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Valentina opened her mouth to object, and froze.
«How do you know it was infidelity?» Lucia asked.
Valentina stared at her, uncomprehending.
«It’s… it’s lipstick. On our bed. On the sheet where we sleep. What else could it be?»
«Many things,» said Lucia. «Maybe he had a work party and some drunk fool just kissed him on the cheek and he didn’t even notice. Maybe it was his sister, his mother, a friend who came by in the morning while you were asleep. Maybe it wasn’t even a woman. Men wear lipstick too these days, you know?»
Valentina blinked.
«You don’t know whose lipstick it is,» Lucia continued. «You don’t know how it got there. You don’t know if he was drinking, was drunk, was even conscious. You don’t know – maybe she undressed him while he was passed out. You don’t know – maybe he fought back and just didn’t have the strength. You don’t know anything except a red stain on white fabric.»
Valentina slowly, as if in a dream, sank onto the chair. Her legs gave way.
«I… I didn’t think.»
«You wanted to burn the sheets. You wanted to kill him. You wanted to kill yourself. And you didn’t even ask.»
Silence hung in the laundry, heavy, humid, like air before a thunderstorm. Only the machine hummed, spinning out water, and somewhere in the street, children still played.
The machine beeped. Once. Briefly. The cycle was finished.
Lucia opened the door. Steam rushed out, smelling of detergent and hot water. She took out the sheets. Wet, heavy, they hung down to the floor, water dripping from them onto the stone tiles, pooling.
Lucia unfolded that particular sheet. The one that had had the red stain that morning. Unfolded it completely, held it up to the light coming from the window.
Clean.
No trace. White as the day it was bought. White as the first snow, which almost never falls in Rome. White as Valentina’s coat in the hospital where she saved other people’s children.
Lucia put the sheets into the spin dryer – a separate machine, old, her husband’s, which could spin laundry almost dry in ten minutes. Turned it on. The spinner whined, spun, flinging water through the holes in the drum.
Ten minutes later, Lucia took out the sheets. Almost dry, only slightly damp to the touch.
«Come,» she said, and pushed open the door to the courtyard.
Valentina followed her out.
The courtyard was small, but bright. Stone walls, covered in ivy that had probably been growing there since before the war. Cobblestones underfoot, worn smooth by hundreds of feet and decades of rain. In the corner – an old stone well, long unused, but Lucia kept pots of flowers in it. Geraniums, petunias, other bright splashes whose names she didn’t know.
Lines stretched across the courtyard from wall to wall, from the old well to an iron post driven into the ground by Lucia’s husband forty years ago. On some, laundry was already drying: someone’s striped towels, bright as flags; baby onesies, funny and small; a man’s white shirt flapping in the wind as if dancing.
The sun was already high, but not yet scorching, just warming gently, as it does in the morning. It flooded the whole courtyard with a golden light in which dust motes floated.
Lucia took one sheet, shook it out with a single motion – and it soared, unfurled, as if alive, found its place on the line, lay flat, without a single wrinkle. Then the second.
«Look,» she said.
Valentina looked.
The sun shone through the white fabric. The sheets glowed like enormous screens. They were so clean, so white, they seemed unreal. The wind billowed them, and they sighed, flapped, lived their own separate life.
«Clean laundry is a new day,» Lucia said.
She stood next to Valentina, both watching the sheets dancing in the wind.
«You look at them and you don’t see what was there an hour ago. You only see white. Only clean. Only what is now. The water took the dirt. The sun took the moisture. The wind gives them life. Your choice is to lie down on them with him, or alone.»
Valentina stood and watched. For a long time. A very long time. The wind tousled her blonde hair, the sun dazzled her eyes, but she didn’t look away.
«Do you really think I should talk to him?»
Lucia shrugged. The gesture was simple, earthy, devoid of any pomposity.
«I don’t think anything. I wash clothes. I don’t know your man. I don’t know what’s in his head. I don’t know if he loves you or not. I only know one thing: until you ask, you’ll be asking yourself for the rest of your life.»
She turned and went back into the laundry. At the threshold, she stopped, without turning around.
«Come for the sheets this evening. Around six. They’ll be dry.»
And she disappeared behind the door.
Valentina remained alone in the courtyard.
She stood for a long time. Watched the wind play with the sheets. Watched the sunlight form an intricate pattern on one of them. Watched swallows circling high above the rooftops.
