CHAPTER 1
Roberta walked across the room to the open windows. She could see the red tiles of the sloping rooftops below, and much lower, at ground level, a tiny rectangle - a patch - of grass the locals called il prato, rather than l'erba. 'Emilio, take the chairs sul prato.' Or, 'Guido, fetch a blanket and let's have a picnic sul prato. It's too bella to stay inside!' Throughout the day screams and shouts of a similar kind were heard, and she smiled to herself each time she heard them. Roberta knew the difference between lawn and grass, because she had been to England with Father.
It was in England where she learned about lawns. In Canada there were vast stretches of grassy fields, or tiny Westmount parcels of neat grass hedged in by beds of perennials or boxwood, like the one in the courtyard below, that were clipped and trimmed, but, despite being green, were not lawns. She and Father and a wheezing Mrs Conway visited Kent and Devonshire, toured the Lake District and spent weeks, the greatest part of seven consecutive summers to be precise, in a vast suite of rooms overlooking Kensington Gardens. It was in Kensington Gardens where Roberta set foot upon her first real lawn.
The lawn of Kensington Gardens lay before her without a single blemish. There were no weeds; no bald nor yellowing patches. It had the appearance of a limitless stretch of fine, dark green velvet. That park, along with Hyde Park, had been her only playground. Roberta watched the boaters on the Serpentine; she dreamed of sailing far away as she lazed in a rented deck chair, reading for hours on end in the shade of a broad parasol. Father thought a lady should have skin as white and unblemished as the finest bone china, unlike the fashionable, burnished sun-worshippers. Roberta didn't agree with Father. She wanted desperately to run and scream unhindered under the fiery sun. But no. Roberta never did anything that was forbidden.
Father forbade many things, and she was a dutiful daughter until, leaving for university, she kissed him on the cheek and never saw him again, or, that is, whenever Father could not be put off. Fortunately, those times were rare, and not being in each other's company proved to be the one secret wish they shared in common.
Roberta's first taste of freedom, of doing whatever and being whomever she wished to be, proved more powerful than any of her childhood fears. Father suggested McGill. With encouragements from Clarissa, Roberta chose the Sorbonne. She defied Father and he never forgave her. He secretly approved his daughter's independence, yet believed that it should be given with his blessing, not taken in revolt. Roberta loved Father but loved Clarissa more. Father had never known Clarissa. He had obstinately ignored Lady Griffyn's invitations to tea. Father had no time for outsiders, and detested tea. As far as he was concerned, Clarissa and her noble British family were outsiders.
Clarissa was her special friend, had been, that is, closest to her. As long as Clarissa was alive, from the moment of their meeting, she was everything. Roberta knew there would only be one Clarissa in her life, and that there never would, ever could, be anyone to take her place. She gave away a part of her heart that day, and when Clarissa died she took it with her.
* * *
Roberta turned to face the room.
It was massive. On one wall, three very wide, very tall, undressed windows looked onto a street that was eternally congested with speeding cars and busy pedestrians. They remained shut to keep out the noise and the dirt. On the opposite wall, three identical windows overlooked the garden courtyard in back, the clay rooftops, and, of course, "the lawn". She could, if she stretched her neck as far as possible out of the last of these windows, see the broken wall of the Coliseum. If Roberta chose to open the windows on the street side, she could contemplate the Fore: the heart of ancient Rome.
It was the first place Roberta had visited to rent, two days after her arrival in this unknown city. She had chosen it, not only for its location, but for it being a pensione, which appealed to her notion of learning Italian in an Italian family.
There, at the far end, was a portrait of a golden Clarissa watching over a wide twin bed, and next to it, a heavily sculpted bedside table which had been cut out of a precious, unknown tree, that, although lovely, was impractical. The table lamp, with its ornate, over-sized Chinese base, left no room for either book or reading glasses. In the middle of the room, a heavily worn Persian rug lay upon the polished, fruitwood floor, and, despite it's palatial proportions, a great deal of the floor was bare. The ceilings, twenty feet high and richly coffered, and the intricately carved, marble mantles of the disaffected fireplaces, reminded visitors of a former Renaissance glory. In one corner stood an impressive writing table, circa. 1920, that could be found in any luxury hotel of the times. It was out of its element. To compensate this, Margarita had installed an extravagant, eighteenth-century sofa, and an expansive tapestry of naked nymphs bathing in a spring. In an en suite bathroom, equipped with shower, wash basin, toilet and bidet, a marble bath gazed upon the courtyard and a patch of Roman sky. There was another, smaller room, with one tall window and a view of the Forum, a vanity table, and a deep, heavily carved, walnut armoire: her dressing room. There was no television, no phone, no internet. There was, mind, an old radio and CD player. A bronze sculpture of Clara stood upon a mahogany table, and, on the wall directly above it, two aquarelles hung in shadow-boxes - the first, tall; the second, wide. The paintings, the portrait above the bed, and the bronze statue were all that remained of her other life. Everything else came with the rent. A handful of antique armchairs of various periods and styles were scattered negligently, rather higgledy-piggledy, throughout the yawning space. Most were outrageous additions; all were uncomfortable.
Defying the clutter of furnishings by its spatial grandeur, the room appeared empty, and most guests asked for something not so cavernous, per favore. But the room, which seemed to be waiting for someone, had called out to her, and Roberta, with her grief and her baggage, heard it. She said yes, and agreed to take them after only a fleeting glance, believing in her good fortune. Margarita told her there were curtains, somewhere, and she would have them put up, pronto! But Roberta didn't want them. 'The light is nice,' she said.
No curtains? Margarita was incredulous. 'It will be very hot in the summer, and you will be cold in the winter without them,' she insisted.
But Roberta was adamant. 'I don't mind,' she said.
Margarita left her to settle in.
It was only when she began to unpack that Roberta noticed the table next to the bed. Tricky. At home she never thought about resting a glass upon the carpet next to her bed, but there was no bedside carpet here. Instead, there was a highly polished fruitwood floor that filled the room with its perfume of beeswax and linseed oil.
That was another reason why she accepted to take these rooms. They smelled like the old farmhouse. Evoking, teasing memories that were painful and yet precious, as only those things that have ended forever can be. She did not want to think about Clara. She...
