Read Online The Garden of Letters by Alyson Richman - Free Book Online
Authors: Alyson Richman
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the meeting in Luca’s store, Elodie looked at books in a completely different way. Sometimes she would go to her father’s bookshelves and pull out a book on nautical history or one on ancient Rome, and wonder if this couldn’t be a perfect vessel for a message or a gun.
Luca’s weapon had terrified her. She had never seen a pistol up close before. The most dangerous things in her parents’ house were the kitchen knives. Even those she shied away from, preferring to set the table or stir the polenta.
Her life had been extremely sheltered. She knew it was typical for Italian families to protect their young, especially their daughters. But she had grown up even more isolated because of her musical gifts. Her parents didn’t want her to have any distraction.
But now a strange energy flowed through her. Was it a motivation for revenge for her father, combined with the passion for this new group of people who were so dedicated to winning the country back from the Fascists? Or was it simpler and far less noble on her part? Had it begun the first time Luca had looked at her? When he told her that her name was beautiful? When he had studied her face and told her that she was full of surprises?
She could envision Luca with great precision. She thought of his full bloom of dark hair, the chiseled features, and the amber eyes. She had noticed the tendons in his neck. Little ribbons of muscle, the blue veins, just under the skin—reminiscent of strings in the neck of her cello. What might it feel like to slide a single finger on one and feel the energy between their skin?
She heard the pattern of his voice, like notes inside her head. The gentle rhythm of his words; the escalation of his intonation as he revealed his idea of using the books as part of their tactics.
She had been moved by the way he handled the novels. The respect for these objects that were so clearly precious to him. It gave her comfort to know he appreciated books as much as she loved her cello.
She fell asleep hearing a melody that was new to her. She heard it in a palette of colors. Rich like the varnish on her instrument. Deep red with long streaks of gold.
EIGHT
Verona, Italy
M AY 1943
There was a stirring in her body like she used to feel when she was first desperate to play her cello. When the music was so strong inside her, it was almost an ache, a hunger. Elodie told Lena that she was excited to attend another meeting, but what she didn’t say was that she also wanted to go again because she couldn’t stop thinking of Luca.
She rose early that morning and withdrew her cello from its case. When she played it, the notes now emerged with a sound that was foreign to her. She had learned from her father how the cello could sigh, weep, and make an audience cry. But this time, Elodie played with an intense longing. She could hear the instrument swelling and expanding as she pulled the notes longer and deeper. For the first time, desire infused her playing, a longing for something that was more than music. And as the music flowed through the apartment, Orsina awakened also hearing the difference in her daughter’s music. It reminded her of the way Pietro performed that evening so many years ago when she first heard him play in Venice’s I Gesuiti. When he played with a beauty that pierced her heart.
That morning, Elodie asked her mother if she could wear one of her dresses. The ones in Elodie’s own closet suddenly felt childish, and she didn’t want Luca to see her wearing her schoolgirl uniform of a white blouse and navy skirt. She wanted to walk into the bookstore in a dress like the one her mother had worn years ago, when Orsina first met Pietro. Pale yellow, the color of sunshine. Spring’s first forsythia, golden and full of light.
Orsina welcomed Elodie’s sudden interest in her wardrobe. She now connected what had caused Elodie’s playing to change and was relieved to know it wasn’t anything dangerous.
She opened her closet,
Luca’s weapon had terrified her. She had never seen a pistol up close before. The most dangerous things in her parents’ house were the kitchen knives. Even those she shied away from, preferring to set the table or stir the polenta.
Her life had been extremely sheltered. She knew it was typical for Italian families to protect their young, especially their daughters. But she had grown up even more isolated because of her musical gifts. Her parents didn’t want her to have any distraction.
But now a strange energy flowed through her. Was it a motivation for revenge for her father, combined with the passion for this new group of people who were so dedicated to winning the country back from the Fascists? Or was it simpler and far less noble on her part? Had it begun the first time Luca had looked at her? When he told her that her name was beautiful? When he had studied her face and told her that she was full of surprises?
She could envision Luca with great precision. She thought of his full bloom of dark hair, the chiseled features, and the amber eyes. She had noticed the tendons in his neck. Little ribbons of muscle, the blue veins, just under the skin—reminiscent of strings in the neck of her cello. What might it feel like to slide a single finger on one and feel the energy between their skin?
She heard the pattern of his voice, like notes inside her head. The gentle rhythm of his words; the escalation of his intonation as he revealed his idea of using the books as part of their tactics.
She had been moved by the way he handled the novels. The respect for these objects that were so clearly precious to him. It gave her comfort to know he appreciated books as much as she loved her cello.
She fell asleep hearing a melody that was new to her. She heard it in a palette of colors. Rich like the varnish on her instrument. Deep red with long streaks of gold.
EIGHT
Verona, Italy
M AY 1943
There was a stirring in her body like she used to feel when she was first desperate to play her cello. When the music was so strong inside her, it was almost an ache, a hunger. Elodie told Lena that she was excited to attend another meeting, but what she didn’t say was that she also wanted to go again because she couldn’t stop thinking of Luca.
She rose early that morning and withdrew her cello from its case. When she played it, the notes now emerged with a sound that was foreign to her. She had learned from her father how the cello could sigh, weep, and make an audience cry. But this time, Elodie played with an intense longing. She could hear the instrument swelling and expanding as she pulled the notes longer and deeper. For the first time, desire infused her playing, a longing for something that was more than music. And as the music flowed through the apartment, Orsina awakened also hearing the difference in her daughter’s music. It reminded her of the way Pietro performed that evening so many years ago when she first heard him play in Venice’s I Gesuiti. When he played with a beauty that pierced her heart.
That morning, Elodie asked her mother if she could wear one of her dresses. The ones in Elodie’s own closet suddenly felt childish, and she didn’t want Luca to see her wearing her schoolgirl uniform of a white blouse and navy skirt. She wanted to walk into the bookstore in a dress like the one her mother had worn years ago, when Orsina first met Pietro. Pale yellow, the color of sunshine. Spring’s first forsythia, golden and full of light.
Orsina welcomed Elodie’s sudden interest in her wardrobe. She now connected what had caused Elodie’s playing to change and was relieved to know it wasn’t anything dangerous.
She opened her closet,
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