MADE IN NIRVANA
Chapter 26
It starts again from now
Maria got up early, she had a morning's work at the Academy of Fine Arts, which was the reason why she had come back from India in September. Just one morning's work but this year it was her turn to pose for the entrance exams for the faculty of sculpture. The institute's square courtyard, surrounded by ancient arches, housed the janitor's shed. Beppi greeted her warmly: How was she? She had lost weight, but looked beautiful. What had she done? A slimming diet? No, India. Ah, India, so how come she was wearing shoes? He thought everyone went barefoot in India. Maria joked with him, she asked him about his family, children, grandchild. They were all fine, he said, getting fatter by the day. He consulted his schedule: there were two students taking the exam.
She undressed behind a screen and put on her white and blue dressing gown. The students were already in their places, focused, a little nervous. She removed her robe and, naked, sat on the stool. She chose a simple position, one she could easily keep throughout the morning, in sessions of forty-five minutes: one foot on the stool rung, the other foot on the floor, one arm behind her back to keep upright, the other arm resting on the opposite leg, head turned slightly to the right, eyes focused on a point in front of her. The students began working with clay. Time passed slowly, nothing to do, time to think.
The first image was that of the mountains and Pushpa; she was sure the baby had been born, she felt a total certainty and also knew that the young mother was well and happy. She saw Mataji, Pushpa's mother-in-law, who pretended to breastfeed Ritu when Pushpa had yet to return from the fields; Grandma gave her breast and Ritu sucked, or pretended to suck, and calmed down. Pitaji, the grandfather, smoking the water pipe with his son, in silence, waiting for the sunset; Pushpa and herself going to collect firewood with baskets on their backs. Then came the image of Surinder on his blocks, accompanying her to buy a torch. She saw him waving goodbye when she was already on the bus leaving Mcleodganj, leaning out of the open door. She saw Delhi's children being carried on their mothers' back, with their trousers split on their bottom, ready to pee and pooh.
The voice of one of the students brought her back to reality; he seemed annoyed: "Can you keep your head still, please?" Maria apologized. It was her job and she wanted to do it well, but she didn't like his tone. The student was nervous; after all it was an exam.
She concentrated on keeping her head still while, with her mind, she returned to India. This time she saw Harry, smiling happily next to Luna in the Tourist Camp's dormitory; Luna looking at her with affection and giving her her address before leaving; Ted, polite and discreet, still incognito for a few more months. She would write to Luna today. She saw Colin and Sanya, relighting her cigarette going out after every two puffs, explaining the Ten Worlds; Sanya with dozens of bracelets and shining eyes, Colin with his charming look and radio presenter voice. She was going to write to them too, probably tomorrow.
She saw Jean-Claude about to enter the Yogi Lodge and asking her: 'Would you like a cup of tea?' She remembered how she felt at that moment, hurrying down the stairs, still dazed from the opium that had left her horizontal for twenty-four hours. She saw Paul, getting off the bus in Kashmiri Gate bus station and looking at her for the first time, his glance piercing as an arrow.
The same student's voice brought her back to earth with a jolt: "Can you keep your eyes still?" he said, clearly annoyed.
Maria turned toward him and took a deep breath before speaking: "I'm keeping my body completely still, and my head too, but not moving my eyes is much more difficult. You're doing a sketch for a statue, after all."
"And you're doing your job," he retorted. "So, can you keep your eyes still?"
She felt the blood rise to her face, her cheeks burning. She didn't answer right away, she knew she would react and be rude to him; in fact she could happily punch him on the nose. She had to respond, instead, but how did she do that? Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. Chant for his happiness, Maria. Whose happiness, this asshole? Yes, and he's not an asshole. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. But he is incredibly rude and I feel like hitting him. Maybe you're right but he's taking an examination and he is nervous, perhaps his work is not coming on well. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. That means he's not a sculptor, maybe he ought to study household management. Think about it, for him these few hours are crucial. Okay, I understand, I see your point of view, but he's rude. He might well be rude, but don't be swayed, behave with respect, even if he has too little. Respect yourself. Okay, you've won, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. She felt calmer, more in control, amused by her inner dialogue, although she was still boiling with the rage that had submerged her like a sudden wave.
She sat motionless and, at that very moment she took a drastic decision, a life-changing one. She would leave this job and go back to India as soon as possible. How long for? Six months, the maximum period allowed by a visa. Little by little her anger disappeared as she began to ponder the idea. Leave such a comfortable job? And how was she going to earn the money to travel? She could paint; indeed she could continue to paint. In those four years as a model she had learned a lot just by listening to the advice that teachers gave to students and looking at their work. At home she liked to draw and had done many paintings. Before going to India she had considered them mediocre and hid them from others; she judged her paintings just like she judged herself. However, since getting back, she had looked at them again and had to admit that they weren't at all bad. With all the tourists coming to Venice, she could sell enough paintings to earn what she needed to quit her job and start travelling again. It wasn't by chance, she thought, that she lived a stone's throw from an art gallery. She would show her paintings to the couple who ran it and maybe they'd help her sell a few. And how was she going to pay the rent? She could rent her house for six months. Ester knew a lot of people and would help her find the right person.
She started to feel some enthusiasm for the idea. She imagined a set of scales, with one of the plates holding the 'safe' option to stay in Venice, carry on as she was doing and maybe go back to India next summer, and the other plate with the 'crazy' option, which was surfacing with strength, to drop everything and leave again, as soon as she could. She decided to consult her heart. In her head she chanted Nam-myoho-renge-kyo to stay in Venice, and her heart told her it was a safe choice, but not exciting; then she chanted Nam-myoho-renge-kyo to return to India as soon as possible and her heart leapt and did a somersault, it started to skip and dance for joy, savouring the freedom; and she wanted to run, jump, laugh and cheer. She was breathing with some anxiety, realizing that anything she wanted to do was possible. The anger the student had provoked forgotten, Maria was struggling to hold back the smile that was pushing from inside and trying to break onto her face. She peered at him and sent him a virtual kiss. 'If you knew the effect you had on me!' she said to herself. 'You have changed my life.' Even if the details were still to be decided, she knew without a doubt that her heart had chosen: she would leave after the Christmas holidays, having sold the paintings she had already finished and those she would paint. And who would she go with? She didn't know. Would she have the courage to go alone? The answer came clear and simple: yes. She wouldn't be often alone, this she already knew, and anyway, between now and January there were still three months and many things could happen.
At the end of the morning, full of excitement, Maria got dressed and took leave from the two boys, wishing both of them good luck. She was about to go out of the door when the nervous student approached her. "I'm sorry I spoke to you like that, earlier," he said.
She was surprised, but pleased, that he should apologize. "No problem," she said. "If you knew the effect you had on me, you wouldn't believe it!"
The student looked at her questioningly.
"It's a long story," said Maria. "Maybe, next time, try to be more polite, but really, just now there is no problem!" She stepped into the Academy's courtyard in the midday sun and saw one of the tutors walking under the arches. "Good morning Sir!" she shouted cheerfully.
He recognized her at once: "Hello Maria, I'm in a hurry. I'll see you in October."
"I don't think so, Sir! I'm not coming back!" she cried, unable to control her euphoria.
"Wait a minute!" Professor De Filippo crossed the yard, shook her hand and bent down to kiss her cheeks. "What's this thing that you are not coming back? You look beautiful, by the way, what have you done?"
"I've been to India for two and a half months and I've decided to go back. So I'm leaving my job!"
The tutor looked at her in amazement." Have you thought this through?" he asked.
Maria laughed, thinking about the way she had taken such an important decision. "I'd say I have. I'm happy with my choice," she said, full of enthusiasm.
"If you're sure! It's important to follow your heart, especially when you are young. Good luck! Come back every now and then, if you can spare the time."
"Thank you Sir!" She crossed the bridge running, unable to contain her enthusiasm.
The Galleria d'Arte was still open and Maria went in, smiling: "Would you be interested in seeing the work of a beginner? I learned to paint while working as a model at the Academy."
The owner recognized her: "Looking doesn't cost anything. You live here in the square, don't you?"
"Yes, above the 'Guilder'."
"I'll pop in when I close for lunch, in ten minutes' time."
"Second floor. Dal Fiore on the doorbell."
