Бесплатный фрагмент - Signora Lucia’s Laundry

Author’s Preface

This book was born from smells.

I didn’t realize it at first. At first, I thought it was born from images: Italian courtyards, narrow alleyways, shutters banging in the wind, the sea somewhere far away, but you can still feel it. Then I thought — from sounds: the hum of Vespas, neighbors calling to each other, the splash of water pouring into basins, the creak of lines under the weight of wet sheets.

But no. It all started with smells.

The smell of fresh laundry, mixed with the smell of morning coffee. The smell of detergent with a hint of lemon and something else elusive, something Italian you can’t buy in a store — you can only absorb it from the air. The smell of other people’s lives settling into the fabric: perfume, sweat, tears, wine, tobacco, baby’s milk, hospital bleach, sea salt.

I was sitting in a small café by the window, drinking coffee and watching the courtyard across the way. There was a laundry there. Not a modern one with shiny machines and plastic chairs, but an old one, with a faded sign that the grandmothers of today’s old women probably remembered.

And there was a woman.

She was hanging laundry. Not young, in a dark dress, with gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her movements were slow but precise. She would take a sheet, shake it out with one motion — and it would soar over the courtyard like a sail, find its place on the line, lie flat, without a single wrinkle. Then a shirt. Then baby leggings. Then lace underwear, which she hung with the same calm dignity with which a nun tells her rosary beads.

I watched her and couldn’t look away.

How many lives had passed through those hands? How many times had she seen the same thing: stains people bring, hoping that water and soap will work a miracle? How many secrets does this woman hold? What does she think about when she’s alone in the courtyard in the evening, among the day’s dried laundry, drinking her coffee, looking at the darkening sky?

I didn’t know her name. I called her Lucia.

Months passed before I decided to write this book. I thought about her, about her laundry, about the people who cross her threshold. I imagined their faces, names, destinies. I asked myself: why do they come? What are they looking for in this little workshop of cleanliness? And one day I understood.

They don’t come to have their clothes washed.

They come to have their souls washed.

Because there is dirt you can’t see. The dirt of grievances carried for years. The dirt of guilt that eats away from the inside. The dirt of shame that no detergent can wash away. And there are women like Lucia, who know how to look at this dirt without turning away. Who take it in their hands, rinse it in clean water, dry it in the sun, and give it back — clean.

Not because they are saints. But because they know: dirt is just dirt. And cleanliness is a choice.

There is not a single invented feeling in this book. All the stories you will read could have happened in reality. I didn’t write them based on real people, but I wrote them based on truth. Because dirt and cleanliness, shame and forgiveness, love and loss, hope and despair — these are things inside every one of us. In Rome, in Moscow, in any city in the world. We all carry stains. We all dream of becoming clean.

Come in.

It smells like truth here.

Madina Fedosova

Prologue

Rome. The Trastevere district.

A narrow street, where houses are so close together you could shake your neighbor’s hand without leaving your window. Cobblestones, worn smooth by millions of feet. Shutters, faded to the color of burnt ochre. Cats on windowsills. Geraniums in pots. And smells — always some kind of smell: sometimes fresh bread from the bakery on the corner, sometimes fried fish, sometimes just the smell of morning.

In the middle of this street, in the very heart of Trastevere, there are three stone steps leading down.

The steps are old, worn hollow in the middle, as if hundreds of people have walked down them so often they’ve worn away the stone. Above the steps, a faded sign. The letters are almost worn away, but the locals know: it says «Lavanderia.» Laundry.

The door is glass, cloudy with age, with a crack in the left corner. Steam is always visible behind it.

If you go down the steps and enter, the first thing that hits your nose is a mix of detergent, fabric softener, and coffee. Coffee is made here constantly, in a small pot on the gas stove in the corner. The second thing you’ll notice is the silence. Not an empty silence, but a full one. In it, the hum of old washing machines sounds like the breathing of a living creature.

Along the walls are shelves. On them, stacks of laundry, labeled by day of the week. Monday: Signora Rosa’s sheets. Tuesday: the Moretti family’s shirts. Wednesday: towels from the hotel around the corner. Thursday: children’s clothes. Friday: everything else.

Behind the shelves is a door leading to an inner courtyard. There, under stretched lines, laundry dries. White sheets billow in the wind like the sails of ships ready to set sail for the sky. A woman walks among them.

Her name is Lucia.

She is 62 years old. She has gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, and hands that know their work: work-worn, with prominent veins, but surprisingly gentle when she touches fabric. She wears a dark dress and a white apron, which she changes every day, although the apron is always clean.

Lucia opens the laundry at six in the morning. She has done this for forty years. For forty years she has taken in other people’s laundry. For forty years she has looked at the stains people bring.

She doesn’t ask where the stains come from. She doesn’t give advice unless asked. She just washes. And sometimes she speaks.

And when she speaks, people remember it for the rest of their lives.

Because Lucia doesn’t see fabric. She sees what’s behind it.

