The Mountain

by Massimo Donati

  ‘He took the blame in place of you. All the guilt over his brother’s death.’

  Roberto turned so Elena could no longer see his face and whispered to himself, ‘So he didn’t hate me, then. He never hated me.’

  But his partner didn’t hear him, and asked, with one last effort: ‘Why did he do that, Roberto?’

  Roberto turned back to her and sought out her eyes in order to light a spark and, with a new and very, very belated certainty, he said: ‘Because he wanted to protect me. Because we were friends.’

  They sat in silence for a long time.

  Finally, Roberto stood up and began seeking out a spot behind them. Elena followed him. The stone with Dino’s photo dropped down into the grass. There, right alongside the rock, no one would touch it. They paused another moment to stare into the void. It continued to be magnificent and implacable.

  Then they looked at each other. Roberto and Elena.

  Elena felt dizzy.

  Then she took his hand and drew him towards the track that led down into the valley. They descended to Madonna del Bosco in silence and when they arrived, they embraced. Before separating they exchanged a wave, a kind of ‘see you later’ that needed to last longer if it was to keep away the cold that was rising in their bodies.

  Instead it vanished, swallowed up by the darkness.

  19

  Ciprini arrived first. He parked his car outside the gate, as he always did. Roberto was sitting in the garden when he heard the bell ring. It was a bright day and the sun was warm on his face. He would happily have stayed there, but he stood up and went to meet the lawyer. He shook Ciprini’s hand firmly and the lawyer smiled warmly.

  Roberto looked at his watch.

  ‘I’ve asked Vanni to join us. He should be here any minute now. Perhaps there was some traffic en route from Milan.’

  ‘I didn’t know the notary was going to be here too.’

  ‘I want to finalise everything by tonight. And then leave.’

  They waited a moment in silence. The smile had already disappeared from Ciprini’s face, which now showed the weight of this new concern.

  When the notary arrived, they sat down at the large table in the living room. Ciprini and Vanni, on opposite sides, pulled out their folders.

  ‘The only one missing is Ada. Ada, would you mind joining us, please?’

  She appeared from upstairs, quickly greeted the notary and the lawyer, sat down and opened her diary.

  ‘I wanted us all to be present for this final stage of proceedings.’

  Ciprini and Vanni looked at each other in surprise.

  ‘Your partner’s not here?’

  ‘She’s already left.’

  Nobody replied.

  ‘I would suggest we begin with the conditions on the will.’

  Roberto looked at Vanni, who nodded and ticked something off a list under the heading Gift.

  ‘We managed to track down Rosa Slat and, at my request, Mr Ciprini has deposited into her account a sum corresponding to the current market value of the land in Tuscany. We were thus able to avoid selling the land, which would only have delayed everything. This means that if you, Vanni, can attest that this is all above board, we can now proceed with all the other transfers of ownership.’

  Ciprini handed the documents to the notary: the land valuation, the transaction record. Vanni read all the documentation carefully and then said, ‘All right, we can proceed.’

  Roberto and Ciprini exchanged satisfied glances. Ada, her bearing still serious, made a note.

  ‘So now we can discuss the painting.’

  Vanni could not hide his surprise. They were all silent as Roberto pulled from his pocket a small piece of paper on which he had written a few lines.

  ‘I noted down what was written in the will. I’ll read it. My father writes: to be donated to the Rovereto City Museum, with the only proviso that a secure and appropriate spot must be found for it to go on display to the public. This means that the unequivocal condition for the painting to be handed over is that it be assigned an ‘appropriate spot’. As an art expert, I shall be the one to assess the appropriateness or otherwise of that spot. For this reason, Mr Vanni, I would ask you to advise the foundation of the possible donation, subject to the conditions outlined by my father. In the meantime, I will keep the painting in a suitable place.’

  Vanni remained impassive, but he straightened the cuffs of his jacket, first one, then the other, to buy some time while he reflected.

  ‘Museums only assign a space after receiving a donation,’ he observed, with some disappointment, and then he added, ‘and generally it takes years to prepare a space for a new acquisition.’

  ‘A secure and appropriate space, which I will assess accordingly.’

  Roberto’s voice took on a hint of sarcasm that was immediately lost in an artificial neutrality. ‘I arranged this morning for the work to be sent to Zurich. In fact, it ought to have arrived by now.’

  The notary froze at this news; nor was the lawyer indifferent. Only Ada remained impassive, since she was the only one aware the painting had been dispatched. She jotted down something else in her diary while Vanni calmly observed, ‘It was Mr Beltrami’s wish to keep the painting out of your family’s hands.’

  ‘My father expressed his wishes through his words. And those words must be our guide. Am I wrong, Mr Ciprini?’

  Ciprini shook his head, teeth clenched.

  ‘Mr Vanni, you are simply required to confirm that there have been no breaches. Have there been any breaches?’

  ‘No, there have not.’

  ‘Good, that’s what I wanted to hear. And since we’ve been able to resolve this dispute, I say let’s move on to the properties.’

  Ada and Ciprini listened attentively.

