The Mountain

by Massimo Donati

  He smiled a little, and even though Ada looked like she hadn’t understood, he did not elaborate.

  ‘You were saying?’

  ‘The archive in the attic. It was the only part of the villa where he wouldn’t let me set foot. After his death, I took the liberty of looking up there and I think it might contain the history of your family. Yours too, at least for as long as you lived in Italy.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I thought that while you waited for the will to be read you could look over the materials and decide what to keep.’

  Roberto followed this train of thought, with a sharp pain spreading to his belly.

  ‘You can throw everything away.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Yes, throw everything away, please. It’s for the best.’

  Ada lowered her gaze, her cheeks suddenly red as though she had been running. The two of them stood like that for a moment, with a wordless, violent tension: she was composed and immobile, hands clasped. The only thing that seemed to torment her was a chewed nail. Finally, she blurted out with embarrassment: ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘How can you ask me that?’

  ‘Please. I don’t want to have anything to do with my father’s memories.’

  ‘But there are lots of things that belong to you: games, notebooks, photos. That’s your childhood.’

  ‘It’s over.’

  ‘There are a lot of things belonging to your mother as well.’

  The bitterness in Roberto’s eyes rested on the other side of the windows, on the rose hedges and then on the whole garden.

  ‘I’m not interested.’

  And then, a concession.

  Ada slowly put the palm of her hand to her hair which she pulled back as though she needed to reflect, faced with such an enormous problem. And she said, with a sincerity that must have cost her greatly: ‘I wouldn’t be able to throw away everything that your father has kept for so many years. If you want, you can do it with your own hands or call someone. It’s all yours but I can’t do it. I’m sorry, but it’s not about you. It’s about Signor Carlo.’

  She looked at him gravely. ‘I’ll show you where it is and you can do whatever you like.’

  Roberto’s face contracted for a moment in a mute and unmistakable expression of disdain, but it disappeared immediately. He tried to regain his equilibrium and calmly whispered: ‘Fine. No problem. Tomorrow. Remind me and we’ll go up there together.’

  They both felt the need to separate but he suddenly asked, ‘How many years have you been working for us?’

  ‘Five.’

  4

  The red and white fibreglass monohull which, if you ignored the writing on the side, resembled a giant suppository, was in good condition. Nicely washed, its sails neatly folded and encased in their covers, the Topper class dinghy, less than four metres in length, looked as though it was all set for an imminent outing.

  He had awoken with the image of the boat in his head; perhaps he had even dreamed it. He had felt compelled to get up and go straight out to see if it was still where he had left it thirty years earlier.

  The villa’s tiny harbour, hewn into the stone beneath the level of the earth, led directly into the lake and the boat was in dry dock on a bench off to the side. It was in that very same boat, in the company of his father, that he had discovered, at seven years of age, the pleasure of sailing.

  Although he had lost the dexterity he once had, the procedure for lowering the vessel into the water turned out to be quite easy for him because the hull was light: he could rely on his own strength.

  He made his way to the opening into the lake with the single oar. He put on the lifejacket and headed out.

  He began to move further away.

  Slowly. Because there was little wind and he was navigating the Topper in a rather vague fashion. For a while he stayed close to the shore.

  It was only a few minutes before he regained a certain confidence with the water and the boat. He was feeling good.

  He summoned up some courage and began to lean out from the hull of the Topper, controlling the boat with his weight and his strength, stretched out over the water flowing beneath him, as the vessel gathered speed. Suddenly his muscles knew once more what was special about recreational sailing. It was the harmony of wind, water, boat and sailor, which became a single animal in flight, a hybrid body devoted to acceleration. The flat, mobile cloud of froth enveloped him, sketching out his effort, and measuring the pleasure it brought.

  This rediscovered magic lasted a long time and it stayed with him, distant, focused.

  Then, a sudden drop in the wind forced him over too far. He ended up with one shoulder dipping clumsily in the water and lifted himself up, humiliated. The spell was broken. He let go of the sail, which immediately went limp.

  The sense of absorption of a few minutes earlier was ended, and besides, it was not warm enough yet. He needed to get back inside. He took off his top and used it to dry himself off. He remained shirtless, under his lifejacket.

  As he rested, he glanced around the cockpit.

  It only took a few details. The spots where the tiller was worn, the marks of tense feet in the cockpit, new scratches on the mast. And in the same spot where he was now sitting, the hull had a slight curve to it. He was noticing it only now.

  The curve of habit.

  His father had continued to use the vessel for a long time, maybe until just a few days earlier. And now he was unable to deal with this, as though he had found a stowaway on board.

  He almost immediately turned the boat back towards the little harbour.

  That same morning Ada, in spite of herself—and without bothering to seek out the new head of the house—had begun a little later than usual the activities that made up her working day. As she set to work she found for the first time that the tasks of caring for the villa, and the rhythm of their execution as agreed upon with Signor Carlo, had almost entirely lost their initial purpose, and had instead taken on a more melancholy and grotesque one. She and the villa continued to exist, to ready themselves, as though nothing had changed; as though the owner might come home at any moment and be pleased with the cleaning, with the correspondence that had been dispatched, with the state of the rooms and furniture. But the owner would not be coming home, and all that care and effort continued only because so far nobody had put a stop to it, like a car with the engine left running.