A wine stain isn’t just a stain. It’s an argument that’s lasted twenty years. A lipstick mark on a collar isn’t just a mark. It’s the end of a love, or its beginning. Baby drool on a pillowcase isn’t just drool. It’s a mother’s sleepless night, a mother who can’t remember the last time she slept herself.

Lucia washes it all.

And returns it clean.

In this city where everyone knows each other, Signora Lucia’s laundry is a special place. People come here not only for clean laundry. They come here when things get so dirty inside they can’t clean themselves anymore.

Today is Monday morning.

Lucia lights the gas under the coffee pot. The coffee boils, rising with a cap of foam. She takes it off the heat, pours it into a small cup, takes the first sip. Outside the window, Rome awakens. Somewhere in the distance, the honk of a bus. Somewhere close by, the voice of a neighbor woman already arguing with the fishmonger.

Lucia looks at the door.

Soon the first ones will come.

She doesn’t know who it will be today. Doesn’t know what pain they’ll bring. Doesn’t know what her eyes will see.

But she is ready.

Coffee finished. Cup rinsed. Hands wiped on the apron.

The laundry is open.

Come in.

It smells like hope here.

PART ONE

MORNING
Chapter 1
Sheets with Lipstick

She came in at seven-thirty in the morning.

Lucia knew it by the sound. In forty years of working in the laundry, she had learned to hear people before they even opened the door. Footsteps in the street, a pause before the steps, breathing as they came down. Everyone arrives in their own way. The confident ones tap their heels fast and loud. The guilty ones freeze in front of the door, and Lucia has time to pour coffee while they make up their minds. The confused ones push the door the wrong way, pull, then push again.

This one pushed hard. Too hard. The handle on the old door always sticks if you yank it; you have to press it down a little and push with your shoulder. The locals know, they’ve gotten used to it over the decades. Tourists struggle, curse, sometimes leave without ever getting in. This one wasn’t a tourist, dressed simply, without Roman polish. But not a local either. Locals at seven-thirty in the morning are either still asleep or already sitting in their kitchens with their first cup of coffee, looking out the windows at the awakening alley, listening to the neighbor woman upstairs starting to argue with her husband, hearing a Vespa start up somewhere in the distance. Locals don’t drag themselves to the laundry looking like their house is on fire.

Lucia didn’t turn around. She stood at the far counter, sorting through last week’s receipts. The papers smelled of printing ink and dust, mixed with the perpetual scent of detergent. The coffee maker hissed, releasing steam. Outside the window, through the cloudy glass, the morning sun was breaking through, drawing golden stripes on the stone floor.

«Signora.»

The voice was young, but constricted. As if someone were squeezing her throat from the inside. Tears were somewhere nearby, close, but holding inside for now, not spilling out.

Lucia turned around slowly. Not because she didn’t want to see. She had simply learned over forty years: rushing at such moments only frightens people. They arrive broken, any sudden movement could finish them off.

The girl stood at the threshold, clutching a bag as if it were the only thing keeping her on the ground. About twenty-five, maybe a little older. Short blonde hair, disheveled, uncombed after sleep, sticking out in different directions like a child who had just jumped out from under the pillow and run. Eyes red, swollen, but dry. A strange dryness, the kind that comes after hours of tears, when the body’s water has simply run out.

Dressed simply: worn jeans, a gray t-shirt with a faded print, a light jacket hanging open, although the morning was still cool. Old sneakers, worn down on one side. It was obvious she had run out in whatever she was wearing, without thinking, without choosing.

In her hands — a large plastic bag. Transparent, the kind sold at the market for ten cents. Through the slightly foggy plastic, the contents were visible: white fabric, folded carelessly, in a heap.

«Signora, I need to get this washed.»

Her voice wavered on the last word, as if the word itself — washed — was wrong, not what she wanted to say. But no other words came.

Lucia nodded towards the counter. Wide, wooden, darkened by time and water. Over the decades, whole hollows had been worn into it where thousands of people had placed their laundry, their bags, their hopes.

«Put it here.»

The girl approached. Three steps, but she took them like a hundred. Her legs wouldn’t obey. She put the bag on the counter. Her hands trembled with a fine, nasty tremor that couldn’t be stopped, no matter how hard you tried. She unzipped it, took out the contents.

Sheets.

Double-bed size, good cotton, expensive. You could see it immediately: in the density of the fabric, the even seams, the lace trim bordering the edges. White, dazzlingly white, even after sleep. On one — in the middle, where a pillow or a sleeper’s head usually lies — a bright stain.

Lipstick.

Red. Not orange, not pink, not coral. Red. Bright as a fire engine, as a traffic signal, as blood. A clear imprint of a woman’s lips, slightly smeared on one edge, as if the head had been turned in sleep or in haste, jumping up and running away in the morning.

Lucia looked at the stain. For a long time. Then shifted her gaze to the girl.

She stood, gripping the edge of the counter. Her knuckles were white, transparent. Nails cut short, without manicure, chewed in places down to the quick.

«These are my sheets,» the girl said.

Her voice was completely gone. She had to cough, clear her throat, but the sound still came out hoarse, alien.