Then she took her phone out of her jacket pocket. The screen lit up. Her fingers found the right number. Paused for a second. Then pressed call.
A ring. Second. Third.
«Hello.»
The voice on the other end was sleepy, surprised.
«It’s me,» Valentina said. «We need to talk.»
Her voice didn’t tremble.
In the laundry, Lucia stood by the window, looking out into the courtyard. She saw Valentina talking on the phone, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. She saw her smile – for the first time that morning – at something she heard. Saw her put the phone back in her pocket and walk towards the exit from the courtyard, glancing back for a second at the sheets, waving her hand at them – unclear to whom, whether to the sheets or to Lucia behind the glass.
Lucia didn’t wave back. She just turned away and poured herself another coffee.
It was eight forty-five in the morning. A whole day ahead. New people ahead. New stains. New stories to be washed clean.
She sat down on her chair, took a sip. The coffee was hot, strong, bitter. Just the way she liked it.
Beyond the glass, a shadow flickered. Someone was coming down the steps.
Lucia put down her cup, straightened her apron, and turned towards the door.
Chapter 2A Shirt for EternityMorning in Trastevere smells of bread.
This smell comes from the bakery on the corner, where Signor Alberto has been baking his bread since four in the morning. Warm, thick, yeasty smell of wheat and yeast floats through the narrow alleys, climbs into open windows, mingles with the smell of coffee being made in all the kitchens at once. By seven in the morning, the smell of fish is added – the merchants have already laid out their goods at the market, and the fresh sea breeze, which never actually reaches these streets, lives here in the form of gleaming tuna and silvery sardines on marble counters.
Lucia loves this time.
She’s already had two cups of coffee, sorted yesterday’s receipts, arranged the orders on the shelves. The first visitor left half an hour ago, taking her sheets, which now dry in the courtyard, white and light as a promise of a new day. The sun has risen higher, cleared the rooftops, and now the courtyard is flooded with gold.
The second visitor came at a quarter to nine.
Lucia heard him long before he came down the steps. First – a pause at the top. The man stood, looked at the sign, made up his mind. Then – a step. Slow, cautious, with a pause before the next. Old people walk like that – every step requires effort, every step is a test.
She went to the door and opened it herself, without waiting for him to start yanking the handle.
An old man stood on the threshold, squinting in the sun. About eighty-five, maybe even ninety. Small, thin, bent by the years so much that you had to look not at his eyes but somewhere in the region of his chest. Sparse gray hair, combed to the side, revealing pink scalp with brown spots. Eyes – faded, blue, with a yellowish tinge around the pupils, but alive, very alive, with a hint of cunning.
Dressed poorly, but with dignity. An old jacket, made of wool no longer worn, wide lapels, shiny at the elbows. The shirt underneath was gray from many washings, but clean. Tie – thin as a shoelace, tied in a knot you couldn’t untie, only cut off.
In his hands – a bundle. Not a bag, not a suitcase, but a proper bundle, wrapped in old newspaper, tied crosswise with string. The newspaper had yellowed to brown, the edges frayed, crumbling into fine dust. The string was wound carefully, turn by turn, a double knot, tightened as if it held all the wealth in the world.
«Signora,» the old man said. His voice was hoarse, raspy, with that particular tremor that comes to people who have smoked hundreds of packs in their lifetime.
«Come in,» Lucia said, and stepped back to let him pass.
He entered. Stopped. Looked around. Long, carefully, as if checking if this was the right place. Machines along the walls – old, round, with cloudy windows behind which laundry tumbled. Shelves with neatly stacked piles – whites, colors, delicates. The tall counter of darkened wood, with jars of detergent and boxes of stain remover on it. The old chair by the wall with the worn seat. The coffee maker on the stove – hissing, releasing steam.
«Did I come to the right place?» he asked. «Do you do washing here?»
«Yes,» Lucia said. «Sit down.»
He shook his head.
«Business first.»
He approached the counter, placed the bundle on it. His hands trembled with a fine old man’s tremor, but his movements were precise, honed by years of habit. He untied the string – slowly, carefully, without hurrying. His fingers didn’t obey well, the knot wouldn’t give, but the old man patiently picked at it again and again.
Then he unfolded the newspaper. The edges crumbled, yellow dust scattering onto the counter. He smoothed the newspaper with his palm – gently, as if it were not old paper but something precious. Folded back the edge.
