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

the coming week, I made sure to have my camera battery fully charged and with me at all times. Friday and Saturday kept me indoors most of the day not wishing to do battle with our constant shift in weather. Our beautiful springtime that had been ushered in on the coattails of Easter had quickly disappeared. More times than I can count I've heard, "we've never had a May like this ~ so cold, so unusual".

A taxi cab driver even blamed the volcano, with the unpronounceable name in Iceland, for the unpredictable state of temperature and precipitation. In any case, I avoided the elements those two days. Furthermore, there were other pressing matters for me to attend to than scour my city with a shoddy corner-bought-umbrella for a woman I may or may not find.


Much needed sunshine reappeared by 1pm on Sunday. My soul craved the opportunity to get out of my confining apartment, so I readied myself for the afternoon. Still pocketing my camera, I first headed to a local church service. While I'm not a church-going kinda gal, it was Mother's Day and I felt a strong urge to sit in a place of peace, surrounded by joy and song ~ even if I didn't understand a word of it.

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As fate would have it, in the end, I had remembered the service hours incorrectly and arrived 3 hours early. Not wanting to waste a sunny day and being in a festive mood, I decided take a walk. Sunday's provide for some very interesting people watching in Milan's major Piazza and shopping district, so I headed north towards the Duomo. I didn't make it far however. In minutes, arriving at the bottleneck of cars, public transport and people in Navigli's Piazza Ventiquattro Maggio ~ I spotted Silvia.

She was standing on the fringe of the square, scattered belongings at her feet, waiting for a tram to pull away from the curb. Instinctively, I pulled out the digital and started shooting as she began traipsing all of her things from one side of the square to the other. Trying to be somewhat inconspicuous, I also took pictures of some of the other buildings around me. She was still too far away for me to snap anything that I had envisioned. In that moment, my uneasy gut gave me a sign. I would wait for her to finish and then attempt to have the conversation I had anticipated Thursday night. I didn't want to use any of my pictures without her permission and I also yearned to learn more about her. I wanted her story.

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em·pa·thy

-noun
the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another.

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As I watched Silvia take the last of her 4 trips across the square, toting all of her things, I was composing in my mind what I would say to her. I wanted her story; I wanted her permission. Would I get it? Would she be receptive to the idea? I paced to and fro on the street opposite of where she would land for the day.

As she settled in, I began my walk over to her. I was not sad, rather deep in thought and hopeful. Again, the bounce in her step and the way in which she moved gracefully and with the constant grin, kept my own spirits high. As I approached her, she looked at me a bit quizzically, head cocked to one side and a half smile spread across her face.

"Buongiorno"

, I said, using a formal greeting while standing next to her. "Ciao"

, she responded, as a friend would. I then stooped down to eye level, not wanting to be intimidating by hovering over her. I began in Italian by asking her name at which point she very proudly stated, full smile with teeth showing, "Silvia"

. I then explained that my Italian was not very good, does she speak any English? "English, yes, I speak English".

Relieved that we could dialogue in a common language, and with her patting the ground to her right, I sat beside her. I noticed immediately that the odor that was so off-putting at the supermercato

three days hence was not evident. No longer reeking of booze and days left without bathing, I was encouraged that perhaps I had caught her in a sober moment.

My first question to Silvia was to inquire where she was from. She told me, "Navigli"

, and then began pointing to the various spots she had been living. I got the sense that she had misunderstood me. I asked if she was Italian and she told me, "no, American"

; something else in common. Asking again where she was from, and specifically in America, she repeated her hand motions and began mumbling something in a mix of Italian, English and incomprehensible slurring. My optimism began to fade as I realized it would be a difficult task to understand her and therefore my ability to formulate a clearer picture of who Silvia actually is.

Due to the broken bits I did comprehend and the length it took to do so, it does not serve me to attempt to recreate our hindered banter. What I was able to grasp is that the polizia

kept her on the move, that she had no cigarettes and that Navigli is her home. Beyond the inarticulate words, what struck me most about Silvia that day were her beauty and her appreciation to have some company. With high cheekbones and a glint in the bloodshot eyes, I could see a younger polished woman. What brought her to Italy? How long had she been here? Was hers always a street life? Did she have family and where were they now? These, and so many other questions, lingered as I began to take my leave.