The owner looked at Maria's paintings with an expert eye: "They are not at all bad, some are very nice. You have a good hand, your own style, and this is important." She told her that, if she didn't ask too much, she would certainly sell them. She put five paintings aside, could she take them to the shop in the afternoon? Maria felt happy and encouraged, even though she was sorry to give them away; she had poured her life into them, but she had to get used to letting them go. The owner, a painter herself, understood her dilemma and told her that paintings were like children, they were ours because we made them, but they no longer belonged to us, they were free. "When they grow up you have to let them go," she said with a smile. "You'll make more paintings!"
She was preparing some lunch when she heard the doorbell. Wiping her hands on her apron she hurried toward the intercom. She didn't quite understand who it was, but she thought he mentioned a parcel. "I'm coming," she said, searching the room with her eyes for the keys. As usual, she had misplaced her handbag. She looked everywhere and finally found it under her jacket. She ran down the stairs; in the entrance hall a man in uniform was waiting for her, with a huge parcel.
"Maria Dal Fiore, is that you?"
"Yes, it's me!"
"Sign here," he said, handing her a signature pad, looking at her with interest.
"Is this for me?" she asked, peering at the large grey package.
"If you are Maria Dal Fiore!"
"Yes, yes, it's me," she replied, surprised, excited, hoping the impossible would indeed be possible.
The man placed the signature pad back into the satchel he carried over his shoulder and took his leave. Maria was left with the large bundle next to her, reaching almost up to her waist. Was it, by any chance...? No, it couldn't be! But what else could it be? With an effort she picked it up, it must have weighed at least thirty pounds. She tried to rip the grey cover that was wrapping it, but it was plasticized and wouldn't tear. She was almost certain of what it was, although she couldn't quite believe it. She climbed the stairs dragging it, a smile on her lips. She reached her apartment, panting, her heart pounding from the effort. With her foot she pushed the door closed behind her. Leaving the package in the hall she ran to the kitchen to look for scissors, but couldn't find them. She took the first sharp knife that came to hand and went back to it. No sooner had she cut into the grey plastic than the red colour of her backpack peeped out from inside. Her ridiculous red rucksack with the huge Canadian flag was here, with her! If someone had told her that a friend she believed to be dead had been found alive, Maria would have felt the way she felt now: amazed, surprised, and over the moon. She laughed out loud and cried Hurrah! She danced and skipped for joy. She dragged the bundle into her room and, with many cuts of the knife she freed it from the tight plastic. It was dirty, spoiled, a little broken here and there, but here was her huge and loyal companion.
She undressed behind a screen and put on her white and blue dressing gown. The students were already in their places, focused, a little nervous. She removed her robe and, naked, sat on the stool. She chose a simple position, one she could easily keep throughout the morning, in sessions of forty-five minutes: one foot on the stool rung, the other foot on the floor, one arm behind her back to keep upright, the other arm resting on the opposite leg, head turned slightly to the right, eyes focused on a point in front of her. The students began working with clay. Time passed slowly, nothing to do, time to think.
The first image was that of the mountains and Pushpa; she was sure the baby had been born, she felt a total certainty and also knew that the young mother was well and happy. She saw Mataji, Pushpa's mother-in-law, who pretended to breastfeed Ritu when Pushpa had yet to return from the fields; Grandma gave her breast and Ritu sucked, or pretended to suck, and calmed down. Pitaji, the grandfather, smoking the water pipe with his son, in silence, waiting for the sunset; Pushpa and herself going to collect firewood with baskets on their backs. Then came the image of Surinder on his blocks, accompanying her to buy a torch. She saw him waving goodbye when she was already on the bus leaving Mcleodganj, leaning out of the open door. She saw Delhi's children being carried on their mothers' back, with their trousers split on their bottom, ready to pee and pooh.
The voice of one of the students brought her back to reality; he seemed annoyed: "Can you keep your head still, please?" Maria apologized. It was her job and she wanted to do it well, but she didn't like his tone. The student was nervous; after all it was an exam.
She concentrated on keeping her head still while, with her mind, she returned to India. This time she saw Harry, smiling happily next to Luna in the Tourist Camp's dormitory; Luna looking at her with affection and giving her her address before leaving; Ted, polite and discreet, still incognito for a few more months. She would write to Luna today. She saw Colin and Sanya, relighting her cigarette going out after every two puffs, explaining the Ten Worlds; Sanya with dozens of bracelets and shining eyes, Colin with his charming look and radio presenter voice. She was going to write to them too, probably tomorrow.
She saw Jean-Claude about to enter the Yogi Lodge and asking her: 'Would you like a cup of tea?' She remembered how she felt at that moment, hurrying down the stairs, still dazed from the opium that had left her horizontal for twenty-four hours. She saw Paul, getting off the bus in Kashmiri Gate bus station and looking at her for the first time, his glance piercing as an arrow.
The same student's voice brought her back to earth with a jolt: "Can you keep your eyes still?" he said, clearly annoyed.
Maria turned toward him and took a deep breath before speaking: "I'm keeping my body completely still, and my head too, but not moving my eyes is much more difficult. You're doing a sketch for a statue, after all."
"And you're doing your job," he retorted. "So, can you keep your eyes still?"
She felt the blood rise to her face, her cheeks burning. She didn't answer right away, she knew she would react and be rude to him; in fact she could happily punch him on the nose. She had to respond, instead, but how did she do that? Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. Chant for his happiness, Maria. Whose happiness, this asshole? Yes, and he's not an asshole. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. But he is incredibly rude and I feel like hitting him. Maybe you're right but he's taking an examination and he is nervous, perhaps his work is not coming on well. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. That means he's not a sculptor, maybe he ought to study household management. Think about it, for him these few hours are crucial. Okay, I understand, I see your point of view, but he's rude. He might well be rude, but don't be swayed, behave with respect, even if he has too little. Respect yourself. Okay, you've won, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. She felt calmer, more in control, amused by her inner dialogue, although she was still boiling with the rage that had submerged her like a sudden wave.
She sat motionless and, at that very moment she took a drastic decision, a life-changing one. She would leave this job and go back to India as soon as possible. How long for? Six months, the maximum period allowed by a visa. Little by little her anger disappeared as she began to ponder the idea. Leave such a comfortable job? And how was she going to earn the money to travel? She could paint; indeed she could continue to paint. In those four years as a model she had learned a lot just by listening to the advice that teachers gave to students and looking at their work. At home she liked to draw and had done many paintings. Before going to India she had considered them mediocre and hid them from others; she judged her paintings just like she judged herself. However, since getting back, she had looked at them again and had to admit that they weren't at all bad. With all the tourists coming to Venice, she could sell enough paintings to earn what she needed to quit her job and start travelling again. It wasn't by chance, she thought, that she lived a stone's throw from an art gallery. She would show her paintings to the couple who ran it and maybe they'd help her sell a few. And how was she going to pay the rent? She could rent her house for six months. Ester knew a lot of people and would help her find the right person.
She started to feel some enthusiasm for the idea. She imagined a set of scales, with one of the plates holding the 'safe' option to stay in Venice, carry on as she was doing and maybe go back to India next summer, and the other plate with the 'crazy' option, which was surfacing with strength, to drop everything and leave again, as soon as she could. She decided to consult her heart. In her head she chanted Nam-myoho-renge-kyo to stay in Venice, and her heart told her it was a safe choice, but not exciting; then she chanted Nam-myoho-renge-kyo to return to India as soon as possible and her heart leapt and did a somersault, it started to skip and dance for joy, savouring the freedom; and she wanted to run, jump, laugh and cheer. She was breathing with some anxiety, realizing that anything she wanted to do was possible. The anger the student had provoked forgotten, Maria was struggling to hold back the smile that was pushing from inside and trying to break onto her face. She peered at him and sent him a virtual kiss. 'If you knew the effect you had on me!' she said to herself. 'You have changed my life.' Even if the details were still to be decided, she knew without a doubt that her heart had chosen: she would leave after the Christmas holidays, having sold the paintings she had already finished and those she would paint. And who would she go with? She didn't know. Would she have the courage to go alone? The answer came clear and simple: yes. She wouldn't be often alone, this she already knew, and anyway, between now and January there were still three months and many things could happen.
