Silence Is Golden (6 page)

“Can I stay and watch, or do you prefer to work alone?” I ask.

“Sure, you can stay.”

I sit on the bed with my legs crossed, and thus begins one of the greatest hours of my life. I am free to watch Aris without having to look away, without anyone seeing me, without feeling ashamed. His movements are so graceful. He affixes two brackets to the wall and then wedges in the wooden boards, which are sanded and shaped to fit together perfectly. He makes it all seem effortless. He works methodically and continuously, but without haste. His hair sways in front of his face to the rhythm of his movements, occasionally obscuring his blue eyes. I want to ask him how he learned to work with wood this way, if it’s his own method or if someone taught him, but I don’t want to interrupt him. I understand that he likes silence, so I remain quiet and simply watch. He finally fits together the last piece, a small hook hanging from the lower board, then turns to me.

“I thought you might like a hook there,” he says. “You can hang a necklace or dried flowers. Whatever you want.”

“It’s all perfect. And it’s identical to the design you sketched for me. Have you built many like this?”

“This is all yours. No one else will ever have one like it,” he says, staring at me. How could I not imagine a deeper meaning in his words? My hands are sweating, and my cheeks are becoming dangerously warm.

“You have an incredible memory,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice how agitated I’ve become. “But what if I move houses?”

“I’ll come back, take it down, and mount it in your new home.”

I think to myself that as long as he’s here, I’m staying put.

“And what if I move to the United States?” I ask him, laughing. He smiles.

“You’d just have to pay for my trip,” he answers as I continue to laugh. “But I hope that won’t happen,” he adds, suddenly serious.

“I hope so too.”

We keep looking at each other, without saying anything, but in the end I can’t hold his gaze any longer. I stand and offer him tea. He follows me into the kitchen and sits down at the table, which I’ve already set. My hands tremble as I light the fire under the kettle. I can’t speak, fearful that I would only be able to mumble incomprehensibly, so instead I quietly prowl around the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, Aris doesn’t say anything either, but his silence doesn’t bother me. He’s so calm and serene. He sits there, motionless, with his eyes fixed on the window overlooking the woods. He appears utterly relaxed, as if he’s perfectly content where he is. The water is finally boiling, and I pour it into the teapot, then slice two croissants that I warmed up.

“Jam or honey?” I ask.

“Honey please.”

I spread a thin layer of honey on one of the croissants and give it to Aris. Our hands touch for a brief moment, and we both raise our eyes to look at each other. I swallow hard and turn to grab the teapot, pouring it into the teacups.

“Milk or sugar?” I ask.

He shakes his head, indicating neither. I put both milk and sugar in mine, noisily stirring it.

“You like it sweet,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Mm,” I respond, feeling as ashamed as a greedy child. When I raise my head to look at him, though, there is no trace of mockery on his face. There’s only a kind of wonderment that makes me splutter and choke on my mouthful of very hot tea.

He eats his croissant and drinks his tea, still completely silent. He rises from the table, and I follow suit. I ask him how much I owe him for the bookshelf, and he tells me a ridiculously low figure.

“That’s not nearly enough,” I exclaim.

“It’s the cost of the wood.”

“What about your labor, and time spent drawing up the plans?”

“It was my pleasure. I should be paying you,” he replies with that smile that makes my stomach do flips.

Shaking my head, I give him the money. “Thank you so much,” I say, looking into his eyes. “It’s wonderful.”

He gulps, and it’s the first time I see him lose his cool.

“Thank you,” he says before leaving. He walks directly to his truck, gets in, and closes the door. He sticks his head out the open window. “Come and see me again.”

“I will,” I tell him.

He starts the engine and drives off. My world returns to gray. I head back inside, and immediately run to my bookshelf. Or should I say “our” bookshelf. It’s lovely. I can’t wait to fill it with books. It will welcome and protect them, with its gentle lines and curves. I stare at it for a long time, studying every detail, since I couldn’t do so while Aris was working. I was too distracted by his expressions, his movements, and the golden hair that hid his eyes. I realize now that he infused every part of the bookshelf with an amazing amount of detail, from the choice of heavily grained wood captured under a veil of lacquer, to the hook that doesn’t quite blend in with the rest of the fixture. I wonder if he always puts this much effort into his work. Reluctantly, I tell myself that he must, because he clearly loves his work and enjoys when others appreciate his art.

I sit down on the bed and notice that he forgot his overshirt. I pick it up and smell it, as if I’m in one of those clichéd romance novels. But all I can detect is the scent of fabric softener. He probably washed it right before coming to see me, as I did with the dress I’m wearing. The shirt doesn’t bear a single trace of his scent. I’m disappointed, but it also gives me a perfect excuse to see him again soon.

CHAPTER NINE

I’m alone in the bookstore this morning when Mr. Moser, director of the Bren school, returns. I’m sitting at the computer, and his stentorian greeting startles me.