  ‘But first, Mr Vanni, I would like to hear you say that the procedures laid out in the will can be considered concluded.’

  ‘That’s all concluded. You can now do with your father’s property as you see fit.’

  Vanni closed his folder.

  ‘Good. Over these past few weeks I’ve reflected at length about what to do with the publishing house,’ Roberto began, in a neutral tone. ‘And I’ve arrived at the most logical conclusion for all concerned.’

  Ciprini looked at Roberto intently, searching his face for some indication that might confirm his expectations before the words came out, but found nothing.

  ‘This morning I signed over pre-purchase rights to a Zurich-based company that deals on behalf of a publishing multinational. They were keen to enter the Italian market and Beltrami is a historic brand. They’ll produce art books—they stated that in the purchase agreement, and it will be part of their relaunch project. They will do this by drawing from the house’s rich archival legacy, typographical and printing expertise and, if they can, they will use those authors the company already has in the catalogue. I had to forgo a lot of money for this deal, but I put in the requirement that the staff cannot be reduced for at least three years, except through regular retirement. With the exception of management, of course. As a guarantee, I will stay on as a minority shareholder. I’ve also signed an agreement with them for the sale of all my father’s possessions, including the villa. I don’t know what they’ll decide to do with it. I don’t care.’

  ‘Wait, Roberto, think about this. You can’t…’ Ciprini stammered, as Ada remained impassive.

  ‘Of course I can. I’ve already done it, I’m afraid.’

  The publishing house’s destiny would mean the current management and Ciprini himself would be driven out. Eventually, the only thing left would be the brand.

  The lawyer’s face had a funereal pallor. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘I have no intention of throwing away money the way my father did. I will leave to you, Ciprini, the task of handing everything over to the company I have selected.’

  The lawyer made as if to get up, but then he sat back down and muttered something to himself, while Ada continued
to stare at the floor.

  ‘You, Ada, may stay on as an employee of the publishing house. But Carlo is no longer here, and the villa won’t be here for much longer. You will need to leave your home soon. You were expecting that, weren’t you?’

  Ada tried to hold back the distress she felt at a logical conclusion that was nonetheless so hard to accept. Almost without thinking, her eyes still lowered, she said, ‘I was expecting it. I’ll leave at once.’

  ‘Please, no, there’s no need.’ Roberto said this with a shiver of regret.

  But Ada stood up from the table, resolved. ‘I’ll leave at once,’ she repeated.

  They looked each other in the eyes one more time.

  Ada went briefly up to her room and returned shortly afterwards. She had prepared for this. She placed her keys on the table. As she left the villa she did not turn back.

  Ciprini and Vanni watched her walk away.

  ‘I knew your return would be catastrophic, Roberto. I could feel it. I tried to limit the damage but there was nothing I could do. Because you arrived with the express intention of sweeping away everything your father had built up, not giving a damn about anybody else.’

  ‘Some sacrifices will be necessary, you’ll all have to come to terms with that.’

  At this point Ciprini exploded: ‘You’ll never be the man your father was; you’ll never reach his heights. You don’t lack the talent. But Carlo knew how to love people.’

  ‘He didn’t know how to love me!’

  He had raised his voice, harshly. A definitive chill descended. The meeting would soon be over but Ciprini had not yet finished.

  ‘There’s one thing you owe me.’ Ciprini’s deep-set eyes were filled with rage.

  Roberto stood up from the table with his fists clenched. ‘I owe you nothing.’

  ‘Let me take care of the sale of the villa and of your father’s personal effects. I’ve served your family for forty years. Leave me that task at least. I’ll ensure that it doesn’t go to developers, I’ll find a way to save it while at the same time protecting your interests.’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s appropriate.’

  ‘The first thing they’ll do is to get all they can out of the garden, because that’s all land that can be built on. Do you want them building a lovely block of flats over your mother’s rose garden?’

  This had crossed Ciprini’s mind purely by chance, but Roberto’s eyes revealed an unexpected bewilderment.

  ‘The rose garden.’

  ‘That’s the first thing they’ll get rid of.’

  ‘They can’t do that…’

  Suddenly Roberto was like a child who has just discovered that the game with the rules he made up is going to end up betraying him. As though that insignificant detail condemned him to losing everything.

  ‘They can’t,’ he repeated.

  Ciprini sat back down and looked with embarrassment at Vanni, who didn’t know what to say.

  ‘What do you mean…they can’t?’

  There was an incomprehensible desperation in Roberto’s eyes. He was shaking. He whispered something to himself and then said, ‘We’ll write a clause that obliges the buyers to preserve the rose garden.’

  The lawyer looked perplexed. ‘I don’t know if that’s realistic…’

  ‘They’re my mother’s roses.’ Roberto looked at him, lost; overwhelmed by an emotion he could not control.

  ‘You will take care of the sale of the villa, Mr Ciprini, and you will find a way to protect the roses. We will write that they need to be given love and attention…and that we’ll send someone to check on them once a year.’

