21
I Didn’t Even Say Goodbye to Ottimo Turcaret
Estella told me to let her know when I go to the cherry tree. She wants to give me a hand, and I think I’m going to need it. Very soon, I’ll hear her whistle, and everything will be fine; she’ll help me up the stairs, we’ll agree to meet under the tree at break, and then when the others go back into the classroom, I’ll say goodbye, I’ll let her give me a leg up, and I’ll climb the cherry tree for the last time.
I dress slowly, not too slowly or Mom will come check on me. Too bad Mom picked today to leave me out a blouse. The buttons are difficult in the dark. But my fingers like the buttons; they’re smooth and cool and slip quickly into the right slots. Maybe one didn’t. I’ll just have to hope Mom doesn’t check. She comes into my room to do my pigtails. Singing to herself. I haven’t told her about the demerit note I got with Filippo. I may as well keep it to myself now. I’ll be gone soon.
I take lots of deep breaths on the way to school, so many that after a while, Dad asks me if I’m feeling all right.
I need to calm down. It’s just that I didn’t even say goodbye to Ottimo Turcaret. I don’t know where he is. The only thing I know is that I’ll never see him again when I am in the tree, and this fills my eyes with tears.
Dad mustn’t hear me cry or he’ll realize something’s wrong. I squeeze his hand and point to the cherry tree, even though I’m not completely sure it’s where I’m pointing. I risk it. “The giant and Grandma have stuck their prettiest flowers to the branches, haven’t they, Dad?”
It’s spring. We talked about flowers yesterday, and I can smell rhubarb sweets on the morning breeze. “They have indeed,” Dad replies, and squeezes my hand back.
Poor Dad. In his favorite book, it’s the father’s fault that Cosimo goes to live in the trees, or that’s what I understood. Cosimo’s dad was too strict and made him eat all the rubbish food that Cosimo’s sister used to cook. My dad is fairly kind, even though he forces me to eat tuna, and it was his decision to make us move to a new house. I’ll write him a letter from the tree to explain everything.
“We’re here,” he says, and I almost bump straight into the tree trunk. Estella didn’t whistle.
“Your friendly janitor doesn’t seem to be here today. I’ll take you inside,” Dad says, and I hear him moving toward the stairs already.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll go up myself.”
I start going up the steps, my heart pounding under my sweater, under the small white printed star. Wearing Estella’s T-shirt under my blouse seemed like the best way of bringing it with me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Bye,” I say, without turning round.
“Okay. Bye. See you later.”
I get to the door and follow the others into the classroom, running one hand along the wall, trying not to draw attention to myself so the teachers don’t notice. Luckily, we don’t have any tests today, and Fernando leaves me alone. He just helps me sort my folders and books—thank goodness we don’t take too many notes today—and he switches on the computer I use to practice playing the recorder during our music lesson. I’m a bit scared when we play, but Filippo’s right; music is my friend, and even if I can’t see the notes on the computer, I can still play the songs we’ve done hundreds of times together in class. No one says anything.
I don’t know what to do at lunch and recess. I try to stand still as much as I can so I don’t attract the teacher’s attention, while I wonder where Estella is, today of all days, when I need her help. I hear the voice of the janitor with the stained shirt as he walks past me. He’s on his phone.
“So sorry.”
He stops speaking into the phone, and I realize he’s annoyed. “What’s up?”
“Where’s Estella?”
“How should I know? She’s always sick, that one, and I get landed with all her work.”
“Is she sick?”
“What’s it to you? Are you her daughter?”
“No. My name’s Mafalda.”
The voice of the janitor with the stained shirt changes. “Mafalda, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Your friend left you a letter. Wait here while I get it for you.”
He moves away, talking on his phone, and I follow his voice. Someone bumps into me, and I hope it’s Filippo, but I think he’s in detention in his classroom. It happens. Quite a lot.
“Here you are. On you go now, back to your classroom; the bell’s about to ring.”
