Issue 27 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

The wife says, "Oh, shut up, won't you," pushes her seat back,
draws the grey duvet up and over her chest, and pulls her mask
down to cage her eyes.
She spots the caretakers walking through the crowd at the
airport to greet them. They seem smaller than she remembers
them. Gianna is wearing a loose cream sweater. Michelino looks
diminutive, like his name, in well-pressed pleated brown pants and
a pink cotton shirt. They have the elegance of people who live
beside the elegant, dress as the elegant do, but who are not,
ultimately, elegant. The wife thinks the caretakers look young, or
anyway younger than she or her husband, but then, she reminds
herself, the caretakers are younger. She remembers them bringing
out their album and showing her their wedding photos during a
dinner at their house. They shake hands with her respectfully. The
caretakers inquire about the trip. The husband and wife say how
they are pleased to have arrived. Michelino says, "I was afraid you
would never come back."
"But we promised," the wife says, and Michelino lowers his
respectful gaze and looks embarrassed.
They all walk outside into the warm soft air. The wife takes
a big breath. There is that familiar smell of some sweet herb she
has never been able to identify.
In the car the husband sits in front with Michelino, the wife
in back with Gianna. The caretakers offer lunch, their car, their
home. The wife says no, they prefer the hotel, which is in town,
so that they will not need a car. They are here for such a short stay,
she says, and they have business in the town. They must attend to
it immediately, so that they cannot make lunch. They have to go
to the bank, before it closes. Besides, they have eaten so much on
the plane. They will see the caretakers that evening for dinner,
when they have accomplished their business.
There is a respectful silence in the car. The wife looks out the
window. On one side there is the jagged coast line, the dark rocks,
the smooth sea, the glitter blurred by a faint haze, on the other, the
fields of wild juniper, the yellow flowers glistening in the gold
autumnal light. Every year she has come back here, first with one
husband and her children, and now with this one. She has been surprised
each time to find it more beautiful than she remembered it.
The wife asks the caretakers about the German couple who
bought their villa. Gianna raises her hand and puts the tips of her
fingers together like a money bag in the familiar gesture all Italians
use even when talking on the telephone. She frowns and says, "I
don't understand why they let us go. First Michelino and then me."
"Perhaps they did not want anyone full-time," the wife says.
Gianna says, "It's not as though they lacked for money."
"That's true," the wife says and thinks of how the Germans
paid in cash.
Gianna says, "They just wanted their own people, I suppose."
The wife sighs and shakes her head. Gianna begins to tell the
wife about the changes the Germans have made to the villa, but
the wife lifts a hand and says, "Don't tell me. I don't want to hear,"
and shuts her eyes.
The bank director has very blue eyes, thick black lashes, and
an intense stare. He smiles at the wife through the glass door. He
has replaced the director she remembers. He opens the door for
her, and asks if her husband would like to join them, glancing at
him pacing up and down across the green marble floor in the dark
hall. The wife says quickly, "No, no, it's not necessary."
The director says, "I see," and ushers the wife into a small,
sound-proof room with orange walls. She sits down. He sits
opposite her behind the big wooden desk. "What can I do for
you?" he asks. She leans forward in her chair and says in a low
voice, "I would like half the money in lire and the other half in
travellers' cheques."
He nods and spreads his fingers. "As you like, Signora." He
makes a call and goes out of the room for a moment. He comes
back with a pile of Italian notes and the cheques in a silver plastic
folder. He says, "I thought five hundreds would be easier for you
to sign." She nods her head and signs the cheques fast, making her
signature as short as possible. He asks if she would like him to
count the notes. She nods. He starts to count, counting fast in
Italian. She loses count.
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