The Book of Misunderstandings
Kimi K2 (0711) and Llama 405b
The lavender in the dictionary was exactly the shade she'd been trying to describe to him for years — not purple, not gray, but the color of dusk settling on snow. It had been there since 1987, pressed between "languor" and "lanyard," and when she opened the book, the scent arrived before the memory did, like a letter written by her younger self to whoever she might become. Her senses rushed back to her — of course she hadn't invented it, she'd been there. The ink-and-paper smell of the stationery store. The smooth weight of the pen. And the flowers she had been sniffing when she heard her father's voice and looked up to see him smiling down at her. It had been so long since she thought of him. She was thirteen then. She was a widow now. Her daughter was in college. Her house was empty. But in that time before time, when she was young and everything was possible, she had begun to fill in the pages of a blank dictionary, and now she was returning to fill in the rest. Years ago, she had abandoned it at "nectar," but she began writing again that afternoon. The words no longer mattered. It was the act of writing them down that was important.
Before the dictionary, there was the book of misunderstandings. The dictionary came later, and only as a way to remember what the book had meant. A book had begun the story, and a book would end it. So she wrote her daughter a letter.
Dearest Mia,
I wish I could begin this story the way all good fairy tales start, once upon a time, but that would be too easy. You're about to learn that nothing in my life has been easy ever since I learned that happily ever after doesn't last forever. People tell you that when your parents die, you lose your past. But I lost my past long before they died. When you were little and I read to you at night, I would hold you until you fell asleep, and I wished I could always keep you that small, wanting to hear just one more story.
If I could, I'd write you a story with a happy ending, but I can't. Your father could, of course, but you wouldn't want me to lie. So I'll tell you my story, and I hope it helps you understand who I was before I was your mother.
You might think that you know me, and you do, of course, but there were years before you were born, and secrets I have kept, not just from you, but also from myself. You probably remember my locked wooden chest, a tiny brass key hanging from a satin cord around my neck. The key, blackened with age, was strung on that cord long before I was born. Inside the box is the only thing I have left from the woman who was my mother. Her name disappeared from my life before I was old enough to remember her. But what she left behind has changed everything. I wish I could tell you more about her, but everything I know could fit inside that box.
As I write to you now, I'm trying to see all of it clearly, although time has cast shadows. There are things I'm learning that would have been impossible to know before. You see, I've gone back to the beginning, to the mother who gave birth to me, and the mother who raised me, and now to you, my own daughter.
Everything I'm writing to you, I've never said out loud before. This is my story, and it's the only thing I have left to give you. I hope you'll save it for the day when you have a daughter of your own. Names are lost and memories fade. The only things that survive are written down.
_Love,
Mom_
A middle-aged woman stood in the doorway of a stationery shop, a square-shouldered girl at her side. They were out of place in the harsh landscape of downtown. To enter the store was to yield to the promise of the orderly shelves, filled with diaries and journals and notebooks in every color.
"Pick one out," the woman urged, sensing the girl's hesitation. "For the new school year." She had an accent, a slight lilting to her words that her daughter didn't hear anymore. As a child, she used to make her mother say things, just to hear the music in the words.
Elsa held back, her hands resting on the worn wooden handles of the baby carriage. As if protecting what was inside, she rocked the buggy gently, looking not at the baby but at the girl in front of her, trying to guess what she wanted, as if that were possible.
The baby's birth was still too recent, the red stenciled name on his birth certificate barely dry. Alexander. For a moment, the same thought went through both their minds: _how much easier it would be if I were alone._ But the thought disappeared as quickly as it came, because it was impossible now to remember a time when it was just the two of them. The baby was here to stay.
"What do you say?" her mother asked, gazing at the shelves. Elsa felt a flicker of hope. Lately, everything she did was wrong. If she could just get this right, they could start again.
"It's not for school, Ma."
"Isn't it?"
"I want to use it to write things down. Not homework. Other things."
She held up two notebooks — one a cheerful blue with a white stripe down the side, the other black. "Which do you like better?"
Elsa didn't know the answer. What did it mean to like something? When had she felt that strongly about anything? At thirteen, she had already grown skeptical of her own opinions. She exhaled impatiently.
