When Death Does Not Part

... When I turned to look back at the Ponte Vecchio, the colors of the little houses had turned to pastel under the thick clouds that muffled the rays of the sun: young-lemon-yellow, sweet-purple or dark-pink, even grayish-white. They transformed the brownish water into a moving palette, expressing threatening-ocher, relaxing-black, even spots of dark-red, making me think of Irena’s opera dress: tight, sleeveless, shaping her little body into perfection... ... I moved closer to her, slowly and hesitating on the smooth sheet. I came very close and kept looking at the skin of her cheeks, centimeters in between us. Can I? Touch? Will I be judged? I wanted it very much: it became uncontrollable. With my nose I softly started caressing her cheek: up and down, slowly, almost not touching, then faster, like a puppy. I kept touching her cheek with the tip of my nose, from chin to pencil-hair, many times. Then I touched her with my cheek, more intense, slowly, cheek to cheek, ten times up and down… Her skin felt like little Koen’s skin: cold and pasty, because it held too much fluid because the heart had stopped pumping... .. In the narrow corridor on the fourth floor a cleaning lady was pushing a trolley that held cleaning and hotel room supplies. While passing her I looked at the little pieces of soap, towels, sheets, tissue paper and plastic water bottles. A metal tube at the back of the trolley contained brushes, brooms, and cloths. She gave me a short nod of the head – she didn’t know me. Ten years ago the cleaning lady had become my friend and conspirator, although she had no idea what was happening in my room, until, after days, the smell became too obvious, and she informed Francesco. Initially, she assumed I was taking care of a sick young woman who needed a lot of rest. “You are a good man,” she said to me every day, and the sign on the door “Don’t Disturb” didn’t disturb her at all...