Solitaria by Genni Gunn Page B

the while trying to concentrate on her face, while his mind sees the young woman outside, bent over her notebook.

    Oriana follows David down the hall, her camcorder rolling. Piera opens the door a crack, and on seeing Oriana, quickly retreats, despite her entreaties: “Zia, you can trust me,” and “Haven’t I always taken your side?” and “I’ll film you so your words can’t be distorted.”
    David steps into the room and firmly shuts the door.
    He hands her the espresso and sits down. Piera is a petite woman — four-foot ten — a size 000, with feet so tiny, she has her shoes made to measure. Botte piccola fa vino buono. A small cask makes good wine.
    The church bells sound and they both look up. “ Campane a martello ,” Piera says and smiles. Hammer bells . Some years ago, she tells David, the town council decided to record the church bells, so they could be played at exact intervals throughout the day, without the need for a bell ringer. Now, they’re amplified, distorted, hammer against metal. “Doesn’t anyone have ears any more?” she says, rolling her eyes, irritated by change, or perhaps by the fact that she no longer influences change. “One phone call,” she says. “That’s all it would have taken in the old days.”
    She pats a place next to her, and David sits down. She is picking through a handful of photos when a clang, clang, clang begins. They both look up again, turning their heads toward what sounds like construction nearby. “See what I have to put up with?” she says. “I swear, they’ll split open my head.”
    They both go out on the balcony. There, on the roof next door, so close they could spit an olive pit at it, five men are building what looks like a separate house, only instead of being on the ground, it’s on someone’s roof.
    â€œA parasite,” Piera says, “barnacles clinging to rocks. Like Teresa.” She smiles then.
    The men are in constant movement, shirtless, their bodies blackened with sun and glinting with perspiration.
    The foundation of the new house has been marked out with stones — the layout of the house-to-be, its walls and rooms, like the ruins of Ostia Antica or Pompei — buildings imagined from the remnants of tesserae floors and sections of walls. The workers have built crude steps to the roof, and while two men work at the top, the other three take turns carrying up stones and stacking them to one side. Piera lights a cigarette and watches their young bodies, their agile movements.
    At one point, one turns and looks right at them, his hand raised to shield the sun from his eyes. He’s a handsome young man. “Vito,” she whispers.
    David leans into her. “Vito?”
    She turns to him, frowning, then looks back at the young man, his curly black hair and lithe body, his dark tanned chest. “No, it’s not possible,” she says. “I was remembering…” The young man continues to stare, and she flushes and steps back, looking down at her worn dressing gown, its black stripes faded to grey, a button missing. “It’s been so long since anyone searched me out,” she says. She sits heavily on the bed.
    â€œBut surely your family —” David begins.
    â€œMy family,” she repeats, in an acid tone. “Where do you see my family?”
    â€œThey want to see you,” David says.
    â€œI gave them my life,” she says, passionate, her eyes glossy.
    David says nothing, waiting.
    â€œI need air,” she says suddenly. “Roll up the shutters a little.”
    He moves to the window and pulls on the cords, lifting the outside shutters halfway, until she tells him to stop. A warm breeze billows the curtains, and he sees the bustle of life in the street below.
    â€œWhat about the letters?” he asks. “Can you tell me about those? Everyone wants to know.”
    She looks at