The Other Language by Francesca Marciano

to fight it a little longer.
    “It’s not the end of the world, you know, there are other things in life you can do.”
    “What are you eating?”
    “ Fromage and crackers. I think you’d be brilliant at a million other things.”
    “Such as?”
    “Darling, I’m not a tarot reader. All I’m saying is that if in all these years you haven’t been able to make another film as impressive as your first, then maybe you should move on.”
    Pascal could always be brutal, but wasn’t that exactly the reason she had called him?
    “I still have the goddamned Chanel!” she cried. “I feel guilty every time I look at it.”
    “Why guilty? Just wear it.”
    “Where to? I doubt I’ll be asked to go anywhere that formal ever again.”
    “Caterina. You should wear it to the supermarket and have fun with it.”
    “That’s ridiculous and you know it.”
    “You are making too much of it. It’s just a dress, it’s not a coronation mantle.”
    Caterina thought of herself wearing the Chanel through the aisles of the Esselunga supermarket, or when going to pick up the twins at kindergarten. Of wearing it nonstop till it became a uniform, so that people would begin to think of her as the woman in the green dress. She would be considered an eccentric, of course, though by wearing the dress to death out of sheer willpower, she would not only extract from it every euro it had cost her, but also exhaust its fibers till it would have to simply give out and die of consumption, lose its feathers, become more humane, turn into a lifeless threadbare rag and no longer intimidate her. She would win by humbling it. It was an idea, a way of looking at the dilemma.
    But she knew she didn’t have the guts to engage in that kind of battle.

    In her forties, working as a freelance editor for TV commercials, Caterina spent most of her time inside a darkroom off Via Cavour, cutting three-minute ads for luxury cars or perfumes. She had made peace with what she had become: she wasn’t an artist but an artisan of sorts. There was no dormant Jane Campion inside her, there had been no misunderstood talent and there was nobody to blame. The twins had turned into bright, witty little boys with remarkable imaginations, well behaved and fun to be with; she and Riccardo were still good together and their marriage still felt like a safe place to be. In that, at least, she had been successful. The statuette she had won for her short now served as a doorstop and as a joke in the family.
    One day, across from her office, right next door to the PasticceriaParadisi, she saw that a stylish young woman had opened a vintage clothing store. Caterina browsed through the racks during her lunch break. The labels were all quite exclusive and prices were high.
    “I have a vintage Chanel,” she found herself saying. “Would you be interested?”
    The woman raised her head from the book she was reading.
    “Of course. As long as it’s in good condition.”
    “It’s perfect. It’s never been worn.”
    The woman seemed skeptical.
    “Bring it and I’ll give you an evaluation,” she said, lowering her eyes to her book again.
    Caterina rang Pascal in Paris—he was about to direct his first play—and told him that she was finally getting rid of the Chanel. He replied without hesitation, saying it was blasphemy to sell it to a secondhand store.
    “I need the money. It’s not a hand-me-down, it’s a very exclusive vintage store right across from the studio in Via del Boschetto. I’m tired of keeping this corpse in my closet.”
    “Whatever,” Pascal said. He was busy, or perhaps tired of the game, which by now was more than ten years old.

    “It’s gorgeous,” the stylish young woman from the vintage store said as Caterina freed the dress from its body bag. “Is it yours?”
    “Yes. I bought it almost a dozen years ago. It’s from the cruise collection.”
    The woman brushed the fabric with her fingertips and delicately fluffed up the feathers.
    “May I