Cristiano and I said hello. I couldn't help but smile at his broad grin stacked with dimples. His cow eyes were lined with a ridiculous thatch of eyelashes. His teeth were straight and gleamed like porcelain. Cristiano was beautiful, wiry, and full of energy. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and brown skin. He reminded me of a chocolate chip cookie. He was the spitting image of his father, except Pietro's eyes were blue. Cristiano was a picture of health, and the complete opposite of his younger brother.
Cristiano, I concluded, was probably responsible for the hurricane that had passed through their home. Their villa was big and beautiful. It was also a complete disaster. Toys were scattered everywhere: crayons, markers, toy cars, and soccer related paraphernalia covered every surface. There were enough toys for ten children -- not just two.
"This is Saxony. You have to use your English when you talk to her, okay?" Elda said to Cristiano.
He nodded and gave me a little wave. "Hello." His voice penetrated every corner of the room and every movement he made was quick and twitchy. He dropped the soccer ball and kicked it down the hall. With one last look at me, he turned and went after it.
"Go get your backpack, please," Elda called after him. "Daddy takes you to school in ten minutes."
"School?" I asked. "They're not out for the summer?" I was mostly surprised that Isaia was going anywhere but to bed.
"Just a few more days," she said. "They're in private school. It runs on a different schedule from the public system."
"Andiamo," said Pietro to Isaia, holding a hand out.
For the first time since he'd settled in my lap, Isaia stirred and climbed down. Again I was startled by his tiny stature. He looked me full in the face and my heart ached in response. Then he crossed the room and took his father's hand.
I was able to observe Isaia and his brother side by side. The two boys next to one another barely looked related. Cristiano patted Isaia on the top of his head in an absent-minded way as he spoke with his father. Elda got up and said goodbye to her boys. She kissed them both, then knelt and spoke to Isaia in a reassuring tone. He nodded soberly.
Just before the boys disappeared down the stairs, Isaia looked back at me a last time. The sunlight slanting through the window reflected his right eye and I thought that it glowed red, just for a fraction of a second. I blinked. Surely just a trick of the light.
When the boys were gone, Elda turned to me. "You're probably exhausted."
"A little." In fact, I wanted nothing more than to lie down on the carpet under our feet.
"I'll show you to your apartment."
Their guest apartment was tiny but charming and included my own little kitchen and a view over the canal. Elda and I agreed to go over the schedule and the boys’ needs later that evening. She said goodbye and left me to myself.
I fished my phone out of my purse and collapsed on the bed. I pounded out a text to my three best friends; Akiko Susumu, Targa MacAuley, and Georjayna Sutherland.
Landed! Met the fam. I've already learned that streets are called calle, and Venice is supposed to be hot as a deuce this summer. How're you guys?
I closed my phone and set it on the bedside table. Their responses would come in scattered on the wind. My besties and I were spread across 8 times zones for the summer.
I closed my eyes and sighed with exhaustion and happiness. I tried to nap but it was a long time coming. Isaia's black eyes refused to fade from my mind.
Three
"I think you must be some kind of wizard," said Elda early one morning later into my first week when she saw that the living room, kitchen, and dining area were clean. "I forgot what my floors looked like."
"Thank you, but the real trick will be to teach Cristiano to put his things away for himself," I said as I put her espresso cup under the nozzle of their machine and set it to make her a shot.
Elda and I often had a few minutes where we passed company in the kitchen before she left and before the boys were up and dressed.
"Yes, if you can accomplish that you are a magician for sure," she said, bending to fasten the buckles on her red leather shoes.
"You always have such amazing shoes," I said. "Where do you get them?"
"Ah, welcome to Italy, that land of beautiful footwear. I will have to show you my favourite shops sometime. Of course, the best ones are in Milan, but we have some nice ones here in Venezia, too."
Elda and I chatted until she had to leave, and then I made lunch for Cristiano. Today, Isaia had no classes or camps and so we were to spend the day together. It was my last working day before the weekend. I was debating what to do with Isaia, since it would be just the two of us. I could think of a million things, but I didn't know if they'd be interesting to a kid, or if he'd have the energy for much.
"Buongiorno," I smiled as Pietro entered the kitchen carrying Isaia. I put his espresso on the island where he could reach it.
He took the cup and thanked me.
"Good morning, Isaia," I said. Even though he couldn't or wouldn't speak, I assumed that he understood most of what I said. In the few days that I had passed as the boy's au pair, I came to think that Isaia understood a lot more of the English language than his older brother did.
Isaia reached for me. Pietro handed the boy over, now accustomed to our morning routine. Isaia's warm body settled against me. I kissed the top of his head, feeling the heat radiating from him with my lips. I didn't think he had a fever, but somehow he always seemed right on the edge. Elda had explained that his normal was actually a touch high, and he'd been like that since birth.
"I meant to ask Elda before she left, is it okay if I take Isaia to see a glassblowing demonstration on Murano later today? Elda passed on a gift card for a private demo that she doesn't have time to use. It will expire next week. I thought he might enjoy it. I know I would, too." Murano was an island to the north of Venezia, which was where all of the world-class glassblowing houses had their workshops and stores. I had always loved coloured glass artwork.
"That's a beautiful idea," Pietro said. "Please do." He fished in his wallet and pulled out a business card. "Call Giovanni for a ride," he said, handing it to me. "Don't bother with the water busses. And don't pay him," he added, raising a finger. "I have an agreement with him."
"Grazie! How kind."
Pietro and Cristiano said goodbye and I turned to Isaia. "It's just you and me, little man. Are you hungry?"
He shook his head.
"Would you like to go to Murano today?" I asked.
He gave a small shrug, and then seemed to think better of it and nodded.
"Okay, but we have some hours to spend before. I'll clean up the kitchen, and you can go play."
He meandered slowly down the hallway toward his room. I frowned after him. The boy seemed to have no energy whatsoever. Cristiano was unstoppable from morning until night when he crashed hard in a skinny, sweaty mess. I had never once seen Isaia run or kick a ball or do anything more strenuous than play with Lego or color. I wondered for the millionth time why he was so lethargic and what had made him stop speaking.
I had done a few hours of research one evening, finding medical websites that talked about children losing their speech after a traumatic event. Many had recovered their powers of speech after therapy. But Pietro and Elda both said that Isaia had never been through a traumatic event, not even so much as a painful visit to the dentist. He'd lived a sheltered and protected life. He'd never been an energetic kid, even in the womb.
My phone dinged as I was tidying the kitchen.
Targa: Finally arrived in Poland! Remind me never to let my mother on a plane. Like ever.
Me: Whyzat? She okay?
It surprised me that Targa's mom, Mira, might have airsickness. She was the strongest, most impervious woman I'd ever met. She intimidated the hell out of me.
Targa: Can't handle the altitude, I guess. Check it out...
She sent through a photo of a huge mansion with a bazillion windows and crawling with ivy. My eyes bugged.
Me: That's where you're living for the summer!?
Targa: Crazy, right? It's crammed full of mermaid and seascape artwork from top to bottom, too. This rich Polish dude is some kind of collector. ??
Me: Have you met him yet? What's he like?
Targa: Not yet. Tonight at dinner. Gonna nap now. Latr Gatr.