I’m holding Estella’s letter in my hands. It’s an envelope with a sheet of paper folded in half inside, so it’s a short letter. What does she have to write that she can’t say in person? Someone will have to help me read the letter, and quick, because my third eye is shouting as loud as it can that maybe this sheet says where Estella is and what’s wrong with her. I need to find Filippo.
* * *
“Mom, can you take me to Filippo’s house today?”
“Not today, Mafalda. We have to finish packing and moving our things.”
We’re in the car, and I’m so agitated, I forgot to put my glasses back on after gym. Fernando made me do silly exercises while the others were doing hurdles, and my glasses are still in his pocket. My backpack is half-empty because I left the blanket containing my things in the locker room at the gym so it’s ready for later. School is open until six o’clock in the afternoon for pupils who do clubs and sports—I’ll be able to go in and get my bundle to take it with me to the tree.
Only everything’s going wrong. “But I’ve still got one day left!”
“Until what?” Mom asks, genuinely surprised at how loud I’m yelling.
“The new house!”
“I know, but wouldn’t it be better if we could get there a bit earlier? That way you can arrange your room, meet the neighbors, and . . .”
I stop listening to her. If we finish the move today, I’m done for. I’ve got no choice. I have to sneak out, go to Filippo’s, get him to read me the letter, find out where Estella is, then climb up the tree before Mom and Dad find me.
22
Climbing up the School Cherry Tree
More men who smell of sweat and dust and cardboard walk near me, and the more they talk to each other as they move the last few boxes, the more I realize the house is empty. Their voices echo off the walls, the boxes make the floor shake, and it makes me want to put my hands over my ears. But I can’t—it would give my secret away.
I’d like to phone Filippo on Mom’s phone to tell him to come here and read me Estella’s letter, but I can’t find it in all the chaos and nothingness left in the house, and with the darkness that’s in my eyes. In the end, I can’t stand it any longer and head in the direction of Mom’s voice as she tells the sweaty men to put her bike in the truck as well.
“Mom, can you read me something?”
Mom is fanning herself with something that smells like old newspaper. “Mafalda, I don’t have time right now. Can’t you use your magnifying glass?”
“I left it at school.”
She comes over to me, very, very close, and moves my hair out of my face. My pigtails unraveled a little during gym. She wants to know if everything is okay. I’m scared she’s looking into my eyes and can see that the light has gone off. What am I supposed to do when I’m scared? Think of something nice. The cherry tree. I crack a huge smile and turn round so Mom can comb my hair. She relaxes. “So, what do you want me to read to you?”
I give her Estella’s letter, and she opens it and lays it on my head. “Oh, what big writing! They’ve used a marker pen, just the way you like it. I think you could read it yourself, even without your magnifying glass.”
“I don’t have my glasses. Sorry. You do it, please.”
“Oh, okay. Here we go. ‘Dear Mafalda—a while ago I told you that a not-nice friend of mine took away a bit of me, do you remember? Well, Estella does not tell lies. Only truth. So, I think you should know that it wasn’t a friend, but a ve
ry nasty illness, and the illness has come back, and now it’s trying to take away another bit of me, maybe even all of me. That’s why I’m in the hospital and couldn’t do our secret whistle. . . .’ Oh, Mafalda, I’m so sorry!”
Mom stops reading, and her voice is terribly, terribly sad, but my head is so full of words cartwheeling around that I don’t understand any of it. With my eyes stinging, I grab the letter out of Mom’s hand. “Enough!”
I run from Mom’s voice, she shouts, “Where are you going?” and I shout that I want to be alone, please; by pure coincidence I manage to find my room, gather up my notebook from where I’d left it behind the door, rip out the first few pages, the list and everything, then run out of the front door, down the stairs, almost killing myself, through the door into the garden where I hear Dad’s voice, very near to me, telling me to slow down and not go too far.
