WHEN NONNA VENERE VISITED, SHE ARRIVED BY TRAIN LIKE IN A MOVIE, STEPPING DOWN FROM THE FIRST-CLASS COMPARTMENT ENVELOPED BY SMOKE, WEARING A CLOCHE WITH A VEIL. SHE HAD FOUR LARGE SUITCASES AND NO GIFTS. EACH TIME SHE CAME, I FELT AN EXCITEMENT TINGED WITH FEAR, AS WHILE SHE WAS STAYING WITH US, I WAS FORBIDDEN TO DO CERTAIN THINGS I ENJOYED, LIKE BLOWING BUBBLES IN MY GLASS OF MILK THROUGH THE HOLE OF A DRY BUCATINI SPAGHETTI. NONNA VENERE’S LIPS TWITCHED WITH SECRET SLIGHTS AND OPINIONS. I FOLLOWED HER AROUND THE HOUSE LIKE A PUPPY IN THE HOPES THAT SHE WOULD TELL ME ONE OF HER WAR STORIES, WHICH LATER KEPT ME UP AT NIGHT.
NOMINATED FOR NOTABLE ESSAYS AND LITERARY NONFICTION 2021.
NEW YORK WAS DEFLATING IN A HAZE OF ROT AND TAR. THE POETRY READING BY ALLEN GINSBERG AT THE PUBLIC THEATER WOULD START IN LESS THAN AN HOUR. I PICKED UP THE PACE. I COULD SMELL ON ME MY MUSTY FOURTH-FLOOR WALK-UP: BATHTUB IN THE KITCHEN, A LONESOME SPIDER PLANT MY BRITTLE ATTEMPT AT COZINESS. A CHILD’S DRAWING OF A HOME. PIGEONS CRIED ON THE FIRE ESCAPE I NOW KEPT LOCKED. SOMEONE HAD BROKEN IN, STOLEN MY CHANGE AND FAKE JEWELRY, RIFLED THROUGH THE DRAWERS, THROWING EVERYTHING ON THE FLOOR LIKE A CRAZED LOVER.
AS A CHILD IN ITALY, MY FATHER, A SUCCESSFUL BUSINESSMAN, IMPLANTED IN MY BROTHERS AND ME A BELIEF IN THE MYTHICAL POWER OF LINGUISTIC PRECISION. HE LOOKED AT US KIDS LIKE A PANTHER IN REPOSE, READY TO POUNCE ON A MISUSED ADJECTIVE OR SLOPPY ADVERB. HE LABELED ANY EXPRESSION THAT WAS TOO GENERIC, BAMBINATE, CHILDISH NONSENSE, A WEAKNESS OF THE SPIRIT THAT WOULD LEAD TO EVERY KIND OF REPREHENSIBLE BEHAVIOR AS ADULTS. I WAS HIS DEVOTED FOLLOWER.
ONE DAY BINDI, THE ONE IN OUR RADICAL GROUP IN MILAN WE ALL LOOKED UP TO, HELD ME BACK AFTER WE WERE DONE GIVING OUT FLYERS FOR THE DESAPARECIDOS IN ARGENTINA.
THE GROUP HAD STARTED SPONTANEOUSLY AFTER A JOURNALIST FRIEND WAS SHOT DEAD. HE HAD POINTED HIS FINGER AT MAFIA AND PUBLIC FIGURES INVOLVED WITH DRUG TRAFFICKING. THE OFFICIAL INQUIRY WAS LAX. WE SPENT NIGHTS TALKING ABOUT OUR DESIRE TO FIGHT FOR JUSTICE FOR HIM AND OTHERS.
“THERE’S SOMETHING I’D LIKE TO ASK YOU,” BINDI SAID THAT DAY. “LET’S WALK UNTIL WE ARE ALONE.”
“DO IT. TAKE A CLASS,” A FRIEND TOLD ME OVER DRINKS IN HELL’S KITCHEN. A CHEAP DIVE NEAR MY PLACE. MY PENCIL FIGURES LOOKED VAGUE AND LISTLESS. THEY DROVE ME MAD. SHE KNEW A GOOD PAINTER WHO TAUGHT AT PRATT. HE WAS A FRIEND, THE WORKSHOP WOULD BE FREE FOR ME.
