I was surrounded by furniture, feathers, and clothes. I held my fort down obstinately, hissing at anyone who got too close. When shoppers dwindled and yard-sale time was officially over, I began to fold and store my clothes with the same meticulousness I’d used in setting up my wing. I placed everything in big Louis Vuitton antique steamer trunks. They still had passenger labels on them. I placed the trunks, clothes, and all the furniture I could fit into the back of the Cadillac that was parked at the foot of the driveway bearing a fluorescent orange FOR SALE sign. I was allowed to drive it until it got sold.
Through the window I glanced at my parents inside the living room, counting the day’s earnings. My brother hopped around them, his hand open, asking for part of the profits. I slipped into the driver’s seat, scorching my thighs against the black leather, and put the key in the ignition and turned it. The white winged car rolled down Sunny Slope Drive like a tired dinosaur. I navigated the weary beast to the bottom of the street and onto the freeway without thinking. I noticed a postcard on the floor of the passenger seat. I’d sent it from Sicily last summer. They sold only two postcards at the island newsstand. One was a photo of a donkey climbing the stairs, the other was an aerial view of the island. On the card the cone-shaped island was cropped and placed over a matte blue background to symbolize the sea. That was the one I’d picked for my parents to remind them just how far away from them we were, on an island in the middle of a false blue ocean. I flipped it over and read:
Dear Mom and Dad, there are a lot of animals here. Antonio and Alma are very nice and they have a new boat. They called it Samantha Fox. We miss you. Eugenia
I knew what kind of summer they had ahead of them. I knew how happy they’d be riding Samantha Fox out to the Scoglio Galera, then plunging off the cliffs. My brother would be by their side with his rusty trident. As the car drove on, I felt myself slip away from the salt and the sea, from sea urchins, capers, and rock people. The island would be there for me down the line, exactly as I’d left it—immobile and prehistoric, with its ferocious birds and wild goats. I’d be greeted again. The kids, a few years older, would still make the same jokes. I’d be a film star forever for having once appeared in an outdated canned-meat commercial. Santino would have another farm with different animals—the past ones buried under porous rocks. Rosalia’s crisp curls would have grown back on her head. Endless centuries’ worth of volcanic stones would still be awash, unaltered under the sea.
Italy seemed to me like one of those impassive rocks now: an ageless, peninsular boulder emerging from still waters. And I knew I didn’t want to be back there yet. I didn’t go through the things that happened before the earthquake just so I could pretend like they hadn’t existed. I couldn’t follow my parents to more film sets and new beginnings, no matter what.
There were people who wanted us back in Rome, my parents said, but I didn’t know who they were. I’d never spoken to them or seen their faces. Here there was a university and a teacher and a friend and a store, and I knew what those things looked like. I also knew that maybe they weren’t much of anything at all, but that was okay too.
The top was down and my lace nightgowns flapped in the air. I climbed up the ascending lane toward Hollywood and Henry’s store. He’d be there to help me unload the trunk. From where I was the city seemed suddenly credible. It was indeed a city, not an agglomeration of low-rise buildings. I pressed the accelerator and rode farther up, leaving behind the polluted afternoon low clouds—moving out of the Valley’s last sliver of land.
Clusters of treetops on the horizon swayed in the tropical sky as a golden amber light poured in. There was silence and then the steady breath of hot air at my back—a strong, dry wind blowing from the desert, pushing me toward the city and its ocean. It streamed upon me moving in different directions at the same time, tickling the corners of my eyes. I’d felt that breeze before, I’d seen that light and knew what it was: the luminous unseen. This time I did what Max said. I didn’t try to grasp it. I didn’t focus on it or try to understand it. I just let it shine.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to all those who have contributed to this book with their generous reading, edits, and guidance: Claudia Ballard, Raffaella De Angelis, Gerry Howard, Sarah Porter, Sarah Engelmann, Michael Goldsmith, Emily Mahon, Bette Alexander, Karla Eoff, Yuki Hirose, Lauren Mechling, Robin Desser, Jhumpa Lahiri, Frederic Tuten, Iris Smyles, Catherine Lacey, Diane Williams, Tijana Mamula, Ines Mattalia, Derek White.
To the patient and passionate Italian team: Stefano Magagnoli, Marta Treves, Carlo Carabba, Francesca Infascelli, Francesco Pacifico.
And to those who have given me rooms, homes, and quiet time to write: Giovanna Nodari, Micah Perta, Peter Benson Miller, The American Academy in Rome, Associazione Culturale SabinARTi, Lorenzo Castore, Eugenia Lecca, Maria Clara Ghia, Emanuele de Raymondi.
A special thank you to Luca Infascelli, who walked me through the darkest passages and lost as much sleep as I did to get this story where it needed to be.
To: Francesca Marciano for sitting me down in her studio on a warm October day and giving me the talk that jump-started this novel.
And to: Kate Schatz and Taiye Selasi, who came through to save the day in crucial moments.