by Inès Cagnati
•
I started pedaling furiously, without thinking of the patches of black ice, trying not to think at all. I couldn’t take it anymore. Really, the thinking had to stop. I rode like that for a while, very fast. Then I calmed down. I had to stop, I came to a steep slope and I couldn’t make it up on my bike. I had covered nine miles. I sat down on the slope. In my dead aunt’s green raincoat there was no risk anybody would recognize me. Besides, nobody was driving past. I don’t like to encounter people on the road. But here, in all this grayness, without anybody anywhere, it suddenly seemed to me that I was traveling through a cemetery without tombs. The thought left me feeling even more oppressed.
I advanced up the slope on foot, pushing my bicycle. From the top of the slope I looked at my Aunt Emilia’s house, which is set back a little from the road, in a hollow. I made sure she wasn’t outside, then took a running start, hopped on my bicycle the way men do and burned past at top speed for fear she might come out. She didn’t come out. If I was the only person in the whole wide world, and the only other living being was my Aunt Emilia, I would flee to the exact opposite end of the earth so there’d be no risk of ever running into her. Or kill her, to make doubly sure. Because my Aunt Emilia is the worst hyena in existence since the world was made. The worst. I know everything she’s done because Aunt Gina, another kind of hyena, told Maman. Apparently, Aunt Emilia is making her husband sick with heartache over a lover. My uncle drinks to console himself, but my aunt doesn’t want him to drink anymore. So much so that my uncle is heartbroken, either from drinking too much, or from not drinking. My mother says he’s killing himself. Me, I don’t know. I don’t like my uncle much. He always says to me: “Hey, squirt, still got those nasty eyes of yours?” I hate that, and he’s said it to me every time he’s seen me since I was born. I can’t get used to it. When something appalls me I can’t get used to it. If, when I’m fifty, with loads of children and all, my uncle is still alive, he will not fail to say, “Hey, squirt, still got those nasty eyes of yours?” in front of absolutely anyone. It’s really awful.
I know all the details of Aunt Emilia’s affairs. Aunt Gina never stops talking about them and if she does stop she starts again because there’s always something she forgot, so it goes on like that endlessly. My mother listens, her mouth open and moist, exclaiming as if it were something out of one of her romance novels. I hate Aunt Gina just as much as Aunt Emilia.
Soon Aunt Emilia’s house was far behind me. Once again, I remembered the black ice. Then I fell. It’s always like that. Things happen when you’re afraid. It’s as if you were calling for them. Luckily, nothing happened to my bike. As for me, I banged my knee again, which started to hurt a lot. Poor bicycle.
It kept going, though, with its relentless little salamander squeak. Me, the more I watched the road because of the black ice, the more stories I told myself.
After a certain point, there was no more black ice. I entered the valley and it wasn’t as cold there.
7
I LIKE entering the valley because of the river and the trees along its banks. Also because of the rowboats and the sailboats.
People I don’t know get to have all of that: the lowlands, the river, the boats. For us, it’s earth sown with stones, marshes of crazy grasses, and three streams. If we’d lived in the river valley we’d be rich. That’s what my father says. When I look up and down the river, at the houses with peaceful windows, I tell myself: If I’d been born in one of those houses, that would have been enough. But how can you know? How can you know what it would have been like if you’d been born someplace else? I’ve never seen the sea. I would have liked so much to be born by the sea and the sun. I was born in a remote place, deep in the country, under eternal fogs. I would have liked so much to be born in sea and sunshine.
•
Night began to fall. Really, day had never broken. Everything was so sad and weary, this deserted world, everything. The day hadn’t had the guts to get up. Me, I would have liked to live in one of these houses locked around a fireplace, and not get up.
I started dreaming of sunshine so hard that it made my arms and legs tremble. There are days when I dream like a fool about impossible things that make me fall to pieces. Here, on this stupid road, alone with my old bicycle and its dying-salamander squeal, the night weighing down all around me, unable to see anything anymore for lack of a headlamp on my bike, I started dreaming of sun-drenched lands, of sun on golden beaches, blue shadows, delirious perfumes. That’s what I lived in hope of. A tune that our professor plays on the violin, “Harlequin’s Millions,” kept running through my head. Sometimes I’m crazy.
