Winter had always been a time of miracles and heartache for us. But somehow through it all the cold seemed to fuse us together, and despite the challenges, continued to nurture the seed that had been planted by someone other than us. Our relationship reminded me of a rose sprouting out of the cold, hard ground, still blooming despite the savage nature of elements and circumstances, still thriving despite the harrows and hardships of life.
We found our niche in the languorous hours we spent together, a peace in the confinement of life on a farm. We were cut off from the rest of the world. And even though life was uncertain, I couldn’t help basking in the slow pace we found.
It had been a while since the last time we slowed down enough to enjoy each other and appreciate life—when Brando had taken me to Fiji after we had lost Matteo. Somehow we had come to have a routine on the farm, though if we felt like loafing around our cottage all day, there was no one to stop us. Brando usually woke me with a kiss before the sun, and after gearing up in the warmest clothes we had to our names, we went for a run around the property. Brando was like a lethal cat; sometimes his energy vibrated his bones, and the need to move seized him.
It was either exercise or sex. Sex usually came before and after running.
On those mornings when I wasn’t up for physical exertion in low temps, when I wanted to lounge around in the warmth of the stone cottage until I felt like a roasted chestnut, he gave in to my needs and fulfilled hisandmine.
Some days we passed the time by playing chess. Sometimes our cottage was filled withfamiglia, everyone ready for an all-night game of poker. Other times we would lend a helping hand on the farm wherever we were needed, though there was less need, since the sisters closed shop during the winter months. Their cannolo emporium was so successful during the other three seasons that they could afford the break.
In some ways we were like newlyweds again, the hunger and passion hotter than a raging fire, neither of us counting time but allowing it to sweep us up in its illusiveness.
I often thought back to that night in the snow, all those years ago in front of my parents’ dance studio, when he watched me dancing in the window. I remembered feeling stunted, too frozen to break from the restricting ice that dance had encapsulated me in.
It was my husband who had brought warmth into my world and helped me break free and grow.
He was still as hot as ever, but now he was dangerously hot. The flu had run amok from one house to another, stone walls sometimes holding in too much of the damp cold.
Uncle Tito kept busy. Not only was Brando down with the flu, but Rocco and Romeo too. Dario and family were attempting to dodge it by keeping Diego inside, which was driving them all insane. And Donato refused to let Chiara out of the house, too afraid that she would catch it in her “state.”
Rosaria saw to Rocco. Uncle Tito and Aunt Lola to Romeo. My patient was in bed, “coughing up a lung” and moaning that he was going to die. I had tried to coax him into taking Theresa’s room above the main villa, but he wouldn’t hear of it, afraid she might retaliate while he was vulnerable.
The water in our old faucets would only get lukewarm, and the men refused to borrow the sisters’ bathrooms when it was time to bathe. Theresa had pulled too many stunts to make them feel secure, such as jumping out at them with a knife in hand while their hair was full of soap and their eyes closed. She did this to Rocco twice before he decided a hot bath was not worth the trouble. All of the other men agreed. Nothing was worth losing their manhood over. When I told them to trade her something in return for a flag of truce, they all refused, claiming that they didn’t negotiate with terrorists.
Brando was under my protection, but it still didn’t make him feel secure enough to take a bath in the main villa. He even sat with me each time I took one in case she tried something funny. True to her word, though, she left me alone, for the most part. I still caught her staring at me sometimes, attempting to peek in our windows when she thought we weren’t looking.
Brando sat up, and I glanced at him. I was cooking in the small kitchen—chicken noodle soup and some natural tea Uncle Tito had given me to help “open up” Brando’s nasal cavity and lungs. The small windows were dripping wet and fogged, the heat from inside clashing with the freezing cold outside. I wiped my hands on my apron. “If you’re not feeling better by tomorrow, we’re going to the main house. It’s warmer.”
He shot me a mean look. “Not worth it.” He sneezed five times, the tip of his nose red, his eyes glazed over with fever. He leaned over a bit, holding his temples. “I’m dying.”
“It’s just the flu.”
“Justthe flu.” His mean looked turned incredulous. “It’s the fucking plague.”
“Uncle Tito said it’s the flu. It’s going around.”
“Yeah, well, if that’s true, how come you don’t have it?”
“I tell myself I’m not going to get it. I’m too busy taking care of you. And I don’t. And I won’t.” And I washed my hands fifty times a day, along with keeping the place as sanitary as I could.
“What logic, baby. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You’re a man.”
“Can sheep give you sickness? Like pigs? Birds? Maybe I have the sheep flu. This doesn’t feel like the regular flu.” He paused. “I just thought of something. Ricotta.”
He turned green. I had never seen a dark man turn that shade before, like a green olive that had been rolling around in ash. I rushed over and brought him the bucket. After he was done retching, nothing left in his stomach, he rinsed his mouth out with leftover whiskey from poker night and then plopped down in the bed.
“Thinking of the smell of sheep shit made me sick,” he said, his voice subdued. “Hell. I’m in hell.”
He started to shiver, his teeth almost clacking. I stoked the fire, made sure it was as hot as it could get. Being in the cottage felt romantic when we first arrived, but with Brando being sick it felt almost primal.
I rushed back over to the tea and soup, stirred each one, and then poured only the broth of the soup in one mug and the tea in another.
Before going back to him, I grabbed the two washcloths soaking in a mixture of cool water and vinegar to replace the other two that had been on his head and neck. They were almost hot when I took them from beside him on the bed—it was a fight to keep them on—some of his fever absorbed into the fabric, and he almost groaned when the new, cold washcloths touched his skin.
“D-d-do you ha-ha-have to do that.” He went to remove the cloths and I fixed him with a stern eye and two hands on my hips. He left them be.
