Leaving the Pirate (Book Three)

26. Melancholy

Melancholy:
suggestive or expressive of sadness or depression of mind or spirit

***

The Master and Mistress slept in different bedrooms on different ends of the villa. They hadn't shared a bedroom since Matteo was a year old. Even then their marriage wasn't great. Oftentimes, you could hear the Master yelling at his wife and vise versa. There was always something wrong.

Leonardo told me that he speculated that Matteo was an attempt to save the marriage, but alas, it was no use anyway when neither parents cared much for their only child.

I couldn't recall any particular time I'd seen the Master interact with his son who looked exactly like him. I even played with the thought that the reason he wasn't around Matteo was because he was staring back at his own self.

Despite looking like his father, he did have his mother's eccentric nature. Sometimes the Mistress threw a fit simply because her hair wasn't working with her outside that day. Matteo, similarly threw a fit because his socks weren't matching.

I couldn't understand why Matteo cared so much about his parents. He was mostly being raised by servants, and his parents were very rarely seen. He could even go days without even catching a glimpse of his mother or father. Especially when he was so young, you'd have thought his mind was occupied on other things.

There were plans that once he was old enough then he'd be sent to boarding school in either England where his mother was born or France where his father was educated. I don't know how they came to live in Florence, Italy.

But when he did leave, I doubt I'd be out of a job. I'd be stuck with his parents and attending other chores around the villa. They always needed a hand.

I was employed while the Mistress was pregnant with Matteo. I left an old job working in a factory and stumbled across this one when a friend I was working with told me I should work with her there.

I was reluctant to leave the job we both were in. Before, when I first arrived in the city, it had been hard trying to find suitable work that kept me afloat. I didn't want to quit what I was doing and try for a job that could turn me down.

However, I was surprised how fast I was employed. It seemed like anyone could get the job. Eventually, I was busy and didn't have time to think of myself. While my friend quit a year or two later because she got married, I moved my way up to being able to care for the new bundle of joy that was in the household.

I've been there ever since.

***

I suppose I should explain my relationship with Nasico. It's not a lengthy story of how we met. I was delivering clean clothes to the stable hands and there I met Narciso. I had seen him before. His hair was slicked back and when he walked, his hips swung just the slightest bit. I knew his reputation. He slept with many of the maids and often got into fights. He was threatened with being fired twice since I've known him, but somehow always managed to keep his job.

I couldn't tell you why I kept him around me. Often times he complained about the work, but knowing he had nowhere else to go, he put up with it. Later times, when we finished fooling around and he pulled his trousers back up, he said he thought about quitting his job, always managing to curse out our employees at the same time.

I didn't respond much to these statements. I only did when he seemed like he was especially wanting to hear "please don't go." I didn't care either way. What I really wanted to say was "go ahead and do it then," but I wasn't in the mood for drama, so I didn't.

I had known him for almost three years. I was older than him by a year, but he liked to think he was more mature than me. He kept insisting he wrote poems in his free time. One day, he said, he was going to quit this job and become a poet.

I decided that his writing poems must be true because he kept a journal with him that I've seen him scribble in before. I never asked him about it, though. I didn't know if it was right to. Who was I to understand poetry? Especially poor man poetry? I was convinced his most beautiful pieces came when was drunk.

He had other girls he fooled around with, but I didn't mind all that much. I only needed him when I was especially lonely.

Fooling around him was easy. After I put Matteo to bed, I'd find him in the courtyard where he'd often be smoking. He knew what I wanted and he took me back up to my room.

Afterwards, he always seemed like he was in a rush to leave, as if convinced that by staying with me, he would be pulled into the inevitable. I'd lay there, watching him. First he pulled on his trousers, spending no time to fiddle with his belt before putting on his shirt and then his shoes. Lastly, he'd slick his hair back and said goodnight, closing the door behind him.

My mind always managed to seem clear after he left me. I'd close my eyes and listen to my heart beat that was still trying to slow down. Even if I tried, there was nothing I could think of. Not the day's events or even the next day's. I felt peaceful.

Technically speaking, I didn't have to associate to him. My job didn't require it. While he worked outside, I was left inside with the young master. Still, there were times where it felt nice hearing his voice as he tried to make a speech that wasn't at all convincing. It was better to hear than what I was having for dinner which was usually some tasteless dish.

He didn't seem all that eager to be by my side anyway. If he wasn't with me or other girls, he was with the group he formed with the other stable hands. They slept in the barn together, occasionally being let inside to have their meal. They smelled horrendously, but it was expected.

You'd see many of them playing cards or throwing rocks at each other, these young men that were trusted with caring for the horses. It was hard to distinguish them from boys.

I never talked to any of them, but Narciso. It would be hard to explain why. Narciso wasn't the handsomest of the bunch, nor the smartest, or even the most daring. I suppose if I had to explain it to you it would be that he seemed so familiar to me. There was something in his nature that attracted me to him. His air of confidence, the aggressive way he rolled up his sleeves. It was just something that I came to know.

***

If you really want to know the truth, I try not to dwell on my past. Though there were times I wanted to, I was thankful I could hardly do it, and do it with such depth to it. I was too tired for such activities.

Instead, I moved past that and became obsorbed in my job. I made few friends, which really were just friendly coworkers I came to know. I knew next to nothing about their lives. And they weren't too eager to share anything about it themselves.

That's the role you play as a servant: you have no life before, during, and sometimes even after what your job is.

I guess the saying is true that your work is your life.