  She was looking over the latest bills when the thought of Carlo’s death and the pointlessness of these rituals fell heavily upon her.

  She felt like crying. And for a few moments, unseen, she allowed herself that release: let this silent weeping sit with her there in the kitchen, not consoling her but simply keeping her company. She regretted it almost instantly. This wasn’t like her; her sense of the ridiculous was too strong. And so she wiped away her tears and returned to her tasks.

  A little later she went to look for Roberto. Unable to find him, she kept working until he reappeared, sitting out on the bench.

  She began staring at him through the glass: even now this man inspired in her a mixture of melancholy and warmth.

  Roberto seemed absent.

  In fact, he was observing the garden. It was an enchantment of dark green and colours that had been paired or grouped with an eye for effect: the variegated lilacs of the Syringa chinensis, the washed-out whites of the cyclamen, the yellow and red of the gazanias. There was no denying that it was well cared for, every corner governed by someone’s taste and skill. Over the years it had taken on a meticulous personality, testament to the choices made patiently over time, although Roberto noticed that perhaps the care had lapsed over the last few weeks. Nevertheless, he could not help but miss the proud, decadent air the garden had once had, the kind of extravagant pride that nature assumes when left to itself. That was what had made the space behind the villa his mother’s secret garden.

  Ada came out through the French windows, crossed th
e garden and stopped a few metres away.

  ‘I need to show you the archive, remember?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘It would be best. In a few days, once the will has been read, you’ll be leaving.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘And the coming days could be busy for you. Best to do it now.’

  Shortly afterwards they were walking together along the hallway of the second floor. It was deserted, with a slightly stale, musty quality to the air.

  ‘I do everything I can to keep the place in the best possible condition but if the rooms aren’t getting used, they immediately start to smell old.’

  At the end of the hallway there was a wooden stairway, the only new addition to the entire floor, which rose almost vertically and disappeared into a dark rectangle in the attic.

  They climbed it. A few metres past the steps the bookcases began.

  ‘How do you want to do this?’

  ‘You tell me. You’re the one who’s so keen.’

  Ada looked at him impatiently.

  ‘All right: I’ll open the boxes one at a time and show you the contents, then you can decide.’

  Roberto nodded.

  Ada unrolled some black bags and opened them out on the floor. ‘This way we can separate the things that need to be thrown out from the rest.’

  ‘I don’t think that’ll be enough bags.’

  There was an armchair, its seat almost completely caved in, alongside a bookcase, and an office lamp attached by a long arm to a work table. Roberto turned on the lamp and sat down, bored before they’d even begun.

  Ada was thinking about where to start, when she turned and stared at him. She stood there rapt, wordless: everything quite clear to both of them.

  ‘Ada? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Sorry. I was lost in thought.’

  Inside a yellow plastic box the same as all the others, apart from its colour, was a child’s glove. A fake leather ski glove with a horizontal line across the back separating white from red. Just one. Written on the box in fine handwriting were the words First time in the snow. It belonged to Roberto for sure; the other one must have been lost. Ada waved it at him—keep it or throw it out?—but she already knew the answer. Roberto pointed to the bag of things to throw away.

  They continued like this for more than an hour. Roberto remained largely indifferent to the various objects and the things they evoked as Ada inspected, with unfailing good humour, each folder, each container, each album. One photo, garment, memory after another.

  The archive Carlo had put together consisted of a long row of tightly packed bookcases. Each one reached to the ceiling and each shelf had a particular purpose, although the logic was not immediately obvious. Sometimes the boxes were ordered chronologically, other times thematically. The documents were filed by topic inside plastic sleeves with holes down the side. The house, the business, bills and invoices, his son’s school reports, certificates, purchases, vaccinations. Photos of Roberto’s mother were kept separately alongside a handful of personal items: a stickpin from the women’s rights association she belonged to as a girl, a trophy she won in a track-and-field event, a carnival mask. As she was picking up the stickpin, Ada’s face suddenly contracted with emotion. Embarrassed, she placed the pin back in the box and raised her hand to her forehead. She stayed like that for a moment until it passed.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing…’

  Something prevented her from speaking until, a moment later, her anger broke through. ‘There’s a poignancy about these things. Can’t you see it?’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  She looked askance at him, biting her lip. ‘Signor Carlo created a sanctuary for your family. There’s so much love on these shelves. Love for you most of all.’

  Roberto looked at her blankly. His indifference seemed to become even more immovable, if that were possible.

  ‘You’re mistaken.’

  ‘I’m just saying what I see.’

  ‘All this is just my father.’

  ‘You really think that?’

  Roberto did not reply at once, and it was only after she looked away and began busying herself with the boxes once again that he added, ‘You’re confusing love for others with love of self and of one’s own life. They’re not the same thing.’