At the end of the morning, full of excitement, Maria got dressed and took leave from the two boys, wishing both of them good luck. She was about to go out of the door when the nervous student approached her. "I'm sorry I spoke to you like that, earlier," he said.
She was surprised, but pleased, that he should apologize. "No problem," she said. "If you knew the effect you had on me, you wouldn't believe it!"
The student looked at her questioningly.
"It's a long story," said Maria. "Maybe, next time, try to be more polite, but really, just now there is no problem!" She stepped into the Academy's courtyard in the midday sun and saw one of the tutors walking under the arches. "Good morning Sir!" she shouted cheerfully.
He recognized her at once: "Hello Maria, I'm in a hurry. I'll see you in October."
"I don't think so, Sir! I'm not coming back!" she cried, unable to control her euphoria.
"Wait a minute!" Professor De Filippo crossed the yard, shook her hand and bent down to kiss her cheeks. "What's this thing that you are not coming back? You look beautiful, by the way, what have you done?"
"I've been to India for two and a half months and I've decided to go back. So I'm leaving my job!"
The tutor looked at her in amazement." Have you thought this through?" he asked.
Maria laughed, thinking about the way she had taken such an important decision. "I'd say I have. I'm happy with my choice," she said, full of enthusiasm.
"If you're sure! It's important to follow your heart, especially when you are young. Good luck! Come back every now and then, if you can spare the time."
"Thank you Sir!" She crossed the bridge running, unable to contain her enthusiasm.
The Galleria d'Arte was still open and Maria went in, smiling: "Would you be interested in seeing the work of a beginner? I learned to paint while working as a model at the Academy."
The owner recognized her: "Looking doesn't cost anything. You live here in the square, don't you?"
"Yes, above the 'Guilder'."
"I'll pop in when I close for lunch, in ten minutes' time."
"Second floor. Dal Fiore on the doorbell."
The owner looked at Maria's paintings with an expert eye: "They are not at all bad, some are very nice. You have a good hand, your own style, and this is important." She told her that, if she didn't ask too much, she would certainly sell them. She put five paintings aside, could she take them to the shop in the afternoon? Maria felt happy and encouraged, even though she was sorry to give them away; she had poured her life into them, but she had to get used to letting them go. The owner, a painter herself, understood her dilemma and told her that paintings were like children, they were ours because we made them, but they no longer belonged to us, they were free. "When they grow up you have to let them go," she said with a smile. "You'll make more paintings!"
She was preparing some lunch when she heard the doorbell. Wiping her hands on her apron she hurried toward the intercom. She didn't quite understand who it was, but she thought he mentioned a parcel. "I'm coming," she said, searching the room with her eyes for the keys. As usual, she had misplaced her handbag. She looked everywhere and finally found it under her jacket. She ran down the stairs; in the entrance hall a man in uniform was waiting for her, with a huge parcel.
"Maria Dal Fiore, is that you?"
"Yes, it's me!"
"Sign here," he said, handing her a signature pad, looking at her with interest.
"Is this for me?" she asked, peering at the large grey package.
"If you are Maria Dal Fiore!"
"Yes, yes, it's me," she replied, surprised, excited, hoping the impossible would indeed be possible.
The man placed the signature pad back into the satchel he carried over his shoulder and took his leave. Maria was left with the large bundle next to her, reaching almost up to her waist. Was it, by any chance...? No, it couldn't be! But what else could it be? With an effort she picked it up, it must have weighed at least thirty pounds. She tried to rip the grey cover that was wrapping it, but it was plasticized and wouldn't tear. She was almost certain of what it was, although she couldn't quite believe it. She climbed the stairs dragging it, a smile on her lips. She reached her apartment, panting, her heart pounding from the effort. With her foot she pushed the door closed behind her. Leaving the package in the hall she ran to the kitchen to look for scissors, but couldn't find them. She took the first sharp knife that came to hand and went back to it. No sooner had she cut into the grey plastic than the red colour of her backpack peeped out from inside. Her ridiculous red rucksack with the huge Canadian flag was here, with her! If someone had told her that a friend she believed to be dead had been found alive, Maria would have felt the way she felt now: amazed, surprised, and over the moon. She laughed out loud and cried Hurrah! She danced and skipped for joy. She dragged the bundle into her room and, with many cuts of the knife she freed it from the tight plastic. It was dirty, spoiled, a little broken here and there, but here was her huge and loyal companion.
Full of excitement, she started to undo the straps; it seemed as if no-one had opened or inspected it. The things she had packed, and almost forgotten, began to appear, one by one. First ten different coloured sarongs wrapped in clear plastic bags, then a few metres of raw silk, neatly folded. There was a strong smell from everything she pulled out; it was the smell of India she remembered so well, a blend of sandalwood, patchouli, spices, moisture and dust. She sniffed the things with a mixture of wonder and nostalgia. She was going to have to air everything and, eventually, wash it, but for the moment she opened the window and went back to her backpack, full of treasures.
She emptied it slowly, with deep emotion, pausing on every single thing. Each one reminded her of the place where she had bought it, the person who had sold it to her, the exchange of humanity between them. The boots made of bright coloured felt that she had bought in the Tibetan store in Mcleodganj; she took them out of the paper bag and put them on the floor, next to the pile of sarongs and the silk cloth. The brass bowls in three different sizes, bought from another Tibetan store and used as measures for flour: a quarter kilo, half a kilo and a kilo, respectively, hand-crafted with rounded designs. She stacked them, one above the other, from the largest to the smallest, and gazed at them with affection; they shone as if made of gold.
She then found a piece of wood for which she had paid a lot of money, but it was so special she had had to buy it; on each side of the block the image of a person had been crudely dug. There was a note written in her own handwriting, which she read as if she had never seen it before: it was the healing block, said the description. Tibetans used the carved images as a mould. When a person was sick, they filled the mould with a batter of flour and water; once dry, the four "dolls" they had obtained were hung outdoors in the four directions of north, south, east and west, as an offering to birds and animals. Through feeding on the dolls, they took away the disease, thus helping the sick person's healing process. Maria put the healing block next to the brass bowls and pulled out the next treasure from the rucksack.
It was a bag with ten cotton and lurex skirts, bought in Delhi. She opened them, one at a time. Looking in the mirror she briefly held them in front of her and turned from side to side; they were truly beautiful, glistening in the sunlight, and they were a novelty. The colours were gorgeous: strong red, bright pink, turquoise, green, yellow, white, grey, black, each one better than the last, and would sell easily. She folded them into a neat pile and laid them on the floor near the other things.
She pulled out the shawls bought in a shop of Kashmiri handicrafts, remembering how much she had to haggle on the price, but they were striking, skilfully embroidered on a soft and warm fabric, a blend of wool and cotton.
Then she found a large package with the two Tibetan tanka paintings and one hundred prints on rice paper, bought with Raffa in Kathmandu. They were very cheap and she was going to sell them quickly. At the bottom of the rucksack there was a small copper statue of the dancing Shiva, a silver-plated one of Krishna playing the flute, and one of sitting Ganesh with the little mouse at his feet. Underneath the figurines were the Tibetan woolly socks that Vale had given her as a thank you for having lent him her backpack. And at the very bottom were the boxes with the perfume essences, bought with Luna in Delhi a couple of days before leaving; they gave out an intense scent, even while closed.
Out of one of the side pockets came the lurex scarves bought on her last day in Janpath Boulevard. In the opposite side pocket she found five beautiful batik bought at Paharganj market. She set aside a bag with medicines she had carried throughout her adventures, the toiletry bag with soap and ayurvedic toothpaste, some lingerie, clothes and a few personal items brought from Italy.
She sat on the bed, looking at the piles of things lined up on the floor, inhaling deeply the smell of India, and strong emotions filled her chest: a mixture of happiness, nostalgia and memories. Suddenly she felt a great weariness. The sum of all the feelings that were competing for a place in her heart could be summed up in one word: gratitude.
She lay down on the bed, exhausted from all the excitement of the morning. She was grateful to all the people she had met, for the things they had taught her, and to India itself which had changed her life, because it had changed the values that nourished her soul. What seemed top priority before her journey now seemed secondary. The important thing was respect for life, for herself and for others. Luna's face appeared before her eyes explaining that she, Maria, was the Treasure Tower. She visualized a bright tower, encrusted with precious stones, rising from the earth and radiating compassion, strength and light. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, she said slowly, in a low voice. She wiped the tears that ran down her cheeks and into her ears. She smiled to herself; she wasn't crying, they were tears of happiness.
