Estella sighs. “You’re quite a girl; you ask some questions. . . .”
“Do you know why?”
A smile blossoms in her voice. “Of course I do.”
“Why? Why can’t they?”
“Because it’s not in their nature. They have claws to climb up with, and they’re attracted to things they might find in trees.”
“Like cherries, you mean?”
“More like birds.”
“Maybe they like chasing butterflies.”
“Maybe.”
“Then they can’t get down.”
“Exactly.”
“But why?”
“I told you, Mafalda, they have claws.”
“Why don’t they jump? Cats can do huge, enormous, gigantic jumps.”
“Okay, Mafalda, I’ll tell you the truth. Cats don’t know how to get down cherry trees because they’re scared.”
I lean out a little toward her and let my legs swing in the dark. “Scared? Of what?”
“Well, of falling, of killing themselves.”
“You mean of dying?”
“Yes.”
Silence again. I move my hands over my head, anchoring myself to the branch with my legs, and touch the delicate leaves and silky, soft flowers on my tree. Some of them come off and land on my nose; others caress my arms and fall to the ground with an almost imperceptible flutter. Very slowly, I ask Estella if she’s afraid of dying.
She starts climbing up the cherry tree and makes it shake all over. She stops near my branch.
“Of course I’m afraid. You’re afraid of something too, aren’t you, Mafalda?”
I play with one of the silk flowers that landed on my hand. “Yes. Of the dark.”
“Aren’t you in the dark now? You don’t seem too scared to me. You climbed up the cherry tree.”
I look at her through the gray. Her face is so close, I can nearly see it, I’m sure, nearly.
“How do you know I’m in the dark?”
“Well, I’ve got a third eye, just like you.”
“Are you going to tell my mom and dad?”
“They’ll work it out by themselves. They also have a third eye, you know. All moms and dads have them.”
I pull my legs in again to my chest. “That’s all very well, but I’m not coming down from here.”
Estella raps the trunk twice. “That sounds like a good idea. You’ve got the flowers, the giant, your grandma . . . Have you tried to speak to her?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“She didn’t answer, did she?”
“No, but it’s nighttime. She’ll be sleeping.”
“It’s nearly morning, Mafalda.”
I turn my head away so she doesn’t see the tears.
Estella sits on a branch just below mine. “Do you know, Mafalda, there was once a cat that knew how to climb down cherry trees?
“A long time ago, when the Egyptians were building the pyramids, cats were worshipped as gods, and a scribe who worked for the pharaoh decided to teach his cat to climb down cherry trees, because he knew it was a special thing for cats and he wanted to surprise his ruler.”
“What color was the cat?”
“It was brown and gray.”
“Like Ottimo Turcaret!”
“Yes, like your chubby cat.”
“Were there cherry trees in Egypt?”
“Oh yes. They had the tallest, prettiest cherry trees you’ve ever seen, but they don’t have them anymore—they chopped them all down.”
“Why?”
“To make room for the pyramids.”
“Oh.”
“So, I was telling you, the man, the scribe, taught the cat to climb down cherry trees in a very clever way—he would just put the cat in a tree and leave it there.”
“What do you mean, leave it there? In the cherry tree?”
“Yes. One time, he left it in the last cherry tree still standing. The pyramid was almost finished, and the cherry tree was right where they wanted to build.”
“So, what did they do with the cat? They didn’t pull the tree down with the cat in it?”
“Worse. That was what they wanted to do, but since it was the prettiest tree in all of Egypt, at the last minute they decided not to chop it down and to build the pyramid around and over it, and if the cat didn’t want to come down, worse for him.”
“That can’t be true.”
Estella laughs. “Well, guess what? The cat survived.”
“Obviously, it would have ended up imprisoned in the pyramid forever!”
“It would’ve died.”
“Because it didn’t have anything to eat and drink?”
“Right, and no air or light. Cats hate the dark—did you know that?”
“Yes, but they have infrared eyes to see at night. Lucky things.”
“Yes, but the scribe’s cat was still scared of being imprisoned, even if it did have infrared eyes, like you say. But as the slaves pushed enormous blocks of stone around the cherry tree and his owner refused to help him come down, the poor cat cried its heart out.
“Everyone pleaded with the scribe to climb up the cherry tree and save the cat before it was too late, but he replied that a cat worthy of a pharaoh knows how to get down a cherry tree.”
“That’s a bit cruel.”
“A bit. But when the slaves, exhausted, were about to place the very last block of stone in position, the cat pulled its claws out of the bark it had been clinging on to and came down the tree in two or three jumps. It was safe.”
“Was the pharaoh happy with his special cat?”
“So happy, he gave it the gift of eternal life.”