Inside lay a shirt.
White. Of heavy cotton, the kind woven half a century ago. Expensive, you could see it immediately – in the density of the fabric, the fine stitching, the mother-of-pearl buttons yellowed with age. The shirt was old, very old, but unworn. No stains, no wear on the cuffs, no greasy collar. It had hardly been worn. It had been kept.
Lucia looked at the shirt, at the old man, at his hands trembling over the fabric.
«Beautiful,» she said.
The old man nodded. Stroked the shirt with his palm – tenderly, as one strokes something alive. His fingers, crooked with arthritis, with knobby joints, moved over the fabric with surprising gentleness.
«Seventy years,» he said. «Seventy years, Signora. I bought it in ’54. The year I got married.»
He fell silent. Looked at the shirt, but saw something else. Youth. His bride. The church. Relatives long gone.
«Tell me,» Lucia said.
She wasn’t asking – she was giving permission. The old man needed to talk. Needed someone to listen, while there was still time.
He looked up. Smiled – for the first time. The smile was rare, almost transparent, like people who have forgotten how to smile.
«We met in ’48. I came back from the war, worked on a construction site. She lived two houses down from me. Every morning I saw her hanging laundry in the courtyard. White sheets, as white as this shirt. I looked at her and couldn’t breathe.»
He paused, caught his breath.
«I courted her for six years. Six years, Signora. She was strict, from a good family. Her father, God rest his soul, checked me out like a spy at the border. And she would look at me from the window and smile.»
Lucia listened. Didn’t interrupt.
«In ’54, I’d saved enough. I put aside every lira, sometimes didn’t eat just to save. Bought this shirt – the most expensive I could find. And I went to ask her father for her hand.»
He chuckled.
«I was so nervous the shirt was soaked through. I stand before him, wet as a mouse, and he looks at me and says nothing. A minute of silence, two, three. I thought – that’s it, he’ll throw me out. Then he got up, came over to me, and said: „Take care of her. She’s my only one.“»
The old man fell silent. The laundry was quiet, only the machines humming and the coffee maker hissing.
«The wedding was in June. Hot as hell. All the neighbors came out into the courtyard, set up tables, each brought what they could – chicken, wine, bread. Her uncle played the accordion, we danced until dawn. And I was wearing this shirt. New. White. Happy.»
He looked at Lucia.
«I never wore it again. Saved it. For a special occasion. But the special occasion never came. Children were born – I thought, now I’ll wear it. No, I was shy. Grandchildren were born – again, I didn’t wear it. Anniversaries – forty years, fifty, sixty – each time I took it out, looked at it, stroked it, and put it back.»
He shook his head.
«And now it’s too late. I won’t fit into it. And there’s nowhere to wear it. Everyone I would have wanted to wear it for is already… up there.»
He pointed a finger upwards.
Lucia nodded.
«You want me to wash it?»
«I want you to wash it,» the old man said. «And iron it. Well, the way you do. So it’s like new.»
«For what?»
The old man paused. Looked at the shirt for a long moment.
«For me,» he said quietly. «To be buried in it.»
His voice didn’t falter. He said it simply, like talking about the weather, or needing to buy bread.
Lucia took the shirt in her hands. The fabric was thin, old, but strong – good work, done right. It smelled of mothballs, dust, and something else elusive – time, perhaps, or memory.
«How long has it been stored?»
«Forty years. After my wife died, I didn’t open the wardrobe. I thought let it lie there until I go too. But yesterday I opened it. Took it out. Smelled it. It smells…»
He faltered.
«What does it smell of?» Lucia asked.
«Youth,» the old man said. «It smells of youth, Signora. And of her.»
He turned to the window so Lucia wouldn’t see his eyes.
She went to the stove, poured coffee into a clean cup. Set it before him.
«Drink. I’ll have a look while you do.»
The old man took the cup. His hands trembled; coffee sloshed over the rim, dripped onto the counter. He took a sip, closed his eyes.
«Good coffee,» he said. «Just like my wife used to make. She was from the south, near Naples. There, coffee is sacred.»
Lucia spread the shirt on the counter, inspected every seam, every button. One was hanging by a thread, about to fall off. Another was sewn on crookedly, by a man’s hand.
«The buttons need restitching,» she said. «And the collar needs starching, so it stands up. Like on that day.»
