The Tower of Babel [SUSPENDED]

It rained. To Marlene, it seemed like it was always bloody raining. She was a Londoner; the rain didn’t scare her one bit. At some point though, it started to wear her out. “When a man is tired of London, he’s tired of life.” Marlene wasn’t a man, but tired, that she was. It seemed to be always bloody raining, iced buckets pouring over her dizzy head, incessant and cruel. Rain crept into her bones and curled inside them, never leaving again. When it didn’t rain, people around her turned their faces to the sun, but not Marlene. Her clothes never seemed to dry, her hands never seemed to warm up; she simply kept pushing on, making her way through the days, drenched and shivering, waiting for the next raindrop to fall on her shoulder.

Drip. There it was.

The old roof, the same old one that had always provided her with a secure repair against the heaviest storm, had given out at last. When she lay in bed at night, blankets over blankets wrapped around her frozen limbs, she looked at the ceiling. Holes seemed to open in it, raindrops piercing their way through, dripping on Marlene’s forehead and cheeks.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Marlene was fine. She was. She just wanted some sun. She needed, she yearned for, she craved it. So, she had sent forms, taken tests, rented a flat, bought a ticket, packed two suitcases and left. Not one whimper would have stopped her, not one tear. The plane was overcrowded, the seat uncomfortable, but she didn’t care, as long as that giant tin box in the sky kept punching holes through the heavy clouds, venging her.

When it landed, Marlene felt almost giddy. She hadn’t felt giddy for a long time. Unfamiliar languages surrounded her, sun-kissed faces smiled at each other, uncovered arms grabbed their luggage. She did too. The large suitcase screeched along the pavement as Marlene towed the smaller one, pulling them with the most vigour she had felt in a long time. But then, a step over the doors of the building, she realized. It rained in Rome too.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

***

Saturday, 17th September

It was late afternoon when she arrived at the apartment. It was raining softly now, and the sun was starting to peek out of the clouds. Yet she was utterly drenched and, not to mention, late. She had of course planned meticulously the journey from the airport to the flat, without taking too seriously what she had read about public transportation in Rome. Quite the mistake, she thought glumly now, with the benefit of hindsight. Cornelio, the landlord, was waiting outside the building. They had spoken on the phone a few times, and he had seemed a decent person, perhaps a bit gruff, but that was perfectly fine with Marlene; she too couldn’t bother with pleasantries. Now however, he was displaying pure irritation; he had taken cover under the small canopy in front of the entrance door, pacing around the confined space and grumbling to himself.

“Finalmente!” he let out as soon as he saw Marlene trudging down the alley. “I waited almost an hour!” His consonants were strong, and his aitches vanished, just like Marlene remembered from the phone calls; he struggled with English, as most Italians did, she had learnt. Marlene had of course studied a bit of Italian of her own, but by her own admission, she wasn’t any good yet; tired as she was now, it would surprise her to remember more than five words.

Cornelio was a short middle-aged man, quite paunchy and almost entirely bold. His squinty black eyes were now studying attentively Marlene as she approached, as if scanning her for evidence of what kind of tenant she would turn out to be. She tried not to get unnerved by that.

“Sorry,” she sniffled, finally joining him under the canopy, “the subway took forever.”

“Better get used to it,” he grunted as he slipped one hand inside his trousers pocket and withdrew a small set of keys, which he then made jingle right in front of Marlene’s face. “This are yours. Don’t lose it.”

Marlene nodded, restraining an eye roll. He showed her which key to use for the building door before opening it and shuffling inside, Marlene right behind him. He tried taking the big suitcase from her, but she dismissed him with a wave.

“Are you sure?” he asked in a patronizing tone that made Marlene grit her teeth. “The elevator…”

“It’s broken, I know,” she finished for him dryly, “you said that on the phone.” She brazenly lifted the suitcase with one hand; it was in fact as heavy as if it contained rocks and lead bricks, and she had to fight a grimace, but there was no way she would back down now. Cornelio took the smaller bag and guided her towards the staircase. At first, he kept shooting smug glances back at Marlene, which she returned with narrow eyes and an increase in speed – or at least, that was what she would have done if the staircase hadn’t been so narrow that the giant suitcase kept getting stuck in the banister, slowing her down. However, by the time they got through the third floor, the man was too sweaty and breathless to care about his or Marlene’s pride. Once on the fourth floor, Cornelio was visibly about to faint; by the fifth, she started to fear that the man would hurl, and when they finally arrived on the seventh floor, Marlene thought she was going to join him. In the end, neither of them did, though Marlene’s mouth felt like she had just sucked on a blood-flavoured lozenge. Did she have to pick a flat this high up? God, she needed a fag.

