The Purple Room Read Online Free Page A

that it
didn’t even look like me anymore. Alessandra told me she had stood me up
because she didn’t think the person in the drawing looked very nice.
    “Who knows what you must think of me in person, then.”
    She smiled, then she asked me what was in the bag. I told her I was
going on a picnic at Balthus’s castle in Montecalvello. Did she want to come?
    The castle was closed. It turned out that Balthus had moved to Switzerland
a long time before, and all that remained of his interest in the Viterbo
countryside was an unimportant painting of its misty hills. Unable to explore
the castle, we walked along the hillside and lay down under a tree to eat. The
air was full of pollen. Thousands of balls of fluff floated around us like
snowflakes. They drifted into our wine, got into our sandwiches, and ended up
in our noses and mouths. Alessandra couldn’t stop sneezing. She rubbed her eyes
and laughed through her tears. I took lots of pictures of her that afternoon. I
liked her freckles, her blue eyes, the way the pollen made her squint. I fell in love with her while I was developing the photos in my
darkroom.
    Now, the memory of her smile––so wonderful in those pictures
from an afternoon eighteen years ago (pictures I still keep in my files but
don’t have the courage to look at)––brings a pang to my heart. I
can’t help comparing that smile to Alessandra’s face a few years later,
contorted with fury as she screams at me to leave, to never come back,
threatening to gouge my eyes out with the pruning shears I’d given her for her
birthday.

 
 
    I sit at one of the outdoor tables in Campo dei Fiori, so that I can see
her coming. I order a glass of white wine and drink it down fast. Then I
remember I haven’t eaten yet, so I ask the waiter to bring me something to
snack on—chips, olives, pepper and almond tozzetti —and another glass of wine. I wonder which woman
she’ll be: the blonde one with the pale neck, the brunette with all the makeup,
or the reader with the ponytail. I check the time. Marilena is late. What if
she did the same thing I did? Maybe she found a place to hide, and watched me
sitting here drinking and was so disappointed by my looks that she decided to
stand me up. I look at my reflection in the window. My face looks just like any
other. What would she think of it? I have no idea. Still, the agency must have
a good reason for not showing us photos before dates.
    Maybe the first thing I’ll have to do is explain to Marilena why I’m
using a dating service to meet people. I’ll have to justify going on dates
arranged by a computer program. Some people might do it out of shyness or a
lack of confidence. Older people might not feel like trying to pick up someone
their own age while they’re on their way to pick up their pensions. What’s my
excuse? What am I doing here?
    It’s getting dark and there’s still no one here. Marilena is over half
an hour late. That’s enough for me to decide she’s not going to show up. I’m
not disappointed. Actually, I feel relieved. I’ve avoided an embarrassing
situation of my own making and now I can get out of here.
    I turn to ask the waiter for the check, and that’s when I see her.
    She’s sitting a couple of tables behind me, smoking a cigarette and
checking her watch, just like I was doing a minute ago. She’s not the
pale-necked blonde, or the made-up brunette, or the ponytailed reader. She’s a
different woman altogether. She has honey-brown bangs, melancholy eyes, and
little wrinkles that show around her mouth as she takes a drag on her
cigarette. She’s wearing purple from head to toe. Purple shoes, purple skirt,
lavender blouse, purple handbag. Fuchsia baubles dangle from each ear.
    Now what? I look down at my hands. They’re shaking. I’m not up for this
date. Honestly, I never was.
    I leave the money on the table and get up to leave, head down, silently
praying she won’t notice me.
    “Excuse me,” says a voice behind