«Ours. Mine and his. We got married six months ago.»

Lucia was silent. Silence was her main tool. Words can wound, deceive, confuse. Silence gives a person space. Space to pour out everything that has accumulated.

«I bought them a month before the wedding. I chose them myself. Went to that shop on Via del Corso, you know? The one with the Portuguese linen. The most expensive fabric they had. I saved from my paycheck for three months. I wanted everything to be beautiful. To remember for my whole life. Silly, right?»

She fell silent, as if expecting an answer. Lucia didn’t answer.

«Last night he came home late. Said work. They had a rush, quarterly reports, all that. I didn’t ask. I never ask. A wife should trust, right? Mama always said: trust is the foundation of marriage. I trusted.»

Her lips pressed into a thin line, turning white like her knuckles.

«In the morning he left early. I was still asleep, half-heard him kissing my cheek, whispering something. Left coffee on the nightstand, as always. Thoughtful. Perfect. And when I got up to make the bed, I saw this.»

She jabbed her finger at the stain. Her finger trembled so hard she didn’t hit the stain on the first try.

«I want to burn them.»

Lucia shifted her gaze from the sheet to the girl. A long, heavy look that usually made people squirm.

«Then why did you bring them here?»

The girl blinked. Bewildered, like a child given a problem she doesn’t understand.

«What?»

«If you want to burn them, burn them. Everyone has matches. Why bring them to me?»

The girl opened her mouth, closed it. Then exhaled as if all the air had left her at once.

«I don’t know.»

Lucia nodded. She had heard this answer thousands of times. Thousands of people had stood at this counter, clutching dirty laundry, not knowing why they were here. They only knew one thing: they couldn’t stay alone with this. Couldn’t sit in an empty apartment, looking at those stains, those things, those reminders, and not go crazy.

«Sit down,» Lucia said, nodding towards the chair by the wall.

The chair was old, wooden, with a worn-down seat. Thousands of people had sat in it. Waited. Cried. Been silent. Sometimes fallen asleep from exhaustion, and Lucia would cover them with an old blanket she kept for such occasions.

The girl sat down. Lucia took the sheets, unfolded them completely. The stain was bigger than it had seemed through the bag. About ten centimeters in diameter, with a clear lip outline in the center and smudges at the edges, as if someone had tried to wipe the lipstick off, only smearing it further.

Lucia brought the fabric to her nose, sniffed it.

«French,» she said. «Expensive lipstick. Long-lasting. Won’t come out easily.»

The girl hiccupped a sob. The sound escaped unexpectedly, as if it wasn’t her who made it.

«I know.»

Lucia set the sheets aside. Went to the stove, where a coffee pot was simmering on low heat. The coffee was boiling for the third time that morning, rising with a cap of golden foam which Lucia deftly knocked down. She poured the dark, thick liquid into a clean ceramic cup. The cup was old, with fine cracks in the glaze, but Lucia loved these — they didn’t burn your hands, they gave off heat slowly, like living things.

Set it in front of the girl.

«Drink.»

«I don’t want to.»

«Drink. You’ll stop shaking.»

The girl obediently took the cup. Her hands were indeed shaking; coffee sloshed over the rim, dripped onto the counter, onto her jeans. She took a sip, burned herself, but didn’t feel it. Then another. The coffee was strong, bitter, the kind they make in the south — sugar on the side, everyone adds their own.

Lucia sat down opposite her. Not behind the counter where she took laundry and money, but on another similar old chair kept by the wall for those rare visitors she needed to talk to at length. She rarely did this. Only when she saw someone truly on the edge. When there was dirt inside them that water couldn’t wash away.

Outside the glass door of the laundry, the usual morning life of the alley had begun. A Vespa went by, loud, crackling, its exhaust pipe sputtering. A woman passed with heavy bags, judging by how she leaned to the side. Somewhere a child cried — either waking up or falling down. The upstairs neighbor opened her shutters with a loud creak that Lucia had heard every morning for forty years and no longer noticed.

«What’s your name?» Lucia asked.

«Valentina.»

Her voice sounded a little steadier now. The coffee was starting to work.

«How old are you, Valentina?»

«Twenty-six.»

«Do you work?»

«I’m a doctor. Pediatrician. At the children’s hospital on Gianicolo, you know? Where the old park is.»

Lucia raised an eyebrow slightly. A doctor. Used to saving, curing, solving problems. And here was a case where her science was powerless. Here there were no pills, no tests, no diagnosis. Only a red stain on a white sheet.

«Is he your first?»

Valentina looked up. Her eyes were red, swollen, but now a little more focused.

«What?»

«Your first man? Or have there been others?»

Valentina shook her head. Her hair flew from side to side.

«He’s my first. I married late. Studying, then residency, then work at the hospital. No time to date, go out, choose. I thought I’d found the one. The real one. Forever.»

«Do you love him?»

Silence hung in the air, thick as the morning fog over the Tiber. Valentina stared into her cup, at the dark surface of the coffee where tiny bubbles of foam floated.

