Authors: Laura Mercuri
Silence Is Golden
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 Laura Mercuri
Translation copyright © 2015 Sarah Christine Varney
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as
Ogni tuo silenzio
by Kindle Direct Publishing in Italy in 2014. Translated from Italian by Sarah Christine Varney. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2015.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
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, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503948662
ISBN-10: 1503948668
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary-Soudant
CONTENTS
Silence speaks in a way that words cannot.
J. Saramago
AUTUMN
CHAPTER ONE
When I was younger, my mother often told me about the trip up north she took with her grandparents. It was the only trip she had ever taken; any chance at another trip ceased after the death of her grandfather. She didn’t even have a honeymoon, only two days on the coast at the house of my father’s aunt, who made it clear to my mother upon arrival that she was to get to work and that the vacation was really for her. My mother never even got to see the ocean during those two days.
Yet every detail of that first trip with her grandparents remained indelible in her memory: the train ride, the bus as it scaled the lush, tree-covered mountains, and the bare rock above that turned pink at sunset. My mother often said that her greatest wish was to go back and see those mountains and trees again.
I find myself heading up the mountain on the bus, just as my mother did so many years ago. After yet another hairpin turn, I see the bare rock, pink in the setting sun. Can you see it too, Mom, through my eyes?
I get off the bus, and the first thing I notice is that the air is fresh and pleasant even though it’s only the beginning of September. It’s a nice relief from the muggy climate of the plains. Just beyond the parking lot, I see the white houses with sloping roofs and wooden balconies full of flowers typical of this area. Everything looks so clean and tidy, as if an invisible hand made sure everything was in its proper place. It gives me a sense of security, but it’s a bit unsettling too. As the bus driver hands me my suitcase from the luggage compartment, he smiles at me. For some reason, I see a glimmer of compassion in his eyes—or maybe I’m just imagining things. I smile back at him, thank him, and head off down the sidewalk.
The air is scented with resin, and the area is densely forested. I start walking toward a stream with a wrought iron bridge, dragging my suitcase behind me. It’s a bright, sunny day, with just a few puffy clouds in the blue sky. I feel a little less gloomy already—I can’t help but smile at the beauty of my surroundings. There are mothers pushing strollers, boys on bicycles, men chatting as they walk, and women laden with shopping bags, hurrying down the street. I don’t earn more than a passing glance from any of these people, and even then it’s probably only because of my red hair. This small town is considered to be the pearl of the valley, so locals must be well accustomed to strangers.
I pass through streets filled with shops. There are a lot of people around, but they’re all tourists, easy to spot with their shorts, backpacks, hiking boots, and walking sticks for the mountain trails. No one pays any attention to me, which is just as well. I scan the shop windows, looking for a real estate agency. I need a place to stay, and I don’t want to squander what little money I have on a hotel. I stop in at a café to grab a cup of coffee and ask for directions, but the chatter of the lunchtime crowd almost prevents the barista from understanding my question. Plus, the coffee he serves me is terrible.
“Do you know if there’s a real estate agency nearby?”
He answers abruptly. “When you leave, turn left, then keep going straight down the road.”
Maybe he’s tired after a whole summer of dealing with hordes of tourists, but there isn’t even a hint of courtesy in his response. I thank him anyway and even go so far as to smile at him. Too bad it has no effect.
The real estate agent, Valerio, stares at me as if trying to remember where he’s seen me before. I find his face amusing, with its ruddy mountain complexion and openly admiring gaze, and this keeps me from being embarrassed.
“So you’re looking to rent a house?”
“If possible.”
“Well, there aren’t any here, but there’s one available over in Bren. But it’s a much smaller village than this.”
“That’s better for me,” I tell him. “Can I see it?”
Valerio seems confused. “Of course—but first I have to find the keys.”
I smile, trying to convey that I have utter confidence that he will find those keys. And he does.
