Zoli puts her hand on Henri's forearm, asks him if he likes cheese, and he finds it funny, for whatever reason, she is not entirely sure, and he slaps the steering wheel as he turns a sharp corner.
They slow down, past kiosks and storefronts strange with foreign script. A number of Arab women in dark headscarves emerge from a shop, only their eyes apparent. Further up the street, a black man wheels a trol ey of jackets across the road. Zoli turns to watch. “So many people,” she says.
“I never expected it to be like this.” Her daughter unbuckles her backseat seat belt so she can whisper: “I'm so glad you're here, Mamma, I can hardly believe it.”
Henri taps the brakes and the car jolts. “Put your belt on, Francesca,” he says. A silence descends until Zoli hears the soft fal of her daughter's body against the rear seat and a long exaggerated sigh.
“Sorry, Franca,” he says, “but I'm the one driving here.”
How odd it is to hear the nickname of her daughter from this young man. How extraordinary, in fact, to be here at al , in this smal car, in these thrumming streets, on a sunny Thursday afternoon when back in the val ey they wil be cutting grass on the lower slopes.
They negotiate a few more winding side streets and pul in next to the curb under a row of low trees by a pale stone building studded with blocks of ancient red marble. They climb out of the car and walk through the front courtyard. Henri puts his shoulder to the giant ironwork door. It creaks and swings, revealing a black and white tiled floor. They walk towards an old elevator, but Zoli veers off to the stairs, explaining that tunnels and elevators are not for her, that they make her claustrophobic. Henri takes her elbow and guides her towards the elevator's intricate gril work. “The stairs are so steep,” he says. Zoli reaches back for her daughter's hand. She is afraid now that she wil dislike Henri, that he is one of those who is almost too happy, the sort who forces his opinions of happiness on others. A sharp look appears on his face, and he goes ahead, alone, in the elevator.
Mother and daughter stand wordless in front of each other. Francesca drops the bag on the first stair and takes Zoli's face in her hands, leans over and kisses her eyelids.
“I can't believe it,” says Francesca.
“You'l be glad to get rid of me in a day or two.”
“Want to bet?”
They laugh and climb the stairs, stopping on each landing for Zoli to get her breath back. She has the clammy thought that they wil have arranged their home for her, that they wil have laid out a bed and perhaps a night lamp and they wil have cleaned and ordered things out of their usual places, perhaps even put up photographs for the occasion.
On the fourth floor, Francesca hurries ahead, opens the door, throws her keys onto a low glass table.
“Come in, Mamma, come in!”
Zoli pauses a moment on the threshold, then slips off her shoes, steps in. She is pleasantly surprised by the apartment, its high wal s, the cornices, the crevices, the oak floorboards, the woodcut prints along the hal way. The living room is bright and open with high windows and a piece of artwork she immediately recognizes as Romani, vibrant clashing colors, odd shapes, a settlement of sorts. A photo of Enrico sits on an old wooden shelf made from a slice of railway sleeper. A dozen other photos accompany it. Zoli runs her fingers along the hard tar on the shelf, then turns and examines the rest of the room.
In the center of a glass coffee table sits the leaflet for the conference, in French, odd words shoved together. The leaflet is slick and professional and not at al what she expected. She should, she knows, pay attention to it, comment on it, compliment it, but Zoli wants nothing more than to ambush it with silence.
A row of books sit under the table and she lifts one, photographs of India, and deftly lays the leaflet underneath, its edge sticking out so it doesn't look hidden. Her daughter stands over her with a glass of water, and tenses slightly at the sight of the covered leaflet.
“You must be tired, Mamma?”
Zoli shakes her head, no, the day seems bright and open. She runs her fingers along Francesca's blouse: “Where's that cheese you promised me?”
They pass the lunch in idle chatter, the train trip, the weather, the new layout of Paoli's shop, and as the afternoon lengthens, a heaviness bears down. Her daughter brings her to the bed- room, where the sheets on the double bed have been freshly changed, and a nightgown has been laid out with a shop tag stil on it. Francesca snips the tag from the back of a nightdress and whispers that her boyfriend wil be staying elsewhere for a few days, and that she wil sleep on the couch, no protests al owed. She folds back the covers and fluffs the pil ow and guides her mother to the bed.
Zoli feels briefly like a pebble that, having lain around for quite a while, is quickly tossed from hand to hand.
“Have a good nap, Mamma. And I'm not going to say anything about bedbugs.”
“I wouldn't even feel them.”
She wakes to darkness, disoriented a moment. A harsh whispering issues from the kitchen, the voices low and urgent. She lies and listens, hoping they wil quieten, but Henri curses, and then she hears the slamming of a door, the slide of grooves in a kitchen cupboard, a rattling of cups.
Zoli looks around the room, surrounded by the possessions of others, cosmetics on the table, photographs in frames, a row of men's shirts in the cupboard. In her mind she goes through the three rooms of her own mil house, how the four doors creak, how the curtains jangle on the rings, how the stove leaks a little light, how the lantern nickers. Curious to have taken a train here and arrived so quickly, somewhere so unfamiliar, as if the journey has failed her by such ease. She lies back down on the bed. A surprising stil ness to the room—no sounds of traffic, or children playing outside, or neighbors with their radios.
“You're awake?” says Francesca. She has put on some light makeup and she looks exquisite as she steps graceful y across the room. “Are you ready for dinner, Mamma? We ‘ve booked a little restaurant.”
“Oh,” says Zoli.
“Henri's gone to get the car. Do you like him, Mamma?”