She wanted to see Ester; they had many things to talk about. She thought of their easy but deep friendship. She felt great affection and unconditional trust in her. Ester was always satisfied with her life, she had no need to assert herself, she was herself, without hesitation, inferiority complexes, insecurities; she appreciated what she had and was cheerful, generous and, of course, full of friends. For Maria, who had few real friends, she was a breath of fresh air, larger than life itself. Behind an elegant look, her beautifully styled hair and manicured nails, lurked Ester's rebellious and nonconformist side: she always surprised Maria with her strength, irrepressible energy and her loud contagious laughter.
She arrived in Campo Santo Stefano at about seven o'clock, the time when everybody started to converge; she sat down on the statue's steps and lit a cigarette, looking around. She had just stubbed out the butt when she saw Ester walking from the Accademia bridge with her relaxed pace. Maria stood up and ran to her; she was bursting to tell her everything, but didn't know where to start. Strolling together back toward the statue, she told her about the backpack that had been delivered that afternoon, intact, with all its contents. Ester wanted to see what had arrived, she'd probably buy some of the things herself, and then she'd help her sell what was left; between herself and Raffa, who at the time was in the Marche region, they'd sell the lot. Enrico arrived too and, suddenly, Maria remembered that Franca had made her promise to sell her the backpack. "It's weird, you know?" she said, looking from one to the other. "She criticized it from the first moment she saw it. She always told me it was ridiculous with that Canadian flag, it was so big it dwarfed me, and was too red. But, when she needed a big rucksack, she wanted to borrow it." Ester was only half listening to her, the other half was for Enrico. They looked at each other every two seconds and stood very close. It was obvious there was a strong attraction and they seemed completely at ease together. "In fact, it wasn't even Franca who needed it, but Vale. And then she tells me that she wants to buy it, as a souvenir of the trip, and to make sure that I never use it again." She saw Ester staring at her, suddenly struck. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Maria asked her.
"Did you say that Vale borrowed your rucksack? When, how and why?" her friend asked.
"Why? Is there a problem with Vale?"
"And with Franca, when she is with him," replied Ester, looking at Enrico. Then she turned back to Maria: "Tell me what happened."
Maria explained the whole story. Ester was listening with a serious expression, exchanging glances of increasing concern with Enrico. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asked him.
"I think so," he replied. They looked at her with the same expression.
"What is it? What are you thinking?" Maria asked, alarmed.
"I want to see the rucksack! There's something strange going on," replied Ester. "However, you have nothing to worry about; you've arrived safe and sound."
"Why? What do you think they did with it?"
"If they borrowed it for three days, Vale gave you a gift to say thank you, most unlike him, and then Franca wants to buy it, it makes me think that there is something very interesting for them inside," mused Ester. "What do you think?" she asked Enrico.
"Without a doubt! Knowing them!"
"Let's go to your place now, I'm bursting with curiosity," pressed Ester, setting off in the direction of Maria's house who, thinking back over how things had gone, was beginning to see them in a different light. They wouldn't have put drugs inside her backpack, would they? And where? No sooner had she asked herself the question than the answer appeared obvious; she had just emptied it and there was nothing left inside, so it could only be on the outside. But… how could Franca do such a thing? On the way to her house, they spoke in low voices, wondering what they would find and especially where; by now they all had the same suspicion. Maria mentioned her decision to return to India, but it wasn't the right time to talk about it; they were all too agitated by what was in store. Maria pushed the door closed behind her, Ester strode to her room, picked up her backpack and hefted it, looking at her questioningly: "Does it weigh more than normal?"
"I don't know, let me try." Maria weighed it up carefully. "Maybe. It's hard to tell." She looked from Ester to Enrico. "Do you think they put drugs in it?"
"Yes," they answered in unison and, looking at each other, burst out laughing.
"But where?"
"That's obvious," Enrico said, picking up her backpack, inspecting it. "Have you got a knife?"
Seeing her shocked expression, Ester gave her an excited smile. "We'll find a surprise, you'll see. Better than an Easter egg!" she said, laughing loudly, infecting them with her excitement. Maria came back with a knife; Enrico pushed the blade between the frame and the white plastic cap but the cap wasn't moving. He tried several times, applying more and more force, but neither of the caps budged. "They've been glued with superglue," he said. "Do you have a saw?" Since Maria shook her head, he said firmly: "Let's take it to my house; we'll open it with my hacksaw."
They walked all the way between the two houses almost without speaking, slowing down after the bridges only enough to catch their breath. Ester and Enrico walked close together, inseparable, the red backpack between them, to shelter it. Maria didn't want to touch it. "They will have put it in the top part of the structure," suggested Ester. He had his house key ready well before getting there and, as soon as he opened the door, he went immediately to the toolbox. He came back holding a hacksaw and, without a word, started to saw the backpack's frame energetically until he cut it in two. It hurt to see her faithful friend being destroyed like that, but Maria didn't say a word. Pushing down with strength, he bent the metal in two and separated the two parts, allowing him to inspect the interior. "It seems to be blocked by something," he said. He took a pencil and inserted it into the tube. "There's something!"
Incredulous, Maria stared at the backpack she had carried from Nepal to India, from India to Moscow, in communist Russia, and finally should have collected at Rome airport. She remembered the two plainclothes police officers as they searched Siggi's baggage. Her legs were shaking and her heart was beginning to fill with fear; she felt sick. Enrico, completely absorbed in his task, confidently sawed the opposite end of the frame. "We need a longer stick. The pencil is not enough!" he said. Ester looked around, went to the kitchen and came back with a long handled wooden spoon. Enrico inserted it into the tube and tried to push the contents toward the opening; nothing was moving, things had been glued. He placed one end of the wooden spoon on the floor and, clutching the tube with both hands, lifted it and beat it repeatedly. "Something's coming, get ready girls!" he said.
"Bring out the bubbly Maria," said Ester, laughing.
She emptied it slowly, with deep emotion, pausing on every single thing. Each one reminded her of the place where she had bought it, the person who had sold it to her, the exchange of humanity between them. The boots made of bright coloured felt that she had bought in the Tibetan store in Mcleodganj; she took them out of the paper bag and put them on the floor, next to the pile of sarongs and the silk cloth. The brass bowls in three different sizes, bought from another Tibetan store and used as measures for flour: a quarter kilo, half a kilo and a kilo, respectively, hand-crafted with rounded designs. She stacked them, one above the other, from the largest to the smallest, and gazed at them with affection; they shone as if made of gold.
She then found a piece of wood for which she had paid a lot of money, but it was so special she had had to buy it; on each side of the block the image of a person had been crudely dug. There was a note written in her own handwriting, which she read as if she had never seen it before: it was the healing block, said the description. Tibetans used the carved images as a mould. When a person was sick, they filled the mould with a batter of flour and water; once dry, the four "dolls" they had obtained were hung outdoors in the four directions of north, south, east and west, as an offering to birds and animals. Through feeding on the dolls, they took away the disease, thus helping the sick person's healing process. Maria put the healing block next to the brass bowls and pulled out the next treasure from the rucksack.
It was a bag with ten cotton and lurex skirts, bought in Delhi. She opened them, one at a time. Looking in the mirror she briefly held them in front of her and turned from side to side; they were truly beautiful, glistening in the sunlight, and they were a novelty. The colours were gorgeous: strong red, bright pink, turquoise, green, yellow, white, grey, black, each one better than the last, and would sell easily. She folded them into a neat pile and laid them on the floor near the other things.
She pulled out the shawls bought in a shop of Kashmiri handicrafts, remembering how much she had to haggle on the price, but they were striking, skilfully embroidered on a soft and warm fabric, a blend of wool and cotton.
Then she found a large package with the two Tibetan tanka paintings and one hundred prints on rice paper, bought with Raffa in Kathmandu. They were very cheap and she was going to sell them quickly. At the bottom of the rucksack there was a small copper statue of the dancing Shiva, a silver-plated one of Krishna playing the flute, and one of sitting Ganesh with the little mouse at his feet. Underneath the figurines were the Tibetan woolly socks that Vale had given her as a thank you for having lent him her backpack. And at the very bottom were the boxes with the perfume essences, bought with Luna in Delhi a couple of days before leaving; they gave out an intense scent, even while closed.