«Do what needs to be done,» the old man nodded. «I was told you understand.»
«Who told you?»
«People. We old folks have our own network. Sara on the corner said, she has you wash her towels. Signor Enzo from the third floor – he brings his pillowcases. They all say: go to Lucia. She doesn’t just wash. She listens.»
Lucia shook her head.
«I wash. People imagine the rest for themselves.»
The old man smiled.
«Let them. But I came.»
Lucia took the shirt, went to the sink. Ran water – warm, not hot, not cold, exactly what old fabric needs. Her hand remembered the temperature by itself, without a thermometer.
Added mild soap – the kind she made once a month from old recipes, with almond scent. Lowered the shirt in.
«You’re washing it by hand?» the old man asked in surprise.
«By hand,» Lucia said. «A machine could tear such old fabric. And it still has work to do.»
«Where?»
Lucia looked at him.
«Where you’re going. It needs to be beautiful.»
The old man watched her hands – work-worn, with prominent veins – gently submerge in the water, carefully move over the fabric, washing away forty years of dust.
«How long have you been here?» he asked.
«Forty years.»
«Alone?»
«Alone. My husband died.»
«Long ago?»
«Twenty years.»
The old man was silent. He drank his coffee in small sips.
«Is it hard, alone?»
Lucia shrugged.
«I’m used to it.»
«Children?»
«No.»
The old man sighed. Deeply, with a whistle.
«I buried my daughter,» he said. «Five years ago. She was over sixty, but still my daughter. The worst thing – burying your own children.»
Lucia didn’t answer. She rinsed the shirt, changed the water. First the water was murky, gray – the years, the dust, the mothballs were leaving. Then lighter. Then clear.
«I know,» she said finally. «I haven’t buried any, but I know.»
The old man looked at her.
«How?»
She turned off the water. Squeezed the shirt – not wringing, just pressing, letting the water drain.
«For forty years people have come,» she said. «Each with their grief. I don’t carry it. I just see it. Just hear it. Just feel it when I take their things. But my eyes get tired.»
She looked up.
«I’ve lost everyone who walked through that door. Thousands of times.»
The old man nodded.
«I understand. Bricks are easier to carry than someone else’s pain.»
Lucia smiled wryly.
«Bricks – yes.»
She took the rolled-up shirt and went out into the courtyard.
The old man followed, slowly, holding onto doorframes.
The courtyard was flooded with sun.
It poured down from above, golden, thick as young wine. The ivy-covered walls seemed green, almost black in the shade, and bright, luminous where the light fell. This ivy had probably been growing here since before the war – its stems were thick, woody, twining around drainpipes, climbing towards the roof, covering the windows of the neighboring house.
The cobblestones underfoot, worn smooth, were mossy in places – bright green, velvety, damp. In the corner – the old stone well. It hadn’t worked for fifty years, but Lucia kept flowers in it. Geraniums – red, pink, white. Petunias – lush, cascading down like a waterfall. Other flowers whose names she didn’t know, but loved because they simply grew and pleased the eye.
Lines stretched across the courtyard – from wall to wall, from the well to the iron post. Some already held drying laundry. Striped towels – red, blue, yellow – hung like the flags of different nations. Baby onesies – funny, small, with embroidered bunnies. A man’s white shirt – someone else’s, unknown – flapped in the wind as if dancing.
Lucia took wooden hangers – old, heavy, her husband’s – put the shirt on them, straightened it, adjusted the collar. Hung it on the line – in the full sun, where there was no shade.
The shirt glowed.
The white fabric became almost transparent. Every thread stood out clearly, every fold cast a fine shadow. The collar stood up, the cuffs hung straight, the buttons gleamed, warmed by the sun.
The wind touched the shirt. It stirred, came to life – first a little, then more, then began to dance, as if someone were inside it, as if an invisible person had put it on and was moving to music.
The old man watched.
For a long time. A very long time. He stood, leaning on his stick, and watched his shirt – the very one he got married in seventy years ago – dance in the wind under the Roman sun.
His eyes grew moist, but he didn’t cry. He just watched.
«Beautiful,» he said finally. His voice was completely gone. «Like back then. She was like that too. White, glowing. I looked at her and couldn’t believe such a girl had agreed to marry me.»
Lucia stood beside him. Silent.
