At night she slept well. In the morning she woke without worries. She didn’t think of the future or of the traces of her life. She was suspended in time, like a person without a shadow. And yet she was alive, she felt more alive than ever.
One rainy, windy day, she took shelter under the cornice of a stone building. The rain poured down. She didn’t have an umbrella, or even a hat. The rain beat on the sidewalk with an insistent, continuous sound. She thought of the water’s eternal journey, falling from the clouds, penetrating the earth, filling the rivers, arriving, finally, at the sea.
The street was pocked with puddles, the façade of the building opposite was covered with illegible signs. The translator noticed various women going in and out. Occasionally one alone or a small group would arrive, press a bell, then enter. Curious, she decided to follow.
Beyond the entranceway she had to cross a courtyard, where the rain was confined, as if it were falling in a room without a ceiling. She stopped for a moment to look at the sky, even though she got wet. Farther on there was a dark stairway, the steps slightly uneven, where some women were coming down, others going up.
On the landing stood a tall, thin woman, with a wrinkled yet still beautiful face. She had short fair hair, and was dressed in black. The dress was transparent, without a precise shape, and with long, diaphanous sleeves, like wings. This woman welcomed the others, with open arms.
Come in, come in, there are a lot of things to see.
Inside the apartment the translator left her purse in the hall, on a long table, as the others did. At the end of the hall was a large living room. A row of black dresses hung on a clothes rack next to the wall.
The dresses were like soldiers, at attention, but inanimate. In another part of the room there were couches, lighted candles, a table loaded with fruit, cheese, a rich chocolate cake. In a corner was a tall mirror divided into three, in which you could look at yourself from different angles.
The owner of the apartment, who had designed the black clothes, was sitting on a sofa, smoking and chatting. She spoke the language of the place perfectly, but with a slight accent. She was a foreigner, like the translator.
Welcome. Please, have something to eat, look around, make yourself comfortable.
Some women were already undressed, and were trying on clothes, asking the others for their opinions. They were a collection of arms, legs, hips, waists. Unceasing variations. They all seemed to know each other.
The translator took off her sweater, undressed. She began to try on all the garments in her size, one after the other, methodically, as if it were a task. There were pants, jackets, skirts, shirts, dresses. All black, made of soft light fabrics.
They are ideal for traveling, the owner said. They are comfortable, modern, versatile. You can wash them by hand in cold water. They don’t wrinkle.
The other women agreed. They said that now they wore only clothes designed by the owner. You could get them only by going to her house, only by private invitation. Only in this way, secret, hidden, festive.
The translator stood in front of the mirror. She studied her own image. But she was distracted by the presence of another woman behind the mirror, at the end of the hall. She was different from the others. She was working at a table, with an iron, a needle in her mouth. She had tired eyes, a sorrowful face.
The clothes were elegant, well made. Even though they suited her, the translator didn’t like them. After trying the last thing she decided to leave. She didn’t feel like herself in those clothes. She didn’t want to acquire or accumulate anything more.
There were piles of clothes everywhere, on the floor, on the couches, on the chairs, like so many dark puddles. After rummaging awhile, she found hers. But her black sweater was missing. She had looked in all the piles but hadn’t found it.
The room was almost empty. While the translator was looking for her sweater, most of the women had left. The owner was preparing a receipt for the next to last. Only the translator remained.
The owner looked at her, as if she had noticed her presence for the first time.
“And what did you decide on?”
“Nothing. I’m missing a sweater, my own.”
“What color?”
“Black.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
The owner called to the woman behind the mirror. She asked her to pick the clothes up off the floor, put everything in order.
“This lady is missing a black sweater,” she said. “I don’t know you,” she continued. “How did you find me?”
“I was outside. I followed the others. I didn’t know what was inside.”
“You don’t like the clothes?”
“I like them but I don’t need them.”
“Where are you from?”
“I’m not from here.”
“I’m not, either. Are you hungry? Would you like some wine? Fruit?”
“No, thank you.”
“Excuse me.”
It was the woman who worked for the owner. She showed something, a garment, to the translator.
“Here,” said the owner. “It was hidden, we found your sweater.”
The translator took it. But she knew immediately, without even putting it on, that it wasn’t hers. It was another one, unfamiliar. The wool was coarser, the black less intense, and it was a different size. When she put it on, when she looked in the mirror, the mistake seemed obvious to her.
“This isn’t mine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mine is similar, but this isn’t it. I don’t recognize this sweater. It doesn’t fit.”
“But it must be yours. The maid has put everything in order. There’s nothing on the floor, nothing on the couches, look.”
The translator didn’t want to take the other sweater. She felt antipathy toward it, revulsion. “This isn’t mine. Mine has disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe another woman took it without realizing it. Maybe there was an exchange. Maybe there were other clients who were wearing a sweater like this?”
“I don’t remember. All right, I can check, wait.”
The owner sat down again on the couch. She lit a cigarette. Then she began to make a series of calls. She explained to one woman after another what had happened. She said a few words to each one.
The translator waited. She was convinced that one of them had taken her sweater and that the one left for her belonged to someone else.
The owner put down the phone. “I’m sorry. I’ve asked everyone. No one was wearing a black sweater here today. Only you.”
“But this isn’t mine.”
She was sure that it wasn’t hers. At the same time she felt a tremendous, consuming uncertainty that canceled out everything, that left her with nothing.
“Thank you for coming, goodbye,” said the owner. She said nothing more.
The translator felt disconcerted, empty. She had come to that city looking for another version of herself, a transfiguration. But she understood that her identity was insidious, a root that she would never be able to pull up, a prison in which she would be trapped.
In the hall she wanted to say goodbye to the woman who worked for the owner, behind the mirror, at a table. But she was no longer there.