«I don’t know,» she said finally. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. «I thought I did. But now… I don’t know. I don’t understand who he is. I don’t understand who I am. I don’t know what to do with this sheet.»

Lucia nodded. She stood up.

Went to the counter, took the sheets. Unfolded them, looked at the stain one last time, as if memorizing it. Then she opened the lid of the big washing machine — the one against the far wall, the oldest, but the most reliable. Loaded the laundry. Poured detergent from a large unlabeled cardboard box. Added stain remover, which she used only for difficult cases, a little more than usual. Closed the heavy lid. Turned it on.

The machine hummed low, bassy, then water began to rush, flowing through the hoses, filling the drum. After a minute, a dull thumping sound came from inside — the laundry had begun its journey.

Lucia returned to the chair.

«Now it’s an hour and a half,» she said. «Will you sit, or will you leave?»

Valentina looked at the machine as if it were a living being. As if it were a doctor who would now begin to heal.

«I’ll sit.»

They sat in silence. In the laundry, you could only hear the hum of the machines, the hiss of steam from the old iron Lucia had forgotten to turn off, distant voices from the street. Somewhere children were already playing ball — dull thuds against a wall. Somewhere market women were arguing — their voices rising and falling like seagulls over the sea. Life went on as usual. The sheets with red lipstick swirled in soapy water, washing, surrendering their dirt to the detergent.

After half an hour, Valentina spoke herself.

Her voice was steadier, but a different note had appeared in it — bitter, adult, the note that comes after the loss of illusions.

«My mother left my father when I was five. I don’t remember that time well, but I remember one thing vividly: she found another woman’s earring in his pocket. An ordinary earring, cheap, costume jewelry. She just packed her things, took me, and left. In one night. Without conversation, without explanations, without trying to understand.»

She took a sip of coffee, now cold, but didn’t notice.

«I grew up without him. He came on Sundays, took me to the park, bought ice cream, but it wasn’t the same. He was a stranger who became slightly less strange once a week. I always thought: how could she? Over some stupid earring that could have gotten into his pocket in a thousand ways? Maybe someone put it there at work, maybe he found it himself, maybe something else? Maybe it was a mistake? Maybe she should have talked, figured it out, not broken up the family?»

She fell silent. In the laundry, you could hear the machine humming, water dripping somewhere from a poorly closed tap.

«And now I look at this sheet and I understand. It wasn’t about the earring. It was about the fact that after that earring, you can’t sleep on the same sheet anymore. You understand? You look at it and you only see that. Every night. Every morning. It eats into you more than into the fabric. You don’t see the person next to you anymore. You only see the stain.»

Lucia was silent. Valentina continued talking, and the words poured out of her in a stream that could no longer be stopped.

«I want to kill him. I want to find that woman and tear her hair out. I want to kill myself for being such a fool, so naive, so blind. I want this morning never to have happened. I want to have slept until noon and for him to have come back and for everything to be like before. I want these sheets to burn, not to exist, I want never to have bought them. I want…»

«Enough,» said Lucia.

Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the stream of words like a knife through a ripe tomato.

Valentina fell silent. Stared at Lucia with wide eyes.

«You can want many things,» Lucia said. «The water will still flow. The machine will still wash. The sun will rise and set. And you’ll sit here wanting. And then what?»

Valentina looked at her. Waited for an answer. Lucia was in no hurry.

«Wanting isn’t doing. Wanting is hiding from what’s already happened. You’re sitting here, wishing it hadn’t. But it already has. And it’s not going anywhere.»

Valentina was silent.

«What should I do?» she asked finally. Her voice was quiet, almost childlike.

Lucia stood up, went to the machine. Looked at the timer. Twenty minutes left.

«You’ll pick up the sheets,» she said. «They’ll be clean. No stain.»

«So what?» Valentina also stood, came closer. «I’ll go home, make the bed, go to sleep, and then what? I’ll know. I’ll always know. Every night, closing my eyes, I’ll see that red lipstick on the white fabric. Even if it’s not there.»

Lucia turned to her. Stood so close that Valentina could smell the detergent mixed with coffee and something else elusive, old, homely, safe.

«Do you think I only wash away stains?»

Valentina froze.

«Do you think, in forty years, people have only come to me with dirty laundry?»

Lucia stepped back, gestured around the laundry.

«Look around. Everyone who walked through that door brought not just clothes. They brought themselves. Their pain. Their shame. Their dirt that can’t be seen with the eyes. I washed sheets after the dead. I washed murderers’ shirts. I washed the dresses of women beaten by their husbands. I washed the children’s clothes of children who are no more.»

She paused.

«A stain on a sheet isn’t infidelity. A stain on a sheet is just pigment. Infidelity is what’s in your head. What you imagined or embellished yourself. You didn’t come here to wash a sheet. You came here to wash yourself.»

Valentina stood, gripping the edge of the counter as she had when she first came in. But now her fingers weren’t trembling.