Never with her hand held out or a request for anything, I offered her ¤2,00. With an enthusiastic hug she thanked me, quite clearly, for the gesture. I asked if I could please take her photograph to which she jumped to her feet and obliged. She was intrigued by seeing them through the LCD and also approved of the ones I had taken before we met. As I told her good-bye, she did ask if I had a cigarette. I told her no but that I would be happy to return with some for her. She sat back down with a nod in my direction and a "grazie bella".

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As I wandered along Corso Porta Ticenese, so did my thoughts of Silvia. With her striking features I envisioned a disillusioned young model arriving in Milan to pursue a high-fashion career. Was that her story? Did her dream go awry among the world of drugs and prostitution? Underneath the alcohol and street life did she have full mental capacity? What had been her state of mind and undoing?

I was close to the Duomo before I happened upon an open tabbachi

to purchase a pack of cigarettes for Silvia. With the sun still shining I followed the music blaring from the piazza. Hundreds of people had gathered in front of a stage set up with musicians entertaining the crowd. I stayed to watch and rock with the others for about 45 minutes until the clouds began rolling in with a start. The sky blackened quickly and with thunder and lightning in the clouds wake, and no umbrella on me, I swiftly left the square and made my way to the tram.

Descending one stop before my own, I set out to give Silvia her cigarettes. Walking towards her I could see that she had scrunched herself up against the building she nested by to afford her protection from the rain. She was sound asleep with her bare feet sticking out getting drizzled upon. Next to her was a plastic cup holding what was left of the crumpled red wine box. Not wanting to wake her, but also not wanting to leave her package in a place she would not see, I gently nudged her shoulder and repeated her name several times. Her eyes fluttered open and with recognition, she managed a small grin when I handed her the pack of Lucky Strikes. She took them in her hand and snuggled with them as though a stuffed animal to comfort her, and mouthed "thank you"

while pursing her lips together in a kiss. As quickly as she opened her eyes, she closed them once again and drifted back to where she had been.

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Making my way back home, I stopped in the church that had been my original destination on that Sunday, Mother's Day. Had I not made the error in time, I would have stumbled upon a sleeping Silvia in the rain that afternoon. I may not have ever had the opportunity to make her acquaintance; attempt a conversation; or feel the overwhelming compassion and empathy I now had after spending some time with her. I took a seat on one of the old wooden pews in the dimly lit sanctuary and prayed. I prayed first for my own life; and the sobriety I have so humbly and gratefully embraced. I prayed for the children that made me a mother on this special day of celebration. And I prayed for Silvia. I prayed for her health, well-being and safety. And I somberly thanked her for filling my life with fullness and appreciation that day. Godspeed Silvia.

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Epilogue

: I have spent the past two days sitting with Silvia and getting to know a bit more about her. As with all people, she has a story to tell. I have done my best to relay what I have learned of her ~ and from her. She is a human being with a beating heart and a kind and gentle soul. Never has she once asked for money ~ rather she has offered it to me to buy her cigarettes. When I brought her clothes and a blanket yesterday, she affectionately offered to share her meal with me. I have now seen her as sad as I have seen her happy. She shared a story of crying for a home and of the stares she gets from children who see her in a way adults do not.

While our conversations have been fraught with fragmented understanding, what I have taken away is that I could never fully pen the experiences I have had by being in her presence. Any remaining stories I have to tell will be what I take home with me nestled in my heart.

Good-bye Silvia and thank you for brightening my world.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Karis Vail is an emerging writer who recently spent 9 months in Milan, Italy in an effort to devote time to hone her skills. She is an avid photographer and often blends her photos with her words ~ creating an additional element of interest. It is these photos that are often the inspiration for the words themselves.

In March, 2010 she won BookRix's Winter & Poems writing contest.

Karis is a professionally trained chef, and when she is not writing for her daily blog, is often found