Chapter Text
After the meeting that night, they met several more times.
Vertin took Sonetto to different restaurants under the pretext of exploring various cuisines. Italian, French, and even Chinese, with Vertin paying the bill each time.
"This is so inappropriate." Sonetto looked at her with wide, anxious round eyes.
“It would be truly inappropriate if I emptied your life’s savings just to let you treat me.” Vertin placed her knife and fork down, beside her hand, voice flat. “It was me who wanted to eat these things, so just think of it as keeping me company.”
Uneasy, Sonetto accepted this kindness. She knew that Vertin simply wanted to improve her meager diet—as if her lack of nutrition was so obvious that it was unacceptable. There was someone who cared about her like this… Sonetto hadn’t felt such pure “care” for a long time.
They slowly chatted about what happened in the days they hadn’t seen each other, had dinner, then slowly walked home, parted at the intersection, and fell into sleep with joy and a vague, inexplicable melancholy.
Vertin returned to New York every three days. For Sonetto, this rhythm even replaced the seven-day weekly cycle, becoming a kind of natural cycle unique to them. Every three days, she enjoyed delicious meals, cordial conversations, and reluctant attachment. When the clock struck twelve, everything was reset, and then she began to look forward to the next three days.
People who live comfortably often underestimated the profound changes that food could bring. For them, the three meals a day, which were nothing more than ordinary, were a festive celebration in the eyes of a poor girl. Food carried gentle emotions, unforgettable memories, unspeakable happiness, and unfathomable sorrow. Long, long after, even when the restaurants they once visited had vanished in the torrent of time, whenever Sonetto ate spaghetti bolognese, she would recall the story Vertin told her, during New York’s magnificent, silent twilight, about an encounter on a train. She would remember laughing together, remember the slight curve of Vertin’s lips and sparkling eyes, remember she herself almost choked from laughter, and remember the questioning looks of the guests at the table next to them.
Sonetto felt as if she were dreaming.
How could there be such happy days? Her soul was so light that it seemed to fly up to the sky, supported by soft clouds, riding them as they drifted across the heavens. It seemed as if they were not stepping on solid ground, as if in the next moment they would fly off hand in hand, away from all the misfortunes in life, away from the cold and damp attic, and live in the legendary palace of the gods, blessed by Aphrodite’s favor.
Today was the day they had agreed to go to the premiere of Sonetto’s play together. For the first time, Sonetto did not arrive at the train station at three o'clock. Although she had no cosmetics to adorn her face, nor fancy new clothes, she still hesitated for a long time before the narrow mirror in the attic, wondering what to wear for the meeting tonight, and whether she should tidy up her appearance to look more vibrant.
Sonetto didn’t have many clothes, and those she had were faded and washed-out from repeated cleaning. It had been a long time since she had bought anything new.
She counted the money in her hand. The sunlight outside was just right; it was a rare clear day. The autumn of New York finally became crisp, revealing the city’s majestic atmosphere. If tonight’s performance was successful, Sonetto would get a fairly generous amount of royalties.
She clenched her palms and imagined what kind of expression Vertin would have when she saw her. She knew that women’s emotions were always restrained. Often quiet and silent in her demeanor, but occasionally, they would show a pure girlish joy. Sonetto wanted to see her surprised expression.
…Just to see what Vertin looked like when she was surprised, that was all.
Sonetto walked into the clothing store.
The clock struck five, and Sonetto was two hours later than usual. Vertin had not yet arrived. She felt that the train station was particularly bustling today. Were there so many people in the past? Was it always so noisy? Sonetto did not sit on her usual bench, instead standing not far from the platform. The mid-heeled shoes made her feet a little uncomfortable, and it took all her willpower to restrain the urge to repeatedly smooth the wrinkles on her dress. She was almost a little neurotic.
The half-hour wait had never felt so long. In the past, she would sit here for three or four hours at a time, engrossed in observing people, often unaware of how quickly time flew by until dusk fell and she reluctantly left. Countless people passed by her, but Sonetto did not notice a single one of them. She focused intently, pricking up her ears to catch the familiar, rumbling sound of the approaching train, her ears trembling slightly, like the perked-up ears of a Corgi.
She was an eagerly waiting puppy.
The whistle arrived with a long stream of steam. At this moment, Sonetto also felt the mood of those people waiting for their relatives and friends on the platform. So impatient that they couldn't even wait for the train to stop and the doors to open—wanting to leap aboard.
She stood there, feeling that she had never stood so straight before, almost like a flagpole. She checked again whether the wrinkles of her dress were smoothed, adjusted the laces of her coat, straightened her collar, pursed her lips, round eyes shining like two stars.
Ah, Vertin’s here.
Sonetto seemed to be particularly slow-witted due to nervousness, staring blankly as Vertin came up to her. The agile woman also changed her outfit today—a capable suit and skirt before, and an unbuttoned coat overtop—sharp and composed.
“You’re wearing new clothes? Very beautiful.” Vertin said, looking at her, a hint of a barely perceptible smile in her tone.
Sonetto didn’t react for a moment, blinking as if confused, “Yes... I bought new clothes.”
“It seems that you must take this performance very seriously.”
Sonetto looked at her face. She never wore makeup, her lips light, and slightly pursed, waiting for her answer. She suddenly felt the temperature of her cheeks soaring, and took a deep breath in panic, “Shall we… go eat first?”
Vertin wanted to laugh, but she held back. These days of lightness had almost made her forget herself. It felt like a very, very long time… since she had experienced moments like this where she didn’t have to think about anything. Just seeing Sonetto, a sense of burden-lifting relief swept over her body, her tense shoulders unconsciously relaxing. She sighed softly, “Alright, let's go.”
They walked side by side to the restaurant. Because of their attire, today’s meal felt particularly formal, almost like a business meeting. After dinner, they went to the Frieda Theater, a moderately sized, not particularly well-known theater in New York City. There was a large poster hanging at the entrance of the theater. In a very conspicuous position, the name of the screenwriter Sonetto was written.
Vertin carefully examined the title and poster of the play, “The Adventures of Carbonell”... Is this a children's play?”
The receding blush rushed back to Sonetto’s cheeks. The surrounding audience were clearly parents with children, and the whimsical poster design made their formal attire seem somewhat out of place.
“... Yes, but…” Sonetto wanted to explain.
Vertin had never been to a theatre to see a play. Although in London, there was a famous theater three blocks away, and she often saw people discussing and laughing excitedly after the show—as if caught in a grand, luxurious illusion. After crossing the English Channel, she heard the old man who played her grandfather talk about his youth, the grandeur of the theater, and she also heard him read Shakespeare.
This was her first time experiencing this art form in person, even if it was just a children’s play meant for kids.
“It looks interesting.” Vertin said, her gaze filled with quiet amusement as she watched the young woman’s embarrassed face. “I’m looking forward to the content.”
Sonetto pursed her lips, as if urgently needing physical contact to provide the energy just to stand and breathe. She couldn’t help but stretch out her hands and gently hold Vertin’s. The latter let her, fingertips brushing against soft palms—a slow exchange of warmth. As if granted some form of absolution, she murmured in a low voice, “Thank you, Vertin.”
Holding hands, they followed the joyous children into the Frieda Theater.