Juliet. Anne Fortier

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      But Janice couldn’t explain it. In the end, she would merely mumble, ‘Well, maybe it was someone else. When you’re two years old, all men look the same.’ Then she’d snort, ‘Hell, they still do.’

      As a teenager I used to fantasize about returning to Siena and suddenly remembering everything about my childhood; now that I was finally here, hurtling down narrow roads without recognizing anything, I began to wonder if living away from this place for most of my life had somehow withered away an essential part of my soul.

      

      Pia and Peppo Tolomei lived on a farm in a small valley, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. Gentle hills rose around their property on all sides, and the comfort of peaceful seclusion more than made up for the lack of extended views. The house was by no means grand; its yellow walls had weeds growing in the cracks, the green shutters needed much more than just a paint job, and the terracotta roof looked as if the next storm—or maybe just someone sneezing inside—would make all the tiles come rattling down. And yet the many trailing vines and strategically placed flowerpots were able to mask the decay and make the place utterly irresistible.

      After parking the scooter and grabbing a crutch leaning against the wall, Peppo took me directly into the garden. Back here, in the shade of the house, his wife Pia sat on a stool amongst her grandchildren and great-grandchildren like an ageless harvest goddess surrounded by nymphs, teaching them how to make braids out of fresh garlic. It took several attempts before Peppo was able to make her understand who I was and why he had brought me there, but once Pia finally dared to trust her ears, she stuck her feet into her slippers, got up with the aid of her entourage, and enfolded me in a tearful embrace. ‘Giulietta!’ she exclaimed, pressing me to her chest and kissing me on the forehead all at once. ‘Che meraviglia! It is a miracle!’

      Her joy in seeing me was so genuine that I almost felt ashamed of myself. I had not gone to the Owl Museum this morning in search of my long-lost godparents, nor had it occurred to me before this moment that I even had godparents, and that they would be this happy to see me alive and well. Yet here they were, and their kindness made me realize that, until now, I had never felt truly welcome anywhere, not even in my own home. At least not when Janice was around.

      Within an hour the house and garden filled with people and food. It was as if everybody had been waiting just around the corner, local delicacy in hand, desperate for an excuse to celebrate. Some were family, some friends and neighbours, and they all claimed to have known my parents and to have wondered what ever happened to their twin daughters. No one said anything explicit, but I sensed that, back then, Aunt Rose had swooped in and claimed Janice and me against the wishes of the Tolomei family—thanks to Uncle Jim she still had connections in the State Department—and that we had vanished without a trace, much to the frustration of Pia and Peppo, who were, after all, our godparents.

      ‘But that is all in the past,’ Peppo kept saying, patting me on the back, ‘for now you are here, and we can finally talk.’ But it was hard to know where to begin; there were so many years that must be accounted for, and so many questions that needed answers, including the reason for my sister’s mysterious absence.

      ‘She was too busy to come along,’ I said, looking away. ‘But I’m sure she’ll come and visit you soon.’

      It did not help that only a handful of the guests spoke English, and that every answer to every inquiry had to first be understood and interpreted by a third party. Still, everyone was so friendly and warm that even I, after a while, began to relax and enjoy myself. It didn’t really matter that we couldn’t understand each other, what mattered were those little smiles and nods that said so much more than words.

      At one point, Pia came out on the terrace with a photo album and sat down to show me pictures from my parents’ wedding. As soon as she opened the album, other women clustered around us, eager to follow along and help turn the pages.

      ‘There!’ Pia pointed at a large picture. ‘Your mother is wearing the dress I wore at my wedding. Oh, aren’t they a handsome couple? And here, this is your cousin Francesco…’

      ‘Wait!’ I tried to prevent her from turning the page, but in vain. She probably didn’t realize that I had never seen a picture of my father before, and that the only grown-up photo of my mother I had ever known was her high-school graduation portrait on Aunt Rose’s piano.

      Pia’s album came as a surprise to me. Not so much because my mother was visibly pregnant underneath the wedding gown, but because my father looked as if he was a hundred years old. Obviously, he was not, but standing next to my mother—an attractive college dropout with dimples in her smile—he looked like old man Abraham in my illustrated children’s Bible.

      Even so, they appeared to be happy together, and although there were no shots of them kissing, most of the photos showed my mother clinging to her husband’s elbow and looking at him with great admiration. And so after a while I shrugged off my astonishment and decided to accept the possibility that here, in this bright and blissful place, concepts like time and age had very little bearing on people’s lives.

      The women around me confirmed my theory; none of them seemed to find the union in any way extraordinary. As far as I could understand, their chirping commentary—all in Italian—was primarily about my mother’s dress, her veil, and the complex genealogical relationship of every single wedding guest to my father and to themselves.

      After the wedding photos came a few pages dedicated to our baptism, but my parents were barely in them. The pictures showed Pia holding a baby that could have been either Janice or me—it was impossible to tell which one, and Pia could not remember—and Peppo proudly holding the other. There appeared to have been two different ceremonies; one inside a church, and one outside in the sunshine, by the baptismal font of the contrada of the Owl.

      ‘That was a good day,’ said Pia, smiling sadly. ‘You and your sister became little civettini, little owls. It was too bad…’ She did not finish the sentence, but closed the album very tenderly. ‘It is such a long time ago. Sometimes I wonder if time really heals.’ She was interrupted by a sudden commotion inside the house, and by a voice impatiently calling her name. ‘Come!’ Pia got up, suddenly anxious. ‘That must be our Nonna!’

      Old Granny Tolomei, whom everyone referred to as Nonna, lived with one of her granddaughters in the centre of Siena, but had been summoned to the farm this afternoon in order to meet me—an arrangement that clearly did not fit her personal schedule. She was standing in the hallway, irritably arranging her black lace with one hand while leaning heavily on her granddaughter with the other. Had I been as uncharitable as Janice, I would have instantly proclaimed her the picture-perfect fairy-tale witch. All that was missing was the crow on her shoulder.

      Pia rushed forward to greet the old lady, who grudgingly allowed herself to be kissed on both cheeks and escorted into a particularly favoured chair in the living room. Some minutes were spent making Nonna comfortable; cushions fetched, placed, and moved around, and special lemonade brought in from the kitchen, immediately sent back, and brought in anew, this time with a slice of lemon perched on the rim.

      ‘Nonna is our aunt,’ Peppo whispered in my ear, ‘and your father’s youngest sister. Come, I will introduce you.’ He pulled me along to stand to attention in front of the old lady and eagerly explained the situation to her in Italian, clearly expecting to see some sign of joy on her face.

      But Nonna refused to smile. No matter how much Peppo urged her, even begged her, to rejoice with the rest of us, she could not be persuaded to take any kind of pleasure in my presence. He even had me step forward so that she could see me more clearly, but what she saw only gave her further reason to scowl, and before Peppo СКАЧАТЬ