PAINTED RED

“Ciao Laura. Your mother is dying. You better come now if you want to see her alive.” Domenico, my stepfather, tells me through the scratchy, long-distance phone call. I stand up and look at the clock on my nightstand: 2:00 AM. My husband is asleep next to me, his clogged sinuses causing the usual, rhythmic wheezing, and my daughter is in another room, also sleeping. I get up, go to the kitchen, make some coffee, and wait.

            By five in the morning I am at the airport in San Francisco, buying a very expensive ticket to Milan, Italy. At sunset the day after, I take the train to Pavia, the small provincial town south of Milan where my mom lives. It’s snowing and the pale yellow light of the street lamps against the whiteness of the thick snow gives the impression of being in a scene of a war movie, where the peace and the whiteness of the surroundings are a deploy for something big about to happen. I exit into the square and immediately sink my right foot in a puddle. Damn! That’s why I left this place, I think. Pavia is in the Northern plains and it’s famous for its fog and its frogs, but not much else. I am wearing jeans and a corduroy jacket with flat leather shoes—not exactly snow clothes—and my teeth begin chattering the moment I step out of the train. I have lived in California for over twenty years and have forgotten about the weather in this forsaken parts of Italy. With my sopping feet I walk the five hundred yards or so to where my mom is hospitalized. It is a long and narrow boulevard to the left of the station. The only sound is my feet crunching on the fresh snow.

I wonder if this time is really the end.

Chapter 1

I am four years old. I have short hair and big, brown eyes. Today I am wearing the dress with sunflowers that my mom gave me the last time she came to visit. Quirina is painting her lips bright red, over and over again until the edges are smudged.

“Quirina, why do you do that?” I ask her.

“Do what?” she replies.

“Put so much red on your lips.”

“Because in my line of business it’s necessary,” she says.

“What’s your line of business?” I ask, although I don’t really know what the words mean.

“It’s none of your business, missy.” She puts the top of the lipstick back on and walks to the other room. I jump down from the bed and follow her into the kitchen.

“Laura, are you ready?” she asks, looking at me.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To where we go all the time; why do you always have to ask?” she replies, while shoving me forward. I pick my blanket off the floor and walk to the front door, my head down.

“Oh, stop it! We can get a Popsicle on the way back, OK?” she tells me.

  Quirina is my caretaker. To earn a living she takes money for spending time with men, most of the time in bed but sometimes just crouched behind the building making noises. She calls it "her business," but even at four I know it's not a good business. When she visits with her clients she takes me along.  Today she is wearing black fishnets, a tight red leather skirt and a black, lacey top, not what I see other women I know wearing. We cross the cobblestone yard with me a step or two behind, Quirina ahead. Then we turn right to the end of the street and then left where the main thoroughfare and all the shops are. Calcinara, the area where we live, is the poorest of Pavia. It sinks below the dykes of the river Ticino up ahead, and at times it has flooded and we have had to evacuate.

I have a tough time keeping up with her; my feet keep tripping on the blanket. We pass by Giovanni, the milkman.

“Hey, Quirina!” He whistles at her. She throws a kiss at him and strides forward with her large behind moving left and right at every step. I dread what’s to come.

            At the end of the street we enter a dingy, reeking hallway and climb a set of stairs. It smells like pee and there are no lights.

            “What’s your problem?” she yells at me from the landing at the top. I don’t want to go up. I have my thumb in my mouth and am clutching my blanket tight to my chest.

            “I’ll spank you if you don’t hurry up!” she shouts.

            At the top is a rusty door with a large lock. Quirina fiddles with it and the door opens with a squeak. The room has dusty red tiles and pale green walls. Across from the entrance is a bed with a gray, stained bedspread; to the right is a couch with faded pink flower fabric. It has huge, square cushions with rips down the middle showing the white filling inside and the spring popping up. Every time I sit on it my behind hurts. I hesitate.

            “Stop making such a fuss and hurry up!” she yells again. She grabs me by my armpits and throws me on the couch. I begin to cry.

            “Stop crying, OK? Stop crying!” she yells even louder. I force myself to stop. Because when I don’t, she hits me hard and doesn’t buy me a Popsicle.

            My legs cover the entire pillow but my feet can’t easily reach the end of it. I am stuck on the couch.

            Quirina walks to the bed, drops her purse and begins undressing. First the top, then the skirt, and finally the necklace made of plastic beads. She leaves her black bra, underwear and fishnets on. She slips under the covers and lights a cigarette.

            “Are you embarrassed?” she asks me.

            “Yes,” I whimper. I don’t know why she has to ask me every time. I don’t know what it means but I figure it has to do with my feeling uncomfortable. I pull the filaments out of the couch.

After a few, long minutes we hear a knock on the door.

            “Who is it?” asks Quirina.

            “It’s me, Paolo,” replies the visitor.

            “Come on in,” she instructs.

            A short man with greasy hair enters the room. He smells like mold and I try not to look at him, but recognize him from before.

            Without speaking he approaches the bed and takes off his clothes; I have my head down and try hard not to peek. Neither one of them speaks, but my heart is beating fast. Dear God, please don’t let them hear my heart! I pray.

            The smacking noises and the moaning begins. I don’t know how long it lasts but suddenly I can’t stay in the room any longer. I climb down from the couch with my blanket and go outside.