  On the bottom shelf they found a row of vintage Tex comics. They weren’t in numerical order and the volumes, covered by a thick layer of dust, were poking out of the bookcase as if perhaps there was another row behind them. Ada picked one up to leaf through it. The pages had yellowed with age, the glue so dry that you couldn’t open it past halfway without it coming apart.

  ‘I used to read these as a girl too.’

  ‘Not typical reading for a girl.’

  ‘I liked them. And my father collected them. We didn’t have much else in our house, but we had them.’

  ‘It was the era of pointless collecting.’

  As Ada leafed through number 25 the row of comics slumped silently to one side, disturbed by the missing volume, until suddenly the whole lot tumbled out of the bookcase. By the time they realised, the books were already on the floor.

  Ada leaned over to pick them up and put them back in their place.

  ‘Leave them. We’ll be throwing them out anyway.’

  ‘There’s something behind them.’

  Another box.

  Ada removed the remaining few comics and pulled out the box. It was black and made of tin. The lid was tightly shut but after some effort it opened.

  ‘The home movies.’

  Ada looked across at Roberto, who had spoken the words in spite of himself. The various little cardboard boxes inside contained Kodak film cartridges. Eight-millimetre rolls. Underneath were some DVDs, each labelled with a date.

  ‘Summer ’74, winter ’75, summer ’75, winter–spring ’76…’

  Ada had not finished listing them and he was already pointing to the rubbish bag.

  ‘What was it he used to do? He filmed you guys…’

  Roberto approached.

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it? He used to film your family holidays.’

  Roberto picked up a cartridge. They were in excellent condition, as though Carlo had dusted and reorganised them recently.

  Ada took them out of the box and passed them to Roberto. The last was from summer 1981. Roberto took that one and held it in his hands for a long time.

  ‘Why did he suddenly stop in 1981?’

  Roberto held the cartridge tightly in his fist. Then he put it down. He sat back in the armchair with an anxious look in his eyes. He mumbled only, ‘Eighty-one was a special year.’

  Ada looked around her, as though something had suddenly changed her perspective, an intuition, a key to things. She grabbed an old album with geometric patterns on the cover. They had only flicked through it before. Now she looked more closely: there were photos of Roberto, on his own, or with his mother and Carlo. Holiday photos. The paper on which they were printed had turned greenish and the colours had dulled. Ada looked quickly through them, turning some over, until she got to the last one. Then she started on the next album. When she had finished, she placed them one on top of the other.

  ‘This is all stuff from before the summer of 1981.’

  Roberto had not moved a muscle. His hands were interlaced. But his lowered gaze was still shadowed as he struggled to contain a violent agitation within a protective armour of immobility. Ada continued to stare at the bookcases, perplexed.

  ‘There’s nothing of your family after ’81—no more videos, no more photos, no more memories. Why? What happened that year?’ Roberto said with mechanical calm: ‘My mother began to be unwell in ’81. She died in February ’82.’

  Ada was silent. Then, spurred by an impulse for logic, she added: ‘But you and your father were still around after ’81. Yet he gave up completely. He made several home movies a year for your entire childhood and then not even a single o
ne.’

  ‘Evidently he no longer wanted to.’

  Ada was not listening to him. She picked up one 8 mm film after another. Carlo had even placed a little piece of electrical tape on the open windows of the cartridges to stop any light getting in, even though they had already been developed. This was an expert’s eye for detail.

  ‘It’d be lovely to watch them.’

  ‘They’re terribly boring.’

  ‘I’d gladly watch them. I’m very curious. Because I simply can’t imagine you as a little boy. And when I see you in these photos you seem a different person.’

  Roberto shook his head.

  ‘The photos are of no interest. And the home movies can be thrown out. In fact, they’re the first things that should be thrown out.’

  ‘Thrown out? But it’s your childhood…’

  Bewildered, Ada grabbed the box as though to defend it. It was at this point that Roberto leapt forward, reaching for the box and tearing it from her hands. They looked at each other, eye to eye, dismayed.

  ‘Have you gone crazy?’ Ada stepped back, incredulous.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Roberto said, looking at the box. ‘Forgive me, Ada, it’s just that…We’d said you wouldn’t interfere.’

  ‘It’s just some fucking films!’ Ada exploded.

  ‘Please forgive me. I don’t know what came over me.’

  She stopped staring at him, beginning to calm down.

  ‘It is my childhood. But I don’t want to relive it.’ Roberto placed the box on the table, alongside the bag of rubbish.

  ‘Apology accepted. I’m sorry I interfered. Let’s get back to it.’

  Not long afterwards, Ada was leafing through another album, the last. It was filled to halfway. Beyond that, the pages were blank. It seemed to be an album of leftover photographs. Some were of Carlo, from a few years later, placed at random, but then there was one of Roberto, the only one affixed at the corners.

  ‘This is the only picture in which you look a bit older.’

  She turned the photograph over. On the back were the words: 18 April 1985, Tasis, Montagnola di Lugano. Roberto standing against an alpine background in a school uniform. Suddenly older, he was pictured with his father. They were standing straight as matchsticks, one alongside the other. Not touching. The adolescent in the photo had that bored air of someone who wants to get things over with, while his father wore an expression of defiance.