“Good morning, Ms. Russo.”

“Mr. Moser,” I exclaim with a smile.

“I’m here because I really appreciated your help a few days ago, so I brought Mr. Ferrari with me this time. He would like to be introduced to some fine literature from Abruzzo.” I only then notice the other man. He’s about thirty, and he smiles at me. “Mr. Ferrari is one of the teachers at our school,” he adds.

“Of course,” I say, coming out from behind the counter and extending my hand. “Mr. Ferrari—”

“Call me Marcello please,” he answers, firmly shaking my hand and looking me straight in the eye. He continues to hold my hand until I pull it away, embarrassed. I’m puzzled. Why do a school director and a teacher want information from me about Abruzzan authors? I’d expect them to be experts on Italian literature—and even if not, there’s always the Internet. So what are they really doing here?

Just then, Helga arrives, and the jubilant expression that appears on her face when she sees Mr. Moser makes it clear to me that she’s fallen for him. She greets him so enthusiastically that I try not to laugh, thinking that if she had a tail, it’d be wagging energetically right now. While Helga and Mr. Moser exchange pleasantries, I turn to Marcello.

“Tell me, Marcello, are you interested in poetry or fiction?”

He must have thought I’d just flirt with him and not actually talk about books, because he stays silent for a few seconds, a goofy grin plastered on his face.

“Both, I guess,” he finally responds.

“Both poetry and fiction then. But of what time period? As you must know, Abruzzo boasts quite a long history of poets and raconteurs.”

“Perhaps some historical poetry and some modern fiction?”

“Absolutely. Please follow me. Let’s start with the great poet Ovid,” I exclaim, affecting the role of literary tour guide. After all, he says he wants to be enlightened. Marcello follows me to the poetry shelves. I grab the heavy tome of Ovid’s poems and place it in his hands. Then I turn to another shelf, choosing two more books.

“Ennio Flaiano, the famous screenwriter, and Gabriele D’Annunzio, the renown poet?” I ask him, showing him both books. Marcello stares at me aghast, and I can tell that he wasn’t expecting me to recommend such challenging literature. But the fact is, I can’t stand it when people assume that I’m just a pretty face.

“Perhaps I should just limit myself to poetry for now,” he says, his smile fading fast.

“A wise decision, if I may say so,” I say, reshelving the two fiction books, then heading back toward the front of the store, where I see that he’s returned to stand again with Mr. Moser and Helga.

“Thank you for your advice,” he says to me, rather coldly.

“No problem,” I reply, my smile more fake than I thought possible. “Come back anytime.”

I catch sight of the furious glance that Marcello gives Mr. Moser, and I sense that my performance today won’t help boost my overall standing with villagers. Mr. Moser says good-bye to Helga and me in a starkly different manner than his initial greeting to us.

“You’re a real surprise, Ms. Russo.” This is clearly not intended as a compliment.

When the men leave, Helga unleashes her inner beast.

“What got into you? You were so rude!”

“I did exactly what he asked. He was looking for books by Abruzzan authors, and that’s what I gave him.”

“Yeah, you acted as if you were so much smarter than him and recommended the most difficult classics you could find.”

I bow my head in response. Perhaps I didn’t only inherit my red hair from my father. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Helga, who probably wasn’t expecting an apology, mutters something along the lines of “Be more courteous next time” and goes into the other room.

Later, on my way to Emma’s flower shop, I tell myself that I have to learn to control my impulsiveness. Otherwise I’m bound to get in trouble instead of earning a place among the respectable women of Bren. Why did I react that way? Though it was a very clumsy attempt on Marcello’s part at flirting, it was still a compliment. Mr. Moser must have told Marcello about me, and Marcello must have wanted to check out the town’s new exotic attraction. So what’s the big deal? I still feel offended rather than flattered, and though I try, I just can’t make myself regret the little scene I caused.

Still furious, I fix my eyes on the ground as I near Emma’s shop, and I collide with someone who is leaving. I apologize, then raise my head to see Aris in front of me, chuckling.

“Oh God, I’m sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going . . .”

He shakes his head, still smiling. He is clearly choosing, for the umpteenth time, not to speak. As I look at him, my irritation is replaced with the joy of seeing him.

“Your shirt!” I exclaim. “You left it at my place.”

Aris opens his mouth sheepishly and glances around. I realize that I have just announced to everyone within earshot that he undressed at my house. Obviously both he and I know that it was all perfectly innocent, but suddenly I’m beet red. I just can’t catch a break today.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I have another one.”

I laugh with him.

“I can bring it to your shop, if you’d like,” I say.

“Or I could come by tonight?”

“Sure! After—”

“After six, I know.”

How does he always remember everything?

We smile again and sidle around each other to go our separate ways.

“Emilia . . .”

I turn around.

“Keep an eye out for me at the forest edge, at six?”