To chase away these thoughts and that flowery music, I pedaled even faster. I had to hurry if I wanted to get to the high school in time for dinner.
I thought about the girls at the high school who don’t make fun of me as much as they used to, now that I’m friends with Fanny, and because I get good grades. I was almost happy that I’d be seeing them again soon. I remembered a story I read when I was really little. It was a long time ago.
It’s the story of a little boy, Harlequin. I don’t know anymore who his parents were, what they did or anything like that, but I know they were poor. Really poor. And then, one day, there was a fair. All the little boy’s classmates were going to the fair, they had beautiful new clothes and everything they needed. The little boy, he wasn’t going to the fair. His clothes were too awful, he wore nothing but rags. So, the schoolmistress asked all the children in his class to bring in scraps of cloth, it didn’t matter what kind. Out of all those scraps, she created a suit for Harlequin. It was a suit made up of lots of little scraps of cloth, none of them matching. And everyone was happy. Everyone loved him.
I read that story when I was very little. I remember I’d started dreaming that one day, a day like any other, I’d come to school and everyone would love me, they would have made me a beautiful suit of clothes of every color, like Harlequin’s. It would be a day like any other, with the cold, the mud in the ruts of the paths, the wet feet. Then I would get to school and the suit would be there. Then everything would change. The days, even the marshes, would never be the same again. That’s what I dreamed of. I was still a very little girl.
Later I laughed at my dreams. The teacher hated me. I had her as a teacher for a long time because there were only two teachers at my school. She hated me from the start. I don’t know why. I hadn’t done anything to her, or to anybody, I was so little. Maybe she resented me for being there. When you hate people, you resent them for being there, even if it’s not at all their fault. I think that’s how it was for my teacher. Also, she punished me. She wouldn’t let me warm myself when I was so cold that I couldn’t write. She would say: “Look how dirty she is. Don’t get near her. Look how dark she is.” This while I was right there. Later, when I drowned myself in the stream and she heard about it, she said: “Leave her alone. She’s crazy.” Was I crazy? I don’t know. I was so little.
Now that I’ve left that school, this is what I recall. She didn’t look mean. She was always dressed in black and her round, pink cheeks glowed. Even when she was at her cruelest, she had an air about her that was almost sweet. So I don’t know anymore. Maybe she believed what she said. I just don’t know. All I know is that she punished me, and she was happy.
Today, if someone gave me a Harlequin suit I don’t know what I’d do with it. I believe I’d take the package and my bicycle. We’d ride a while, my bicycle and me. Then we’d go to the riverbank or home to the marshes. I’d drop the package with the suit in it into the water. I would drown Harlequin’s suit. That’s for sure. I would drown it.
•
On the road, it was getting darker and darker. I had to guide myself by the sounds my bike made, soft on the grass, hard on the road. Finally, I drove onto the shoulder. That was sensible. Otherwise, a car might run me over without seeing me, and afterwards, who would know it was me? It’s really unbearable to have a bicycle without a headla
mp at night. And nobody anywhere to call for help. Luckily, there wasn’t a lot more road to cover.
For a moment, I dreamed of my mother. I would have liked to call her. It’s been a long time since she responded when anyone called her. Too many sorrows. Maman doesn’t even show interest in the little ones. At home, they get up when they can, they grow as they can. Maman doesn’t get involved. We dress in whatever we can find, the little ones in the clothes of the bigger ones, the big ones in those of the little ones, me in the clothes of my dead aunt, so we always look like we’re in costume, or like we’re Bohemians, because practically nothing has ever been ironed. It looks strange if you’re not used to it. When it comes to food, it’s the same thing. We get by as well as we can. The little ones finish the big ones’ bowls of bread in milk or gnaw any crusts that are left on the table. When there’s nothing, they resign themselves to waiting. It would be useless to shout and ask for more. Maman doesn’t move. She’s grown so accustomed to the cries that she doesn’t hear them.
