Silence Is Golden Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Laura Mercuri

  Translation copyright © 2015 Sarah Christine Varney

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Ogni tuo silenzio by Kindle Direct Publishing in Italy in 2014. Translated from Italian by Sarah Christine Varney. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2015.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503948662

  ISBN-10: 1503948668

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary-Soudant

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  AUTUMN

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WINTER

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SPRING

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  AUTUMN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  Silence speaks in a way that words cannot.

  J. Saramago

  AUTUMN

  CHAPTER ONE

  When I was younger, my mother often told me about the trip up north she took with her grandparents. It was the only trip she had ever taken; any chance at another trip ceased after the death of her grandfather. She didn’t even have a honeymoon, only two days on the coast at the house of my father’s aunt, who made it clear to my mother upon arrival that she was to get to work and that the vacation was really for her. My mother never even got to see the ocean during those two days.

  Yet every detail of that first trip with her grandparents remained indelible in her memory: the train ride, the bus as it scaled the lush, tree-covered mountains, and the bare rock above that turned pink at sunset. My mother often said that her greatest wish was to go back and see those mountains and trees again.

  I find myself heading up the mountain on the bus, just as my mother did so many years ago. After yet another hairpin turn, I see the bare rock, pink in the setting sun. Can you see it too, Mom, through my eyes?

  I get off the bus, and the first thing I notice is that the air is fresh and pleasant even though it’s only the beginning of September. It’s a nice relief from the muggy climate of the plains. Just beyond the parking lot, I see the white houses with sloping roofs and wooden balconies full of flowers typical of this area. Everything looks so clean and tidy, as if an invisible hand made sure everything was in its proper place. It gives me a sense of security, but it’s a bit unsettling too. As the bus driver hands me my suitcase from the luggage compartment, he smiles at me. For some reason, I see a glimmer of compassion in his eyes—or maybe I’m just imagining things. I smile back at him, thank him, and head off down the sidewalk.

  The air is scented with resin, and the area is densely forested. I start walking toward a stream with a wrought iron bridge, dragging my suitcase behind me. It’s a bright, sunny day, with just a few puffy clouds in the blue sky. I feel a little less gloomy already—I can’t help but smile at the beauty of my surroundings. There are mothers pushing strollers, boys on bicycles, men chatting as they walk, and women laden with shopping bags, hurrying down the street. I don’t earn more than a passing glance from any of these people, and even then it’s probably only because of my red hair. This small town is considered to be the pearl of the valley, so locals must be well accustomed to strangers.

  I pass through streets filled with shops. There are a lot of people around, but they’re all tourists, easy to spot with their shorts, backpacks, hiking boots, and walking sticks for the mountain trails. No one pays any attention to me, which is just as well. I scan the shop windows, looking for a real estate agency. I need a place to stay, and I don’t want to squander what little money I have on a hotel. I stop in at a café to grab a cup of coffee and ask for directions, but the chatter of the lunchtime crowd almost prevents the barista from understanding my question. Plus, the coffee he serves me is terrible.

  “Do you know if there’s a real estate agency nearby?”

  He answers abruptly. “When you leave, turn left, then keep going straight down the road.”

  Maybe he’s tired after a whole summer of dealing with hordes of tourists, but there isn’t even a hint of courtesy in his response. I thank him anyway and even go so far as to smile at him. Too bad it has no effect.

  The real estate agent, Valerio, stares at me as if trying to remember where he’s seen me before. I find his face amusing, with its ruddy mountain complexion and openly admiring gaze, and this keeps me from being embarrassed.

  “So you’re looking to rent a house?”

  “If possible.”

  “Well, there aren’t any here, but there’s one available over in Bren. But it’s a much smaller village than this.”

  “That’s better for me,” I tell him. “Can I see it?”

  Valerio seems confused. “Of course—but first I have to find the keys.”

  I smile, trying to convey that I have utter confidence that he will find those keys. And he does.

  In Valerio’s car, we follow a road a few miles uphill, with rock on one side and a wall of dense trees on the other.

  “Does the stream that runs through the village also pass by where we’re going now?”

  “Yeah. It’s actually very close to the house.”

  I don’t know why this suddenly feels so important to me. I’ve never believed in premonitions, perhaps because I have always tried not to expect anything from the future. But I can’t ignore the connection I feel to that stream.

  We pass the sign for Bren: population 981, 2,600 feet above sea level. Perhaps tomorrow it’ll say population 982. Bren looks like the village we just came from, but on a smaller scale. As we get closer, I see that it’s not only smaller but also less clean, less orderly, and much less touristy. Perhaps people around here don’t want to attract tourists. In fact, I don’t see a single one.

