The Confessions of X by Suzanne M. Wolfe Read Free Book Online Page A

way the walls of the house pressed out all the air, the painful clang of copper pans instead of the delicate tic-tic of the chisel on terra-cotta or the trill of birdsong in the trees, the suffocating constriction of the shoes and dresses I was forced to wear. Yes, I thought. Sunlight in a box.
    â€œYou are a young woman now,” my aunt said. “It is time to think of your future.” She dipped the edge of her stole, the one she only wore to church, the one she had put on in honor of Paulinus, in a cup of water and before I could draw back, rubbed at my face. “See,” she said, showing me the smudge of dirt and sand on the cloth. “You act like a child.”
    When I did not reply, she got up stiffly, as if all her bones ached. “The wedding will be in a month,” she said and left the room.

    Early the next morning I waited until I heard my uncle leave for the potting factory in the western district of the city hard by the clay pits, a long, low building filled with the hum of potters’ wheels endlessly turning, and rack upon rack of drying vessels. My father had taken me once when I was small.
    I heard my aunt moving about. Once she tapped on the door and softly called my name, but I pretended I was sleeping. Then I heard her leave and remembered it was the day she went to the women’s baths. She would be gone most of the day.
    I had lain awake all night turning over and over in my mind all that had happened the evening before. I wondered when Paulinus would come again and what I would do if he did. I knew I could not be here but had nowhere else to go. I heard a knock on the front door.
    Thinking it a neighbor wanting to borrow oil for frying or a broom, I opened the door. Augustine stood there as if conjured from my mind. It was the first time he had come to the house.
    â€œYou cannot be here,” I said to him, though my heart pounded in my chest. “I am alone, and my aunt and uncle would not stand for it.”
    â€œI came here only to give you this,” he said, putting something in my hand.
    I looked down and saw a shell the size of a robin’s egg, a creamy helix lined inside with mother-of-pearl as delicate and pink as a child’s ear. I lifted it to my lips and it tasted salty, put it to my ear and heard the memory of the sea trapped within.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” I said. “Thank you.”
    Behind his shoulder, a woman banging at a rug with a stick was frowning at us. By tonight my aunt would have been informed of this strange young man who visited her niece when she was alone with her hair loose about her shoulders like a slut, her head shamelessly uncovered. By tomorrow, the whole street would know.
    â€œWill you meet me at the church at noon?” he asked. “There is something I would ask you.”

    Just before midday, I slipped quietly from my aunt’s house. Inside the church was deserted. A few leaves had blown into the open doors and made a scratchy sound under my sandals. Augustine was waiting for me at the door and led me toward the altar in the middle of the nave.
    Then, still holding my hand, he turned to me. “Before we take this path, you must decide if this is a journey you want to make with me.”
    I began to speak but he placed a finger on my lips.
    â€œHear me out. You know I come from a family of landowners, that my father is a Roman citizen, that I am the youngest son.”
    I nodded.
    â€œThen know this: I will inherit nothing. I must make my fortune by my wits.”
    â€œI understand,” I said. “My father had to make his way in the world with only his skill to keep body and soul alive.”
    â€œNo,” Augustine said, sorrowfully, “you don’t understand. If only it were so simple. I have certain . . .” He stepped back, frowning. “ Obligations. I am expected to succeed in my chosen profession, but to do so I shall have to marry.” He raised his arms and then