Out of one of the side pockets came the lurex scarves bought on her last day in Janpath Boulevard. In the opposite side pocket she found five beautiful batik bought at Paharganj market. She set aside a bag with medicines she had carried throughout her adventures, the toiletry bag with soap and ayurvedic toothpaste, some lingerie, clothes and a few personal items brought from Italy.
She sat on the bed, looking at the piles of things lined up on the floor, inhaling deeply the smell of India, and strong emotions filled her chest: a mixture of happiness, nostalgia and memories. Suddenly she felt a great weariness. The sum of all the feelings that were competing for a place in her heart could be summed up in one word: gratitude.
She lay down on the bed, exhausted from all the excitement of the morning. She was grateful to all the people she had met, for the things they had taught her, and to India itself which had changed her life, because it had changed the values that nourished her soul. What seemed top priority before her journey now seemed secondary. The important thing was respect for life, for herself and for others. Luna's face appeared before her eyes explaining that she, Maria, was the Treasure Tower. She visualized a bright tower, encrusted with precious stones, rising from the earth and radiating compassion, strength and light. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, she said slowly, in a low voice. She wiped the tears that ran down her cheeks and into her ears. She smiled to herself; she wasn't crying, they were tears of happiness.
She wanted to see Ester; they had many things to talk about. She thought of their easy but deep friendship. She felt great affection and unconditional trust in her. Ester was always satisfied with her life, she had no need to assert herself, she was herself, without hesitation, inferiority complexes, insecurities; she appreciated what she had and was cheerful, generous and, of course, full of friends. For Maria, who had few real friends, she was a breath of fresh air, larger than life itself. Behind an elegant look, her beautifully styled hair and manicured nails, lurked Ester's rebellious and nonconformist side: she always surprised Maria with her strength, irrepressible energy and her loud contagious laughter.
She arrived in Campo Santo Stefano at about seven o'clock, the time when everybody started to converge; she sat down on the statue's steps and lit a cigarette, looking around. She had just stubbed out the butt when she saw Ester walking from the Accademia bridge with her relaxed pace. Maria stood up and ran to her; she was bursting to tell her everything, but didn't know where to start. Strolling together back toward the statue, she told her about the backpack that had been delivered that afternoon, intact, with all its contents. Ester wanted to see what had arrived, she'd probably buy some of the things herself, and then she'd help her sell what was left; between herself and Raffa, who at the time was in the Marche region, they'd sell the lot. Enrico arrived too and, suddenly, Maria remembered that Franca had made her promise to sell her the backpack. "It's weird, you know?" she said, looking from one to the other. "She criticized it from the first moment she saw it. She always told me it was ridiculous with that Canadian flag, it was so big it dwarfed me, and was too red. But, when she needed a big rucksack, she wanted to borrow it." Ester was only half listening to her, the other half was for Enrico. They looked at each other every two seconds and stood very close. It was obvious there was a strong attraction and they seemed completely at ease together. "In fact, it wasn't even Franca who needed it, but Vale. And then she tells me that she wants to buy it, as a souvenir of the trip, and to make sure that I never use it again." She saw Ester staring at her, suddenly struck. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Maria asked her.
"Did you say that Vale borrowed your rucksack? When, how and why?" her friend asked.
"Why? Is there a problem with Vale?"
"And with Franca, when she is with him," replied Ester, looking at Enrico. Then she turned back to Maria: "Tell me what happened."
Maria explained the whole story. Ester was listening with a serious expression, exchanging glances of increasing concern with Enrico. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asked him.
"I think so," he replied. They looked at her with the same expression.
"What is it? What are you thinking?" Maria asked, alarmed.
"I want to see the rucksack! There's something strange going on," replied Ester. "However, you have nothing to worry about; you've arrived safe and sound."
"Why? What do you think they did with it?"
"If they borrowed it for three days, Vale gave you a gift to say thank you, most unlike him, and then Franca wants to buy it, it makes me think that there is something very interesting for them inside," mused Ester. "What do you think?" she asked Enrico.
"Without a doubt! Knowing them!"
"Let's go to your place now, I'm bursting with curiosity," pressed Ester, setting off in the direction of Maria's house who, thinking back over how things had gone, was beginning to see them in a different light. They wouldn't have put drugs inside her backpack, would they? And where? No sooner had she asked herself the question than the answer appeared obvious; she had just emptied it and there was nothing left inside, so it could only be on the outside. But… how could Franca do such a thing? On the way to her house, they spoke in low voices, wondering what they would find and especially where; by now they all had the same suspicion. Maria mentioned her decision to return to India, but it wasn't the right time to talk about it; they were all too agitated by what was in store. Maria pushed the door closed behind her, Ester strode to her room, picked up her backpack and hefted it, looking at her questioningly: "Does it weigh more than normal?"
"I don't know, let me try." Maria weighed it up carefully. "Maybe. It's hard to tell." She looked from Ester to Enrico. "Do you think they put drugs in it?"
"Yes," they answered in unison and, looking at each other, burst out laughing.
"But where?"
"That's obvious," Enrico said, picking up her backpack, inspecting it. "Have you got a knife?"
Seeing her shocked expression, Ester gave her an excited smile. "We'll find a surprise, you'll see. Better than an Easter egg!" she said, laughing loudly, infecting them with her excitement. Maria came back with a knife; Enrico pushed the blade between the frame and the white plastic cap but the cap wasn't moving. He tried several times, applying more and more force, but neither of the caps budged. "They've been glued with superglue," he said. "Do you have a saw?" Since Maria shook her head, he said firmly: "Let's take it to my house; we'll open it with my hacksaw."
They walked all the way between the two houses almost without speaking, slowing down after the bridges only enough to catch their breath. Ester and Enrico walked close together, inseparable, the red backpack between them, to shelter it. Maria didn't want to touch it. "They will have put it in the top part of the structure," suggested Ester. He had his house key ready well before getting there and, as soon as he opened the door, he went immediately to the toolbox. He came back holding a hacksaw and, without a word, started to saw the backpack's frame energetically until he cut it in two. It hurt to see her faithful friend being destroyed like that, but Maria didn't say a word. Pushing down with strength, he bent the metal in two and separated the two parts, allowing him to inspect the interior. "It seems to be blocked by something," he said. He took a pencil and inserted it into the tube. "There's something!"
Incredulous, Maria stared at the backpack she had carried from Nepal to India, from India to Moscow, in communist Russia, and finally should have collected at Rome airport. She remembered the two plainclothes police officers as they searched Siggi's baggage. Her legs were shaking and her heart was beginning to fill with fear; she felt sick. Enrico, completely absorbed in his task, confidently sawed the opposite end of the frame. "We need a longer stick. The pencil is not enough!" he said. Ester looked around, went to the kitchen and came back with a long handled wooden spoon. Enrico inserted it into the tube and tried to push the contents toward the opening; nothing was moving, things had been glued. He placed one end of the wooden spoon on the floor and, clutching the tube with both hands, lifted it and beat it repeatedly. "Something's coming, get ready girls!" he said.
"Bring out the bubbly Maria," said Ester, laughing.
A small parcel wrapped in a condom appeared at the mouth of the pipe. By continuing to hit the spoon, the parcel came out just enough to allow him to pull it out with his hands. "Open it, Ester," he said, as he continued to hit the wooden tool on the floor, dislodging other little parcels.
With a knife, scissors and her teeth, Ester opened it in less than two minutes. She smiled from ear to ear. "Look what I found!" she said triumphantly, holding up a black shiny 'finger', as long as her index finger, including the fingernail, and of the same thickness. She sniffed it with delight, her eyes half-closed with pleasure: "Pure Himalayan charas, if I'm not mistaken!"
"You're never mistaken," said Enrico, laughing, as he continued to push the spoon into the pipe. Maria was watching the scene, dumbfounded. Enrico glanced at her: "Cheer up Maria! You'll make enough money to go back to India."
"I don't want anything to do with it. If things had gone wrong, I'd be sweating in an Indian prison, or maybe in a Nepalese one; or I might be in a cool Moscow jail instead, or behind the bars of a cell in Rome's Regina Coeli, explaining to the guards that I didn't know anything about this charas. When I see Franca I'll kill her!"
