “But on one condition.”

  “I knew there’d be a catch. Out with it.”

  “No more lies.”

  “But Dad, I…”

  “Even if it’s something you’re ashamed of, or that scares you, or that you can’t imagine telling anyone about. I want you to promise to always tell me the truth. And I’ll do the same.”

  Michela considers it. Seriously.

  “It won’t work,” she says finally. “It’s not a realistic deal.”

  “Why?”

  “No one can tell the truth all the time.”

  “Not even the two of us?”

  “Especially not the two of us.”

  “Why not?”

  “We never have.”

  “Well, let’s try now.”

  “It’s too late, Dad. You know that as well as I do.”

  We stare at each other. It’s like we’ve switched places. I’m the naive child, and she’s the adult that knows better than me. Is that how it is? Is she really wiser than me? Michela looks into my eyes. Whatever she sees there, it makes her smile one of her rare smiles.

  “Can you take me home now?”

  A flock of birds has covered the car with black and white shit. It’s so thick that I have to turn on the windshield wipers. The soapy fluid dilutes the crap, and the wipers spread the mixture over the glass like a thick paste.

  “Did you see what someone wrote on the back window, Dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you wipe it off?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I drive her home and park outside the building. Michela looks up. The blinds on the third floor are shut and all the lights are off.

  “Mom’s not home yet.”

  “She left you eggplant parmigiana in the fridge.”

  “I hate eggplant parmigiana.”

  “Want to go out for pizza?”

  Michela shakes her head.

  “I have a million things to do. I’ll just have some milk and cookies.”

  We get out of the car and I hoist the bags of books out of the trunk.

  “I’ll help you carry them upstairs.”

  “I’ve got it, thanks.”

  “Will I see you before you leave for Paris?”

  “I think so.” She gives me a serious look, like an adult, then touches my cheek. “You look good, you know? Sometimes I think about when you were in the hospital, hooked up to those tubes… I was so scared.”

  We hug, tight, for a full minute at least. I would hold on forever, but she pulls away. She picks up her bags and heads toward the door. Then she stops.

  “I can’t resist. I have to know. Who is she? Someone from the office?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look, I can tell. It’s written all over your face. You’re seeing someone. I told you about Daniel. Tell me who she is, and we’ll be even.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “See? I told you it wouldn’t work. The deal about telling the truth, I mean.”

  “Seriously, Michela. I’m not seeing anyone.”

  “Keep your secrets, then. I’ll find out sooner or later.”

  “There’s nothing to find out, I swear.”

  “Fine. I’ll just say this, then. Don’t let her push you around. We women can be mean when we want to be.”

  Michela walks off, swaying on her long legs. I stand there watching her until she disappears into the building.

  6

  My mother is holding the remote control when she opens the door. When I rang the doorbell, she was watching the eight o’clock news.

  “Sergio! Has something happened?”

  “No, I just wanted to ask if I can take Dad’s stationary bike.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” She can’t believe I would want to lug it home to actually use it.

  “I haven’t exercised in two months and I’m starting to gain weight. But it’s fine if you don’t want me to take it.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s yours. Just give me a second to dust it off.”

  It’s hard work fitting the bike into the elevator, not to mention getting it into my car. No way the trunk will close. Luckily, I have a couple o
f ropes I can use to keep it in place while I drive. Mom has come downstairs in her slippers. She wraps her cardigan around herself tightly, smiling contentedly.

  “Now do you see that I was right not to throw it away?” she says as I get into the car. “You never know.”

  Yeah. You just never know.

  When I get home, I set the bike up in a corner of my bunker. I strip down, put on some loud music and start to pedal like crazy. I pedal so fast that my feet slip out of the straps. I tighten them and start again, even faster. I go for a while. By the time I get to 99,999 kilometers, my legs are heavy and my lungs are on fire, but I don’t stop. Five, six, seven, eight, nine hundred meters. The numbers start spinning around, one after another. I’m expecting to see 100,000 appear. But no. The numbers click into place and everything goes back to zero. I’m such an idiot. Only now does it dawn on me that there’s no space on the odometer for another digit.