Somewhere in the alley, a fish seller shouted. His voice rose high, cutting through the hum of Vespas: «Pesca! Fresh pesca!» Somewhere a dog barked, then another, then a third – a roll call across the whole quarter. Somewhere a woman called a child: «Marco! Marco, come eat!» The child didn’t answer, probably ran off with a ball to the fountain.
Life went on as usual.
«What was her name?» Lucia asked.
«Lucia,» the old man said. And suddenly he smiled – brightly, youthfully. «Like you. That’s why I came. Not just for the shirt.»
Lucia nodded.
«A good name.»
«A good one. But mine is gone. And you are here. Maybe she sent you.»
«Maybe,» said Lucia.
They stood in the courtyard, watching the white shirt dance in the wind, the sun playing on the damp fabric, its shadow moving over the stones.
«I’ll come back in three hours,» the old man said.
«In three hours it will be ready.»
«How much do I owe you?»
Lucia looked at him. At his old jacket, at his hands trembling on his stick, at his eyes looking at the shirt with such love.
«Nothing,» she said.
The old man shook his head.
«No. I’ll pay. It’s important – to pay for the last thing.»
Lucia thought.
«Alright. Five euros.»
The old man took out his wallet, pulled out a crumpled banknote, placed it on the counter.
Then he turned towards the exit. Took a step. Stopped.
«Signora Lucia,» he said, not turning around. «Are you afraid?»
«Of what?»
«Of what’s… there.»
He pointed a finger at the sky.
Lucia looked up. The sky was blue, deep, with rare clouds on the horizon. Swallows circled high, tracing the air with their sharp wings.
«No,» she said. «I’m not afraid.»
«Why?»
She paused. Gathered her thoughts.
«Because every day I see people come with dirt. And every day I see it wash out. Not always the first time. Sometimes I have to wash it again and again. But it washes out. So it must be possible there too. I think there’s a laundry there as well. Only they don’t wash with water.»
The old man turned around.
«What with?»
She looked at the sun, at the shirt dancing in its rays, at the dust motes dancing in the air.
«Light,» she said. «I think they wash with light there.»
The old man nodded. Looked at her for a long time. Then smiled – completely youthful, completely bright.
«I hope so,» he said. «I hope so.»
And he left.
Slowly, shuffling, holding onto walls. Climbed the three steps – pausing after each. At the top he turned, looked at the shirt one last time. And disappeared around the corner.
Lucia stayed in the courtyard.
She stood, watching the shirt. The wind billowed it, and it flapped like a flag, like a banner, like a farewell greeting.
Then Lucia went closer. Straightened the collar. Stroked the sleeve – the fabric was almost dry, warm from the sun.
«Protect him,» she said quietly. «Protect him. He’s a good man.»
She went back into the laundry. Sat on the chair. Poured coffee. Took a sip.
Beyond the glass, a shadow flickered. Someone was coming down the steps.
Lucia sighed, straightened her apron, and prepared to listen again.
Chapter 3
The Coat That Remembered the War
After noon, the sun in Trastevere becomes heavy.
It’s no longer golden as in the morning, but white, dense, almost tangible. It lies on the stones, on the walls, on the faded shutters, on the laundry drying in the courtyards, and because of it the laundry seems not just fabric, but something alive, breathing, warmed to the temperature of the human body.
At this hour, Lucia’s laundry is always quiet. People have lunch, then sleep their siesta, then slowly wake, drink coffee, smoke at open windows, call across the street. The city freezes, only to explode again in two hours with shouts, laughter, swearing, the clatter of dishes, the hum of Vespas.
Lucia rests too.
She sits on her chair by the counter, drinking her fourth cup of coffee, looking out the window. Beyond the cloudy glass, shadows drift by – rarely, slowly. Who would go to the laundry during siesta? Only someone who absolutely can’t wait. Someone with such a storm inside them that no heat can scare them.
She saw him half a block away.
Tall, thin, in a coat. In August. In the Roman heat, when stone melts and the air shimmers over the pavement – in a coat. Dark gray, long, clearly not his size, hanging on him like on a hanger. He walked slowly, but not like an old man – like someone carrying something heavy. Not in his hands, but inside.
Lucia put down her cup and went to the door.
He came down the steps – three steps, pause, another step, another. Stopped before the door, not daring to enter. Then raised his hand and knocked.
The knock was quiet, uncertain, almost childish.