« Yes. And when something helps you stay upright, you can be afraid of losing it, even if it’s not perfect. »
That day, Carlo stayed at my house for almost an hour.
We didn’t talk much about the past. We mostly talked about little things: the cold that arrived late that winter, the noise of the elevator, the lady on the third floor who always slammed her door, and the swallows that came back every year to nest under the roof of the courtyard.
When he left, my house no longer seemed as empty as it had in the morning.
The following Sunday, I still hadn’t made any soup.
But I set the table for two.
I didn’t even know if he would come. We hadn’t set a specific time.
However, shortly after noon, he struck again.
This time, he had brought a sachet of chamomile.
« That way, we’re doing something less serious than coffee, » he joked.
I burst out laughing.
It was the first time in all those years that we laughed together.
From there, something very simple and almost unbelievable happened: we began to really get to know each other.
Not all at once.
Not like young people who tell each other their entire life story during a single evening.
We moved forward slowly, without forcing confidences, letting what was ready to be told come out.
I told her about my husband, who had died eleven years earlier, and about the fear my house had inspired in me during the first few months after his death.
I confessed to him that at that time, I sometimes left the radio on even at night, simply so as not to hear the emptiness.
Carlo listened to me without interrupting.
Then he said:
« So maybe that soup wasn’t just for me. »
He was right.
For all these years, I had believed I was saving someone from loneliness without understanding that, in a way, this ritual was also protecting me from a more discreet, but just as real, loneliness.
An old diary full of Sundays
Elena started coming more often to prepare for the move.
One afternoon, she knocked while I was folding laundry.
Seeing her, I felt that slight discomfort that had persisted since the day she revealed the truth about the soup to me.
She noticed it immediately.
« I didn’t mean to upset you the other day, » she told me before she even sat down.
» I know. «
“No, I don’t think you really know. I was tired and worried. My father had finally agreed to come live with me, but I was afraid he would change his mind at the last minute. When I spoke to you, I was only thinking about practical matters. Not about how to tell you.”
I observed her more closely.
She had the dark circles of someone who doesn’t sleep enough and that same expression of someone who carries far too much on their own.
« You do what you can, » I told him.
Her shoulders relaxed, as if someone had finally given her permission to be tired.
« He’s different now, » she confided in me. « Since you two talked, he seems lighter. »
“Me too,” I admitted.
She remained silent for a few seconds before smiling slightly.
« So maybe things were meant to be this way. »
A few days later, while emptying drawers at her father’s house, Elena discovered an old diary.
She brought it to me that same evening.
« Look, » she told me.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was supposed to see.
Then I noticed that almost every Sunday of the previous six years had a small pen mark on it.
Sometimes a cross.
Sometimes a dot.
Sometimes simply the letter « T ».
« Teresa? » I asked.
Elena agreed.
Some pages also contained two or three words:
» Struck. «
« Coming. »
» I am here. «
My heart tightened so much that I had to sit down.
« He was keeping track of my visits? » I whispered.
Elena answered yes.
That same evening, I went to Carlo’s house with the diary in my hands.
When he opened the door and saw him, he understood immediately.
« You weren’t supposed to see that, » he said, almost embarrassed.
« But I saw it. »
He let me in.
Boxes were piled everywhere. The living room was already half empty and the paintings had been removed from the walls.
The house seemed to be holding its breath.
I placed the diary on the table.
« What was that? »
Carlo sat down slowly.
« At first, it was just a way to keep my days together. »
« And then what? »
« A way to remind myself that, on Sunday, someone would come knocking. »
We looked at each other.
My eyes were full of tears again.
His face remained motionless, like those people who have cried a lot in the past and then find it hard to start again.
« At times, a week seemed like far too long a piece, » he explained. « That little mark helped me reach the end. »
I remained silent for a moment.
Then I finally asked him a question that perhaps I should have asked him much earlier.
« Carlo, what do you really like to eat? »
He looked at me in surprise.
Then a small, genuine smile appeared on her face.
« Meatballs in tomato sauce. And baked potatoes. The ones with rosemary. »
« Very well, » I replied. « Then next Sunday, you’re eating at my place. And no arguing. »
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