"Shutters"

by Marcia Woodward (M.F.A. in Creative Writing, Rome Program 2001)

I’m attempting to open the door of what will be my Rome apartment. One deadbolt, one lock, four keys. I have traveled fifteen hours in variously wheeled and winged conveyances to arrive here: Jeep Cherokee, 747, 737, train, taxi, and finally, my own two feet. I walked the last, long, block uphill—because of a slight failure of communication with the taxi driver—with my two-wheeled carry-on bags clamoring over the cobblestones behind me like unruly children attracting unwanted attention.

I jam a different key into the lock. Droplets of sweat are making their way down my spine to accumulate in the humid waistband of my underwear. I stamp my foot. “Damn it!” My guidebook says that the inhabitants of this neighborhood, Trastevere, consider themselves to be the most authentic Romans, direct descendents of the real thing. Maybe the locks in this door are original too. I turn another key and simultaneously grab hold of the knob and bang the door back and forth. It opens.

I step inside my home for the month of July and set down my bags. Inhaling deeply, I sense a nose-tickling layer of dust in the shuttered rooms. I’ve read several articles on Rome to prepare for the graduate seminar I’m attending and discovered that each year an inch of dust falls on the city: powder from hundreds of ruins dissolving steadily in the wind. I’m sure I could stick out my tongue and catch some of the same particles that Caesar inhaled, or, Caesar himself.

I open the bedroom shutters to get light and air. Hands on hips, I stand back and assess: kitchen, bedroom, bathroom—it’ll do. I make the rounds, testing the trundle bed disguised as a couch by bouncing on it and flushing the toilet tank that is mounted higher than my head. The shutters in the kitchen are stuck. I push, pull, shove. They swing in and out a few inches, providing a triangular peephole to the sidewalk below, but the two sides are stuck together. My hands are covered with dust. I rub my palms against each other and feel the dryness. 

I look at each room again and end up back at the stuck shutters. I wiggle, cajole, hit them. Metal creaks. I give up and turn on the kitchen light.  On the counter, I find a note from the previous tenants saying a shutter is stuck and a lightbulb is burnt out. Oh.
I lean out my bedroom window in what I imagine to be Sophia Loren style—forearms on the sill, breasts blooming over—and survey my territory, my view.  A restaurant is directly below my window: umbrella tables in the street, the clink of utensils, the wet smell of pasta cooking. Part of the piazza at the corner is visible. Drunks inhabit a few of the benches, just like home, and children play under the care of mothers and grandmothers who occupy the remaining seats. Italian conversation is a backdrop to the scene. A pair of pigeons copulates on the roof across the street. My guidebook describes Trastevere as having “an earthy proletariat character.”
Someone knocks on my door.

“Good afternoon, I am Signor Branchini, your landlord. Welcome to Roma.”

He is beautiful: wavy gray hair, golden khaki suit, smiling eyes. He speaks English. Do I have any questions?
I confess to door trouble.

“We will practice.”

He shows me the secret to the door, pulling it easily toward him as he turns the key.

“You see?”

I love him.

Sr. Branchini has skin the color of pale, weathered teak like the planks on a wooden boat carefully preserved. You want to run your hand over them. My professor in Seattle, a sixtyish, sensual diva of a poet with a PhD. in ethno-linguistics who has traveled a lot, gave me an assignment to work on in Rome: “Describe the aesthetic qualities of the Roman male.” Because I am married, she added: “You don’t need to touch—just use sensory imagery.”

“You put your hand in, feel the knob, yes?”

I do. Sr. Branchini is showing me how to adjust the temperature of the hot water. He smells comfortably rich, subtle.
He tells me his favorite cities are Rome and London.

Me too.

He doesn’t like the French.

Me neither.

I never dreamed the first Roman male to inspire sensory imagery would be my grandfatherly landlord in business casual and soft Italian loafers. Most of the landlords I’ve dealt with back home have the greasy hair and blackened hands of a copy machine repair technician. I should have known the landlord class would be different here—more history.
“Where do you live?” I ask.

“Tuscany.”

Of course. Tuscany, which is already a magical word, now carries the additional welcoming charm of Sr. Branchini. He tells me that he and his wife spend the winter months in this apartment.