  I think about my dad. He must have known he could never get to a hundred thousand kilometers. Maybe he didn’t want to erase all the ground he’d covered and he was dragging it out, bit by bit, Sunday after Sunday. Or maybe he wanted to celebrate the event with my mom. A bottle of sparkling wine, and a whoop of, “A hundred thousand! Gigi Monti has made it to a hundred thousand!” shouted to the living room walls. Then the bike would have ended up in the basement, and he would have had to find something else to do on Sundays. He was spared that effort.

  I shower then wrap myself up in a bathrobe and collapse onto the sofa. I’m exhausted. Little by little, my muscles relax. Tonight I’m sure I’ll sleep like a log until morning. As my eyes close and I start to drift off, I find myself thinking about cream. Whipped cream on cakes. I feel like my mouth is full of cream and I have to force it down. Someone’s offering me a slice of cake covered with it. I hate whipped cream. But I take the spoon and eat a huge mouthful. I smile and keep going, eating more, and more, and more, fighting the urge to spit it all out. I eat until I’m nauseated. That’s when I wake up and run to the bathroom. Doubled over, puking into my sink, I think about my cousin Andrea’s wedding. Someone must have offered me some wedding cake and, for some reason, I must have eaten it.

  It’s cool outside. I cross the yard in my slippers and go out through the gate. My car is parked under a streetlight. Nino’s wife Sabrina is taking out the trash. She bursts out laughing when she sees me. I don’t know why. She covers her eyes, embarrassed, and points down. My bathrobe is wide open. I smile at her, tie the sash, and get into the car.

  My pictures are still on the passenger seat. I turn on the light, open the envelope, and pull them out. The first photo is of the bride and groom—I must have taken it for my mom.

  The second one is out of focus. I can barely make out the inside of a restaurant, people sitting around tables, and a waiter’s white jacket as he passes in front of the camera.

  The third is a close-up of one of the tables. In the center of the image, there’s a woman sitting sideways. She turned away right as the shutter closed. All you can see is the nape of her neck and her short, dark hair. She’s wearing a pink dress and black boots.

  In the fourth picture, she’s sitting up straight, elbows on the table, listening to someone sitting across from her, out of the frame.

  The fifth photo catches her throwing her head back and laughing, probably at some joke.

  The sixth one shows her distracted, bored. She looks restless.

  I have no idea who this woman is. But she stirs some kind of emotion in me. These pictures are shaking something loose from memory. I can almost see the seventh photo before I look at it. She’s noticed me. She’s looking straight at the camera, as if to say, “How dare you take pictures of me?” Her expression is severe. It makes me feel uncomfortable. The next photo is totally different. She’s coming toward me, carrying two plates of cake, each covered in whipped cream. It looks like she’s offering one to me. Like she’s saying, “You’ve been bad, but I forgive you. Take this cake, and let’s make up.”

  The last one was taken outside at sunset. There’s some sort of climbing vine in the background. It could be a garden or a patio. The woman is in the foreground, hiding her face behind the palm of her hand. Under her fingers, the corner of her mouth is turned up in an embarrassed smile.

  I look through all the photos again. I get out of the car and hurry back to the house. I pick up the phone and wake my mom up. Right away she thinks something terrible has happened. I explain that I just want my cousin Andrea’s phone number.

  “Why do you need it?”

  “I have to ask him something.”

  “At this hour?”

  “It’s barely after eleven. They won’t be in bed yet.”

  “They’re newlyweds, remember?”

  “So what?”

  “You might disturb them.”

  “Why would I disturb them?”

  My mom lowers her voice.

  “Aunt Caterina told me they’re thinking about having a baby…”

  “Okay, Mom, but my call won’t stop Aunt Carolina from having grandkids, will it?”

  She protests for a while, but eventually gives me Andrea’s number in Cinisello Balsamo. I call him right away. Maybe it’s just my mom putting ideas in my head, but he sounds out of breath when he answers.

