A Veil of Glass and Rain (21 page)

When Jean saw Margherita for the first

time, she was sitting on a bench outside a

church. They were in Turin. It was a sunny and

crisp day. Margherita was wearing a dark and

demure dress, for she was mourning her

parents' death.

Upon resting his gaze on her pale skin and

long, inky hair, Jean felt the irrational but

undeniable impulse to divest the girl of the

cloak of sadness she was clothed in, and

replace it with his own skin, his own warmth,

his own strength. So he decided to sit beside

her. He remained quiet and just kept her

company as she cried.

Jean had grown up in a Swiss orphanage.

When he was a child he had nothing, not even

a family name. He was never adopted, in spite

of that he developed into a strong and decisive

man. As soon as he was old enough, he chose

his own family name, Féau, which in French

means “loyal”. Then he found a job. He

became the assistant of an Italian

photographer. He traveled all over the world

with his new boss. Through the lenses of his

camera, he witnessed human hunger, despair,

but also resilience.

When he saw Margherita for the first time,

he was already pursuing an independent

career.

After Margherita's tears ebbed, Jean began

to speak to her in Italian.

“My name is Jean. I'm a photographer. I'm

looking for an assistant,” he told her.

Margherita glanced up at him with teary

eyes and met kind blue eyes, that contained

the immense sky.

“I'm Margherita, and I have nothing,” she

replied.

“You can have me. If you want,” Jean

declared.

Then they became friends.

Then they became lovers.

Then they became complete.

I can't stop thinking about him.

Professor Sergio De Lauri, Miss Tessitori's

friend, is a tall and lean man in his early

fifties. He's bald and he has small, brown and

intelligent eyes. He likes wearing T-shirts,

jeans and combat-boots.

He never meets his students in his office,

but he prefers seeing us in small coffee shops

scattered all over Berlin. The owners of these

selected places are Italians; professor De

Lauri, being a very curious mind, has collected

the story of each one of them. He knows why

and when they came to Germany. He knows

how hard they struggled in the beginning. He

knows how happy they are with their new

lives. And he's aware of how much they still

miss their country.

As we nurse our coffees, the professor waits

patiently for my brain and my mouth to

express ideas, but nothing happens; I'm still

unable to present a clear topic for my paper.

So Mr. De Lauri advises me to visit the
Film

Haus
, and to take a long walk afterward.

“Pay attention,” he says. “Search for the

scars. And then look for the rebirth.”

His suggestion fills me with confusion and

discouragement at first. But then, I curl my

fingers into tight fists, I inhale deeply and I

begin my brief journey.

My exploration of the museum of cinema,

through decades of European and German

films, shows me that the movies made

between the two World Wars are crowded with

shadows. The pictures depict a distorted

reality full of monstrous characters. The

authors of these movies could not imagine that

a new conflict was imminent, but they could

probably perceive the threat hiding within the

murkiness.

My long strolls down the streets of Berlin

reveal to me a city imbued with fresh energy

and young minds. The modern and intricate

buildings, made of glass and steel, reach

toward the sky. At their feet, however, rest

the fragments of a terrible past; the remains

of the Berlin wall dispersed across the city.

Rome and Berlin are similar and yet so

different. During the war, Rome found the

strength in its eternal history and foundations;

Berlin survived the conflict through renovation

and vitality.

It takes me numerous meetings with

professor De Lauri and interminable walks, but

in the end I find the topic of my paper.

I'm going to write about Rome, my home,

and about Berlin, the city that is witnessing my

own rebirth. I'm going to tell about two cities

that faced a long war. And I'm going to show

how the cinema portrayed their struggle and

survival.

I need him.

I want to write to him, call him, talk to him,

but I don't, because I'm certain that his words,

either written or spoken, will shatter my

resolve to change and to heal. If I hear his

voice, I'm sure I'll implore him to come to me

and take me home. I'll ask him to blanket me

with his warmth and his solidity.

I recline in my bed and stare at the ceiling;

my active imagination transforms the thin and

irregular chinks into Eagan's handsome

features.

Then I hear the twins' startled tones mingled

with another slightly familiar voice.

I ease out of bed and follow the words, until

I step into our small living room.

Ivan and Alessio are ogling appreciatively a

tall, lean and fit man, who's standing in the

middle of the room. He has dark eyes and

chestnut hair. He's wearing a black suit, black

shirt and vest, black elegant shoes, and a top-

hat.

“He says he knows you,” Alessio explains, as

soon as he notices my presence.

The man turns toward me and frowns.

“Hello, Brina. You look dour this morning,”

he comments. “The sun is shining. You should

take a walk.”

Before replying, I stare intently at him. His

looks, his voice.

She's fragile. She's dragging you down. Is

she worth it?

I know who he is.

“You're Neal,” I tell him drily.

He seems unfazed by my tone. His eyes

scrutinize my features, even as he speaks.

“The one and only,” he admits.

I give the twin a reassuring smile. “I've got

this.” When I turn my attention back to Neal,

the smile fades away. “What do you want?”