We examine the kitchen shutter. He is restrained, controlled, doesn’t bang on it as I did. He will call the repairman.
We go to the shutter in my bedroom.

“I will show you the correct manner.”

He closes and opens each side of the shutters. Soft, smooth. No threat.

“You see? Gentle.”

I nod and smile. Perhaps I giggle.

After Sr. Branchini leaves, I need to breathe into a bag for a minute before I can get down to unpacking. And, although it feels sacrilegious to turn on a television in ancient Rome, I channel surf to find some background entertainment.  A friend of mine, who immigrated to the United States from Korea at 14, learned English by watching Rikki Lake’s talk show, so when I come upon “Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman,” I rationalize that watching Italian television will be educational. Dr. Quinn is hugely pregnant. Her husband Sully is hotter than ever in a Romance language: “Ti amo, Michaela.”  A show that I would never confess to watching at home takes on new meaning in Italian.

Later, in my stuffy kitchen, I peer at the intersection of the two shutter halves. I’m sure I can figure it out. I poke my fingernail under the metal lip. I give the shutters one last series of frantic pushes and pulls like coaxing life into the wings of a dead butterfly—“Come on!” Nothing.

The next night, Sr. Branchini calls from Tuscany to schedule repairs.

“Hello! Good evening, Branchini calling. How are you?”

He is not just asking, he truly cares. I know this by the timbre of his voice: A mix of fantasy lover and family priest. We talk about the record heat. He advises water, pacing.

“And I recommend a refreshing orange drink in Santa Maria di Trastevere, early evening.”

I have seen this restaurant. Oranges piled in pyramids, candles floating in hollowed halves, couples sipping from tall flutes amongst cornucopia of fruit. A citrus tang lingers about the doorway when I pass by.

“You will be home at 3:30 tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I will call Enzo; he will fix tomorrow.”

I watch Dr. Quinn while I wait for Enzo the next day. Her mother arrives for the baby’s birth. But I can’t tell you what happened after that because I fell asleep—a floating sensation that I don’t get at night. I never take afternoon naps back in Seattle. I had no idea about their weightlessness. It seems Dr. Quinn has also facilitated my introduction to the ancient Roman custom of the post-lunch nap.
At 4:00, I splash water on my face after a brief moment of location confusion. Deciding to give up on Enzo, I am ready to leave when the buzzer for the front door of our apartment building rings. I pick up the phone that I believe communicates with the front door. Nothing happens.  I look for a button to push so I can let Enzo in. I push the only button. Nothing happens. The buzzer keeps buzzing. “Shit!” I run downstairs.  Enzo is standing on the sidewalk looking up at our shutter; I join him. We are the same height. I am not a tall woman.

 “Incastrada,” says Enzo. He shakes his head.

Enzo doesn’t speak English and I speak very little Italian.

“Non capisco,” I say. I don’t understand.

Enzo looks at me, puzzled, as if he isn’t sure what to do with me. He takes a moment to tuck an errant tail of his work shirt into his pants.

“Incastrada,” he repeats pointing at the shutter. Then he delivers a sentence containing “Sr. Branchini” that is partially drowned out in the whine of angry mopeds racing by.

I smile big. This usually works in my favor.

Enzo turns to leave.

If I knew the word for “wait,” I’d say it.

“Arrivederci,” he says over his shoulder.

This was my first hint that household repairs are handled differently in Rome than Seattle. I needed to get accustomed to restoration meaning Michaelangelo, not Home Depot.

Back upstairs, I look up incastrada in my Larousse Mini Dictionary. It’s from the verb that means “to get stuck.”
Two days later, the phone rings.

“Hello! Good afternoon, Sr. Branchini here.”

His voice relaxes my body, which was tensing up at the potential inefficiencies of a flowchart between a shutter, me, Sr. Branchini, English, Italian, and Enzo.

“Enzo will take the shutters down, take to his shop for repair. Tomorrow is okay for you? 2:00?”

At 4:15 the next day, I run into Enzo on my way out of the building. We stand on the sidewalk and look at the stuck shutter together. Again.

“Incastrada,” he says.

“Si, incastrada,” I repeat.

