Silvia's Story, Karis Vail [best classic books .txt] 📗

com·pas·sion

–noun
a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.

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It didn't take but a week's time in my new city to start seeing familiar faces in and around my small neighborhood. I visited Gottardo 29 every morning and was soon greeted each day by Diego or Julia as, on cue, they would prepare my capucinno con cioccolata, bollente latte per favore e canna da zucchero

. In true Starbuck's style, I had to have a lengthy "discussion" about my coffee order and couldn't come close to a typical Italian who casually strides in, utters "cafe"

, takes one deep swallow like it was a shot of tequila, and quickly scampers off to work. Coffee, however, has no significance to this story.

I first noticed Silvia perched atop a heap of her bagged personal items under the protective awning of Banco di Credito, sipping from a beer bottle while being watchful of a small scrap of fabric with a scattering of various coins she had collected. It was in a sweltering heat, though you wouldn't know that by the layers of clothing she had draped on and around her body. Her face was gaunt and thin while her body appeared plump with all the coverings. She was deeply engaged in a conversation with an unseen visitor but quickly shifted her attention to a male companion, also crouched in the corner, when he spoke to her directly. This was in early September.

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Ever since, I have been acutely aware of this thin, oddly beautiful woman, in various locations in Navigli. She certainly isn't the only homeless person contrasting a bustling town, broken up by a myriad of canals that are the setting of popular aperitivo

evenings where young, fashion conscious hipsters gather. Silvia has, however, stuck in my mind. Perhaps it is as much her exotic look as it is the ever present smile she wears ~ day and night; in rain, snow or cloudless sunshine. For some reason I rarely take note of her peers, moving about the city, as they seem to change as regularly as Silvia changes her wardrobe. And this she does often.

Silvia never dons the popular iPod accessory the Milanese wear to shut out their surroundings as they move about their daily routines. She doesn't need the music to flow through her to give rise to a swaying body. When she is not embroiled in a tête-à-tête, she sings. Sometimes loudly enough to be heard as she rocks and swings to her own beat; other occasions resting somberly, seemingly to soothe and please only herself.

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Alongside the homeless in Milan are the beggars. I make a distinction, not because the homeless themselves don't anticipate alms for the poor, rather because I don't see the beggars sleeping on the sidewalks cocooned by discarded boxes, tattered sheets, or plastic bags. They arrive at daylight and disappear before the shadows of their silhouettes are cast. They have no totes and push no carts. They are empty handed save for a cup. The beggars actively beg, rattling collected coins upwards towards you as they wish upon you a good day and rave of your beauty. Silvia and her contemporaries are more subtle and undemonstrative. Some days I observe a cap's bounty pooled and happily divided by all around it, other times there is nothing evident in which to leave a token. Avoiding eye contact with the beggars doesn't thwart their efforts as you pass beyond them. Meeting the eyes of the homeless typically garners a smile, a shrug or a face devoid of any emotion whatsoever. The beggars have their regular posts and aren't disturbed. The homeless are often times confronted by the polizia

who assure they don't overstay their welcome in any one given spot.




It was on such a day, last Sunday, that I finally met Silvia personally. I had been actively seeking her out.


Three days prior to watching her haul all of her worldly belongings across the piazza, I saw her indoors for the very first time. It was on Thursday when I was shopping at my local supermercato

for ingredients to prepare that evenings meal. On the slowly descending escalator I had ample time to sense her presence even before I saw her smiling face. Just set aside to the right of the landing, along the entrance wall, were numerous bags holding her possessions. I recognized the green and purple duffel from Alaska as belonging to the lively black woman I've come to think of often. As I combed the aisles dropping items into my basket, I came across her speaking with another customer by the abundant cheese section. Our eyes met. I nodded and in return she flashed her effervescent grin, showing up close for the first time the rotting teeth and toothless gaps. It wasn't in recognition of the American who saw her so frequently in our common town, it was just Silvia's way.