I lean against the fence round the back to catch my breath. I hate running in the dark. And even if I promised I’d never say it, I’m going to now—I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate it! I hate it all: I hate the new house, I hate school, hate grandparents because they die, hate cats because they disappear and can’t get down cherry trees, hate boyfriends because they don’t say “I love you,” and hate myself because everyone else can see and I can’t.
“Hey, are you all right?”
An unfamiliar voice. On the other side of the road. The horrible neighbors who live in Grandma’s house.
“Why did you take her curtains down?!” I’m just as shocked as they are at my screams, and tears run into my mouth—I hadn’t realized I was crying so hard. I feel for the bolt on the fence, open it, pull the gate toward me, and run outside onto the pavement, where Filippo stopped with his bike to chat and stroke Ottimo Turcaret. His apartment is not that far from my house. When I get to the T-shirt printing shop, I’ll scream at the top of my voice for Filippo. He’ll come down into the street and help me get to the hospital, because I have to tell Estella what my essential thing is. Maybe if I tell her, she won’t go and live in the tree with Grandma and the giant. If I tell her what’s essential for me, she’ll stay here and help me climb up the tree and maybe explain why cats can’t get down trees.
I try to walk quickly on the pavement and not lose my way. I drag one hand along the walls of the houses and garden gates. Oww! Pain really hurts in the dark because you’re not expecting it. A splinter gets stuck under the nail of my middle finger, which I think is the most painful thing of all, but I can’t start crying again; I haven’t got time. I need to keep going. I think I’ve touched this wall already; I recognize the lumps of paint. I must be going around our neighborhood in circles, and have been for a while.
The sound of a car that makes the same noise as Mom’s comes from the end of the street. It’s getting closer. I kneel down on the ground so they won’t see me, although I have no idea if there’s anything in front of me to hide me. I hide my face in my arms. The car goes past and doesn’t stop. I start walking again. A door with a bell opens on my left, and I hear the voices of men and women saying hello and the ting of glasses clinking. I keep going, pretending to be confident and relaxed, even though I’ve mixed up so many streets and roads, I have no idea where I’m going. After quite a lot of steps, the voice of a woman, who’s neither old nor young, asks me something. I’m immersed in all the things worrying me and don’t listen.
“Wait! Where are you going all by yourself?”
I try not to look at the woman’s face, as she’ll realize I’m in the dark and take me straight back to my mom and dad. “I’m going home.”
“At this time, all alone? How old are you?”
“Why, what time is it?”
Nothing. The lady must be looking at her watch. “Six o’clock. It’s dark.”
“Oh no!” I’ve been out for almost two hours and hadn’t realized. It’s too late to get Grandma’s blanket from the locker in the gym. I’ll be lucky if I can even get back to our garden. Okay, the priority now is to get to Estella. I’ll deal with the blanket later.
“Where do you live?”
I’d like to tell her to leave me alone and that she’s a stranger and I don’t tell strangers where I live, but then I think she could help me. “I live near the shop where they print T-shirts, but it’s not my house. It’s my aunt’s. I live somewhere else. Can you help me get to my aunt’s? I think I must be lost, and my aunt will be angry if I’m late.”
The woman is not convinced. “And what’s your aunt’s name? Maybe I know her.”
“She’s called Christine. The T-shirt printing shop is hers. Can you help me get there? My aunt will be angry if —”
“If you’re late, I get it. Let’s go; it’s just round the corner. You were almost there.”
The lady takes my hand, and I’m a little scared she might trick me and take me away, but a few steps later she tells me we’ve arrived and lets go of my hand. “There’s the shop you were looking for. Be sure to cross the road at the crosswalk.”
I hear cars whizzing past, then a ding, ding that I know well. “Filippo!”
The lady talks to the street. “Is that your cousin?”
I say it is and I’m happy, because it looks like my aunt really does live here and the lady can go away.
Filippo’s voice, from the other side of the road: “Ciao, Mafalda!” He must be just back from his piano lesson.