The only sister who gets taken care of even a little bit is Antonnella, the tiny one. She can’t see. If they didn’t give her food to eat, she would perish. She’s so delicate, so pretty with those soft little curls around her head, that everyone at home loves her.
Me, I taught her how to navigate on her own, to walk outside of the house without bumping into things or falling into the pond. At first she walked slowly with her little stick in front of her, and when she met an obstacle she would stop and say “the millstone,” or “the wheelbarrow,” or “the mower,” like I’d taught her. Now, she knows how to avoid all the obstacles without her little stick, and when you see her run, light as a butterfly, you can’t believe she’s blind. Her happy, luminous eyes are livelier than eyes that see. They’re like innocent periwinkles, Antonnella’s eyes.
This summer I taught her about the marshes. It’s going to be a long time before she can navigate them on her own. First of all I had to teach her how to identify and locate the faintest sounds, because of the old Spaniard and the goat who hide among the grasses and the reeds. I taught her how the sound of the wet earth beneath your feet tells you when you’re on the edge of a water hole, or a slimy spot, or a reed-filled area where somebody might be hiding. I taught her to identify the sounds of the flights of birds, of water rats. And above all, I taught her how to crouch, motionless, and listen to the water bubbling in the sodden earth to find out if someone’s walking in the marsh, like the old Spaniard with the goat, and whether he’s near or far. Every day of summer vacation I went into the marshes with Antonnella to teach her. She still has a lot to learn. She’s so little. Next summer I will continue the lessons, and then she’ll figure it out.
I don’t ever want the Spaniard to lie in wait for her among the wild grasses. Blind and delicate as she is, she wouldn’t know how to defend herself. But I’ll teach her. At home, none of the others knows the marshes, they don’t know how to walk that secret landscape without getting bogged down, nobody dares enter. Sometimes, when she’s angry or very sad, Maman says she’s going to go drown herself in the marshes, and that nobody will ever find her again. She’s never even been there. If she did go, she’d be sure to sink into the slime and drown. She’d have no idea how to save herself. Or maybe the Spaniard would catch her, and Maman, who’s always so distracted, wouldn’t know how to defend herself.
Thinking of this, I was suddenly filled with horror. I said to myself, yes, I will teach Antonnella to defend herself in the marshes. The old Spaniard wanders there all day long. He’s there even when you don’t see him. He’s always there, alone or with his goat, and he’s waiting, nobody knows for what. If he surprised my mother or Antonnella, they wouldn’t understand, and they would die, and I would die, too. Already, Antonnella, who is so pretty and so proud of what she has learned, says with a laugh: “Tomorrow I’ll go into the marshes by myself, Lala! I’m big.”
No, no, I say. But sometimes I find her far down the misty path, and then I scold her and take her back home. She doesn’t know the danger, she’s so little and all. So I’m often afraid.
•
I started pedaling very hard to forget all that. I pedaled.
And then, there, all at once and for no reason, I began to feel truly afraid. I know myself. When fear like this takes me over, I’m scared of everything. Of the road. Of dark ditches and what might come out of them. Of treacherous waters that might catch and trap me in algae. When I’m afraid, I’m really and truly afraid. I’m overwhelmed by the irresistible desire to scream. But I don’t scream. There’s no one to hear me, and if anyone did hear me, nobody would put themselves out for me. That’s to be expected. But inside, I’m screaming, shouting to myself: “Save me!”
I try to think of something I could do to save myself. This is hard, because, as my father always says, I go about everything the wrong way. What appears most important to me at a given time is never actually the right thing. For instance, if there were a fire in the house, and the most urgent thing was to get out of there, I might decide it was more important to finish a row of knitting, or close the curtains, or brush my teeth. Things like that, basically. Meanwhile, there’s a fire.