«I’ll wash the sheet. It will be clean. White. Like snow on the mountains you can see from Rome on a clear day. You’ll take it back. And then you have two choices.»

She paused. The machine hummed louder, going into the spin cycle.

«First: you’ll see that lipstick on it every night for the rest of your life. You’ll sleep with a ghost you created yourself. You’ll hate him, yourself, that woman you don’t even know. And the sheet will be clean, but you won’t be.»

Valentina swallowed.

«Second: you stop looking at the sheet and you look at him.»

«At him?» Valentina almost screamed, but her voice cracked into a wheeze. «Are you suggesting I forgive him? After this?»

«I’m not suggesting anything,» Lucia’s voice remained calm, steady, like water in an old fountain. «I’m saying: you don’t know what happened. You only know the stain.»

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 2

A Shirt for Eternity

Morning 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.

Lucia opened it.

A man. About forty, maybe a little more. An emaciated face, dark circles under his eyes, unshaven for several days. Eyes — empty, looking through, somewhere far away where no one was. Hair light brown, long, unkempt, falling over his forehead. Dressed poorly, but not like a beggar — just tiredly, just indifferent to himself.

The coat. Old, worn, from someone else’s shoulder. On the lapel — a tiny hole, the trace of a badge or brooch long removed. The coat smelled — Lucia caught the scent immediately, as soon as he crossed the threshold. The smell of dampness, of train stations, of a long journey, and something else she couldn’t immediately identify.

«Signora,» the man said. His voice was hoarse, broken, as if he hadn’t spoken at all for a long time. «I need to get something washed.»

Lucia nodded towards the counter.

«Come in.»

He entered. Stopped in the middle of the laundry, looked around — but not like the old man from the previous chapter, not with interest, but just to understand where he was. Then he approached the counter, stood, let his shoulders drop.

«Can you wash a coat?» he asked.

Lucia looked at the coat. It was dirty, yes. But that wasn’t the main thing. The main thing was how he wore it. How it had become part of him, a second skin he hadn’t taken off for months.

«I can,» Lucia said. «Will you take it off?»

The man froze. Looked at his hands, as if only now realizing he had something on.

«I…» he began, and faltered.

Lucia waited.

«I can’t take it off,» he said finally. «You understand? I can’t. It’s like… it’s grown onto me.»

His voice wavered.

«Then why wash it?» Lucia asked.

He raised his eyes to her. There was so much pain in them that Lucia looked away first.

«Because it’s dirty,» he said. «Very dirty. And I can’t take it off. I try. Every night I try. And I can’t.»

Lucia was silent.

«I’ve slept in it for three months,» he said. «Three months without taking it off. I have nothing else on. Only this coat. And it’s dirty. It stinks. I stink. I went to church, it smells of incense and cleanness there, and I stink, and people turn away. I went to the station, wanted to get on a train, go somewhere, but they wouldn’t let me on because I’m dirty and frightening. I went to the sea, thought the water would wash it off, but the water doesn’t wash it off, it only gets the surface, but inside…»

He fell silent because his voice cracked into a rasp.

Lucia went to the stove. Poured coffee. Set it before him.

«Drink.»

He took the cup. His hands shook so violently that coffee splashed over the rim, but he drank, burning himself, not feeling it.

«When did you last eat?» Lucia asked.

He shook his head.

«Three days. Maybe four. I don’t remember.»

Lucia went into the small room behind the laundry where she had a stove and a refrigerator. Returned a minute later with a plate. Pasta, yesterday’s, but still good, with tomato sauce and basil. Set it before him.

«Eat.»

He looked at the plate as if it were a miracle.

«I have no money,» he said.

«I’m not asking for money. Eat.»

He ate. First cautiously, as if afraid the food would disappear, then greedily, hurriedly, choking, spilling sauce on the coat.

Lucia watched.

Outside the window, a Vespa passed. Somewhere a child cried. A woman called her husband to lunch. An ordinary day in Trastevere.

The man finished. Wiped the plate with a piece of bread, ate the bread too. Looked at Lucia.

«Thank you,» he said. «I’ll repay you. I definitely will.»

«No need,» Lucia said. «Tell me.»

He looked at her for a long moment.

«Tell you what?»

«Everything. Or nothing. As you wish. But if you want me to wash the coat, you’ll have to take it off. And to take it off, you have to understand why it’s stuck.»

The man was silent for a long time. Looked at the wall, the window, the cup of cold coffee. Then he began to speak.

«My name is Andrea. I’m from Udine, up north. Mountains there, cold, snow. I had a family. Wife, daughter. My daughter was five. She loved it when I put her on my shoulders and walked around the room. She laughed so hard the windows rattled.»

He paused. Caught his breath.

«A year ago, they went to my mother’s. To the mountains. By car. I didn’t go, I had work. I said: go, I’ll come later. They went. And at the pass… a truck. The driver fell asleep. Swerved into oncoming traffic.»

Lucia closed her eyes. She knew what was coming.

«They’re gone,» Andrea said. His voice was horribly flat. «Both of them. Immediately. The truck driver survived. Served six months in prison, got out. But mine are gone.»