As I proceeded to the checkout where the long lines had begun forming in the after-work hours, I sidled up behind the hip-hopping Silvia. It wasn't the shortest line. It was where I was drawn. As we waited for our respective turns I took in her odor. It was highly unpleasant and disturbing. I found myself inhaling long breaths of her stench and instead of reeling from it, exhaled only to take another. The whispers and avoidance of her did not go unnoticed by me. Silvia, on the other hand, was nonplussed or unaware. I continued to gulp in the air we so closely shared. It was as though I wished to be enveloped by her very being ~ an acknowledgment of her existence. As her place in line brought her to the moving belt scanning items for purchase, she unloaded her basket. I counted 8 large bottles of pale lager, 2 small boxes of vino rosso

and 1 very sad batch of 4 overcooked and shriveled chicken wings. This was the only non-liquid item for the noticeably thinning homeless woman. Her total cost: ¤6,42. As she rustled through her badly stained Hello Kitty change purse, the impatient housewives and suited businessmen began to nervously shift their weight back and forth. Their tolerance for the wait decreased substantially when Silvia had to move to her various bags to sift for more change. All the while I willed them to find the patience to see her though the lengthening transaction.

By the time I easily paid for and quickly bagged my groceries, Silvia was still arranging as many shoulder straps as she could possibly fit on her small frame. As I was being carried back up towards daylight, I glanced backwards to see her grooving to a new rhythm as she was humming aloud. I walked the two minutes back to my home in a deep meditation barely aware of the tears that were finding their way down my cheeks. Full of empathy, when I returned home I quickly found my fingers flying across the keyboard. It didn't take longer than a minute or two before I would compose 55 words to capture that encounter. I wouldn't see Silvia again for three days.

a constant. in the square. on the street. at the park.
laughing joyfully. dialoguing with invisible friends.
at the supermarket today, i inhaled your scent.
urine merged with the filth of no water.
and full of booze.
like your basket today.
why do you smile so?
why my tears of joy?
could i be you?

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Those were the 55 words that flowed freely upon my return from that impressionable visit to the supermercato

. I knew immediately after my workday concluded, I would add more. I would not expand on the writing; instead insert an element of personification by including a photograph of my muse. It would then become my contribution to Friday's weekly meme, Flash Fiction 55. It has become my signature to combine a pictorial with my words to typify my subject matter or heighten the mood of what I am trying to convey. This is of course not a fictitious story, but that has never posed a problem. What did present a complication was the simple fact that I did not have a picture of Silvia. Hence my search for her began.

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With camera in tow, some loose change and a handful of practiced Italian questions, I set out that night just after 10. It was a warmer evening than it had been all week ~ streets were full of people returning from dinner and even more just beginning their night’s activities. I was beckoned to enter Gottardo 29 by Diego as he was singing John Denver's Country Roads

~ Thursday's he stays open late with live music which typically draws a considerable English speaking crowd. I blew him a reciprocating kiss and continued along my quest. If I were successful, perhaps I would join them later.


Reaching the end of the street by Banco di Credito, where Silvia can often be found, I had a sinking feeling my efforts may be in vain. The only people present were those waiting in the queue to enter the ATM vestibule. The streets were abuzz with lively energy but I felt oddly out of place. Usually on an evening stroll I soak up the spirit of those around me; this night I remained in a more contemplative mood. Like a racehorse with blinders on, I was on a mission. Another 40 minutes of walking the streets I hoped would lead me to Silvia confirmed my gut instinct by the bank. I did not check the parks ~ I've been warned that, "even in Navigli"

, these were not places for a lone woman to be wandering around at nighttime. Heading back, when I came upon the voices now singing an upbeat tempo, I passed by with just a wave in Diego's direction.

Arriving home feeling a bit defeated, I began mulling over the idea of using a stock photograph for my submission the following day. Perhaps this would prove the best solution. Could shooting and using Silvia's face [I was determined to capture her beguiling smile] be considered exploitative given her unfortunate circumstances? Searching various archives I found a plethora of other homeless images I could use, saving my worries over potential outcry should someone feel I was taking advantage of her plight. Though in viewing the numerous photographers’ galleries, I felt no ill will nor did I think they had misused their subjects in any way. I was feeling highly sensitive to my own compassion towards Silvia and had only the desire to do right by her. Having mixed emotions about what to do, I went to bed knowing my answers would come. For now, I would put aside my penned words in exchange for another topic that was weighing heavily on my mind ~ my daughter. This is a struggling young woman not yet ready to give up her personal fight, as it seems Silvia may have. So different these two; and yet potentially so devastatingly similar.

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Knowing I would more than likely run across Silvia in