  Ciprini nodded, to humour him, unsure what else he could say. He looked across at Vanni for support. Roberto turned towards the large windows that looked out over the garden, now bathed in twilight. He placed his hands on the glass to form a shell around his eyes and looked out, towards where the Madame Staechelin rosebushes could be glimpsed. Though his eyes were smiling, his lips winced with pain.

  ‘There must be a way.’

  20

  Beyond the twists and turns of the road, all that remained was the trip home, the only thing left on the horizon. The highway, the flight and, past that, emptiness.

  She was travelling in a cloud of detachment that kept her emotions at a distance, thus protecting her. She knew herself well, and was aware that soon she would collapse. But for now she forced herself to postpone the inevitable onset of pain and doubt, using incredulity to protect herself against the formless space opening out in front of her.

  She decided to take a break at the same service station where they had treated her so well. After that, she would not be stopping again. Straight on to Zurich.

  She pulled into the service area when the dawn light was still low in the sky.

  She looked around her for the elderly man from the previous time and the boy named Tobia, who in that difficult situation had come to feel familiar to her.

  When the company’s red and yellow windcheater came up to the window to serve her she realised that it was another man wearing it.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said warmly. His voice was so rough as to seem almost unnatural, almost metallic.

  ‘Good morning,’ she replied, handing over the keys to the car. ‘Fill it up, please.’

  But then, before the man could move towards the car’s fuel tank, she added, ‘The gentleman from yesterday’s not around? And the boy?’

  ‘No, signora. I do the early-morning shift. My business partner does the afternoons.’

  Elena noticed that the man, whose head was completely bald, had a scar down one cheek and an ugly prisoner’s or sailor’s tattoo on the back of his neck.

  He removed the fuel cap, put the pump in and waited for it to fill up and cut out automatically.

  He returned to Elena. ‘If you’ve got a long way to travel I’ll clean your windscreen,’ he said with a polite smile. ‘It’s free of charge,’ he added by way of reassurance.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He began cleaning the glass forcefully, as though it was an important task that needed to be completed with great care and responsibility. It took him a minute; the pump down the other end of the vehicle had already stopped. Before he went to take it out, Elena asked, ‘Is he your son?’

  The man didn’t understand. He stopped to approach her and listen.

  ‘Is that your son, the boy who was here yesterday?’

  He nodded earnestly, awaiting a further comment. Elena relaxed. ‘A very capable boy. Congratulations. He helped me out yesterday.’

  The man’s face lit up with pride.

  ‘Tobia’s going through a difficult stage but he’s a good kid,’ he said. ‘Not like I was at his age, luckily.’

  He smiled wanly, with the bitterness of one recalling times and choices now irretrievable.

  ‘Maybe we have children to give ourselves a second chance.’

  Elena did not comment. She hadn’t wanted children. She paid, said goodbye to the man, and turned back onto the road. In an instant she was far away, forever.

  The man watched her drive out of the service station and then returned to his little cubicle. At that hour it was still cool out.

  He had some coffee left. He turned on the radio and sat down, putting his feet up on the desk.

  As he listened, he turned once more to admire the postcard collection on the cubicle’s metal wall. They were from all over the world. Many were addressed to John. Others to Jimmi.

  The foreign ones were his favourites, but there was one that was all crumpled, its corners worn down, that dated back to a summer three decades earlier and came from a village just a few kilometres away. It was held together with sticky tape and, unlike any of the others, had a protective sheet of plastic over it.

  He stared at that postcard, as though suddenly remembering a bygone era, another life, long since forgotten. Then he went back to listening to the radio, and took a sip of his coffee, now cold, just to finish it off.


  On the back of the postcard, where nobody could see it, was a message written in a child’s hand. In large, irregular letters it said simply:

  To my great friend Mattia. Forever yours, Roberto.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like firstly to thank Matteo Sironi and Alessandro Bosi, who worked with me on the film treatment from which this novel was born; Chiara Piovan, Claire Sabatie Garat and Marco Vigevani for all the time and care they dedicated to me; the team at Feltrinelli and, in particular, Laura Cerutti, Michele Bertinotti and Gaia Margutti for their lucid analysis and valuable advice.

  My mother and father for respecting my absences.

  Special thanks to Dina Massimiani, who was my host over a long period, and in whose home I found beauty and serenity while I sought out the words with which to tell this story.

  Note to readers: For reasons of plot and poetic licence, certain places are cited in the novel that do not correspond to those that appear on maps; some exist but are not faithfully represented, others are inspired by locations elsewhere in Italy. So don’t follow the descriptions and set out on a trip to find the settings of the novel, because it is entirely a work of fiction: any reference to people, places or events should be considered purely coincidental.

  Massimo Donati is a writer and a director for cinema and theatre. His movie Fuoriscena won a number of awards, including the Premio Speciale ai Nastri d’Argento 2014. He lives and works between Milan and Rome.

  Brigid Maher is senior lecturer in Italian Studies at La Trobe University in Melbourne. She has translated several works of contemporary Italian writing into English.

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  Copyright © Massimo Donati, 2018

  Translation copyright © Brigid Maher, 2020

  The moral right of Massimo Donati to be identified as the author and Brigid Maher as the translator of this work has been asserted.

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