Paint it, Cream

A semi-fictitious story

It was too large for me, I said to him. I was looking for something around half that size and had a lower budget. Also, the neighborhood wasn’t ideal. The photos won’t tell me the whole story; I should go check out the apartment in person, he said. On the price, he hinted at some flexibility. And the area, well -- the area is really undergoing a transformation and will be much sought-after once it’s done. But by then, prices will have likely doubled, he continued, his voice on the phone perfect and soothing, as if speaking into one of those large microphones they use for podcasts. I caved and scheduled a visit.  

With a tap on my shoulder, the concierge broke the spell of absent-mindedness I had gracefully fallen into while standing on the pavement next to the building’s main entrance and watching the clouds go by. Something unexpected came up for Mr. Guerrini and he won’t be able to come, he broke to me. He’s terribly sorry but you’d have to visit the apartment on your own, if that’s okay. I was handed a set of keys, and given instructions -- third floor; the door on the left of the elevator. 

It was a period building, fully renovated, with four floors and two apartments per floor. The large dark wooden front door, when closed during the concierge's off hours, allowed entry through a small opening on the right, where an average-height person had to duck their head. The façade was freshly painted in a cream color, and the shutters a dark green. They had retained the original elevator, which moved slowly within a grille positioned at the center of the stairwell. On the landings, the entrance to each apartment was a dark wood, double-leaf door, with another white wooden and glass door immediately inside, the space between the two doors typically used for an umbrella stand. Each apartment had the same dark red doormat in front of its entrance. It was easily the most beautiful building in the neighborhood. Certainly the one in the best condition, awaiting the transformation Mr. Guerrini had mentioned.

As I stepped into the apartment, the pleasant smell of renovation filling my nostrils, I noticed the silence. All the windows faced the internal courtyard, where a surreal quiet was occasionally interrupted by the sound of birds chirping. Was nobody living in the building yet? No, the concierge will respond later; all the apartments have been sold or leased and already moved into, except the one you visited. The apartment was empty, its walls and ceilings painted white. The original parquet floor, preserved and restored, creaked under my footsteps. In what was supposedly the living room, my attention was immediately drawn to an antique piece of furniture positioned against the wall opposite the entrance door, between two windows. It looked like an ancient bureau, with three large drawers stacked one above the other and a marble top. How strange, I thought. The apartment would be delivered unfurnished, the advertisement had said. And for something freshly renovated, it made sense. Had the previous tenants forgotten it there? Unlikely. After all, the building had been entirely redone -- lock, stock, and barrel -- and whoever bought or rented any of its apartments would be the first to move in. So, where did that antique piece come from?

The real estate developer who renovated the building bought it from a ninety-nine-year-old lady who owned the entire property, lived alone, had no heirs, and passed away shortly after selling, explained Mr. Guerrini on the phone that evening. She set only one condition for agreeing to the sale: that the antique chest of drawers remain in that exact spot, in the apartment where she had lived, forever, he continued. This seemingly unimportant detail, to which the developer immediately agreed, has however created problems with potential buyers of that apartment, making it the only unsold unit left. And of course the developer must honor the contract and keep the chest of drawers there, I added. Of course, he said. And while it may seem that no one would be there to start a lawsuit should a breach occur, as she’s no longer around and had no heirs, she was assisted by an excellent attorney who would sure know what to do. A strange thing happened, however, he went on: obviously, the construction workers had to remove the piece in order to start the renovation; but once they were done and placed it back, nobody has been able to move it again. It’s as if it’s cemented in place, irremovable. Not only that, no one could open any of its drawers; they tried every possible way.

I found the story fascinating and asked why such a beautiful piece of antique furniture had unsettled so many potential buyers. Not really sure, responded Mr. Guerrini, but it did. I guess when they heard the story about it being unmovable, as well as its drawers that couldn't be opened, they freaked out, imagining all sorts of dreadful consequences. Who knows? People are strange, he concluded. The unmovable antique chest of drawers didn’t bother me, honestly, but I had to act as if it did. The next morning I made a lowball offer, which was accepted right away.

I remember that the first thing I did was take the subway to my new neighborhood to familiarize myself with it, get to know it better. It was thirteen stops away, on the red line. I walked around for a little while and, after officially informing the concierge of the building that I was going to be the new owner of the apartment on the third floor, I went to the café across the street and sat at one of the tables outside. It was empty, and the area felt peaceful. It helped that it was a clear, sunny day and a light breeze made the nearby trees gently sway. Almost no one was around, on a Wednesday afternoon. The waiter came to take my order. I also remember calling Mr. Guerrini, while waiting for my caffè macchiato, and asking whether he could give me the name of the old lady who used to own the building. Mrs. Fontana, he promptly answered. Elena Fontana.

I couldn’t help but overhear the name Elena Fontana, said a short man standing next to me as he extended his hand. I’m Giulio Fiori, the owner of the café. I sensed trustworthiness, and introduced myself. My great grandfather opened this place in 1882, when the street was still unpaved, he said. I explained that I was new to the area and would soon be moving in, across the street. He congratulated me and said something I would never forget: I’m sure you’ll like living here; it may not be an upscale neighborhood, but it is serene. I remember that word: serene. And the building you’re moving into, we used to call it the Fontana house. If you’re moving here, it’s not because you decided to; it’s because you’ve been accepted. I stared blankly. Accepted by whom? I demanded. He ignored the question, and began telling me about Mrs. Fontana, as if I needed to know.  

She was a petite woman with a slight stoop that seemed to have appeared early in her life and deepened with age. Her silvery-white hair was always pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, and her eyes held the quiet sadness of someone who had seen much and lost even more. Her presence in the building was almost ghostly: she was known to be there, but rarely seen. To those who lived there, she was a mystery, an enigmatic figure from another time. She had no family left. Her only companions were the memories contained within the walls of her apartment.

As he continued with his unsolicited profile of Mrs. Fontana, my thoughts began to overtake his fading voice. It was as if he spoke from a distance, the wind carrying only fragments of his phrases. Accepted by whom? I kept muttering to myself. 

I paid for my coffee, thanked Mr. Fiori, said goodbye, and ran across the street to ask the concierge for the keys to the apartment, mentioning that I wanted to take some measurements. I climbed the stairs three steps at a time.

In the apartment, against the wall of the living room opposite the entrance, between the two windows, the antique chest of drawers had all three of its drawers open.

[To be continued]

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