The lady says goodbye and I step down off the pavement. I’m so happy to be at Filippo’s that I forget to listen to the noise and for the air moving. All I hear is his voice shouting, “Mafalda, stop!” then a loud blast from a car horn and a bang, like a box falling and scattering its contents everywhere.
Then only silence. Cars stop going past and people on the pavement stop speaking. Perhaps the world has stopped. I’ve stopped too, one foot on the road and one foot on the pavement, leg bent back slightly, notebook in my hand. I can’t even hear my heart beating under the white star.
The voices of the lady and of other people in the street, in cars, up above me, on balconies, I think, at windows, noises all around me, brisk footsteps, air moving, everything and everyone all mixed together, deafeningly. I drop my notebook, cover my ears to block out Filippo shouting, “Mafalda, Mafalda!” I start running. I run away, bump into a big, foul-smelling box, a trash can. I fall hands-first onto the pavement.
No one bothers with me, so I get up and walk as fast as I can, dragging a hand along the walls, and after who knows how long, instead of tears filling my nose and mouth, the scent of Grandma’s rhubarb sweets creeps in, and under my feet I feel the stones of the road outside school. I run to the gate—it’s open, silence all around. I go onto the school grounds, wrap my arms round the cherry tree. It feels cool, and with no glasses, no magnifying glass, no North Star, no Ottimo Turcaret, no Estella, no Filippo, I climb, and climb, and climb, and finally I’m up.
Darkness.
In the nighttime in my eyes, everything is dark gray and silent, like a cloud bearing rain. The monsters trying to grab my feet are waiting under the cherry tree. I’m scared I’ll fall, but I’m also tired, so very, very tired.
I stretch out on the branch I’m sitting on, rest my damp cheek on it, the branch now wet. I grip with all my might. Here I am, Grandma. I’ve come; it’s me, Mafalda, and I fall asleep breathing balled-up flowers and the green hair of the giant.
* * *
See, Cosimo? In the end I came.
You know, I was so sure I’d meet you here, you and Grandma and the giant. Knock, knock, I keep rapping the branch, but no one comes out to keep me company. I should have known you were alone in the trees as well. Maybe it wasn’t that great living in the trees after all. So why did you do it? Why have I done it? The branches are hard and uncomfortable, it’s cold, and I’ve left everything I need at home.
Estella always says to think about something nice when you’re sad. I concentrate, and right away I think of her, Estella, and I’m tempted to have a nap with a dream, one I’
ve thought about for so long. . . .
23
Be Strong Like an Amazon
Mafalda. Mafalda, wake up.”
The voice from below and the pain in my cheek make me open my eyes. It’s still all gray, and it’s cold, too. I sit up on the branch, rest my back against the trunk, pull my legs into my chest. But the dark is so dark that I lose my balance and don’t know what to hold on to; I nearly fall. More tears bubble out slowly from my eyes. I wipe them away with my sleeve. I think of Filippo.
“For goodness’ sake, won’t you even look at me?”
Estella.
I know it’s impossible, but it’s like I can see her, so thin in her janitor’s overalls, bright pink lipstick, hands on her hips like Filippo, dark eyes rimmed with black.
“Are you not even going to say hello?”
“Sorry. I thought you were in the hospital. I was coming to see you.”
She moves a few steps closer to the trunk and leans against it. I feel her touch all the way up here, through the bark. “Well, all you’ve done is worry your mom and dad. They’ve been looking for you all night. Luckily, I found you.”
“Yes, luckily.”
We don’t speak for a while. The only sound is a cricket on the branches above me. I love crickets. Unlike cats, they know how to climb down trees, from anywhere high.
I look up and ask, “Estella, do you know why cats can’t get down cherry trees?”
Her voice looks up, toward me. “From cherry trees?”
“Yes, from cherry trees. Do you know why?”
The Distance between Me and the Cherry Tree Page 11