Neal doesn't respond. He shrugs briefly and

begins to explore our small apartment. While

Ivan and Alessio remain in the living room, I

tread behind the unwanted visitor.

“This place is tiny. And the furniture

offends my sensitivity,” he remarks.

I quickly glance at the sparse, modest but

functional furniture.

“This is all we can afford with our

scholarships,” I explain. Then I add, “Why do

you care?”

The moment he enters into my bedroom I

quicken my pace to step in front of him and

arrest his path. Our gazes meet and hold.

“Did Eagan ask you to check on me?”

“Yes. He's worried. You never call. You

never write.”

I flinch but I don't say anything, because

Neal doesn't deserve my explanations.

“How do you know about my walks?” I ask

instead.

“I've been keeping an eye on you,” Neal

answers.

“Why?”

“I want to help you. Eagan is family,

therefore you are family,” he clarifies.

“You think I'm not good for him. I heard

your conversation.” My voice wavers, for

images of my argument with Eagan crowd my

mind.

Neal leans toward me and considers my

reaction. I glance up at his inappropriate and

immovable top-hat, which appears to be an

integral part of his head.

“No, you're not good for him. I am not good

for him. And my sister is not good for him.

Eagan is spirited, while the three of us are

glum and desperate.”

“I'm not giving up on him,” I tell him

stubbornly.

Neal gives me a sharp nod. “Good.”

Then he leaves the room.

I don't follow him immediately, for I need a

few moments to placate my emotions.

The moment we're all back in the living

room, Neal's expression changes. Stark

seriousness replaces his ironic frown.

“I own a club. I need a band to entertain my

clients. You're hired,” he says.

“Don't you want to hear us play first?” I ask

him, even as a surge of gratitude runs through

my chest; we can really use the extra money.

“The guy managing my club in Rome told me

you're good. Eagan thinks you're good. I trust

my manager. I trust Eagan. There's nothing

else to say,” he declares.

The club by the sea. Eagan's mysterious

friend: Neal. David's big brother. The man who

bought clubs all over Europe, to keep an eye

on his wandering sister.

“I have another question,” Ivan intervenes.

“Why are wearing a top-hat?”

Neal shrugs. “I like it.”

“Weirdo,” Alessio mutters.

I grin.

Neal seems unaffected by the remark. He

observes Ivan and Alessio for a long moment.

“You two are twins,” he finally utters.

“Yes,” Ivan says.

“And you're both gay.”

“Yes.”

Neal nods. “I figured.”

“How?” Alessio cuts in, his face guarded.

Neal's gaze softens. “You're eating me up

with your eyes.”

Alessio blushes. Ivan laughs. And I beam.

Neal glances at me; his eyes are surprisingly

kind.

“It sounds like a bizarre joke,” Neal

continues. “The gay twins.”

“It's not a joke,” Alessio tells him, but his

tone is more relaxed.

“Right. So what's the name of the band

again?”

“We're Awesome. And it's not a joke

either,” Ivan retorts.

Before leaving, Neal smiles shyly at me,

taking me by surprise once more.

“I meant what I said. You are family.”

His parting words lodge a delicate seed of

promise deep inside my soul.

I long for him.

The façade of Neal's club is white and

nondescript. The interior, however, steals my

breath. It's an intricate combination of marble,

velvet and stucco.

The ample stage is framed by red curtains

made of opulent velvet; in the center stands a

grand piano. Several rows of alcoves occupy

the left wall and the right wall; arched

entryways connect the niches to the main

space. The alcoves create a semi-circle around

the spacious dance floor, in the middle of

which is located the bar. The ceiling is

decorated with a fresco that portrays two

white masks, one crying, one smirking,

enclosed by bruised clouds.

Neal bought a club and transformed it into

“The Theater”.

I glance at Ivan and Alessio and I glimpse my

astonishment and awe reflected in their eyes.

My gaze moves to Neal, who wears a yellow

suit, a yellow top-hat and a timid smile; the

frown is absent from his face and he looks

almost anxious.

Then the music begins and we all stare at

the stage. A young woman is playing the grand

piano. Her long, chestnut hair covers her

shoulders and back like a wide cloak. Her agile

fingers appear to barely graze the black and

white keyboard; they produce a desperate and

yet beautiful melody, shrouded with harsh

longing.

When the performance ends, the young

woman stands and turns toward us; she glances

at our faces without truly perceiving our

presence. Her gaze wanders, searches, but

never rests.

Finally, she exits stage left.

“That was my sister, Felia,” Neal

announces.

I crave him.

Working for Neal turns out to be a satisfying

and engaging experience.

The acoustics in the club are perfect. During

the shows our battered and well-used

instruments rejoice and hum with fresh vigor.

The audience is always benevolent and

enthusiastic; nevertheless, I'm still unable to

let myself go completely and repay their

generosity with my trust. Technique and

experience are yet my favorite puppeteers.

Neal is a beloved boss. His employees adore

him and they all have a story about him.

Neal helped Cora, one of the waitresses,

find a trustworthy nanny for her daughter.