He indicates that he wants to go upstairs. I’m encouraged that we are moving to the next level of repair.

In a confined space, I grimace at the metallic strength of Enzo’s body odor—a not uncommon scent in the city heat but one with which I continue to struggle. And while certain smells seem to be socially acceptable in Rome, I know I’ll never see the crack of Enzo’s butt as he works. That would violate the Italian code of aesthetics.

Enzo pushes and pulls on the shutters, turns the cranky handle. He’s easier on them than I, but he hasn’t got the touch of Sr. Branchini.
“Incastrada,” he says.

“Sì, incastrada.”

Perhaps because I have twice used an Italian word with correct pronunciation, Enzo rattles sentences at me. I love that he thinks I can understand. My eyes widen as I catch a word here and there.

“Non capisco,” I confess
.
Enzo looks both exasperated and amused—heavier on the exasperation.

I pull out the big smile.

 He tries again, keeping it simple.

“Domani.” Tomorrow. I know this word.

We repeat the day and time of our next meeting, volleying it back and forth until both parties are reasonably certain of an understanding:

“Domani, alle tre.” At three.

“Domani?” I repeat, while bearing in mind how my naptime will fit into that schedule.

“Sì.”

“Alle tre?”  I confirm.

Enzo hesitates slightly before answering as if he’s reconsidering the angle of the light at that hour, or perhaps whether he’ll have an espresso from his favorite café before or after we meet.

“Sì, domani alle tre.”

We are doing more than just arriving at a mutually agreeable time.

The next day I leave the apartment at 4:00. No Enzo.

Every time I enter my airless kitchen with the 24-hour romantic light level, I am compelled to test the shutters one more time. Impatience tugs.

“The shutters, they are fixed?” Sr. Branchini calls the next day.

“No, Enzo didn’t come yesterday.” I had every intention of sounding indignant, but under the Branchini spell, my statement comes out as if I am quite pleased with the situation.

“I will call Enzo.”

When Branchini calls back, we set a time of 3:00 the next day. We talk about the neighborhood: the man who owns the corner grocery store (the same one who calls me “Bellisima” every morning) and his two Yorkies that greet customers at the threshold, twin tails gyrating. They all make me smile. I buy a cappuccino and cornetto here on the way to school, the smells of fresh bread and ground coffee clearing my head like pure oxygen.

Branchini recommends the garlic spaghetti at the restaurant below my window: “You must try it; it is good for your health.”
When I hang up, I am reassured that the universe is on track.

The next day there’s a knock on the door at 2:00.  Our agreed meeting times carry the cast of American flextime: “We’ll be there between 2:00 and 5:00.” But I know it’s not the same thing. A Sears appliance installation contains no art. I like to imagine Enzo having to picture the repair process, become the shutter. In my mind, it makes no sense for him to show up until he has his image.
I answer the door and Enzo breezes in past me, engulfing me in his personal scent, plaid sport shirt unbuttoned one too far to reveal a gold chain and gray chest hairs. He has worked his way into my sensory study of Roman males.
“Buona sera!” he says as he heads directly for the shutters.

He’s got a little black plastic case that fits in the palm of his hand. He pulls a tiny tool out of the case; I have to admit I expected something a little bigger. While he pokes at the shutters, I grab my dictionary. I want to make sure he knows I didn’t break the shutters. It seems important, like a show of respect. A point in my favor. But I can’t look up “break” and pay attention at the same time.

Enzo throws up his hands and says something. I don’t recognize any of the words but from his frustrated body language and the clip in his voice I am sure he has just said:

“We’ll just have to take the whole fucking thing down.”

“Sì,” I say, with a universal shrug that conveys “what’s a guy gonna do?”

We discuss the time of our next get-together in our established pattern of three volleys, each of us rolling the day and time around on our tongue as if tasting wine.

“Arrivederci,” he says before shutting the door behind him.

I’ve still got my dictionary in my hand. I don’t bother looking up “break.”

I fully intended to be there the next day. But the air conditioning at the bookstore where I was sending email convinced me to stay put. I felt guilty though. I could see Enzo knocking on my door, getting no reply. But it didn’t get me out of my chair. And part of me rationalized that I’d get more respect if I weren’t always available.  I told myself I was beginning to understand Roman ways, that I was learning how to play at their game. Smugness hovered nearby.