  “I don’t know who that is,” he says, after I describe the short-haired woman. “There were more than a hundred and fifty guests, you know.”

  “You’re sure you don’t know?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “It’s fine. Put Claudia on for a minute.”

  “Who?”

  “Your wife.”

  “Her name is Chiara.”

  “Oh. Come on, put her on.”

  “Hang on.”

  His wife is whispering, asking him who it is. I can’t hear Andrea, but I can imagine him mouthing, “My cousin Sergio, the loser.” When Chiara picks up, I start all over again, describing the woman, where she was sitting, who she was seated with. Chiara thinks for a while, then gives me a name.

  “Simonetta. We wrote our theses together.”

  “Could you give me her number?”

  “I should ask her first.”

  “She gave it to me at the wedding, but I lost it.”

  “You just told Andrea you didn’t have her number. I heard you.”

  I’m about to lose my patience. I want to wrap my hands around Chiara’s throat and choke her to death there in Cinisello Balsamo.

  “All right,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll tell you the truth. Ever since I met Simonetta at your reception, I can’t get her out of my head. She’s stuck in my brain and she won’t leave. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s nothing. But I have to talk to her, just once.”

  There’s a pause. I can hear her whispering to her husband. He tells her to hang up. She tells him to wait.

  “You’re getting yourself into trouble, Sergio,” she says.

  “Not talking to your friend is the trouble. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I can hear her fumbling through a drawer. I pray she’s looking for her phone book.

  “Got it. Simonetta Valenti. Do you have a pen?”

  She reads out the number.

  “Thanks,” I say, “You’re a lifesaver.”

  “Good luck.”

  I look at the time. Eleven forty-five. It’s pretty late to call. But waiting until tomorrow is out of the question. I dial Simonetta’s number. It’s a Florence area code. One, two, three, four rings. On the fifth, someone answers.

  “Hello?” says a sleepy voice. It belongs to a man.

  “Hi. Sorry about the time. Could I speak with Simonetta, please?”

  “Who is this?”

  “A friend of hers.”

  A moment later, I hear a woman’s voice. She was asleep, too.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, it’s Sergio. Andrea Fumagalli’s cousin. Chiara’s husband’s cousin, I mean.
We met a couple of months ago, at their wedding in Livorno. I don’t know if you remember.” There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. Does she think I’m some kind of dangerous psychopath? A sex fiend? “I’m calling because I found some photos… I have to ask you something very important.”

  My voice cracks. I can’t think of anything else to say. I just listen to Simonetta breathing on the other end. Then the line goes dead. I stay there holding the phone to my ear while the line buzzes quietly. What did I expect?

  I’m about to hang up and go to bed when I hear her breathing again.

  “Are you still there?” she asks, breathless.

  “Yes.”

  “I switched phones. Now we can talk.”

  There’s an echo in the background now. She must have taken the phone into the bathroom.

  “This call may seem a little strange. But I’ll explain myself if you have the time.”

  “Why are you being so formal, Sergio?”

  “Were we less formal before?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  I tell her about the accident and the memory loss. Simonetta is incredulous.

  “You’re telling me you can’t remember anything we said to each other at the wedding?”

  “Nothing at all. I only know what I can guess from the photos.”

  “And what have you guessed?”

  “I took some pictures of you at the reception. When you noticed, you got mad. Is that right?”

  “Furious. Keep going.”

  “Then we made up. You offered me a slice of cake.”

  “The other way round. The cake came first. Then we made up.”

  “What do you mean ‘the other way round?’”

  “I mean, I dumped the cake down your shirt. And you started eating the whipped cream off your jacket, just to prove you didn’t give a shit.”

  “Why did you dump cake on me?”

  “You were being rude.”

  “Did I come on to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was I drunk?”

  “Quite. Want to know how we made up?”

  “Of course.”

  “Near the end of the reception, when everyone else was dancing, I saw you in the bathroom. You were so pale. You had your head under the faucet. I thought you’d had too much to drink, but you told me it was the whipped cream.”