Summer House

My thick, dark soprano wafted heavy Verdian tones throughout every somber room. Desdemona’s “Willow Song” explored the corners like slow moving lava, blanketing every inch of the meticulously clean, egg shell tinted, cold, stone walls. Sometimes the wind stole an echoing phrase to the cafe along the highway, swept over the dry, empty field, where the local, wine-soaked farmers spoke of hearing music no one else heard, much less believed. The freezing cold waters of the Mediterranean were heard in the distance lapping up against the abandoned fishing boats, exhausted from the season’s catch of squid and swordfish unable to satisfy the appetites of the entitled southern Italian fleet of tanned mannequins who inhabited the summer homes during those three, manic months. The local restaurant, helmed by an always panicked host, yelled orders over the din of ravenous beach goers, now stood empty. The overgrowth of grass and weeds slowly climbed the stucco walls threatening to overtake the “closed for winter” sign. As the eloquently crafted sounds soaked every room with nineteenth century finery, my bare feet treaded lightly, tiptoeing over the cold terracotta lined floors-oftentimes stepping over an abandoned Italian Vogue opened to the latest sample of “Acqua di Gio” inexplicably missing. The faint scent of perfume held onto the ripped out page, desperating holding onto its dignity by emitting its elegant scent, barely hanging above the torn pages. As I entered the master bedroom, my fingers tenderly caressed the stark, Carrara marble countertop of the antique side table, noting the opulence of the unassuming Tiffany lamp attempting to obscure the burgundy concentric circles of past revelry. Unlike its regular seasonal inhabitants, the house itself was innocent. It stood proud as a symbol of inherited Roman wealth. The neighboring homes casually winked at each other, never to speak of the debauched acts of pleasure that took place every summer within that gated community. As unaccompanied tween gangs raced their bikes throughout the streets, babies cried, beseeching their parents to be put to bed. The parents however, danced and drank, forever clinking their wine glasses celebrating the latest soccer victory, birthday or for nothing at all. The tiny coastal town never had enough bottles of chilled white to satiate the compulsive desires of this particular demographic. The morning aftermath of those parties rivaled the set of Caligula despite its proximity to the Vatican. But this wasn’t summer. It was November. It was cold and I was alone without a car or cell service. Despite the freedom with which I sang, the sounds created by me were confined to those walls. The pleasure I experienced by myself, body and soul, provoked a profound sense of joy and purpose that would never prove to be enjoyed by anyone else. He wouldn’t allow for that. The art that I created was bound exactly as the house was. The grates over every window and door like steel cobwebs secured in place making it impossible for anyone to get in or out. The narrow, dusty streets leading up to the house were now empty. To any passerby it would seem as though there was a power outage, except for the one, illuminated house nestled in the center of this labyrinth of second homes relegated only to the Italian elite. As I stood looking out the second floor balcony, barely making out the neighboring barrel clay-tiled rooftops in the darkness, I wondered when he would return. Feeling a sudden uneasiness take over me, I walked back inside and caught myself in front of the sea-salt, weather worn mirror. The pale, yellow bedroom lights were not quite bright enough for me to see myself. I had no idea how securely tucked away I actually was. I was young, thirty-four years old and deeply in love; yet this would prove to be the first season of my disappearing. Every moment we were together was an opportunity to diminish, belittle and hold me under. It was insidious, purpose driven, cruel and invisible. As I heard the skeleton key, lumbering to turn in the ancient lock, I hoped this night would somehow be different. In the beginning it was an exhilarating adventure of dinners in secret hideaways, culinary delicacies washed down night after night with never ending bottles of only the best local wine. Introductions to family, friends, film makers, nights at the opera, Caracalla and never-ending gelato and kisses. He was the golden child. He was also abandoned by his mother years ago in a failed attempt to satisfy her own inadequacies. The trauma that he endured was what pulled me closer to him, enduring night after night of local bars, in a gang of incoherent and incomprehensible men talking, oftentimes arguing about nothing. Yet there I was, the American opera singer, placed on the arm of the Golden boy, proving his worth to his fellow, local idiots. What was I doing there? How would I survive, every night, surrounded by so many noisy nothings? I wasn’t ready for this. He would prove to be the tidal wave to nearly kill me. The Armani of his parents failed to obscure the adultery and abuse. But now, this second home was occupied by me and his problems became mine. I took care of them as if they were my own. I reminded myself I was being strong with a difficult person. If I wasn’t careful, I would get lost in the majesty of this empty house, swept under the linen-draped furniture lost in the cupboards filled with the finest china no one was allowed to touch or use. The skeleton key was making its second attempt, creaking its way to finally allowing the monster into the castle. I smiled as it lost its footing yet again. I hoped he would give up. I found solace in the now silent house where my arias still hung in the air. He was unable to get in that night and I was able to thank the beautiful house for taking care of me as I found my way to that nearby highway following my voice as it had many months before.