The landing was dimly lit, with only two apartments on each side. Cornelio paused for almost a whole minute, coughing heavily and cursing, before pulling off the keys again. It took a considerable effort of jiggling the key in the lock, Marlene noticed, despite the landlord’s poor attempts to cover for it, and when the door finally opened with a slight squeak, it revealed a narrow corridor. The white walls were illuminated by warm light filtering from a window somewhere further in the flat. Music was coming from inside; it was a tune Marlene could swear she knew but couldn’t name at that moment.

“Remo!” the man called, entering the corridor and dropping Marlene’s bag carelessly. “Ti ho portato l’inglesina!”

A boy peeked out of a door on the right side of the hallway. He had soft mousy brown curls, cut quite short and flattened on one side as if he had just slept on it; the expression on his face was somehow goofy and sly at the same time. Greeting Cornelio first, he then looked past him and right at Marlene. He smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Marlene returned, still out of breath. The boy’s smile was curiously asymmetrical, and that made it curiously more gentle and welcoming.

“Allora, this is the house,” Cornelio announced after striding past the corridor and into a more spacious room at the end of it – probably the open kitchen, if Marlene remembered correctly from the advert. She followed him cautiously, passing by the other boys’ room and under his calm but careful gaze. Marlene’s eyes were caught by a scar on his nose; she looked down at her feet at once. And God, how tall was he? Marlene wasn't used to men being that taller than her. She didn't like it.

She entered the living space: on one side appeared the tiny kitchen, nothing pretentious nor chic, not much different from her own back in London. On the opposite, there was what Cornelio had previously described as the “salottino”: it counted a square wooded table, chipped and stained but solid, complete with four chairs, and a two-seated maroon sofa which was possibly older than Marlene. Across from it was set a short black shelving cabinet, on top of which Marlene was surprised to find a turntable; a record was playing softly, naked guitar chords and expert notes flowed to accompany a soulful male voice. She caught a few words of his singing (“… to spend the summer singing and summer could have come in a day”), though she still couldn’t recognize the song. She could have concentrated more if Cornelio's voice hadn't distracted her from her thoughts.

“Remo!” he was calling again, before saying something in Roman dialect – that Marlene could not understand for sure. She turned to watch as the boy left the doorway of his room, where he had been standing since their arrival. He leaned with one shoulder on the edge of the corridor, arms folded and lopsided smile still in place.

“Presentations,” the landlord declared, more to call himself to order than anything else. “Yes, presentations. So, this is Remo…”

“Remus,” the boy mouthed to correct him, looking directly into Marlene’s eyes.

“… and this is Marlena.”

“Marlene,” she found herself mouthing back at Remus.

Cornelio then proceeded to show her around. Apparently, the kitchen was equipped with a perfectly working stove and microwave, a large fridge, and every utensil imaginable; no dishwasher, Cornelio confessed, but Marlene couldn't care less. The bathroom was narrow and decorated with old-fashioned majolica tiles, though the furniture looked recent enough; it was immaculately clean too, much to Marlene’s relief – the only males she had ever shared a house with were her brothers, and God knew what they were able to leave in the sink. Cornelio then guided her to her room, which was right across the corridor from Remus’: it looked spacious enough and luminous. Its simple industrial furniture consisted of a queen size bed with a bare and stained mattress, a white wooden desk carefully placed under the only window, and a narrow wall closet whose sliding doors jiggled and struggled to open. There were spots on the ceiling too, maybe from water infiltration, but after all, for the price she was paying, she didn’t expect anything better. Her house in London had infiltration as well. At last, the landlord led her back to the salottino, circling past the table and pointing at the far wall, where it opened into the big window Marlene had barely glanced at before. Now however, looking at it closely, she realized: it wasn’t a simple window, it was a glass door. And it opened on a balcony. She had completely forgotten about that. It was small of course, and the panorama was nothing spectacular – only a bunch of buildings and a football field – but it was covered in plants, probably courtesy of Remus, and their leaves glittered in the pastel orange light of the incoming sunset. There were also two chairs, set to face the view; sitting on top of one of them, Marlene spotted an ashtray, almost overflowing. Cornelio must had noticed too because he made a sudden one-eighty and faced Remus, who had been following them sheepishly during the tour.

“Ancora che fumi qua dentro?” he chastised, glowering at Remus indignantly. Marlene suddenly recalled a short note in the advert which stated that smoking was strictly forbidden. That applied also to the balcony, it seemed.

Remus had ducked his head and was offering the landlord apologies after apologies; though when his eyes met Marlene’s, he gave her a small devilish smirk. Guess he meant none of it. Good. She wasn’t planning on following that rule either.

As if reading her mind, Cornelio turned back at her, seemingly forcing down his annoyance. “There are rules in this house.” Marlene nodded. “The more important are: no pets,” he raised a finger as he listed, “no parties, and no smoking. Okay?”