“Oh wow. Does that mean the cat is still around somewhere?”
“Must be.”
I sit in silence, but I smile to myself. “That cat certainly wanted to learn to climb down trees!”
“To live in fear, Mafalda, is to not live at all.”
I have a massive smile on my face and a prickling in my eyes. To live in fear is to not live at all, to live in fear is to not live at all. . . . I’m not sure I understand the story about the scribe’s cat, but it’s nice and it makes me tingle, like Filippo’s music.
I turn to Estella, who is climbing down the tree.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“You have to answer this question, Mafalda. What is essential for you?” She jumps and looks up at me from down below.
“Staying here is essential for me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’s the last thing on my list.”
“The old one or the new one?”
“What new one?”
“Well, maybe the old one with a new name. Show me.”
My fingers explore the inside of my pocket and flick against a crumpled piece of paper, similar to the demerit note I got with Filippo. I pull it out, and I can’t see what’s written on it, but I know it’s the list. Mafalda’s list. Things I care a lot about (that I won’t be able to do anymore).
Estella is speaking clearly; it’s not a dream. Estella has always been truthful with me.
“See? All you have to do is give it a new name: Things I care a lot about. You’re in the cherry tree, Mafalda. You climbed up in the dark, didn’t you?”
I sit in silence again, holding the sheet of paper in my hands.
“If the scribe’s cat hadn’t realized what was essential for him, he would be long gone by now.”
I hang on to my branch with both hands, but a voice inside is telling me something.
“I’m in the dark. I’m scared.”
“To live in fear is to not live at all, Mafalda. Come on, I showed you how to get down. Put foot here, remember?”
Okay. I do what she says.
“Like this?”
“Yes, like that. Now, jump. . . .”
“Will you catch me?”
Estella doesn’t reply.
“Will you catch me?”
I’m hanging from a branch,
one foot in a hole in the trunk, one leg dangling in midair. I don’t know how high the branch is. The gray around me is getting lighter. I realize it’s morning. My arms are sore, and so are my hands and knees from when I fell on the pavement last night. I’d like to let go, but I’m scared. I think about Cosimo, who never came down from the tree his whole life, and I feel a bit sad. I only lasted one night, or half a night.
“Estella, help me!”
Estella doesn’t reply, but I hear her voice in my ears telling me I have to do it on my own. I can’t be any worse than a chubby cat, right?
I shut my eyes. The darkness is black, there’s no moon, no North Star. I’m tired. It would be easier to simply let go and fall headfirst. I’d end up in the hospital and they might put me in the same room as Estella. But the thought of that frightens me even more. Estella—and Filippo—are my essential things. I can’t give up.
“Never ever give up,” I chant. “Never ever give up!”
I open my eyes, take my foot out of the hole in the trunk, and dangle in the dark. The cherry tree seems to move under my fingers, as if giving itself a shake. I slide. I let go. I jump.
24
Things I Care a Lot About
The fall seems to go on forever.
The air is cool and dark on my cheeks.
It’s not bad, falling. I feel a lurch in my tummy and in my heart, like the time I went on a roller coaster, which is fun but scary, too. I remember the photo of me, Mom, Dad, and Grandma on a kids’ roller coaster. Grandma’s hair and my hair were standing on end, our arms were up, mouths wide open, teeth flashing (hers ultra-white and false). Grandma loved throwing her arms in the air on rides. I remember her screaming, not in fear, and I remember the camera flash. The bright, white light.
As I fall, I see myself in a flash, like another Mafalda falling in front of me, only she doesn’t have the dark in her eyes. We fall together, and she tells me my pigtails are standing up on end, my arms that were holding the branch are still raised, my clothes puffed full of air. I look funny. “Open your eyes,” she says. “It’s fun!”
I open my eyes, and there’s light everywhere. The monsters are cartoon characters, and they’re stamping their feet along with Grandma, Ravina, Estella, Filippo, and Ottimo Turcaret. Cosimo and Viola are there. They clap at my fall; they’re clear and distinct, together they’re like circus performers, and the girl falling in front of me is laughing and pointing her finger up, so before I land, I too look up to the sky, and I count all the stars in the universe.
I’m only a centimeter away. I can feel it. The girl falling with me waves goodbye and whizzes off up to the sky, holding on to a string of red balloons she found who knows where, flying over the top of the tree, higher than the school roof. By now she’s playing soccer in the night, a star for a ball. Grandma is in the goal, between the moon and the North Star.
My sneakers touch the concrete on the playground sooner than I thought, and my ankles fall on top of them, knees right after, then my bottom, my back, my shoulders, and my hair. I find myself with my hands on the ground, curled up like an empty bag, with sore feet, but all in one piece.