When Sr. Branchini calls three days later, I apologize I was not able to meet Enzo. He is silent for a moment, digesting this information.
“I am sorry Enzo could not come that day,” he responds.

Oh. How quickly it becomes obvious I am only an amateur playing at a steeped tradition.

“He had another commitment.”

This exchange makes me wonder how much of our conversations the beautiful Branchini understands, yet I can’t say it diminishes my admiration for him.

“We will resolve this situation,” he says.

Oh dear. I can’t have him thinking we have a “situation.” I want to display my acceptance of fate, timing, artistic appreciation.
 “Is 10:00 tomorrow morning convenient?” He asks.

“We’re leaving at 9:00 for Villa d’Este. ” I’m looking forward to this trip, having been assured by our professor of an environment conducive to writing: cool marble benches, breezes carrying the spray of a hundred fountains, shade so deep that moss grows.
 “Lovely. A favorite of mine. I will have Enzo come at 8:00, before you depart.”

I don’t answer immediately. I’m thinking, 8:00 in the morning? That seems a bit extreme.

“Well, only if it’s convenient,” I say as slowly and casually as possible. “No rush.”

In the morning I get up a half hour earlier than usual and hurry to be presentable at 8:00. Enzo doesn’t show.
Okay, maybe we do have a “situation.”

The following afternoon I’m watching the women in Dr. Quinn’s town give her a baby shower. I’m semi-napping, paddling. It’s 100 degrees in the shade. From the couch, I can see the guy who’s remodeling an apartment across the street. Today he’s sanding plaster, white dust undulating out the window.

Someone knocks on the front door.

“Mi dispiachissimo” says Enzo as he blows by me with beaded sweat on his brow. He’s very sorry for missing yesterday’s appointment. He carries a white plastic grocery sack weighted down with tools.  He bangs on the shutter and I scuffle stuporously back to my room, leaving him to his task. I feel like I’m supposed to be in the kitchen watching, trying to interact, but I’m tired and a little put out.

A shutter slat falls to the street with a loud metal clang. This causes great neighborhood commotion. I jump up and lean out my bedroom window. People come out on the sidewalk to look and wonder. An older woman whom I recognize as a regular at the café on the corner says: Ieri un bicchiere, oggi questa.” Yesterday a glass, now today this. The sky is raining kitchen parts. She throws up her hands. The owner of the upholstery shop across the street smiles up at me. I am gratified that I’ve provided fodder for this afternoon’s conversation at the café. I look over at the stuck shutters—Enzo is smiling at me. Hey.

The shutters are open. The shutters are “unstuck.” Light enters the kitchen for the first time in two-and-a-half weeks.
But the job isn’t over. Finishing touches are needed. Enzo will be back at 6:00 to reinstall the slats and the handle. He leaves his plastic bag of tools in the kitchen.

It’s 6:30. Enzo arrived on time and has completed his tasks; we seem to have hit our rhythm. He washes his blackened hands and wipes them on my white towel. When he says something I don’t understand, I reply with “Cosa?” (What’s that?) which I learned from watching Dr. Quinn. I can tell by the way he lifts his eyebrows this impresses him. We have a mini conversation in Italian:
“You are learning some Italian?”

“You like it here?”

It’s a celebratory moment standing in the light. We admire our work like a painting newly unveiled.
He tells me the shutters need to be dusted.

I smile big.

“Arrivederci,” he says as he closes my door behind him.

Oh. He won’t be coming back. And there’s no longer any reason to talk to Sr. Branchini. I’m on my own.

The next morning, I heat my espresso and milk with the shutters wide open. I sit at the little table in the kitchen, watch the neighbor walk his Yorkies up the street, and listen to the guy on the third floor practice his clarinet, something operatic. I feel closer to the rhythm of the neighborhood. My neighborhood.  The kitchen looks different. Sunlight on dusty yellow tiles.

Dust. Has it been there for two-and-a-half weeks, in corners where I couldn’t see to clean in the dark, or for thousands of years? I see Enzo’s fingerprints on the shutters. They do need cleaning, but I’ll leave it for now. I like the thought of being surrounded by history.