How a pink mug led me to the out-of-season nuns

by camilla eleonora manara (Italy)

I didn't expect to find United Kingdom

I knocked on the door. It was drizzling on a crisp spring evening in London. My umbrella was tucked too deep in my backpack to reach for it, so I took shelter under the wobbly canopy. It was a huge door, made of dark wood and purple glass, somewhere in between the rose window of a cathedral lost in the moor and Narnia’s wardrobe. I couldn’t help but wonder if, once opened, I was going to be the murdered abbot or the promised queen of a chatty land. Quite appropriate, though, considering I was knocking on the door of a residence for nuns and I was about to ask to see the body and leave an old cracked pink mug. I was doing my father a favor. In Italy he had spent his first year as a professor hiding among the black robes of the nuns fluttering about like wings of crows. Then an English teacher offered him freshly brewed coffee and biscuits. They soon took to each other until she moved to England and gave him her mug to keep for their next coffee together. Almost forty years later my father told me she had died in London and, since I was staying there, I had to return her mug; he had it sent by mail. I had no choice but take the tube – two hotdog-like trains smelling of chili soup, wet fur and chips (so many places in London smell like fried-something) – from Bermondsey to Queen’s Walk and then a ten-minute walk on a straight street framed by no longer fancy brick houses. I took almost an hour but there I was, waiting, squashed against the door. “Yes?” I can’t say why but I had expected them to be Italian; or British, at least. But the nun standing in front of me was Indian, in her seventies and dressed as Santa Claus. She was scanning me beneath her red pointy hat. “I’m sorry, maybe I got the wrong address. Is this the Capitanio Sisters’ residence?” “Yes, it is.” “Oh. Well, then I need to return this mug to th— to sister Anna Mazzoleni. She and my father used to be close friends.” “This way.” I followed her down a narrow hallway with pictures of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus, crocheted fluffy kittens and colorful, childish drawings taped askew on the walls; everywhere was an overflow of Christmas lights, mistletoe, wreaths. A strong smell of cinnamon filled the place. I glanced in a room we passed by and there it was: a shining Christmas tree with its guiding star right on top. In front of me Santa nun’s too long trousers were swishing on the thick carpet. I was actually feeling like a Pevensies, entering a new, unknown land led by an eccentric mentor. I had to check the phone to make sure it was still May, that I hadn’t fallen down a wormhole. At the end of the hallway my Santa sister stopped and showed me the door in front of her: “It’s here. Take all the time you need”. Inside it looked as if one of the snowballs sold with pretzels and mulled wine had exploded: ribbons of paper snowflakes were falling down from the ceiling, gingerbread houses were crowded in small villages in the corners, a snowman-shaped lamp was on the night table beside the most luxurious, detailed nativity scene I had ever seen. It all looked like an enchanted reign but for the big, black coffin right in the middle of the room. I couldn’t help asking. “Why…” I felt as if the mug was shaking in my hand. “Why is it Christmas in here?” Santa nun was looking at me sternly, her left hand hooked at the belt, her fingers tapping the leather: “It was her favorite time of the year. She used to decorate long before Christmas. We wanted to do something special for her. So we decorated early. Now we are having the big dinner, and later we will play board games.” I feared I had disappointed her, her and them all, by simply refusing to accept things as they were. But then she smiled: “Do you want to join us?”