one tree’s broad base.
In the yard, a crash and a shout, and she was awake.
It was the dead of night when Carolina ventured downstairs for the first time after going blind. She stood for some uncountable time in her open door, listening for any sign that everything beyond had not been erased by darkness. It was the scratching and cooing of the birds on the roof that gave her the courage to step out onto the soft carpet. From there, she simply turned and reached, as she had done a hundred times before, for the smooth support of the thick banister. It led her faithfully down the wide stairs and deposited her on another carpet in Pietro’s main hall. Here, separated from the sound of the birds, her own steps muffled by the wool, the silence was so deep that the darkness rushed in, threatening to consume her. Instead of cowering before it, she threw her hand out and caught the knob of the front door. At this proof of the world’s existence, the darkness retreated. She began to feel her way through the house.
She started at the borders of the rooms, her fingers trailing over smooth walls broken by cold windows. She spread her palms flat on brocade upholstery, trying to remember whether it was green or gold. She tangled with potted palms in the corners. The rough faces of the various portraits had nothing to say to her, but their frames were such a symphony for her fingertips that she wondered if the elaborate fashion hadn’t been started, perhaps, by an unnamed artist for his blind wife, now long forgotten.
A few things had changed. All around the house unfamiliar candles had been scattered to hold back the winter gloom. For whatever reason, Pietro had ordered the piano dragged across the conservatory and the case propped open, even though neither of them played. “What are you doing here?” she whispered, touching the silent keys. Here and there, she found new figurines: a pair of tiny elephants, one’s trunk relaxed, the other trumpeting; a new globe with raised continents; a small piece on the salon mantel, ceramic, full of spikes and smooth patches, which remained a mystery despite repeated visits.
Each night, she went a little farther. Eventually she began to strike out into the center of the rooms, navigating around remembered buffets and carts, sofas and tables. Pietro didn’t have a library to speak of, but she pulled books down from his few shelves and sat with them on her knees, imagining the unseen pages now filled with heroic tales, now with verse, now with the histories of lost cities. She learned to enter the dining room and stride across it to her own chair. She found the cook’s chocolate and flour, her onions, her vinegar. She entered the salon and threw the curtains wide to the night sky, then pulled them closed again.
For weeks, her explorations went on in perfect silence. Then, one night, she heard footsteps in the next room.
She froze. One hand closed on the heavy candlestick she had been examining. The footsteps had fallen in the main hall. She stood in the salon. When Carolina went still, the footsteps also stopped.
Carolina crossed the wide room and darted across the hall, into the conservatory. A quick touch revealed that the piano had not been moved from its new place, and that the case was still raised, forming a huge shadow that would hide her from the rest of the room. She took up a position beyond it and froze again, but the footsteps didn’t follow. The house breathed normally. Then, rooms away, she heard a creak and a thud as a door swung open, and shut.
A few nights later, as Carolina was investigating the ever-changing fruits and vegetables on the kitchen counter, she caught the sound of the footsteps again when they stumbled into a chair in the dining room. Instantly, Carolina crossed to the swinging kitchen door and threw it open. She stood on the threshold between the rooms and held her breath so as not to miss the smallest sound. This time, the footsteps’ escape was
In the yard, a crash and a shout, and she was awake.
It was the dead of night when Carolina ventured downstairs for the first time after going blind. She stood for some uncountable time in her open door, listening for any sign that everything beyond had not been erased by darkness. It was the scratching and cooing of the birds on the roof that gave her the courage to step out onto the soft carpet. From there, she simply turned and reached, as she had done a hundred times before, for the smooth support of the thick banister. It led her faithfully down the wide stairs and deposited her on another carpet in Pietro’s main hall. Here, separated from the sound of the birds, her own steps muffled by the wool, the silence was so deep that the darkness rushed in, threatening to consume her. Instead of cowering before it, she threw her hand out and caught the knob of the front door. At this proof of the world’s existence, the darkness retreated. She began to feel her way through the house.
She started at the borders of the rooms, her fingers trailing over smooth walls broken by cold windows. She spread her palms flat on brocade upholstery, trying to remember whether it was green or gold. She tangled with potted palms in the corners. The rough faces of the various portraits had nothing to say to her, but their frames were such a symphony for her fingertips that she wondered if the elaborate fashion hadn’t been started, perhaps, by an unnamed artist for his blind wife, now long forgotten.
A few things had changed. All around the house unfamiliar candles had been scattered to hold back the winter gloom. For whatever reason, Pietro had ordered the piano dragged across the conservatory and the case propped open, even though neither of them played. “What are you doing here?” she whispered, touching the silent keys. Here and there, she found new figurines: a pair of tiny elephants, one’s trunk relaxed, the other trumpeting; a new globe with raised continents; a small piece on the salon mantel, ceramic, full of spikes and smooth patches, which remained a mystery despite repeated visits.
Each night, she went a little farther. Eventually she began to strike out into the center of the rooms, navigating around remembered buffets and carts, sofas and tables. Pietro didn’t have a library to speak of, but she pulled books down from his few shelves and sat with them on her knees, imagining the unseen pages now filled with heroic tales, now with verse, now with the histories of lost cities. She learned to enter the dining room and stride across it to her own chair. She found the cook’s chocolate and flour, her onions, her vinegar. She entered the salon and threw the curtains wide to the night sky, then pulled them closed again.
For weeks, her explorations went on in perfect silence. Then, one night, she heard footsteps in the next room.
She froze. One hand closed on the heavy candlestick she had been examining. The footsteps had fallen in the main hall. She stood in the salon. When Carolina went still, the footsteps also stopped.
Carolina crossed the wide room and darted across the hall, into the conservatory. A quick touch revealed that the piano had not been moved from its new place, and that the case was still raised, forming a huge shadow that would hide her from the rest of the room. She took up a position beyond it and froze again, but the footsteps didn’t follow. The house breathed normally. Then, rooms away, she heard a creak and a thud as a door swung open, and shut.
A few nights later, as Carolina was investigating the ever-changing fruits and vegetables on the kitchen counter, she caught the sound of the footsteps again when they stumbled into a chair in the dining room. Instantly, Carolina crossed to the swinging kitchen door and threw it open. She stood on the threshold between the rooms and held her breath so as not to miss the smallest sound. This time, the footsteps’ escape was
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