“I WILL,” I SAID. “AN ITALIAN WHO CAN’T DRAW, I SHOULD APOLOGIZE.” I SMOKED TOO MUCH, I DRANK TOO MUCH. IT MADE ME SEE THINGS MORE CLEARLY; LIFE WAS LESS BEAUTIFUL BUT MORE INTERESTING.
THE NEXT DAY I WALKED TO THE CLASS AT PRATT INSTITUTE FROM MY RENTAL ROOM ON WEST END AVENUE. THREE EASY MILES. A CHEAP CHOICE, AND GOOD EXERCISE. I STARTED OUT EARLY IN THE MORNING, WHEN THE GRAY OF THE SKY HAD A LIVID GLOW, NOT A HINT OF SMOKE AND NO PINK. I PICKED UP THE NAMES OF THINGS IN ENGLISH ALONG THE WAY LIKE PEBBLES. NO LOITERING, HOAGIES, TOW-AWAY.
LIKE MOST ITALIANS, I AM FASCINATED BY THE INVISIBLE. WHEN I WAS A CHILD, I PLAYED IN THE RUINS OF BUILDINGS THAT HAD DISAPPEARED OVERNIGHT IN AIR RAIDS. WE OFTEN DROVE ALONG A BEAUTIFUL ROAD LINED BY POPLARS: ONE IN PARTICULAR WAS ALIVE BUT FOR YEARS HAD GIVEN NO LEAVES. DURING WORLD WORLD II, A BOY, A LITTLE PARTISAN, HAD BEEN HUNG FROM IT BY THE FASCISTS.
ACCORDING TO THE ANCIENT ROMANS, OBJECTS CRY WHEN WE CANNOT. IN THE AENEID, AENEAS SPEAKS OF LACRIMA RERUM, THE TEARS IN THINGS, WHILE HE IS CONTEMPLATING THE CRUMBLING WALLS OF TROY.
“I CAN TELL YOU A STORY,” MY MOTHER SAID. THE WAY SHE WAS STARING AT THE HANDS IN HER LAP, IT WAS GOING TO BE A FROSTY TALE. FROM MY HOSPITAL BED, SHE LOOKED LIKE THE KIND OF GHOSTLY APPARITION WHERE A LIGHTBULB GOES ON AND OFF AND LIGHT RAIN IS FALLING.
“HOW’S JACK?” I ASKED. THE BANDAGES CRADLING MY CHIN MADE MY VOICE A BABBLE. BUT SHE UNDERSTOOD. MOTHERS.
“I DON’T KNOW,” SHE SAID. “THE USUAL ASS, I WOULD THINK.”
SHE HAD ALWAYS HOPED I WOULD MARRY A MATH TEACHER, THE TYPE WHO MADE STUDENTS SEE NUMBERS AS A BEAUTIFUL SYSTEM OF PLANETS.
STIFF CHAIRS, PENS SCRATCHING. WE SAT AT A LARGE TABLE, BUDDING PLAYWRIGHTS IN SUMMER CLOTHES AND FRESH HAIRCUTS. THE MENTOR LOOKED TINY AND MYSTERIOUS, WITH BEAUTIFUL BLACK HAIR AND DELICATE SKIN. I WAS AFRAID OF HER. SHE WAS TERRIBLY SMART AND FAMOUS. I TOOK NOTES SLOWLY AND CAREFULLY TO SHOW I WAS CONFIDENT, THEN VERY FAST, AS I FEARED MISSING ANYTHING. DURING OUR LUNCH BREAK, I SAT QUIETLY, AND SHE DID TOO. I WATCHED HER WRITE IN HER NOTEBOOK. THERE WAS SUNLIGHT ON PART OF HER FACE. I WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT LOVE.
I WROTE DOWN: YOU HAVE TO CREATE A TEST TO DRAMATIZE THE CENTER OF THIS HUMAN BEING. AFTERWARDS, YOU HAVE TO SAY, ‘I KNOW THIS PERSON.’