He looked at his hands.

«I didn’t go to the funeral. I couldn’t. Sat in the apartment for three days staring at the wall. Then I went out. Walked wherever my eyes took me. Walked and walked and walked. Ended up in Milan. Then Genoa. Then here, in Rome. I don’t remember how I walked. I just walked.»

He stroked the sleeve of the coat.

«This coat, I found it at the station in Milan. Someone forgot it, or threw it away, or died — I don’t know. It was big, warm. I put it on and haven’t taken it off since. You understand? I can’t take it off because if I do, I’ll have to take off everything. Everything inside. And what’s inside… it’s…»

He fell silent.

The laundry was quiet. Only the machines hummed and the coffee maker hissed.

«What was your daughter’s name?» Lucia asked.

Andrea flinched.

«What?»

«Your daughter. What was her name?»

He was silent for a long time. Then said:

«Elena. Her name was Elena.»

«A beautiful name,» Lucia said. «Elena. That was my mother’s name.»

Andrea looked at her.

«Do you think it will help? If I take off the coat, you wash it, and then what? Will she come back?»

«No,» Lucia said. «No one will come back.»

«Then why?»

Lucia stood up. Went close to him. Looked into his eyes.

«So that you can live. You can’t go on living until you take it off. You can’t breathe. You can’t eat. You can’t love anyone. You’ll walk the earth in someone else’s coat, smelling of death, until you die yourself. And she wouldn’t want that. Your Elena. She wouldn’t want you to die.»

Andrea looked at her. His eyes filled with tears — for the first time in many months.

«How do you know?» he whispered. «How do you know what she would want?»

«Because I’m a woman,» Lucia said. «Because I’m a mother. Because I know: those we love don’t want our death. They want us to live. Even if it hurts them to look down on us.»

Andrea covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook.

Lucia didn’t touch him. Didn’t hug him. Didn’t stroke his head. She just stood beside him and waited.

The crying was long, heavy, with wheezes and sobs. The kind of crying of people who haven’t wept for years. Who have accumulated so much inside that water no longer helps, you need to wail, howl, scream.

But he didn’t scream. He cried quietly, face in his hands, in a stranger’s laundry, before a strange woman, in a coat that smelled of stations and death.

After about ten minutes, he quieted. Wiped his face with the coat sleeve. Looked at Lucia.

«I’ll try,» he said. «To take it off.»

He stood up. Unbuttoned the buttons. Pulled the coat off one shoulder, then the other.

And froze.

Under the coat was a shirt. Once white, now gray, dirty, torn. But that wasn’t important.

What was important was that he stood without the coat for the first time in three months. Stood and trembled. Not from cold — from emptiness.

«Cold,» he said. «Without it, it’s cold.»

«It will pass,» Lucia said. «Give yourself time to get used to it.»

She took the coat. It was heavy, wet with sweat, dirty black at the collar and cuffs. She brought it to her face, sniffed it.

«What does it smell of?» Andrea asked.

«You,» Lucia said. «Only you. And a little bit of the road.»

She went to the sink. Ran hot water. Poured detergent, added stain remover, then something else, then something more.

«Will you put it in the machine?» Andrea asked.

«In the machine,» Lucia said. «You can’t wash something like this by hand. Months of dirt here.»

She loaded the coat into the big machine, closed the door, turned it on.

The machine hummed, water rushed.

«An hour and a half,» Lucia said. «Will you sit?»

Andrea nodded. Sat on the chair. Sat, looking at his hands. Without the coat, he seemed small, thin, defenseless.

«And you?» he asked suddenly. «Who did you lose?»

Lucia froze at the stove where she was pouring herself coffee.

«What makes you think I’ve lost anyone?»

«Your eyes,» Andrea said. «You have eyes like mine. Only older.»

Lucia was silent for a long time. Then she sat down opposite him. Poured coffee for him and for herself.

«My husband,» she said. «Twenty years ago. He died. Cancer. He was sick for six months, I cared for him, washed his shirts, sheets, towels. Every night I changed the bedclothes because he sweated, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sleep.»

She sipped her coffee.

«After he died, I couldn’t go into the bedroom for a month. It smelled of him. Of medicine, of sickness, of death. But also of him. Of the man he was before. I would go in, breathe in that smell, and couldn’t breathe. And couldn’t leave.»

Andrea listened.

«And then I came here. To the laundry. I took his last shirt — the one he died in — and I washed it. By hand. For a long time. Until the water ran clear. Until the shirt was white. And then I understood.»

«What?»

«That the smell isn’t in the shirt. The smell is in me. I carry it with me. And I can go on carrying it. But the shirt — it’s just fabric. It can be washed.»

They sat in silence. The machine hummed, spun, rinsed. Time passed.

«Do you believe there’s something… after?» Andrea asked. «Afterwards?»

Lucia looked out the window. The sun was setting, shadows grew longer, the golden glow returned.

«I don’t know,» she said. «For forty years I’ve washed the things of the dead. Shirts, sheets, dresses they died in. And you know what?»