That’s why, when I found myself all alone in the pitch dark with all that fear washing over me, what came to my mind was Nicole. She’s a girl from my class. Fanny told me all about her. Fanny knew the stories of all the girls, especially Nicole, they’ve known each other forever. She told me that Nicole’s father left her mother one day for another woman. Ever since, Nicole’s mother has repeatedly tried to kill herself, without success. That must be terrible. Nicole is always afraid that she’ll come home from the high school one night to find her mother dying. At the high school, the girls are afraid that Nicole will imitate her mother. They seem so convinced of this that maybe she really will do it. It’s as if Nicole were dead already. I think that’s unbearable. If I were Nicole, I’d go ahead and kill myself to cut the suspense.
When Nicole wanted to give a presentation on Tristan and Iseult, the girls were worried. They thought that Nicole wanted to die like Tristan and Iseult, and this was her way of telling us. They are cretins.
And then, everything turned out fine. Nicole said Tristan and Iseult were lucky because the most beautiful thing in the world was to die for love, and without that kind of sacrifice, love itself would die. The girls agreed. They all wanted to die for love. I thought that if that was the case, soon they’d all be dead. Me too, but not for love. I’ll never love anyone because nobody will ever love me. So much the better.
Our professor, seeing that everyone wanted to die for love, asked if there weren’t other beautiful causes worth sacrificing your life for. She loves that word: “cause.” She uses it a lot, big ideas all over her face. She’s crazy.
The girls decided it was worth dying for the country, for the hungry, for the oppressed, and all that nonsense. What they would all like best would be to die digging ditches in India, so the whole world could drink in peace. The professor agreed. That’s just like her. She wants us to go fight for a heap of noble causes while she stays quietly at home, watching us depart through her window or from her front stoop or something, her nasty face contorting with emotion as we head off. I think I hate her, her and her face.
If it wasn’t enough that they all wanted to die for so many imbecilic reasons—love, liberty, thirst—she also asked leading questions to make us say what she wanted. All the professors are like that. They insist that you parrot back what they think, and if you don’t, they call you a green cretin. It’s idiotic.
So then the professor told us the story of Galileo. He’s an old guy from the past, the one who came up with the idea that the earth moved around the sun. Before then, it was the sun that moved around the earth. When he told the people of his time about this, they were furious. They put him in prison to make him change his mind and say it was the sun that moved. I think they even wanted to kill him. In the end, Galileo said what everyone wanted him to say. But when
he was on his own, he said, “And yet it moves.” And it was true. You couldn’t stop the earth from moving, but you couldn’t say it was happening because it made everybody furious. The professor wanted to know what we would have done in Galileo’s place. Would we have said whatever we had to in order to avoid death?
A lot of the girls thought Galileo wasn’t very brave. If they’d been Galileo, they would have loudly proclaimed that the earth moves. That made me laugh. First, most of the girls tell on each other to avoid getting punished. And besides, I don’t see any of us becoming a great scientist like Galileo one day. But you never know. Maybe Galileo was also very stupid when he went to high school. These are things that nobody ever talks about. But I don’t know. What I do know is that Galileo was right. He was a great guy, and a great guy is more useful alive then dead. The professor asks completely idiotic questions.
That day, with her stories of death, I wondered if she might be sick of us all being alive, since she was so intent on making us come up with reasons to die. She must have been tired.
Fanny and I talked about it at recess. Fanny, who’s so beautiful, says she’s happy to be alive and wants to live for a very long time. She says that ideas are ideas; they don’t need us. Me, I didn’t say I was happy because it isn’t true. But I said that the things that make me feel like dying don’t matter to the professor. For example, the times when my grade school teacher said I have a hard heart, and she said that a lot. Or when my father hangs the dog. Everything was stupid, really stupid. Because it’s unbearable that you can hang tired old dogs like that, without any consequences. But I couldn’t say that to the professor.
Suddenly the first lights of the town appeared. By this time, I hardly expected them anymore.
A wild joy shook me as I saw the lights of the town off in the distance. All at once, it seemed as if I’d been pedaling in the dark for practically fifteen years, to arrive one night amid those lights. Truly, that’s what it seemed like to me.