Casualties of Forgiveness. Part VII

Isabella wandered foreign streets, curious and cautious, like a cat changing with the colours of night. Life in Rome taught her that language didn’t matter, didn’t automatically ensure trust. She learned quickly how to be a stranger. An observer with the discretion of a thief, mindful never to disturb the waters she was in.

She had saved money serving drinks on a train-station platform. A handful of regulars. Occasional foreigners from the train. Never more than four got on or off. A tiny Italian town on the way to other places. She’d seen the same trains pass a thousand times, had no idea the colour of the seats.

...

Recognition drew her immediately to the stranger on the plane. Necessity of human contact against the terrors of new technology. Asked shyly whether rain was dangerous.

“È la pioggia pericolosa?”
“No, not a drizzle like this,” he said. “We’re safe.”
“ . . . ”
“Do we know each other?” he asked.
“I served you a drink in Sorno,” she reminded him. “Waitress from the platform.”
She held out her hand.
“The food was excellent,” he lied.
“I didn’t make it,” she said.

First of many silences. Neither could yet decide whether they were awkward. Neither really had time. He was busy remembering Italian; she was busy remembering how to speak.

“What were you doing in my town?” she asked, more to drown the sounds of spinning blades than out of curiosity.
“My father was born there,” he said.
“Who was your father?”
“His name was Marco Sousa.”
“Never heard of him,” she said.

They both trembled slightly as complex machines and foreign expressions found their way. Italian rolled cautiously from his tongue. The plane shook suddenly like a train off its rails.

“Why are you flying to New York?” he asked.
“Impulse. Nothing but impulse. I must be crazy. I have an uncle who knows I’m coming. It’s a start.”

Isabella sat with her head leaning against the window. She did her best to focus on the silver clouds. But the ceaseless crash of waves stole her attention, pulled her into their violence.

“You’re still shaking,” he said.
“I’m still frightened. You’re not?”
“Always a little,” he admitted.
“How do you think we would die if we fell?” she asked.

What a wonderful and horrible question to ask on a plane, he thought. “Impact?” he offered. “I’m not sure. Why, what would you think?”
“Hypothermia,” she said. “Or drowning.”

She intrigued him; he chased every syllable-drop she offered.

“Sto leggendo sulla storia dell’aeroplano. Le leggende degli esploratori e dei capitani di mare,” she said.

The Italian words fired too quick and for the first time he didn’t understand. Each felt a little ashamed, responsible. She slowed down, directed the fullness of her lips toward him.

“The plane,” she said. “I’ve been reading about the history of the plane. Of the ship. Of old explorers. Trying to prepare. It got me thinking how the world was a better place when men still thought the earth was flat.”

Having to speak with such intention made Isabella conscious of her lips for the first time. Of her tongue. Of the sensual movement of our mouths. Self-awareness that shot through her entire body, caught her off guard. Every cell devoted to the exchange of complex simple thoughts with this stranger on a plane.

“How was the world better?” he asked.
“Less trapped,” she said.

She wrapped her arms in a gesture of confinement.

“Men cherish the world if they think they can fall off,” she said.

Two fingers walking off the edge of her palm.

“A world that circles around itself makes men go mad or indifferent.”

Gentle finger tapping his forehead.

“Explorers without the hope of finding anything,” she continued. “I think that’s why so many of you jump from tall buildings,” she said.

Fingers falling from a skyrise.

“It’s your way of protesting a world that’s round.”

Her hands cupped in the shape of a full moon.

“And women?” he asked. “Do you protest?”
“Sure,” she said. “But it’s different with us. We’ve always known the world was round. That’s why we tend to jump from bridges or cliffs into water.”

Her fingers falling into waves.

“It’s nothing modern with us,” she shook her head. “Nothing new.”
“How did women find out before us?” he asked.
“We’ve just known forever,” she told him. “The day Copernicus announced his big discovery all the handmaidens shrugged their shoulders, pointed at the moon.”

She shrugged and pointed out the window. The moon was hidden, but she knew exactly behind which cloud.

“We understand the cyclical nature of things better than you,” she concluded.

She smiled shyly, arrogantly. She was only half-sure it was called seduction.

“Anything else women aren’t telling us?” he asked.
“Many things,” she laughed.

For months it’d be the longest converstation they shared. They’d return to it, like a puzzle with peices left to fill.

Their bodies brushed against one another on the plane. He was drawn by her stillness and her lips. The way she was careful with every gesture, as though the slightest movement might disturb the machine or confuse her meaning, cast them into waves. She was drawn by the fervor in his eyes. Childlike depth and weary confrontation. Together they acknowledged intricacy could still be simple in its beauty. They shared their surroundings with attention to shades of light and dark. Attention to melody. How the shadow of a wing follows on a cloud. How sound moves through meaning. A mysterious stranger who speaks like a foreign child, she thought. His voice and his presence obscured the clamor of metallic speed. Rafter Sousa became an integral part of a story she was telling herself.