«What?»

«They never smell of the end. They smell of life. Of what was before. I think that means something.»

Andrea was silent.

«Maybe there’s just a washing machine there,» he said. «A huge one. And they’ll wash us all until we’re clean.»

«Maybe,» Lucia smiled. «Then I’ll have work there.»

He smiled too. For the first time.

The machine beeped.

Lucia opened the door, took out the coat. It was wet, clean, without a single stain. Dark gray, like a cloud before rain, but clean. It smelled of detergent and freshness.

She put it in the spin dryer, turned it on. Ten minutes later she took it out, almost dry.

«Come,» she said, and pushed open the door to the courtyard.

They went out.

The courtyard in the evening was special. The sun no longer burned, but caressed. It lay on the walls in golden patches, kissed the flowers in the well, played in the ivy leaves. The lines with laundry cast long shadows, and these shadows moved, lived, breathed.

Lucia hung the coat on the longest line. It hung heavily, but beautifully — dark against the gold.

«Look,» she said.

Andrea looked.

The wind played with the coat. It moved, as if alive. The sleeves rose and fell, as if the coat were embracing someone. The tails flapped, as if it wanted to fly away.

«Clean,» Andrea said. «Really clean.»

«Clean,» Lucia confirmed. «Now it’s your turn.»

«My turn?»

«You. Clean on the outside. Inside — not yet. But inside is harder. Inside, you have to do it yourself.»

Andrea stood, looking at the coat. Then he shifted his gaze to the sky.

«Elena,» he said quietly. «Forgive me. I didn’t come. I couldn’t. I didn’t say goodbye.»

His voice wavered.

«I love you. I’ll always love you. And I’ll try. I’ll try to live. For you. For her. For myself.»

Lucia stood beside him and was silent. This wasn’t her conversation.

When he fell silent, she said:

«Come tomorrow morning. The coat will be dry. And you’ll take it.»

Andrea nodded.

«How much do I owe you?»

«Nothing,» Lucia said. «But if you want — come by. Tell me how things are going.»

He looked at her for a long moment.

«I will,» he said. «I definitely will.»

And he went towards the exit. Without the coat. In a single dirty shirt. But he walked differently now. Straighter. Lighter.

Lucia watched him go.

Then she went to the coat, adjusted it on the line. Stroked the sleeve.

«Protect him,» she said to the wind. «And her too. Protect them all.»

She returned to the laundry. Sat on the chair. Poured coffee.

Outside, it was getting dark. Lights were coming on. Somewhere music played — a neighbor had turned on the radio. It smelled of evening, of food, of flowers, of life.

Beyond the glass, a shadow flickered.

Lucia sighed, straightened her apron, and prepared to listen again.

Chapter 4

Neighbors

The day in Trastevere is never quiet.

Lucia knew this for certain. Even during siesta, when the city freezes and seems deserted, somewhere someone will definitely shout, laugh, drop a pot, turn the radio up full blast, and then a tenor will float through the alley, belting out an aria from Tosca, mixed with the smell of fried onions and the exhaust of a passing Vespa.

After Andrea left, Lucia went out into the courtyard to check the laundry. Valentina’s sheets were already dry and lay in a neat pile on the bench by the well — Lucia had taken them down an hour ago, when the wind grew too strong and started whipping the fabric. The old man’s shirt hung on the hanger, almost dry, only the collar still slightly damp — Lucia touched it, decided it could be taken down and ironed in an hour.

Andrea’s coat dried on the far line. Dark, heavy, it swayed in the wind, and Lucia caught herself thinking of it as a living creature, just washed, fed, and now resting.

«Lucia! Lucia, are you there?»

Signora Maria’s voice burst into the courtyard, as always, without knocking, without warning. Signora Maria — the neighbor from the third floor, sixty-eight years old, three chins, five cats, and a tongue that never stopped — was already coming down the steps to the laundry, though Lucia hadn’t even opened the door.

«I’m here, I’m here,» Lucia called back, coming out of the courtyard.

Signora Maria burst into the laundry like a hurricane. A red flowery dress stretched over her ample figure, curlers covered by a kerchief on her head, in her hands a huge bag from which something striped protruded.

«You won’t believe it! You simply won’t believe what happened!» she rattled off, without even saying hello. «That idiot, that cretin, that… that…»

«Who?» Lucia asked calmly, accustomed to Signora Maria always starting at the end.

«Mine! My precious husband!» Signora Maria threw the bag onto the counter. «Look! Look at this!»

She shook out the contents of the bag. Sheets tumbled out. White, with lace, clearly expensive. And on them — stains.

Many stains.

Red wine, that was obvious. And something greasy. And something else brown, like chocolate. And another one, completely incomprehensible.

«What’s this?» Lucia asked, examining the stains.

«This is him, the parasite, having a romantic dinner!» Signora Maria shrieked. «Yesterday, when I went to my sister’s! Can you imagine? I was gone for one evening, just one evening, and he… he…»

«With whom?» Lucia asked.