Ester laughed heartily: "When Franca comes back, we'll think of how to welcome her. Meanwhile, what we find is yours, Maria. You've carried it, and at great risk. Come on, keep pushing Enrico, I can see another parcel," she encouraged him.
"I'm going to need a longer stick in a while! Maria, see what you can find in the kitchen."
In the end, ten packets of charas and another ten of a darker colour and softer consistency, identified by Ester as opium, were lying on the floor.
"If I had been caught with opium, I would have risked years in prison," murmured Maria, with a lump in her throat and severe nausea, her stomach churning in knots. She couldn't share her friends' excitement as she watched the black fingers of charas and opium that Ester had neatly lined up; she was now holding one in her hand, weighing it up: "There will be ten grams of charas here." She put it back on the floor and picked up a finger of opium. She weighed it up in the same way and gave her verdict: "There will be fifteen grams of opium in each, minimum, maybe twenty."
Maria had been carrying one hundred grams of charas and one hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred grams of opium which, eventually, she would have given to Franca, who would have given her... what? A gift, in exchange for her old backpack? And what if she had been caught? She felt a cold sweat cover her, strong anger and a sense of deep disappointment fill her heart. How could Franca have put her in a situation so full of risk? Didn't she care about her at all? Had she held a grudge all that time? Maria remembered how weak she was at Vale's house, almost unable to speak, perhaps even to think, while Vale took advantage of the situation to plant drugs in her backpack. He had organized the whole scam, but Franca was aware of it, she had no doubt about this. Maria remembered how she had averted her gaze to stare at the floor; the look and the wink that Vale had given her. And then she had made her promise to sell her the backpack. Franca knew everything and had cooperated, if only for lack of strength. Maria had been used by them, heedless of any possible consequences. She was shocked; she felt as if she had hit a wall head on. "And now what do we do? I don't want anything to do with these drugs," she said to Ester who, with her eyes on the fingers lined up on the floor, was doing multiplications in her mind, guessing the overall weight of the bounty.
"I'll handle this, if that's okay," she said. They decided that they would leave it at Enrico's house, for now, except for a couple of grams that Ester was going to try as 'quality control'. Maria wouldn't have to hear anything more about it.
"What will we do about Franca? In my letter I told her that the rucksack had been lost!"
"Perfect," said Enrico. "Don't tell her anything else and pretend it never arrived."
"We'll think of what to do about Franca, and Vale. For now, don't you worry! Thankfully nothing happened, but what they did is criminal," said Ester. Then, unable to control her excitement any longer, she added: "Let's hide the loot and then, boys and girls, we celebrate! Champagne for everyone!"
They went out together, heading for Ester's house. On the way, they wanted to know from Maria, word for word, how they had persuaded her to lend them her backpack, trying to understand why they had used her in such a way. In their opinion it wasn't a typical behaviour from Franca. Maria explained that Franca had ambivalent feelings toward her and was very fickle, that she had smoked heroin, developed hepatitis and moved into Vale's house; at that point he had clearly taken advantage. They didn't know him well, but they knew he was a 'sinister character', said Ester laughing, who used everything he could get his hands on: heroin, cocaine, speed, and so on and so forth! He was a dealer and a junkie and would do anything to satisfy his insatiable need for money and drugs. He lived mostly in Nepal, occasionally in India, but couldn't return to Italy because he would be arrested.
"When they get your letter, they'll think that the rucksack was intercepted, or that you are lying to keep the drugs," said Enrico.
"Let's talk about this over a drink," said Ester, buzzing.
She took charge of everything. She took home the skirts, the prints, the shawls, the sarongs and the scarves and, once a week, Ester gave her the proceeds of the things she had sold.
Maria began to paint full-time, taking advantage of the last days of warm sunshine, going out with pastel colours and painting Venice as she saw it. She'd sit on a step overlooking the water, or on the threshold of a church, or at a bar. Without exception, people would stop, watching every gesture she made, every sign she traced. At first she found it intimidating, but soon she realized that this curiosity was the best way to sell her work. She could tell if someone was interested in her picture from a little comment they made. The picture would be ready in half an hour, she'd say, she'd do it especially for them; did they want a particular colour in their picture? The client suggested a colour, a shade, Maria introduced their idea and then carried on as she liked: a touch of yellow here to enhance the purple, some green and a contrasting red to make it more vibrant. Invariably, the customers stopped until the picture was finished, seeing it develop and grow. She sprayed the completed work with a fixative and, while it dried, the client paid the reasonable price she asked. Soon, she'd find herself at the centre of another small crowd watching a new picture she'd be drawing.
It was a delightful time of her life. She was seeing Venice with new eyes: that detail, that view, the light of the sunset suffused with magic by the mist. When the weather changed and autumn advanced, Maria began to paint at home with brushes and easel, oil paints and watercolours, accompanied by the music of Keith Jarrett on the piano, or Bob Dylan's new album, which she learned by heart.
One day the doorbell rang: it was Ugo, his visit a complete surprise. She tried to calm the emotions that agitated her; the two of them alone in the house was too dangerous, and she didn't trust him. She continued to paint while Ugo was making coffee.
"When did you change the curtains?" she could hear him say from the kitchen. "Where's the sugar? Have you moved it?" Little sentences like that, to remind her that it had been his home too, for three years. He brought the coffee to the bedroom and sat on the bed, watching her while she painted near the window. She was beautiful, did she know? Her hair was much nicer with those coppery reflections. He wanted to take some photographs, with the light coming in through the window, on the one side, and the darker atmosphere of the room, on the other; unfortunately, he didn't have the camera with him but he would come back the next day. He began to walk around her, studying the light on her face, pushing her hair behind her ear.
"You're disturbing me! I can't paint like this," she complained, beginning to feel her resistance fading. He lowered the zipper on the side of her dress, just for fun. She slapped his hand, pushing it away from her body. She knew what he was thinking and wasn't willing to succumb to his momentary whim, or her weakness. If she could believe he wanted a relationship like the one they had the first few months, and to build something together, she would have taken him straight away, she would have been his, without hesitation; but she knew him well and trusting him would be suicidal. It was in Ugo's nature to be unfaithful. Who knew, maybe one day he'd find a woman he loved, and would change, but Maria doubted very much that she could be that woman. "Keep your hands off!" she said putting the paintbrush down. "Let's get out of here. I don't want to go backwards!" She left the brushes soaking in water and, hurriedly, put her jacket on. "Come on, get out. I don't trust you!"
He looked at her with a smile of admiration in his eyes: "When you get angry you're even more beautiful."
"And you're an asshole! Let's go for a walk." But it wasn't a walk that Ugo wanted, nor to talk to her about her experiences, her dreams. He took his leave in Campo Santo Stefano; he had masses of things to do, he said.
The next day he returned with his camera and insisted on taking pictures while she painted, and while she was sitting in the wicker rocking chair, her hair covering half of her face. He moved a strand of her hair, you're beautiful like this, now put your leg over the armrest, lower the strap of your dress just a touch; now with all your hair to one side, wait, I'll move it, it looks good so. He kissed her on the neck and moved away again. He had won and Maria knew it. Ugo didn't insist, he didn't impose himself; he threw a small invitation and then pulled back. She waited for the next move that didn't come, waited a little bit longer, ready to send him away, but he wouldn't do anything until, when the tension was at bursting point, he would touch her lightly, then touched her again, and then kissed her. Maria's defences vanished little by little; they crumbled by themselves, a little gesture at a time, the wait for the next one, until she wanted him. They made love as they had done hundreds of times before; she felt like the most sensual woman in the world, forgot all the others and believed she was his woman, the only one he loved. The illusion lasted only a short time. He got dressed; he had three hundred thousand things to do and was out the door, out of her life, for now, until when? Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow? Next week? The see-saw started again.
That evening she saw him again in the square. He came over, kissed her on the lips in front of everyone and invited her to go to the cinema. She cancelled the commitment she had with Ester to be with him. Sitting in the back row they held hands and kissed in the dark as if they had just met, and touched each other as if they were fifteen years old. Ugo walked back home with her. "Are you coming upstairs?" she asked. There was no need to ask, he had started to undress her while she was still looking for her keys. He kissed her as soon as they entered, leaning against the door, unbuttoning her shirt, lifting her skirt.
