A Separation(17)

I watched Stefano as he chewed on his lip and stared at the road. He did not strike me as one of these inventors of discontent. He knew what he wanted, it was not even necessarily out of reach, although persuading the unwilling into love was a hazardous endeavor, and one that only rarely succeeded. Unfortunately, it is difficult to convince someone that they need something they cannot see the purpose of.

? ? ?

It began raining again as we reached the hotel. Stefano hesitated a moment before he switched the engine off, and then asked if I wanted to meet his great-aunt, the weeper. He was quick to add that I wouldn’t be able to hear the actual weeping—She doesn’t do it on order, he said, somewhat illogically, as I thought that was precisely what she did. But I would be able to talk to her, he said, to interview her, interview her, he repeated the phrase, as if it were foreign to his tongue.

I said that would be useful. I couldn’t think of any other response that would sound logical, I was supposedly in Mani researching the region’s mourning rituals, in my position Christopher would have accepted Stefano’s offer without hesitation. Perhaps in fact he had—if the great-aunt was so renowned a mourner, wasn’t it more than likely that Christopher had sought her out? He might even have shared with her his research and travel plans, the mystery of his current location. Stefano checked his watch, he said he thought his great-aunt would be home now, it was just after the time of her afternoon nap—she was old, she needed a siesta—if I was free, we could go and have a cup of coffee with her.

I said that sounded good. He took out his cell phone and dialed as I sat in the back of the car. He spoke only briefly before hanging up, his voice had been jovial, he was probably a good son to his mother, a man who cared about family. It’s fine, he said, I told her you were my friend, she is very happy to meet with you. We can explain about the book later. He started the engine and added that it was not far, only ten miles inland. We drove back down the road we had just traversed, Stefano was talkative, he seemed pleased to be introducing his great-aunt to me, pleased that I was coming. There was something almost disingenuous to his manner, I wondered again if he had driven Christopher, perhaps even to his great-aunt’s house, he might have spoken the same words, She is very happy to meet with you, her house is not far.

We soon approached another village, very similar to the one we had just driven through, a collection of low-slung houses along another single-lane road. He stopped the car in front of a small white house, there was laundry hanging from a line and plastic flowers in pots by the door, even from the outside it was somehow both threadbare and carefully tended. That impression did not change as we went up the front steps, Stefano knocking on the door before swinging it open—he now seemed younger, like a boy returning home at the end of the school day—and calling to his great-aunt, who appeared at once.

She greeted us with a smile, then shook her head apologetically as Stefano explained that she spoke no English. As she waved us into the kitchen and pulled out a chair for me she continued smiling, she seemed almost unremittingly cheerful. Nescafé? she asked—a question I could understand—and I nodded. Soon, the three of us were around a small table (it was covered in a vinyl tablecloth with a bright pattern of cherries and strawberries, garish but easy to clean) with cups of instant coffee, thin and bitter.

I asked her how long she had lived in the village, and after waiting for Stefano to translate, she replied, All my life, which Stefano translated back into English. I nodded, we continued in this way, each morsel of conversation passed back and forth by Stefano, the conversation unfolding more slowly than it otherwise might have. I was more often used to being in Stefano’s position—one of transmission, but also one of understanding—however, I found that I did not mind, in a curious way it took the awkwardness out of the situation. It was not exactly like speaking to a stranger, not for either of us, since in a way she was speaking not to me but to Stefano, her eyes moving back and forth between the two of us.

As I looked at Stefano and his great-aunt, tracing out the unlikely family resemblances between them, a crease at the eyes, the angle of the jaw, I thought of Christopher. Of my husband, who might so easily have been here, only a few days earlier. I almost thought I felt his presence in the room with us, he might have sat in this exact seat, opposite these exact people, looked at them exactly as I now looked at them. But what he would have made of them I did not know, I could not guess the questions he might have asked. As always, I returned to the absence that was at the heart of my experience of him.

I almost asked the great-aunt then if she had met Christopher, if he had been here in real life and not supposition. But I couldn’t locate the words, I didn’t know how I would phrase the question, and after a moment, I asked the great-aunt about the fires instead, whether she knew any of the parties involved. She laughed, her body shaking a little, she was short but not a small woman, her body looked as if it was made of compacted flesh, she was wearing a flower-print dress but her features were androgynous, perhaps by nature or perhaps by age. She knows everyone, Stefano said. The men behind the arson—she says they are boys. They are men, but they are boys. She smiled, nodding as he spoke, as if she understood English perfectly.

Should he ask about the weeping, Stefano said, lowering his voice and leaning toward me. I was startled, I had almost forgotten the reason for our visit, quickly I replied. How long have you been a weeper? It was an inane question, I felt immediately self-conscious, I almost thought Stefano gave me a look of reproach, perhaps the question was too blunt. Christopher would undoubtedly have made a better job of it. But Stefano promptly translated the question and the reply, My mother was a weeper, and so was my aunt, it is in the family, there was no question that I would not also become a weeper, once it became obvious that I could do it.