Chapter 22 #2
From the bedroom: three shirts, a sweater, a dress, a pair of jeans, two pairs of trousers, socks, underwear, a scarf with a bright, splashy pattern. She folds fast and packs them into a carry-on she pulls out from under her bed.
She opens a drawer in the small desk and pulls out a stack of blue painter’s tape labels and a Sharpie. She starts walking through the apartment and labeling various items.
At the little table, she picks up two lemons and moves them to the kitchen counter. “For the housekeeper,” she says, nodding at the lemons. “She’ll come after the movers.”
I nod. Of course, she thinks like that. Of course, she leaves a room better than she found it, even when she isn’t coming back.
Out of her bag, she pulls out a ring with a few keys on it; she removes one.
“For the landlord,” she says. “They will let the movers in.”
She walks to the balcony and steps out. The street noise rises up to meet her. She puts both hands on the rail and looks left, then right, then straight up at the slice of sky. I can’t see her face from where I stand; I can see the set of her shoulders.
I give her the time without rushing her. She stays until a church two streets over begins to ring the hour. She looks down at the herbs, pulls a single sprig of thyme, rubs it between her fingers, and brings it to her mouth to taste.
It’s a cook’s reflex I’ve seen a hundred times on a hundred faces. It’s new on hers, to me, in this light.
When she comes back in, she doesn’t try to be brave about it. She takes one last glance around the room, the way people look at a person they love before they turn away fast, because if you think about it too much, you’ll never leave.
“Okay,” she says, not to me, to the apartment. “Basta.” Enough.
She rolls the carry-on to the kitchen, where she picks up the knife roll, and comes to stand by the door. No speech. No drama. Just a quiet head tilt like: ready when you are.
I take the carry-on from her and let her set the pace.
At the threshold, she hesitates. Not for lack of courage.
For respect. She walks back to the kitchen and removes a small magnet from the fridge—a cheap thing with a cartoon tortellino on it—and considers it, then sets it back exactly where it was.
She presses two fingers to the doorframe on the way out like a superstitious player touches a banner before the field.
She locks the door behind us, and we go down the stairs, her hand sliding the iron again, my step slow enough that she doesn’t feel chased. On the second landing, a neighbor opens a door and peers out, sees Bianca, and smiles with her entire face. “Ciao, bella,” the woman says.
“Ciao, Signora,” Bianca says, matching warmth with warmth, answering the question that wasn’t asked. “Sto andando via per un po’.” I’m going away for a while.
The woman clucks like a hen and disappears back into her kitchen, where something is boiling too hard.
We stop at the landlord’s door so Bianca can drop off the key and give him instructions in rapid Italian.
On the street again, the walking traffic has thickened. Office workers with knit scarves; students who take up the whole sidewalk and then apologize with laughter; the faithful line at the coffee bar that you could set your watch by.
The smell from a bakery two doors down: butter and sugar turning golden; yeast flexing; trays hitting racks and cooling enough to be touched.
She keeps pace with me easily. The knife roll looks right in her hand, the tote hits her hip every third step. She’s still quiet, but the harm in it is less sharp now; it’s tiredness.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“A little.” She looks at the bakery, then at me. “But if I eat now, I’ll want to sleep.”
“We can fix sleep,” I say. “Coffee.”
She huffs. “Coffee fixes everything until it doesn’t.”
We stop at the corner under a portico where the stone is worn smooth, and the graffiti is older than the kids taking pictures of it. She glances down at the knife roll, then up at me. “Thank you,” she says, simply. “For coming with me.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, and don’t ruin it with anything else.
She adjusts the tote on her shoulder. Something jostles against the books she took and makes a soft clack.
“What now?” she asks.
Now I could take her back to the house. I could let her sit in a chair and not talk to anyone for hours while the world goes on outside.
I could pretend that would help. Or I could do what I am good at when I am being my best: move one piece on the board in a way that changes the game three turns from now.
“I have something in mind,” I say, casually. “If you’ll trust me for an hour.”
She studies me for the beat she always takes. She doesn’t give yeses away so easily. Then she nods once. “Okay.”
I give nothing away in my face because giving it away spoils it.
I reach into my coat pocket and pull out my phone. I type out a message. A reply arrives before my thumb is clear of the glass.
I put the phone away.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s walk back to the car.”
She falls in by my side as I hold her small suitcase.
The city moves around us, indifferent and benevolent in the same breath.
The space between us is exactly what it needs to be to keep from touching and exactly close enough that if a car comes up on the stones too tight, we can shift with no trouble.
I don’t explain. I don’t promise. I don’t sell. I do what I know how to do. Fix things.
Sometimes, fixing things doesn’t need a grand gesture. Sometimes, all you need are small moves in the right direction.