"If you're going to write things down," her mother said, "maybe black is better."
"I don't know."
Elsa tried not to sound as frustrated as she felt. Her mother didn't understand that Elsa didn't know the answers to her own questions. She took the notebook and flipped through it. She imagined that just by writing something down, she could understand it better. The notebook was small, about the size of her hand. It fit inside her pocket.
"If I write down my thoughts," she said, "then maybe I'll know what I think."
"You don't have to buy me anything," she said, almost hoping to be let off the hook.
"You don't have to do anything," her mother said. "Pick one."
"If you don't care, I'll just take the black one."
"All right," her mother said. "I'll get you a packet of pens, too. I have to buy a card for a baby shower anyway."
Elsa sighed and pushed the buggy toward the front of the store. She watched as her mother walked, in her graceful way, toward the greeting cards. She was wearing her raincoat indoors, as if she might have to leave at any minute. It had always seemed to Elsa as if her mother had someplace else to be, somewhere she would rather be.
Elsa wheeled the carriage next to the counter and rocked it back and forth, trying to quiet the baby. At three months, he was tiny, barely lifting his head, his eyes tightly shut. When he was upset, his face turned bright red, the way her mother's did sometimes, the veins standing out on his forehead. He was quiet for now.
Elsa leaned down and touched her lips to his forehead, then glanced up to see if her mother was watching. But she was at the back of the store, her head bent as if she was thinking about each card. Elsa knew that when she finished, her mother would buy the one nearest to her, to put an end to the task. She was purposeful in everything she did, so purposeful that she even pretended to be uncertain, just to seem more like everyone else. But Elsa had always felt a hint of doubt behind each of her mother's decisions, as if she was holding her breath, waiting to see if she was wrong.
Her mother had told her little about what her life had been like before, but when Elsa was younger, she used to try to guess. If she asked a question, her mother would answer quickly and move the conversation forward, as if to move away from the past. Elsa used to think this meant her mother was hiding something, something too terrible to be shared, but as she grew older, she wondered if the only reason her mother didn't say anything was that no one had ever asked.
Elsa stood on her tiptoes, peering at her reflection in the small glass display case above the stationery. She turned her face from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of herself at different angles. She had been told she would grow into her features, that her nose would match her face when she got older. But she wasn't sure she believed this.
"Can I help you?"
Elsa didn't see the man who had appeared behind the counter until he spoke.
"Oh, sorry," she said. She felt her face flush, the heat rising under her skin.
The man took the notebook from her hand. "This one?"
Elsa nodded. He put the notebook and the packet of pens in a small paper bag.
"Those are really nice pens," he said. "I use them myself. They write so smoothly. Just like a dance." He opened a black notebook that was identical to Elsa's and took one of the pens out of its packet. Elsa noticed that the man had already started writing in his.
"What do you write?" she asked.
"Words," he said. "And their meanings."
"Like a dictionary?"
"I suppose you could say that."
Elsa hesitated for a moment, then said, "I just wanted a place to write down things. Things that happen."
The man considered this. "Sounds like what you'll need is a book of misunderstandings."
Elsa smiled. "Do you have a book like that?"
"Of course," he said. "We have all kinds of books." He gestured to the shelves, stacked with every kind of journal and album, with calendars and datebooks. There were clothbound albums and books with musical notes on the covers and volumes with tiny locks and keys. "What kind of misunderstandings are you going to write about?"
Elsa tried to think how to answer.
"The usual ones, I guess," she said. "Why things don't work. Why things don't happen the way they're supposed to."
"That sounds like an interesting book," the man said. "I'd like to read it someday."
"Maybe I'll show it to you when I'm done," Elsa said.
Elsa's mother walked over to the counter, holding a small envelope. She smiled, and her eyes crinkled at the edges.
"This must be your daughter," the man said.
Elsa's mother smiled. "No," she said. "But I understand the mistake."
Elsa handed her the paper bag, and the man rang up the items on an old-fashioned cash register, the numbers going around in a circle. He put the card in a small bag.