«How should I know with whom?» Signora Maria yelled. «If I knew with whom, I’d be there already! I’d tear all her hair out! I’d… I’d…»

She fell silent, because she didn’t know what she’d do to him, but clearly something terrible.

«And what does he say?»

«He says he ate alone!» Signora Maria threw up her hands. «Alone! Can you imagine? One person, one dinner, and stains like these? He poured wine on himself? Smeared himself with chocolate? Spread grease all over the sheet?»

Lucia struggled to suppress a smile.

«And why was he eating on the sheet?»

«He was eating on the bed!» Signora Maria was almost shouting now. «On our marital bed! With someone! Or alone, in which case he’s simply crazy! Either way, it’s bad!»

At that moment, Signor Enzo entered the laundry.

Signor Enzo lived one floor down, was nearly seventy, wore old suspenders and an invariable cap which he never removed even indoors, and for about ten years had been trying to court Signora Maria, despite her having a husband and him having a sick wife who hadn’t left her bed for the last five years.

«What’s all the noise?» he asked, entering. «I heard Signora Maria shouting, thought there was a fire or a murder.»

«There will be a murder!» Signora Maria snapped. «I’m about to kill my husband!»

«And what did he do?» Signor Enzo came closer, looked with interest at the sheets. «Whoa. That was quite a dinner.»

«You think he wasn’t alone?» Signora Maria asked hopefully.

«I think,» Signor Enzo scratched the back of his head under his cap, «that if he was alone, he has coordination problems. Or he was celebrating something very important.»

«What could he be celebrating?» Signora Maria wailed. «He has nothing important! He’s retired! He sits at home all day watching TV!»

«Maybe he won the lottery?» Signor Enzo suggested. «Or an old friend called? Or he just felt like a celebration?»

Signora Maria froze. Looked at the stains. Then at Lucia.

«You think…» she began.

«I think,» Lucia said, «that before committing murder, you should ask. Did you ask?»

«I did. He said: „I dined alone.“»

«And that’s all?»

«That’s all. And he smiled… like that… so… disgustingly!»

«Disgustingly?» Signor Enzo repeated. «How?»

«As if he knows something I don’t!» Signora Maria began to get wound up again. «As if he has a secret! And I hate secrets! I’m his wife! He shouldn’t have secrets from me!»

Lucia took the sheets, spread them on the counter. The stains were old, already dried, but clearly fresh — from yesterday.

«The wine will come out,» she said. «Grease — harder. Chocolate — medium. But this one…»

She pointed to the brown stain, the most incomprehensible.

«What is it?» Signora Maria asked.

«I don’t know. Need to smell it.»

Lucia brought the stain to her nose. Smelled it. Then again.

«Strange,» she said.

«What?» Signora Maria leaned forward.

«It smells…» Lucia hesitated. «It smells of medicine.»

«What kind of medicine?»

«I don’t know. Something bitter. Something old people take.»

Signora Maria froze. Looked at Signor Enzo. He shrugged.

«He doesn’t take any medicine!» Signora Maria said. «He’s healthy as an ox! He’s seventy-two and still… well, you know… forgive me, Lord!»

Signor Enzo coughed and turned to the window.

«Then I don’t know,» Lucia said. «But that’s exactly what it smells like. Medicinal bitterness.»

Signora Maria sat down on the chair. For the first time since her arrival, she fell silent.

«Medicine,» she said quietly. «He went to the doctor yesterday. I forgot. He went to the doctor, and I didn’t even ask why.»

She looked up at Lucia.

«You think… he could have learned something bad? And not told me?»

«He could,» Lucia said. «Men are like that. They stay silent as long as they can.»

«And he had dinner? Alone? With wine and chocolate?»

«Maybe he wanted to celebrate still being alive,» Signor Enzo interjected. «When I found out I had diabetes, I bought myself a cake and ate it alone. Stupid, but I felt like it.»

Signora Maria looked at him.

«You have diabetes?»

«For ten years,» Signor Enzo nodded. «My wife watches me, won’t let me have sweets. But I hide them sometimes.»

Signora Maria shifted her gaze back to the sheets. Looked at the stains for a long time. Then stood up.

«I’ll go,» she said. «I’ll go and ask properly. Not shout. I’ll ask.»

«Right,» Lucia said. «I’ll wash the sheets. Come back in a couple of hours.»

Signora Maria nodded, gathered her bag, and left. At the door, she turned.

«Lucia,» she said. «You’re good. You always know what to say.»

«I said nothing,» Lucia smiled. «You understood everything yourself.»

Signora Maria left. Signor Enzo watched her go, then turned to Lucia.

«I have business too,» he said.

«What?»

«A shirt. My favorite. My wife asked me to have it washed, she can’t anymore, her hands don’t obey.»

He took a shirt from his bag. White, with thin stripes, old but well-cared for.

«Nice,» Lucia said.

«Forty years old,» Signor Enzo sighed. «I got married in it. My wife treasures it like the apple of her eye. Only there’s a stain…»