The next morning they had breakfast in bed, prepared by him, who loved making cappuccino with foam, like they did in the bars. It was a romance. He kept close to her, as if he needed her presence, caring, loving, funny, loyal. For two days. At the end of the second day Maria arrived at the Campo and sat on the statue's steps with Gabriele, smoking a cigarette. At about eight o'clock she saw Ugo coming from St. Mark's direction, accompanied by a friend.
At least, she was a friend until today, because now she seemed to be something more.
He greeted her from afar, with a nod and an elusive smile. Maria's heart gave a thump and fell from where it had been until then to the pits of her stomach, heavy as a stone.
Nausea made of pain, a mixture of well-known suffering, humiliation and anger, came over her, but it wasn't a surprise. History was repeating itself and she, stupid, had fallen for it once again. He looked very busy, going over and talking to his friends, then returning to his lady-friend, who looked at him with desire. Occasionally he glimpsed at Maria, who was glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He didn't approach her.
Hurt and embarrassed, she dared not go near him. She couldn't bear any more hypocrisy. When he left the Campo in the direction he had come from, holding his friend by the hand, her heart sank. How could she have fallen for it again? Why had she believed he had changed? Stupid, stupid, stupid! She had to take responsibility for her life. After all, India had meant something, right? 'You're the Treasure Tower', she told herself, 'Respect yourself. Okay, he has taken you in again, so what? It starts from now, a new life, a new beginning. Thank you Ugo, I obviously needed this test, again!' She would start from now, and without drowning her misery in alcohol, as she had before going to India. This time she didn't need it.
She returned home and began to chant for her happiness, focusing on a dot on the white wall. She didn't chant for his happiness, he seemed quite capable of taking care of it himself. 'For now I'll chant for my own happiness, I need it', she thought: Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. She shook off the shame, the humiliation, the embarrassment, the longing, the pain she felt in her heart, the desire, the selective memories. She looked to the future: a wide road was open, full of light and of things to create, travels to go on, colours and pictures to paint, stories to write, new friends to meet, old friends to see again, a cheerful future, lively, bright, clean and new. She was surprised to feel that her heart desired Ugo's happiness too, and she let it; why not? May he be happy, in whichever way he wanted. She went to bed feeling calm, dignified and proud of herself. She concentrated on deep breathing and fell asleep easily. Goodbye Ugo, welcome back Maria!
The next day a letter arrived from Jean-Claude. He had returned to Paris, was back at work and was very busy. He had printed the photos taken in India and she was in many of those taken in Varanasi. He missed her a lot and wanted to see her. Was she thinking of him? What was she doing? Instead of replying right away, Maria wrote to the three French friends she had met in Kathmandu and who had invited her over, asking if they could host her for a week or two. She had worked in Paris two years before and knew a lot of people; it would be a good opportunity to see old friends.
Jean-Claude had his girlfriend, she knew, but he also had Maria. Luna had told her to give him time to think, to not give up without letting him have a chance to look inside himself. She would do just that. She would go to Paris, but be independent of him, leaving him free to do as he wanted, with no pressure.
She filled those days painting as much as possible, building her future, stroke after stroke, yellow after red, green after blue, black next to purple. She painted one picture after another, without a break, admiring her work, stretching her tired back, studying the next project while resting in the rocking chair. Keith Jarrett with his piano, Bob Dylan blaring and Maria singing along full blast. She had no time to waste, especially if she was going away for two weeks. The reply from Eve came quickly. She was welcome, it said, and she could stop as long as she wanted, the house was big and everyone was looking forward to welcoming her; Sylvan and Pierrot sent her a hug. She replied to Jean-Claude's letter. She would go to Paris and would call him from her friends' house.
With a knife, scissors and her teeth, Ester opened it in less than two minutes. She smiled from ear to ear. "Look what I found!" she said triumphantly, holding up a black shiny 'finger', as long as her index finger, including the fingernail, and of the same thickness. She sniffed it with delight, her eyes half-closed with pleasure: "Pure Himalayan charas, if I'm not mistaken!"
"You're never mistaken," said Enrico, laughing, as he continued to push the spoon into the pipe. Maria was watching the scene, dumbfounded. Enrico glanced at her: "Cheer up Maria! You'll make enough money to go back to India."
"I don't want anything to do with it. If things had gone wrong, I'd be sweating in an Indian prison, or maybe in a Nepalese one; or I might be in a cool Moscow jail instead, or behind the bars of a cell in Rome's Regina Coeli, explaining to the guards that I didn't know anything about this charas. When I see Franca I'll kill her!"
Ester laughed heartily: "When Franca comes back, we'll think of how to welcome her. Meanwhile, what we find is yours, Maria. You've carried it, and at great risk. Come on, keep pushing Enrico, I can see another parcel," she encouraged him.
"I'm going to need a longer stick in a while! Maria, see what you can find in the kitchen."
In the end, ten packets of charas and another ten of a darker colour and softer consistency, identified by Ester as opium, were lying on the floor.
"If I had been caught with opium, I would have risked years in prison," murmured Maria, with a lump in her throat and severe nausea, her stomach churning in knots. She couldn't share her friends' excitement as she watched the black fingers of charas and opium that Ester had neatly lined up; she was now holding one in her hand, weighing it up: "There will be ten grams of charas here." She put it back on the floor and picked up a finger of opium. She weighed it up in the same way and gave her verdict: "There will be fifteen grams of opium in each, minimum, maybe twenty."
Maria had been carrying one hundred grams of charas and one hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred grams of opium which, eventually, she would have given to Franca, who would have given her... what? A gift, in exchange for her old backpack? And what if she had been caught? She felt a cold sweat cover her, strong anger and a sense of deep disappointment fill her heart. How could Franca have put her in a situation so full of risk? Didn't she care about her at all? Had she held a grudge all that time? Maria remembered how weak she was at Vale's house, almost unable to speak, perhaps even to think, while Vale took advantage of the situation to plant drugs in her backpack. He had organized the whole scam, but Franca was aware of it, she had no doubt about this. Maria remembered how she had averted her gaze to stare at the floor; the look and the wink that Vale had given her. And then she had made her promise to sell her the backpack. Franca knew everything and had cooperated, if only for lack of strength. Maria had been used by them, heedless of any possible consequences. She was shocked; she felt as if she had hit a wall head on. "And now what do we do? I don't want anything to do with these drugs," she said to Ester who, with her eyes on the fingers lined up on the floor, was doing multiplications in her mind, guessing the overall weight of the bounty.
"I'll handle this, if that's okay," she said. They decided that they would leave it at Enrico's house, for now, except for a couple of grams that Ester was going to try as 'quality control'. Maria wouldn't have to hear anything more about it.
"What will we do about Franca? In my letter I told her that the rucksack had been lost!"
"Perfect," said Enrico. "Don't tell her anything else and pretend it never arrived."
"We'll think of what to do about Franca, and Vale. For now, don't you worry! Thankfully nothing happened, but what they did is criminal," said Ester. Then, unable to control her excitement any longer, she added: "Let's hide the loot and then, boys and girls, we celebrate! Champagne for everyone!"
They went out together, heading for Ester's house. On the way, they wanted to know from Maria, word for word, how they had persuaded her to lend them her backpack, trying to understand why they had used her in such a way. In their opinion it wasn't a typical behaviour from Franca. Maria explained that Franca had ambivalent feelings toward her and was very fickle, that she had smoked heroin, developed hepatitis and moved into Vale's house; at that point he had clearly taken advantage. They didn't know him well, but they knew he was a 'sinister character', said Ester laughing, who used everything he could get his hands on: heroin, cocaine, speed, and so on and so forth! He was a dealer and a junkie and would do anything to satisfy his insatiable need for money and drugs. He lived mostly in Nepal, occasionally in India, but couldn't return to Italy because he would be arrested.
"When they get your letter, they'll think that the rucksack was intercepted, or that you are lying to keep the drugs," said Enrico.
"Let's talk about this over a drink," said Ester, buzzing.
She took charge of everything. She took home the skirts, the prints, the shawls, the sarongs and the scarves and, once a week, Ester gave her the proceeds of the things she had sold.
