31
Dear Diary,
Yesterday I arrived punctually at the Italian”s house. He opened the door himself. I was surprised to see he didn”t have a maid.
“What do you need me to sew?” I asked as I entered, setting the sewing basket on the polished dining table.
The house wasn’t large, but it seemed to have several empty rooms, which was a rare luxury in these times when the government didn’t allow unused living spaces. It was certainly not his. It must have been confiscated from some partisan family, who would now be pushing up the daisies in some mass grave or rotting in jail.
“You won”t have to sew anything, at least not today. That was just in case anyone saw you. Sit down, please. Coffee?”
The dining table was in the center of the living room, and a pair of matching sofas decorated the corner. Next to these was a low table with an open newspaper and reading glasses. The air in the room was warm, and a couple of logs crackled merrily in the fireplace to the beat of a turntable playing a piece of classical music. I sat at the table with my hands in my lap, trying to keep my back straight and my countenance dignified.
“Do you know anything about him?” I interrupted, unable to wait any longer. There was no point pretending I was there for coffee. This man knew everything about me and my past in Spain, and my life was in his hands. But I know things about you too, I said to myself, remembering the false passports he had issued in Gorizia before the war. And I might as well talk more than I should now that I”ve lost everything.
“Sometimes it”s better not to know the truth,” he said, pouring me a tiny coffee in a porcelain cup. Real coffee, the kind I hadn”t tasted in years. On the saucer were also two almond cookies, delicious amaretti, rarer in times of war than a two-headed dragon. Just looking at them made my mouth water.
“What do you think I came here for?” I replied, controlling myself not to devour the biscuits in front of this incredibly serene man. “I need to know what happened to my husband. Tell me whatever you know. Please. “
“If you really want to know, your husband is...”
He remained silent as if searching for the right word. His Spanish was almost perfect, and the silence wasn’t due to the language barrier. I returned the cookie to the plate, understanding.
The hunger I’d felt for several days had just vanished.
“He”s dead,” I finished the sentence for him.
The past repeated itself.
First Vicent. And now Jakob.
My Jakob.
“I’m truly sorry.”
“Murdering bastards!” I muttered, looking at him with hatred. “You were there, weren”t you? You were there when it happened, and you didn”t lift a finger to defend him. You”re all the same! Scum of the earth!”
The Italian endured my insults stoically, holding the cup delicately by its handle. I wondered if he had a gun and would kill me on the spot for my insolence. But he didn”t move; he just waited for me to calm down.
“Have you ever thought, Mrs. Br?ljan... Or perhaps you would prefer that I call you Mrs. Hribar?” He raised an eyebrow, alluding to the favor I owed him from our first meeting. “Have you ever thought that perhaps some of us would prefer not to be here?”
“No,” I replied, looking at his brand-new, well-ironed shirt and the exotic delicacies he had just served me.
I wanted to cry, but I would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he had won. I got up and prepared to leave the same way I had come. I had nothing else left to do in that place. Even though he had given me the letter, fulfilling Jakob”s last wish, he was still another fascist, another one of them.
“Your husband and I were alone for a minute in the barracks. He asked me to give you the letter,” said the Italian, reading my thoughts. “He recognized me but said nothing. Instead, he begged me to take care of you and to help you keep your secret. He wasn’t afraid for himself; he only cared about you. And looking at you now, I understand why.”
“If you”re trying to get me into your bed, you”d better think again,” I snapped at him because I already knew that kind of story and how it always ended. “I may be poor, but I”m not desperate.”
I wanted to spit in his face. Suddenly, this man with the thin whiskers and delicate hands had become the devil, the personification of the enemy. He had been present when Jakob was sent to his death, and he had done nothing to prevent it. His only concern was to count the sugar cubes as he stirred the coffee with a silver spoon while the mothers of Ljubljana wept at the sight of their children growing more famished by the day.
I wished in my inner self that my provocation would make him violent, or at least that he would throw me out of the house with a loud bang, thus giving me more reasons to hate him, even though I wasn’t lacking in them.
However, he did neither of those two things.
“Excuse me,” he said, unperturbed, “my intention was never to offend you. I only meant to say that you’re a beautiful woman. And brave, too.”
“Thank you. If that”s all, I”m leaving.”
“Wait. There’s something else. I need help with the house. It”s hard to trust anyone these days. Some of the neighbors help me, but I”d prefer someone more discreet. Like you. I could offer you a job in my house. What do you say?”
I stared at him, weighing up his offer.
“I”ll think about it,” was all I could manage to say before running out of there with tears in my eyes.