Angela was born on the same day and month as me, which is why I hold her especially dear.
When she first came to my office, Roberto was already a young man—tall, sturdy, well-cared for, with a serious, handsome face.
Which made the hopping all the more strange. The hand-clapping. The words without connection. The childlike smiles that came from nursery rhymes whispered in his ear, half-remembered. And the posture—naturally composed and deliberate on the office chair, like some sort of dignified seat, during our visits with his mother, his father, his brothers and the home attendants, solicitous and watchful companions. His gaze, his mind, elsewhere. Mine too, sometimes—behind a child I try to conjure, with a mother who has been the same for thirty years. Kind. A gentle Venetian accent. Tender thoughts. Afraid of imposing. Dignified. Discreet. Reserved. Dark silk dress, cardigan, gray hair. Tired. So tired.
She comes to see me when the worst has passed, unwilling to show herself when she has to be harder with Roberto. Because when he is angry, he breaks whatever is within reach, and lately he has taken to striking her—Angela—who defends herself with a wooden spoon, the kind you use for stirring sauce, the same spoon that once, when he was small, could sometimes intimidate him.
Afterward they both cry. He for what he has done. She because she could not understand sooner, could not stop him.
For thirty years she has tried to make sense of what goes on in the head of that boy she insists on keeping with her, even now that her husband is gone—a Sicilian gentleman, small, with a mustache, whom I was very fond of.
He was terrified of Roberto and his oddities, almost helpless against him. Long nights waiting in the car for Roberto to decide to come inside. Sundays at Porta Portese choosing among the stalls, hats and military caps, bags and satchels obstinately demanded and destined for sudden, unpredictable flights out the window. But simply and roughly adoring that delicate and steadfast woman, fragile yet resolute, who drew courage from his absence and whose own courage has weakened with his loss.
The gardenia she gave me has its seasons of flourishing and decline. It bloomed again and again. After summer it seemed dead—just a stick on a carpet of curled, withered leaves. In September it came back to life, and now it sits on my balcony covered in glossy foliage, so many shades of green.
Gardenias have never lasted long with me. They are difficult plants to keep.
Now Angela wants to step back. To think. To nurse her nostalgia. To rest her hands in her lap for a while, without wooden spoons. To fall asleep with her own thoughts, uninterrupted.
Roberto, too, needs a different home. Not too near, not too far. Close enough that the streetcar passes by. With a small garden. With a pomegranate tree.
Angela would make little curtains. She would visit on Saturdays and Sundays. Sometimes she would cook for everyone.
- Maria Irene Sarti, 1998
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