  Valerio is talking about the village we just left, telling me that he’s lived there all his life. He tries to make me laugh by telling me a joke, and I oblige with a shy smile while continuing to gaze out the window. I don’t want to miss any of the landscape unfolding before my eyes. He drives slowly so I can see the few shops facing the main street, the church, the public gardens, and the school. Just after we pass the last houses, Valerio turns right onto a dirt road lined with trees. After a dozen or so feet, we stop nex
t to a stone house.

  As soon as I get out of the car, I’m in love. I make a beeline for the front door. Valerio catches up with me and lets us in. As we open the windows, I begin to make out the interior. There are a few pieces of furniture, including a large armchair, a small coffee table, and a carpet that was once probably very nice but is now faded and threadbare. There are no curtains on the windows, and it’s cold. The place feels neglected, but I don’t care. It’s as if it’s welcoming me: “I may be run-down, but if you take care of me, I’ll take care of you.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly a palace,” says Valerio.

  I ask the cost of rent, and it’s more than acceptable.

  “I’ll take it!” I say, sure of my decision.

  He looks surprised. “Wouldn’t you rather have an apartment? This house is so isolated. It’s too far away from the village for a woman living on her own.”

  “Why, is the area dangerous?” I ask, frightened.

  “Well, no, but you never can tell. The house is practically in the forest. There are thieves and vagabonds about . . .”

  “You’ll just have to give me your phone number so I can call you to come save me.”

  He finally gets that I’m pulling his leg, and his smile turns into a frown. It’s just as well. I’ve had enough.

  “If you’re really sure . . . ,” he says finally.

  “I am.”

  “Then we should head back. I’ll prepare the rental documents, and you can sign them tomorrow.”

  “I actually want to take it today. I want to sleep here tonight,” I say.

  “How’re you gonna do that? There aren’t even sheets on the bed.”

  “Let’s go back to the village, and I’ll buy sheets and towels while you draw up the documents. And if you can help me light the woodstove, I’ll be okay. I saw some bundles of firewood outside.”

  “There isn’t anything to eat,” he insists.

  “I’ll eat something in the village, and tomorrow I’ll go to the grocery store.”

  Valerio shakes his head. He is obviously annoyed by my stubbornness, but he’s realized he won’t be able to change my mind. He snorts and goes to get some wood. A few minutes later, we have lit the ceramic woodstove, which immediately begins to radiate heat. He then closes the front door as I head to the car. I’m anxious to return to the village so I can take care of everything and get back to my house. I look at the surrounding forest, where time seems to have stopped and the only sounds are leaves rustling in the wind and birds chirping. Paradise.

  On the drive back, Valerio is silent. Perhaps he’s convinced I’m crazy and has given up on any idea of making me his next conquest—or so I hope.

  We return to the house a few hours later. Valerio is speaking to me again and is wandering around the house, aimlessly chatting. I make the bed with the red sheets I bought and hang towels in the bathroom. I start to pull out my few belongings from my suitcase. By the time I’m finished, Valerio has run out of excuses to stay. After asking me for the umpteenth time if I’m sure I want to live here by myself and if I have everything I need, he finally leaves. I watch his car travel back down the road. When I’m sure he can’t see me anymore, I sit on the grass to watch the sunset.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I think the house is delightful, especially given what I’m paying for it. Sure, it’s a little isolated, but I don’t mind the walk to the village, and I like being on my own. I’d hate to live in a place where there are a million eyes on me the second I step outside, or where the whole town knows if I have a visitor.

  I didn’t sleep much last night. I’m going to have to get used to the bed and the noises the house makes, but I’m sure I’ll feel at home soon. Indeed, this is my first real home, the first place I’ve chosen, and the first time I’ve lived on my own. The place looks better in the morning light. There’s a kitchen, a small living room with a big window overlooking the forest, a bedroom, and a bathroom. There’s even a tiny closet. It’s clear that the place has been neglected, but it’s solidly built out of stone and made to last. It just needs to be cleaned up and it’ll be perfect.

  The decor is limited to only the essentials, so I’ll have to buy some furniture. There’s not even a desk or a bookshelf. I can use the kitchen table as my desk for a while, and I suppose I can use the dresser in the bedroom as a bookshelf. But I want to be comfortable here, so I’ll need to get both of those things. Though the money from my mother should be enough to tide me over for a couple of months, I ought to find a job as soon as possible. I poke around in the fridge and the cupboard, but like Valerio said, everything’s empty. I do find a dead cockroach in the credenza, however. The previous tenant clearly didn’t pay much attention to housekeeping. But I’ll have time to clean later; right now, filling my stomach seems more important. I grab my jacket and go outside, locking the door behind me.