In Valerio’s car, we follow a road a few miles uphill, with rock on one side and a wall of dense trees on the other.
“Does the stream that runs through the village also pass by where we’re going now?”
“Yeah. It’s actually very close to the house.”
I don’t know why this suddenly feels so important to me. I’ve never believed in premonitions, perhaps because I have always tried not to expect anything from the future. But I can’t ignore the connection I feel to that stream.
We pass the sign for Bren: population 981, 2,600 feet above sea level. Perhaps tomorrow it’ll say population 982. Bren looks like the village we just came from, but on a smaller scale. As we get closer, I see that it’s not only smaller but also less clean, less orderly, and much less touristy. Perhaps people around here don’t want to attract tourists. In fact, I don’t see a single one.
Valerio is talking about the village we just left, telling me that he’s lived there all his life. He tries to make me laugh by telling me a joke, and I oblige with a shy smile while continuing to gaze out the window. I don’t want to miss any of the landscape unfolding before my eyes. He drives slowly so I can see the few shops facing the main street, the church, the public gardens, and the school. Just after we pass the last houses, Valerio turns right onto a dirt road lined with trees. After a dozen or so feet, we stop next to a stone house.
As soon as I get out of the car, I’m in love. I make a beeline for the front door. Valerio catches up with me and lets us in. As we open the windows, I begin to make out the interior. There are a few pieces of furniture, including a large armchair, a small coffee table, and a carpet that was once probably very nice but is now faded and threadbare. There are no curtains on the windows, and it’s cold. The place feels neglected, but I don’t care. It’s as if it’s welcoming me: “I may be run-down, but if you take care of me, I’ll take care of you.”
“Well, it’s not exactly a palace,” says Valerio.
I ask the cost of rent, and it’s more than acceptable.
“I’ll take it!” I say, sure of my decision.
He looks surprised. “Wouldn’t you rather have an apartment? This house is so isolated. It’s too far away from the village for a woman living on her own.”
“Why, is the area dangerous?” I ask, frightened.
“Well, no, but you never can tell. The house is practically in the forest. There are thieves and vagabonds about . . .”
“You’ll just have to give me your phone number so I can call you to come save me.”
He finally gets that I’m pulling his leg, and his smile turns into a frown. It’s just as well. I’ve had enough.
“If you’re really sure . . . ,” he says finally.
“I am.”
“Then we should head back. I’ll prepare the rental documents, and you can sign them tomorrow.”
“I actually want to take it today. I want to sleep here tonight,” I say.
“How’re you gonna do that? There aren’t even sheets on the bed.”
“Let’s go back to the village, and I’ll buy sheets and towels while you draw up the documents. And if you can help me light the woodstove, I’ll be okay. I saw some bundles of firewood outside.”
“There isn’t anything to eat,” he insists.
“I’ll eat something in the village, and tomorrow I’ll go to the grocery store.”
Valerio shakes his head. He is obviously annoyed by my stubbornness, but he’s realized he won’t be able to change my mind. He snorts and goes to get some wood. A few minutes later, we have lit the ceramic woodstove, which immediately begins to radiate heat. He then closes the front door as I head to the car. I’m anxious to return to the village so I can take care of everything and get back to my house. I look at the surrounding forest, where time seems to have stopped and the only sounds are leaves rustling in the wind and birds chirping. Paradise.
On the drive back, Valerio is silent. Perhaps he’s convinced I’m crazy and has given up on any idea of making me his next conquest—or so I hope.
We return to the house a few hours later. Valerio is speaking to me again and is wandering around the house, aimlessly chatting. I make the bed with the red sheets I bought and hang towels in the bathroom. I start to pull out my few belongings from my suitcase. By the time I’m finished, Valerio has run out of excuses to stay. After asking me for the umpteenth time if I’m sure I want to live here by myself and if I have everything I need, he finally leaves. I watch his car travel back down the road. When I’m sure he can’t see me anymore, I sit on the grass to watch the sunset.