4. MAGDALEN
4
MAGDALEN
I lie on the white linen sheets of my childhood bed, warm from baking in the afternoon sun. It is difficult to explain the sun in Italy. The light is different here; it radiates with archaic strength. Perhaps God loves Italians more. Flesh touched by the Italian sun seems irrevocably golden, penetrating into personalities as much as their skin. But the sweat that trickles down my temple is cold and, to distract myself, I pick at the chipping white paint of the frame, listening to my breath, sedated and pleasant, savouring the silence. Growing up in this house with three other siblings, quiet was a rarity. My siblings Joseph, Luciana and Dante, the adoring trio, were always good at taking up space. Joseph, the eldest and most serious out of the four. Eager to speak about the latest developments in the museum’s marketing campaign. We tend to avoid any mention of our website if we don’t want the latest analysis of his conversion rate optimization. Luciana is practically made of light. Radiant, intelligent, gorgeous. The only one who followed my father’s footsteps as an archaeologist and, for that, I feel she’ll always be the favourite of the three. A seasoned world traveller. Unafraid of the dark. The girl doesn’t even wear concealer! If it was anyone else in the family’s wedding, I’m certain I could have skipped it. But it’s Luciana! And in this family, her name carries weight.
And then there is Dante. It’s impossible to think of him without smiling. Taking after my mother, Dante is blessed with the ability to talk about anything to anyone. Even the older ladies at the market stop him to chat. Tanned skin and too much hair gel. Despite being five years older than me, he is forever seventeen. Foul-mouthed and chasing his next dream. Last time I checked, he and Anika were planning on opening up a wine bar in the south of France. Anika and Dante are inseparable, possibly in love. But I’m not sure either one of them knows that yet. Who am I to spoil the surprise?
Thinking of my siblings, it’s difficult not to feel my differences. When did it happen? Maybe as children, our heads all under that same christened water in the local church in Chivasso.
Chivasso is a small enough town to know the who, what and when of everyone the moment they stand in front of our duomo . We are nosey people, curious for details, lovers of drama. Our front door has no lock and people often walk into our house whenever the mood strikes. It is welcomed, never seen as an intrusion or nuisance. Conversation, the spontaneous and unplanned kind, is beautiful to these people; it is a blessing to communicate. And my mother is always home; with the door propped open with a battered textbook, she sits and waits for a stranger to knock on the door. She gave up her career when the four of us were born, but after so long away from work, her comfort suppressed her ambitions. The museum, which is where she worked, where my dad and Jo still work, and which the Sinclairs co-own, annually begs her to come back. To write another book. But she shakes her head and laughs.
If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can hear their laughter downstairs, despite being secluded on the third floor. You can hear everything in old houses, the soft pedalling of footsteps to the kitchen at midnight, a gentle creak of the gate at dawn, the drunken whispers of Dante and Jo arguing after a night out. Even if everyone is asleep in this house, there is never deafening silence, not when the house itself is awake.
My eyes shoot open against the setting sun and I realize I’ve drifted off. Shit. Dinner must be soon. I hurry to get off the bed. The bathroom mirror is waiting and, when I sneak a look, my forehead is pale and clammy and my lips are chapped. Morte , I poke my cheek. I look dead. Stripping in front of the mirror, I feel offensively naked. The bathroom mirror at Oxford was cracked and a few inches too high, meaning I haven’t properly looked at myself in over a year. As I stare, it occurs to me that no one has ever seen what I see at this moment. I am confidential. Turning around, I examine myself fully, noticing the dimples and marks that trail up my body. Those pesky scars. It feels intrusive to look at myself so intimately. Do I want this to be a secret for ever?
Thinking about it for too long makes me nauseous. How would I begin to reveal? My hair starts to stick to my neck and I look away from the mirror to find a hairbrush. When I look back, it’s difficult to meet my own gaze. I settle instead on the ends of my hair.