  In the morning light, the forest looks even more beautiful than it did yesterday afternoon. I don’t know the names of the trees, but I note at least five different kinds. There are groups of brown and white fungi scattered about the ground and on tree trunks. Everywhere I look, there are bushes full of flowers in every imaginable color. I close my eyes for a moment and listen to the sounds of the forest: the birds chirping, the leaves rustling, and, a little farther away, the sound of water flowing. The stream!

  I let the sound guide me and follow a path leading inside the forest until I find the source of the sound. Growing along the shore are the only trees I know by name—tall willow trees, with their leaves immersed in water. I sit down on a large white stone. I can see the little pebbles on the bottom of the stream. The water rushes, creating a murmuring sound that has always captivated me. When I was younger and feeling frightened, I would turn on the bathroom faucet, sit on the floor, close my eyes, and just listen to the noise of the flowing water. It always calmed me down. However, if I wasn’t alone in the house, that small pleasure never lasted long, for my parents would immediately knock on the door and tell me to stop wasting water.

  I tear my mind away from the image of the childhood house I left behind and instead focus on the sound of the water. I was right: I share a connection with the stream, and I am free to come here whenever I want. After a few minutes, I reluctantly get up and head back toward the main road. There are no sidewalks, but the street is deserted. A car passes me just as I reach the first houses in the village.

  There aren’t many people around. I slowly make my way through the village, checking out the shops as I walk. There’s a baker, a butcher, a small perfume shop, a market, a shoemaker, and a tobacco shop that also sells newspapers and magazines. A gray church with a bell tower sits at the end of the tiny downtown. A little past the church is a public garden with a small playground, some benches, and a small statue of the Madonna. A fountain, surrounded by low-hanging saplings, centers the space. There are no children around, perhaps because it’s nine in the morning and they’re all just starting their school day. I eventually end up standing in front of a café. Looking through the front windows, I can see that there’s a nice wooden countertop and tables with cushioned benches inside.

  Sooner or later I’ll come back for a cup of tea, and I’ll sit at one of those tables and watch people passing by. Maybe I’ll even bring a book. I’ve always wanted to sit in a café, reading and drinking tea as I wait for a friend, but I’ve never really had friends before. And judging from how people are basically ignoring me now, I’m afraid it will take me a long time to make friends here. But I was prepared for this, and I’m a patient person. Suddenly I realize that the barista is looking at me from behind the counter. He’s a middle-aged man with a round face and short hair. We exchange smiles. I decide that I’ll definitely come back. We wave at each other, and I continue on my way. I absolutely must go shopping.

  I discover a supermarket run by two sisters of indeterminable age. I’m sure they’re sisters because the
y look so much alike. Wandering between the only two aisles in the store, basket in hand, I accidentally run into two middle-aged women, interrupting their conversation. I quickly move out of their way and apologize, but they reproachfully stare at me as if I had offended them. The larger of the two women, who’s wearing a floral dress that looks like old sofa upholstery, waits until I’m a bit farther away but still within earshot to remark, “Why can’t they stay in their neck of the woods?”

  Though I understand what she’s saying, I wonder if she really thinks she can tell where I’m from. I’m wearing jeans, like most local women I’ve seen, with a simple white blouse, leather shoes, and a cotton jacket. The only thing that sets me apart is my red hair. Maybe they assume I’m Irish. Luckily, I know that no one can tell who I really am just by looking at me, which is good, since I don’t wish for my new neighbors to know what I escaped.

  I buy bread, eggs, jam, tea, coffee, sugar, and a piece of vegetable quiche that the person behind the counter assured me would be great at home. I had wanted to get some pastries for breakfast and a bottle of wine, but the sweets and alcohol are right in front of the two gossiping women, and I don’t want to get in the middle of them again. As I check out, I decide that I’ll come back this afternoon. I need pasta, rice, and oil, but I can’t carry the weight of all those groceries at once.

  On my way home, I see the café again and am tempted to go in, but refrain. Then I glimpse a bookstore across the street, and my heart leaps. I long to go in and look around, but I have to get my groceries home. Browsing for books is something I like to do when I’m not pressed for time, even if the bookstore is calling me like the Sirens of Ulysses. I laugh to myself, enchanted at the idea of diving between the pages of a book as if they were the arms of a beautiful man. My smile lingers on my lips until a woman walking toward me eyes me warily, and my smile fades away.