"She picked out a notebook," her mother said. "For the new school year."
"Her notebook is lucky to have her," the man said. "She's going to fill it with misunderstandings. It sounds like a very important project."
Elsa's mother handed the man some dollar bills. "Good luck," she said. She looked at Elsa. "Shall we go?"
"Do you work here?" Elsa asked.
"I do," he said.
"Bye," Elsa said.
"Good luck," the man said. "I hope to read your book someday."
As they walked out of the store, Elsa stole another glance at her reflection. She saw her face for a fleeting instant, but it was gone as soon as she saw it, as if it wasn't there at all.
Elsa was quiet on the bus. Her mother wanted to talk, but she didn't know what to say. She couldn't say the wrong thing, because then Elsa would think she had never understood her. But she was afraid of saying the right thing, because that would make it harder to pretend that she didn't know her daughter at all.
For the last few months, Elsa had grown distant, but her mother tried to tell herself it was just part of growing up. She knew it wasn't only the changes in Elsa's body, her shape suddenly the shape of a woman. It was also what had happened to her. It was as if they had survived a natural disaster together, only to find that they barely knew each other anymore. They had escaped a fire, and now that they were safe, they saw each other for the first time. Her mother was a stranger to her now.
Things used to be different. There was a time when Elsa was such a part of her that she could tell what Elsa was feeling just by the sound of her breath. At night, when Elsa was asleep, she would sit in the doorway and watch her. Sometimes she went into the room and kissed her cheek, so softly she didn't wake up. That time was over, and she knew it. She didn't dare to touch her when she was awake. It was too easy to pull away.
She wanted to find something to say now. She wanted the right words to come to her, but they didn't.
"I hope you like the notebook," she said finally.
Elsa shrugged.
She reached over and took the notebook out of the paper bag, then unwrapped the packet of pens. She opened the notebook and wrote her name on the first page. Elsa De Marco. She liked the way it looked. The sound of the pen moving across the paper was like a whisper, as if it were telling her what to write.
"Why aren't there any pictures of you in the album?"
"Which album?"
"The photo album. There's a picture of you when you were married, and pictures of you holding me. But there aren't any other pictures."
"I didn't have any. I couldn't take anything with me when I left Italy."
"Where were you born?"
"You know where. In Genoa."
Elsa thought about this. "But you never talk about it," she said.
"It was a long time ago."
"What did it look like?"
"The city? It's a port. With ships coming and going. There are mountains behind it. There are tunnels through the mountains, with windows cut out, so you could see the city on the other side. I loved those tunnels. When we walked through, I would stop at every window. It was like a different picture every time."
"I'd like to see that."
Her mother didn't answer. Elsa looked down at the notebook and then wrote a word at the top of the page. _Window_ , she wrote. Below it she wrote, _A way of seeing._
Elsa didn't say anything. She looked at the word on the page and thought about what it meant. _A way of seeing._ She liked the way it looked. She added another word. _Mirror. A way of seeing, from a different perspective._
"Tell me something else," she said.
"Like what?"
"About when you were young."
"I don't remember much. I was so young when I left."
"How old were you?"
"Fifteen."
Elsa thought about this. Two years older than she was. Her mother never talked about her life before Elsa was born. Her mother's childhood, her own parents — all of this was as lost to Elsa as if it had never happened.
She thought about adding another word. _Mother._ But she didn't know how to define it. She realized that she didn't even know her mother's name.
"What's your real name?"
Her mother looked at her.
"Your name," Elsa said. "The name you had before you were married."
Her mother looked away.
"It's Teresa," she said. "My name was Teresa. I was Teresa Raffetto."
"Say it in Italian."
" _Mi chiamo Teresa._ "
Elsa tried to pronounce it. "Teresa."
"Very good."
"How do you say 'window'?"
" _Finestra._ "
" _Finestra,_ " Elsa said. "I like that."
" _Mi piace,_ " her mother said. "That's how you say 'I like it.' "
Elsa wrote the words in her notebook. _Mi piace._ She read the words out loud, as if she had written them herself. "What's the word for 'notebook'?" she asked.