She nodded again, which seemed to satisfy the man. He proceeded to pull out the forms to officially rent the flat, offering Marlene a seat at the table and a pen. He made sure she knew the amount for each month, which Marlene took as a signal to draw from her satchel the paper bag that contained the deposit – shehad withdrawn it already in euros, as agreed. They both signed the contract and Cornelio gave her the keys. He then gave the two tenants a few more recommendations and with a dismissive goodbye, he turned and left.

“Curious man, isn’t he?” Remus chuckled, scratching his neck from where he was standing shyly next to the table.

“Yeah,” Marlene agreed with a sigh.

There was a beat of silence. She was still sitting at the table, studying the set of keys in her palm, their rattling filling the quiet. She felt tired.

“Long journey?” the boy asked tentatively.

Marlene snorted bitterly. “You may say so.”

They stayed like that a moment longer, Remus probably buried in his coyness, Marlene lost in the shine of the metal keys. At some point, she realized the music had stopped, probably long ago. Pity.

“Fancy a cup of tea?” the boy asked suddenly, rousing himself from his awkwardness. He moved – or more accurately, limped – to the kitchen, where he started opening cabinets and pulling out a small pot. Marlene turned on her chair and gave him a tight smile. “Cheers.”

As the boy was focused on his task, Marlene took the chance to study him better. He was tall, incredibly tall, and skinny as a beanpole. Taking a better look at his scar, Marlene saw that it traced all the way from the inner corner of his left eye, the bridge of his nose and half of his right cheek. It was ragged and taut, as if it had been very old. It wasn’t the only one he had, she found; another one was visible just a few inches down his hairline, right in the middle of his forehead, disappearing under his short curls. This one, unlike the first, seemed neat, surgical. Those marks on any other person’s face would have made them look like a Bond villain. On Remus, they were almost gracious. Sprinkled around the big scar, endearing freckles covered his long and rather prominent nose, and the overall sharpness of his features was softened by a pair of warm, almost golden eyes. Over his lanky legs, he was wearing a pair of worn-out basketball shorts, peculiarly paired with a huge long-sleeve t-shirt, too warm for the sticky weather of September; both had a constellation of cigarette burns.

“How long are you staying?” he asked while placing two mugs on the counter. He moved slowly as if he was aching somewhere.

“A year.”

Remus nodded. “Erasmus, innit?”

Marlene hummed to confirm. “You?”

“Nah, couldn’t bother.”

Marlene furrowed her eyebrows quizzically. Remus raised his head from the tea he was stirring, and when he caught Marlene's expression he simply chuckled, as if her perplexity was somehow amusing.

“I’m not Erasmus," he explained with that lopsided smile of his. “I’m Italian.”

Marlene didn’t expect it. Of course, she had heard him talking in Italian with Cornelio, but she had only thought he was better taught than her, or maybe more experienced. He did speak flawless English, even with a strong West Country patina. And his name was, in fact, Remus.

“Oh, sorry. I assumed because of..."

“I know,” he laughed lightly. “I’m half and half, actually. Born and raised in Bristol, but I’ve lived here for years. How about you? Is it your first time in Italy?”

“First one ever. I hardly ever left London before.”

“Must be in for a bit of a shock then.”

Marlene herself would have paid to be shocked, to be shaken like a doll, but for the moment, it all still felt so dull.

“What are you studying?” Remus continued with his interview. She cleared her throat before answering.

“Classical studies,” she croaked. “You?”

“Ah, fantastic. Another upcoming educated bum,” he exclaimed sarcastically. Marlene might have been offended, hadn’t she been too tired to even get offended. However, Remus raised his head once again to find her furrowed brows, and once again he chuckled. “I graduated in Modern Literature last year, you see. "Now I'm in my last year of Romance Philology." Ah, that madeperfect sense. "I can show you around the campus once classes start, if you like,” he offered then.

“ ’Course. Thank you,” she said numbly, returning her eyes to the keys in her hand. She placed them carefully on the table.

Remus sat opposite Marlene, offering her a steaming mug. “Okay, I’ll quit the interrogation now,” he said, blowing gently at his own mug and giving her a look full of sympathy. “You’re evidently exhausted.”

Marlene returned his look with gratitude. Naturally, her fatigue would hopefully disappear by the morning, but what about all the rest? Not bloody likely. Quite a company Remus had found, she thought glumly, pitying both the boy and herself. Oh God, now she was starting to sound like her mother. No, no. Marlene was fine. She will be.

“Sorry,” she just said.

“That’s alright,” Remus assured, smiling behind his mug. “I’ll just drink my tea in silence and stop pestering you. After all, we have a whole year to start hating each other. I don’t see why I should start giving you motives just now.”

At that, Marlene laughed lightly. “I’ll drink to that.”