ONE NIGHT ON A TRAIN RIDE FROM MOSCOW TO ROSTOV-ON-DON, AN ARMENIAN TRIED TO BUY ME FROM MY HUSBAND. THE ARMENIAN OFFERED FOUR GOATS AND THREW IN AN EXTRA ONE FOR MY LEATHER JACKET. THE THREE OF US WERE ALONE IN THE DARK CORRIDOR, THE MAN GESTURING AND INTENSE. IT FELT AS IF IT COULD REALLY HAPPEN; I WAS GOING TO FOLLOW THIS STRANGER TO HIS FARM, WITH ONLY A FEW PHRASES OF RUSSIAN TAKEN FROM CHEKHOV. LATER, MY HUSBAND AND I LAUGHED. THERE WAS NO OTHER WOMAN THEN. WE SLEPT ON THE TRAIN LIKE RIDING OVER WATER.
DON’T EVER SAY THAT YOU ARE GOING TO TELL A STORY.
VERA CHECKED HERSELF IN THE MIRROR OF THE CAFÉ AT THE WALKER ART CENTER IN MINNEAPOLIS: A PALE FACE WITH DARK LIPSTICK, A WHITE ROSE IN HER LAPEL. ROSA ROSAE ROSAM, JAMES LIKED TO SAY, TEASING IT BETWEEN HIS THUMB AND INDEX FINGER LIKE A FRUIT.
SHE ASKED THE BARTENDER AT THE WALKER FOR ESPRESSO, POURED SUGAR IN, STIRRED. WHEN SHE WAS A CHILD HER MOTHER IN ITALY TOLD HER THAT SHE KNEW HOW TO READ THE FUTURE IN COFFEE GROUNDS, BUT IT TURNED OUT SHE DID NOT SEE HER OWN HUSBAND LEAVING HER, ONLY A NEW JOB FOR HIM, A NEW CITY. THE GRAINY COFFEE SMUDGES COULD NOT TELL ABOUT THE SUITCASE, THE TRAIN STATION, THE DRINKS WITH A DIFFERENT WOMAN. THEY KNEW NO SECRETS.
SHE WAS A CHILD, AND SOON A LITTLE GIRL. WOMEN SAID SO. THAT’S RIGHT, HER MOTHER SMILED IN RESPONSE, RED LIPS PARTED LIKE A WOUND. THE CHILD’S HAIR RESEMBLED HONEY, MEN SAID. WHEN THE WIND DRIFTED THROUGH IT SHE FELT LIKE THE MODELS IN THE MAGAZINES: HEAD TURNED STARING HARD, NO SMILING. SHE FIGURED SHE WOULD BE THAT SKINNY ONE DAY. ONLY WITH SHORTER LEGS, JUST LIKE HER MOTHER. WHILE SHE WASHED HER FACE AT THE SINK SHE WONDERED WHEN A WOMAN WOULD APPEAR IN THE MIRROR. MAYBE IT WOULD HAPPEN FAST, LIKE A RASH, OR A PREGNANCY. SHE HAD OVERHEARD WOMEN LAUGHING ABOUT THAT, SHUSHING EACH OTHER.
ON SUNDAYS HER MOTHER SPENT THE DAY AT THE MALL WITH HER GIRLFRIENDS. IT WAS HER DAY. THEY ALL DIDN’T HAVE A DIME TO SPARE, BUT THEY HAD TIME. THEY TOOK OFF EARLY IN A CAR AND RETURNED LATE IN THE EVENING, LOUD LIKE DRUNKS. THEY LAUGHED DESCRIBING HOW THEY HAD TRIED ON THIS, THAT. EVERYTHING. THEY COULDN’T BUY A THING AND THEY DIDN’T GIVE A RAT’S ASS, THEY SAID. HER FATHER STOOD IN THE DOORWAY, A SLENDER SHADOW WITH A CIGARETTE, A CAN OF BEER. HEY HANDSOME, THE WOMEN HOLLERED OUT THE CAR WINDOWS, TAKING OFF. HER MOTHER’S MOOD GREW QUIET ONCE SHE WAS BACK IN THE HOUSE; SHE SAT IN THE ARMCHAIR COVERED IN FRAYED CHIFFON NOT LISTENING TO A THING ANYBODY SAID.