" _Quaderno._ "
Elsa looked at the page. She liked the way the words looked. _A book of misunderstandings._ It could be written in any language. Maybe her mother could even help her write it. She looked at her mother's profile. Her eyes were closed. She looked tired. For a moment, Elsa thought about touching her mother's hand. But she thought better of it and looked out the window. She opened her notebook again.
_Quaderno di malintesi,_ she wrote.
The silence on the bus was heavy. Finally Elsa spoke.
"Can you tell me something else?" she asked. "About Italy?"
She expected her mother to hesitate, but she began speaking right away. It was as if she had been waiting to be asked.
"When I was little, we lived in a tall building. It was on a busy street, with lots of people walking by. I used to sit on the balcony and look down, and there was a flower seller who sold roses every day. He'd hold out the flowers, and he always said the same thing. _'Rosa rossa, regalo d'amore.'_ Red rose, gift of love. There were white roses too, and pink roses. They were the most beautiful roses I'd ever seen."
"I don't remember," she said. "Maybe it was me who forgot. I don't remember much from when I was young."
"Did you have friends?"
"I had a friend named Sylvia. She lived in the building next door. I used to throw candy down to her from my balcony."
"What happened to her?"
"I don't know. I didn't say good-bye. I didn't say good-bye to anyone."
"Was it a good place to live?"
"No," her mother said. "It wasn't a good place."
She looked at Elsa.
"Maybe someday we can go back together. Just the two of us."
Elsa nodded, but she didn't answer. She opened the notebook again. At the top of the next page she wrote a single word. _Rosa._ And on the page after that, another. _Tunnel._ She wrote the word in large letters and looked at it. _A way from one place to another._
" _Sì_ ," her mother said. "That's right."
Elsa looked at the blank page. "What do you think I should write in the book?"
"Write anything you want," her mother said. "Write a story."
She looked out the window at the rows of houses passing by. It was getting dark.
"Do you think anyone will read it?"
"I don't know," her mother said. "But you'll read it."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because," she said. "You're the only one who'll understand."
The houses sped past. The days were getting shorter, the night coming sooner.
"Can I go back to the stationery store someday?" Elsa asked.
"If you want," her mother said. "We can go together."
But Elsa knew that when she went back to the store, she would go alone.
# Part One
# _1944–1963_
# Chapter One
She was sixteen when the first war ended. After that, people began to forget. The explosions at night had been part of their lives for as long as she could remember, but after the war they seemed distant, like the sound of thunder. When the enemy soldiers had come, they'd moved to an apartment far away from the center of the city, but now that it was safe, they were moving again. This time they were moving to a place where the tunnels led to light, not darkness.
"You're old enough to remember it," her mother said as they crossed the city in a horse-drawn carriage. "You'll always remember the sound of the bombs. I remember when the city was first bombed. I was a little older than you. But you'll forget, Teresa. That's what you should do. The sooner you forget, the sooner you'll be able to move on."
Teresa nodded. But she didn't agree. Some things should never be forgotten. She would never forget the feeling of being herded into the shelters, crowding into the tunnels to get away from the explosions. She would never forget the sight of the wounded soldiers on the trains, some of them barely old enough to be called men. And she would never forget the things she had never seen.
Her father never said much about his time in the war, but she knew that his words were just a veil to conceal what was underneath. She knew from the stories she had read that the soldiers carried the memories of those they had killed. But her father didn't say a word about what he had seen or heard or done. He barely spoke of the war at all. His medals were locked away in a box. But at night she heard him cry out in his sleep. His nightmares were about things that had happened before she was born, and she had no way of knowing what they were. She heard his muffled cries, and she imagined his dreams, but there was no way to see inside his memory. So she listened from the next room, and all she could see was darkness.
A blanket of sadness had fallen over her father since he returned from the war. When he was with her, she knew she made him happy, but sometimes he looked at her with such sadness that she had to turn away. She wondered if he could ever be happy again. He was there but not there, present but absent, his gaze empty, as if he was looking at a photograph, a frozen image of the past. She thought that if she could just get inside the photograph, she could change it. She could make him look at her again. But it was◆ About the ending
❧ About the title