I
knew
he was the one following me. I nod, smiling. He returns my nod and leaves. A smile is still plastered on my face when I spot Giorgia in the doorway of the shop. She pounces on me as soon as I walk inside.

“You know Aris! You were just talking to him!” she exclaims. “And he laughed,” she adds reproachfully.

“He made me a bookshelf,” I offer as an excuse, heading to the counter.

“But he was laughing. He never laughs.”

Giorgia has planted herself in front of me, as serious as I have ever seen her.

“I bet that’s not true,” I reply. “I’m sure you just haven’t seen him laugh before.” She stares at me, accusation in her eyes.

“You’re wrong. Ask anybody. Aris never laughs. He just now came to see my mom, and he didn’t even smile once.”

“Maybe he just finds me funny,” I say, growing weary. “Where’s Emma?”

“You’re acting like you know him well.” She’s clearly too stubborn to let this go without a fight. “He doesn’t trust anyone, and you’re still practically a stranger.”

She seems pretty pissed off. I decide to take the bull by the horns.

“Fine,” I say, moving closer to her. “What are you suggesting?”

My bluntness catches her off guard. Lucky for me, she’s only thirteen.

“Nothing. But why does he talk and laugh with you but he won’t even look at me?”

“Giorgia, I’m sure he thinks you’re lovely, but you’re so much younger than he is. Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to think that he has bad intentions toward you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Tears fill her eyes, then slip silently down her cheeks. I rest a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, there’s no reason to cry. You just have to be patient and wait until you’re a little older,” I say, hating myself.

“You’re right,” she sniffles. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

Just then, Emma walks through the door, with two packages from the café in hand. Smiling, she says hello before catching sight of her daughter, traces of tears still on her face.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

Giorgia looks at me before answering. “Nothing, Mom. Did you bring me a sandwich?”

I finally exhale. Maybe she won’t tell her.

Later, as I’m working on my usual flower arrangements and Emma is with Giorgia, I wonder why I’m so worried that Emma will discover my feelings for Aris. After all, what’s so wrong about my feelings? I realize that my real worry centers on people shunning me for becoming involved with a villager. Like Giorgia said, I’m practically a stranger here. I am certain that no one here will ever let me forget that, even if I live here for the rest of my life. But I wouldn’t care about any of that if I could be with Aris. It’s amazing how much you learn about yourself when you fall in love.

I dance along the edge of the forest that night, my heart in my throat. I look around, but Aris is nowhere to be found. Then, suddenly, I see him emerging from behind a tree that’s hidden from the road, and I go to him.

“Hi,” I say.

He smiles and nods at me. I guess I’ll just walk silently by his side. It’s probably for the best that I’m silent anyway, so that my nerves don’t otherwise cause me to say something totally stupid. Surprisingly, he speaks first.

“I follow you to your house sometimes.”

I stop walking and turn to face him. “Why?”

He shrugs, as usual. “I want to be sure that you get home safely. Sometimes there are weird people wandering around the area.”

I laugh. The whole town thinks
he’s
the weird one! Obviously I’m not going to say that, but he gives me a questioning look, perhaps wondering why I’m laughing.

“Sorry, I just thought of something funny.” I steer us back to the conversation. “But I know you’ve been following me.”

I can tell by his genuine look of surprise that this is news to him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I wasn’t scared. I knew it was you right away. Nobody else has golden hair like yours.”

“How did you know that I didn’t have bad intentions?”

This time I’m the one who shrugs. “I had a good feeling about you.”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything. We continue to walk in silence while the darkness sets in.

“Haven’t you ever been afraid?” he asks.

“Sure I have. But I’ve learned to defend myself, so I can handle it.”

I look at his face, but it’s too dark to see anything more than a flash of blue in his eyes. This conversation is probably the most he’s ever said to me.

We arrive at my house all too soon. I open the door and invite him in, but he stays in the doorway. I grab his shirt from the bedroom and hand it to him.

“Thanks,” he says, taking it.

“Thanks for coming all this way.”

He gives me a wide smile and turns to go.

“Aris!” I call after him.

He turns toward me.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Luckily it’s dark, so he can’t see how furiously I’m blushing. But his smile fades. Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.

“Thanks, but Dora has dinner waiting for me.”

“Sure, I understand.”

“So . . . I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. Good night.”

I assume he gives me his usual nod before disappearing, but it’s too dark for me to tell for sure. I close the door and kick the chair next to the table.

“Damn it.”

I spend hours brooding over my inappropriate invitation. In the future, I need to trust my instincts more. From the start, I’ve sensed that I have to be cautious and patient with Aris. He comes and goes when he wants, and forcing his hand will only spook him. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything about him, his past, or his relationship with his mother. I’m guessing that his father must not be in the picture, but I really don’t know. I’m still mulling over one question while I drift into sleep: Why doesn’t he call Dora Mom?