help of their neighbour, who thus atoned for the stones his sons had thrown at Sibilla. Adriana mourned her mother sporadically, in between all the tasks she had to tend to – for her own sake and for her daughter’s.
At dawn, Adriana would arrive at Villa Serra, unlock the larder, and wake Sibilla. The girl would urinate in the outhouse and wash her face in the basin, then they would proceed together to the doors of the grand salon. Adriana would throw them wide and they would pause a moment, riveted. What devastating thing happened here every night? Adriana would sigh, Sibilla would blink, and they would begin. Sibilla’s hair was an asset for this line of work. She could dust without a duster, mop without a mop. She didn’t even need to wash the tool of her trade – at the end of the day, she cut off the dirty ends and tossed them in the garden behind the kitchen.
For years, Sibilla worked at her mother’s side, fondling Villa Serra’s chipped and tattered insides with care. Later, when she thought back on her childhood, this is how she remembered her days. Her nights were a different story.
Shortly after she arrived at Villa Serra, Sibilla woke to the sound of the larder door bursting open.
‘Come!’ the Signora exclaimed. ‘There is no more wine! We need entertainment!’
‘Where is – ow!’ Sibilla pried the Signora’s high heel off her hair and stood. ‘Where is Mama?’
‘Your mother?’ The Signora snorted. ‘She isn’t here. It isn’t morning. Well, it is. But it isn’t.’
Sibilla stared at the Signora through her nest. The Signora stared back a moment. Then ‘Come!’ she said again and stalked out of the kitchen, her heels stuttering. Sibilla followed.
As they approached the salon, a low roar rose, jazz frothing along its edge. When they reached the doors, the Signora opened them and, with a grandiose sidestep, disappeared into the party. Sibilla looked around. A short man was dancing with a tall woman, who seemed entranced by a candelabra. Behind them stood a group of women in all white with no mouths – oh, it was just their gloved hands covering their lips. A bald man was asleep on a divan, an empty glass perched on his chest in the centre of a red stain. His bare feet lay in the lap of a woman wearing a sky-blue gown. She was counting cards, copper ringlets trembling with the motion of her fingers. Was this what she and her mother spent their days washing away? This disaster in progress was far preferable to its aftermath. Everything in the salon was transformed by the glow of the chandelier, which was the most transformed of all, its dusty dewdrops alive with light.
Sibilla drifted towards the centre of the room to look at it, her train of hair dragging behind her. She felt herself catching on gazes, as if sticky strings tied her to the eyes in the room – wherever she went, they went. For the first time in her life, her hair felt like insufficient cover. Finally, a familiar face! The Colonel. He sat in the velvet armchair and on its footstool sat a young man with a ponytail, gesturing so wildly that the Colonel, scowling with concentration, seemed a statue by contrast. The statue melted – he smiled and reached for her.
‘Ragnatela!’ His voice bristled her scalp as he pulled her close. ‘You have joined us at last,’ he grinned. ‘I’ve been scolding Lina for keeping you away.’
He put his hands on her cheeks and stretched the hair tight, as he had when they first met. Sibilla’s relief at seeing him congealed in her stomach. Her hair seemed to stir under his palms, tingling with static, waves of which would sometimes attack her and leave her feeling like she had drunk too much espresso. He let go of her to introduce her to the young man with the codino.
‘This is my brother,’ said the Colonel.
‘Sergente Corsale.’ The young man bowed slightly.
‘Sergente?!’ The Colonel rolled his eyes. ‘Sergente of the Partisan Army of 1944 maybe! Or should I say the Partisan Army of the tenth of October to the second of November 1944…’
As the Colonel continued to mock his brother’s military service, Sibilla swept the hair from her eyes and extended her hand. The young Sergeant ignored it with a frown and bowed again. She couldn’t tell if he was scared to touch her or expected her to curtsy instead. She let her hand