Maria began to paint full-time, taking advantage of the last days of warm sunshine, going out with pastel colours and painting Venice as she saw it. She'd sit on a step overlooking the water, or on the threshold of a church, or at a bar. Without exception, people would stop, watching every gesture she made, every sign she traced. At first she found it intimidating, but soon she realized that this curiosity was the best way to sell her work. She could tell if someone was interested in her picture from a little comment they made. The picture would be ready in half an hour, she'd say, she'd do it especially for them; did they want a particular colour in their picture? The client suggested a colour, a shade, Maria introduced their idea and then carried on as she liked: a touch of yellow here to enhance the purple, some green and a contrasting red to make it more vibrant. Invariably, the customers stopped until the picture was finished, seeing it develop and grow. She sprayed the completed work with a fixative and, while it dried, the client paid the reasonable price she asked. Soon, she'd find herself at the centre of another small crowd watching a new picture she'd be drawing.
It was a delightful time of her life. She was seeing Venice with new eyes: that detail, that view, the light of the sunset suffused with magic by the mist. When the weather changed and autumn advanced, Maria began to paint at home with brushes and easel, oil paints and watercolours, accompanied by the music of Keith Jarrett on the piano, or Bob Dylan's new album, which she learned by heart.
One day the doorbell rang: it was Ugo, his visit a complete surprise. She tried to calm the emotions that agitated her; the two of them alone in the house was too dangerous, and she didn't trust him. She continued to paint while Ugo was making coffee.
"When did you change the curtains?" she could hear him say from the kitchen. "Where's the sugar? Have you moved it?" Little sentences like that, to remind her that it had been his home too, for three years. He brought the coffee to the bedroom and sat on the bed, watching her while she painted near the window. She was beautiful, did she know? Her hair was much nicer with those coppery reflections. He wanted to take some photographs, with the light coming in through the window, on the one side, and the darker atmosphere of the room, on the other; unfortunately, he didn't have the camera with him but he would come back the next day. He began to walk around her, studying the light on her face, pushing her hair behind her ear.
"You're disturbing me! I can't paint like this," she complained, beginning to feel her resistance fading. He lowered the zipper on the side of her dress, just for fun. She slapped his hand, pushing it away from her body. She knew what he was thinking and wasn't willing to succumb to his momentary whim, or her weakness. If she could believe he wanted a relationship like the one they had the first few months, and to build something together, she would have taken him straight away, she would have been his, without hesitation; but she knew him well and trusting him would be suicidal. It was in Ugo's nature to be unfaithful. Who knew, maybe one day he'd find a woman he loved, and would change, but Maria doubted very much that she could be that woman. "Keep your hands off!" she said putting the paintbrush down. "Let's get out of here. I don't want to go backwards!" She left the brushes soaking in water and, hurriedly, put her jacket on. "Come on, get out. I don't trust you!"
He looked at her with a smile of admiration in his eyes: "When you get angry you're even more beautiful."
"And you're an asshole! Let's go for a walk." But it wasn't a walk that Ugo wanted, nor to talk to her about her experiences, her dreams. He took his leave in Campo Santo Stefano; he had masses of things to do, he said.
The next day he returned with his camera and insisted on taking pictures while she painted, and while she was sitting in the wicker rocking chair, her hair covering half of her face. He moved a strand of her hair, you're beautiful like this, now put your leg over the armrest, lower the strap of your dress just a touch; now with all your hair to one side, wait, I'll move it, it looks good so. He kissed her on the neck and moved away again. He had won and Maria knew it. Ugo didn't insist, he didn't impose himself; he threw a small invitation and then pulled back. She waited for the next move that didn't come, waited a little bit longer, ready to send him away, but he wouldn't do anything until, when the tension was at bursting point, he would touch her lightly, then touched her again, and then kissed her. Maria's defences vanished little by little; they crumbled by themselves, a little gesture at a time, the wait for the next one, until she wanted him. They made love as they had done hundreds of times before; she felt like the most sensual woman in the world, forgot all the others and believed she was his woman, the only one he loved. The illusion lasted only a short time. He got dressed; he had three hundred thousand things to do and was out the door, out of her life, for now, until when? Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow? Next week? The see-saw started again.
That evening she saw him again in the square. He came over, kissed her on the lips in front of everyone and invited her to go to the cinema. She cancelled the commitment she had with Ester to be with him. Sitting in the back row they held hands and kissed in the dark as if they had just met, and touched each other as if they were fifteen years old. Ugo walked back home with her. "Are you coming upstairs?" she asked. There was no need to ask, he had started to undress her while she was still looking for her keys. He kissed her as soon as they entered, leaning against the door, unbuttoning her shirt, lifting her skirt.
The next morning they had breakfast in bed, prepared by him, who loved making cappuccino with foam, like they did in the bars. It was a romance. He kept close to her, as if he needed her presence, caring, loving, funny, loyal. For two days. At the end of the second day Maria arrived at the Campo and sat on the statue's steps with Gabriele, smoking a cigarette. At about eight o'clock she saw Ugo coming from St. Mark's direction, accompanied by a friend.
At least, she was a friend until today, because now she seemed to be something more.
He greeted her from afar, with a nod and an elusive smile. Maria's heart gave a thump and fell from where it had been until then to the pits of her stomach, heavy as a stone.
Nausea made of pain, a mixture of well-known suffering, humiliation and anger, came over her, but it wasn't a surprise. History was repeating itself and she, stupid, had fallen for it once again. He looked very busy, going over and talking to his friends, then returning to his lady-friend, who looked at him with desire. Occasionally he glimpsed at Maria, who was glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He didn't approach her.
Hurt and embarrassed, she dared not go near him. She couldn't bear any more hypocrisy. When he left the Campo in the direction he had come from, holding his friend by the hand, her heart sank. How could she have fallen for it again? Why had she believed he had changed? Stupid, stupid, stupid! She had to take responsibility for her life. After all, India had meant something, right? 'You're the Treasure Tower', she told herself, 'Respect yourself. Okay, he has taken you in again, so what? It starts from now, a new life, a new beginning. Thank you Ugo, I obviously needed this test, again!' She would start from now, and without drowning her misery in alcohol, as she had before going to India. This time she didn't need it.
She returned home and began to chant for her happiness, focusing on a dot on the white wall. She didn't chant for his happiness, he seemed quite capable of taking care of it himself. 'For now I'll chant for my own happiness, I need it', she thought: Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. She shook off the shame, the humiliation, the embarrassment, the longing, the pain she felt in her heart, the desire, the selective memories. She looked to the future: a wide road was open, full of light and of things to create, travels to go on, colours and pictures to paint, stories to write, new friends to meet, old friends to see again, a cheerful future, lively, bright, clean and new. She was surprised to feel that her heart desired Ugo's happiness too, and she let it; why not? May he be happy, in whichever way he wanted. She went to bed feeling calm, dignified and proud of herself. She concentrated on deep breathing and fell asleep easily. Goodbye Ugo, welcome back Maria!
The next day a letter arrived from Jean-Claude. He had returned to Paris, was back at work and was very busy. He had printed the photos taken in India and she was in many of those taken in Varanasi. He missed her a lot and wanted to see her. Was she thinking of him? What was she doing? Instead of replying right away, Maria wrote to the three French friends she had met in Kathmandu and who had invited her over, asking if they could host her for a week or two. She had worked in Paris two years before and knew a lot of people; it would be a good opportunity to see old friends.
Jean-Claude had his girlfriend, she knew, but he also had Maria. Luna had told her to give him time to think, to not give up without letting him have a chance to look inside himself. She would do just that. She would go to Paris, but be independent of him, leaving him free to do as he wanted, with no pressure.
She filled those days painting as much as possible, building her future, stroke after stroke, yellow after red, green after blue, black next to purple. She painted one picture after another, without a break, admiring her work, stretching her tired back, studying the next project while resting in the rocking chair. Keith Jarrett with his piano, Bob Dylan blaring and Maria singing along full blast. She had no time to waste, especially if she was going away for two weeks. The reply from Eve came quickly. She was welcome, it said, and she could stop as long as she wanted, the house was big and everyone was looking forward to welcoming her; Sylvan and Pierrot sent her a hug. She replied to Jean-Claude's letter. She would go to Paris and would call him from her friends' house.
To go to chapter 27 click here: Chapter 27
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