34
Dear Diary,
It took me a week to gather the courage to return to Mr. Rossi’s house. It was just after the Koren tragedy.
One morning, I left home, and when I came back, they were gone. I never saw them again. I don”t know whether they ran away or were taken, but I was left all alone. Mrs. Koren, in spite of her harshness, has been the closest thing to a mother I have had here, and if it weren”t for her, I would never have learned Slovenian.
I’m worried about what might have happened to them as they’re terribly old and frail. Besides, I might be the next one to disappear.
I don”t fear death, but I do fear suffering, so I swallowed my dignity and went to see the Italian.
“I accept your job offer,” I told Mr. Rossi as soon as I entered his living room. “I have no money.”
And your protection would be useful to me.
He looked at me thoughtfully, seemingly unoffended that it had taken me so long to return. He was as elegant as ever, but under his glasses, his eyes had deep circles.
“You”re hired,” he declared. “You can start first thing tomorrow at eight o”clock. By the way, what can you do?”
I stifled a chuckle at the absurdity of the situation: first, he hired me and then asked what I could do. I answered with all the professionalism I could muster.
“I know how to sew, and I can also embroider, iron, and clean. I”m not a bad cook, and I can do your grocery shopping. And well, I guess you know, I”m also good at taking care of sick people.”
He kept silent for a few moments as if debating something in his head.
“Do you believe in miracles?” he finally asked me. “In Divine Providence?”
I blinked, confused by the abrupt change of subject. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, I do believe,” he said, “and your presence here this afternoon is clear proof of its existence.”
“What do you mean?”
“You see...” he looked around as if making sure we were alone, “there’s a wounded man... Someone very dear to me, a Yugoslavian. He’s a childhood friend from Gorizia, almost a brother. He chose the wrong path, if you know what I mean.”
I held my breath.
“I need you to go and see him. But whatever you do, don’t tell him I sent you there.”
I nodded, intrigued.
“You need to be back before curfew. Will you be able to do it?”
I went out into the dark and foggy afternoon and hurried straight to the address indicated, carrying three eggs in a basket. A Slovenian woman with a matronly appearance opened the door, and I repeated word for word what Mr. Rossi had told me to say.
“My three red hens have laid eggs,” I said.
“I”ll trade them for a bottle of milk,” the woman replied, just as I was told to expect. “Come in. It’s in the cellar.”
I followed her down a dark, narrow staircase until we reached the basement. She gave me another suspicious look and pushed a bookshelf aside to reveal a small door.
“This way,” she said dryly, pointing to the opening in the wall.
When my eyes became accustomed to the gloom of the basement, I saw a man lying on a cot. He was unconscious, wrapped in bloody bandages.
“Who’s that?”
I was curious to discover the identity of the partisan for whom Enzo Rossi was willing to put his title―and his life―at risk.
“I don”t know, and I don”t care,” the woman replied. “But as you can see, he”s been shot. You”re a nurse, aren”t you?”
I looked at her in disbelief. She couldn”t expect me to take the shrapnel out of the patient right there and then, with no instruments, no disinfectant, and almost no light. My hesitation annoyed her.
“Are you a nurse or not?” she repeated in an aggressive tone.
“Well, yes, to a degree,” I answered defensively, reluctant to give her any details about my past. “I was a volunteer in a hospital for a few months. That”s about it.”
“Fine. I”ll help you,” the woman said at last, with a weary sigh.
The events of that night took me back to Spain for a few hours, to the days when I only lived for work, to the times when I fantasized about the handsome Yugoslavian who always seemed to cross my path every afternoon.
I felt no fear while I was there. In fact, I felt happier than I had in a long time.
When I left the house, the clock struck a quarter to seven. It was only fifteen minutes to curfew. I ran without stopping and arrived at Enzo Rossi”s residence just in time. It was too late to return to mine.
When I knocked on the door, he didn”t ask me anything, and we never mentioned the wounded man again. I don”t know if he survived or not. Nor did I dare to ask him, although, from that day on, I felt a strange complicity had arisen between us.
We both have secrets. And we both know how to keep them.
“Dine with me,” he said.
I also had no other choice.
There was soup in the kitchen, although I don”t know who made it. The house was as empty as ever.
We sat at the table, and he told me about his life. He speaks five languages and serves as a translator for the Italian army.
After dinner, he offered me a room on the opposite side of the house, which has been at my disposal ever since.
Through the closed door, I heard him play the violin for the first time. He played like an angel, and listening to him brought tears to my eyes.
Before I went to bed, I couldn”t stop thinking about the conversation we had before I retired to bed. I wondered what he would have thought of me. He always seemed so lonely that I couldn”t help but ask him the question that kept reverberating in my mind:
“Is your wife in Italy?”
I instantly regretted my indiscretion.
“Slovenia is an Italian province, signora,” he corrected me in a soft voice, “and no, I’m not married. I never have been. Is it nice to be married?”
I shrugged.
“I don”t know how to answer you, Signor Rossi,” I replied. “Sometimes I think it”s better not to be tied to anything or anyone. He who has nothing can’t lose anything, don”t you agree?”
He said nothing more but looked at me as if he understood.