The dark is still dark. I get up inside it and am about to shout out a name, but I can’t remember it; I can only remember my own.
“Mafalda!”
Dad’s voice comes running toward me from far away. It’s a voice full of fast breathing and maybe even tears, although I’ll only know for sure when I smell it.
Dad opens the school gate, banging it, the metal screeching, then runs, throws himself to his knees when he reaches me, and squeezes me as tight, as tight as anything. “Promise me you’ll never run away again. Promise,” he says, his nose deep in my hair.
“Okay.”
He moves a little, and I feel his face in front of mine. His tears smell of chamomile and log fire. Nice. He has his arms round my shoulders. Estella used to do this too.
“How did you find me?”
“Are you all right? Are you all in one piece? I saw you falling from the tree.”
“I didn’t fall. I was climbing down. How did you find me?”
“We followed your tracks. The neighbors saw you going out the back.”
“The not-nice ones?”
“Yes. They’re not that bad. They’re just shy. They helped us find you.”
“Then?”
“I’ll tell you everything at home. It’s cold. Do you know what time it is?” He stops and I know he’s smiling; I hear it in his voice. “It’s Grandma’s absolute favorite time of day.”
Something weird happens when I realize what he’s getting at. A sun seems to pop out behind my eyes, spreading heat across my face. “Dawn, just like her name?”
He pats my head. “Yes, Mafalda, that was her name. Let’s go home.”
“Shall we count how many steps there are between the cherry tree and its smell?”
* * *
Mom jingles the keys to the new house, and Ottimo Turcaret slips through the door a second before she pulls it shut.
“Mom, it wouldn’t be fair. I can smell the cherry tree’s perfume as soon as I open my bedroom window!” We cross the street lined with Mary’s eyes flowers and we’re behind the school, where the organic vegetable garden is. I hear Ottimo Turcaret’s padded landing as he sneaks in to do his business—it makes me laugh.
“You’re right; it’s not fair. I’ll take you inside.”
A rush of warm air caresses my cheek, then I hear the secret whistle that’s not all that secret. I turn to Mom.
“I get it. You want to go alone. All right, I’ll be here when you come out.”
She kisses me, then starts to walk away. I know she’s secretly watching me and thinks I don’t know. I put a foot on the first step. Fast steps come running down toward me from the top. It’s like I can almost see the person in front of me—straight back, legs wide, hands on hips. Filippo.
“Grab on to me; let’s go in.”
We go up the stairs, and he tells me I’m as slow as a boring slow song. This makes me think of our band, which is just a duo for now. “Are we practicing today?”
“Yes, at three o’clock.”
“What are we singing? ‘Yellow Submarine’?”
“No, a new song.”
“Okay. I’ll put it on the list.”
“What list?”
“A new one. Things I care a lot about.”
“Do you have it with you?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see.”
I pull a sheet of paper, folded in four, from my pocket and hand it to Filippo.
“Whoa, look at your writing! I can’t read a word.”
His voice is like butterscotch. He manages to struggle through my new list.
Things I Care a Lot About
Music
Ottimo Turcaret
Stories
Skiing and sledding with Dad or Filippo
Racing on a bike behind Filippo
Guessing the time by the sun on my face
Having a best friend
Flowers and their smell
Traveling to a different place every year
Climbing up cherry trees
Climbing down cherry trees
Not being alone
Loving someone
Being strong like an Amazon
Writing at least one book
He stops. “It’s great. I’ll write it out neater for you at lunch.”
I feel happy. I’m so happy, I even forget to turn round and wave to Mum, who’s still standing at the school gate. She’s happy too because she knows that my essential was finding at least one true friend, and when your eleven-year-old daughter finds a true friend in the dark, well, I think you’d have no choice but to be happy.
“Will you help me write the book?”
Filippo slips the list back into my pocket and takes my hand. The bell rings; it’s time to go in.
“Okay. Do you know how it’s going to start?”
I smile. “Yes. It starts like this. . . . All children are scared of the dark. . . .”
Epilogue
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 very 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.
I’m absolutely certain that when you read this letter, I’ll already be living with your grandma and your giant in the tree trunk, and we’ll be having a whale of a time together. You can come and see us whenever you want—just climb up the tree and put your feet where I told you the first time we met a few years ago. We also talked about our lists that day, and I showed you mine. As time went by, I thought about it and started a new one for the things that were essential to me but that I could still do even with only one breast. You gave me the idea, Mafalda, when you started your list of things that you don’t need eyes to do, which I think is much more difficult. I hope you found many things to put on your list because you are a true Amazon, a little princess in the trees, and the secret daughter of Sherlock Holmes. I only have one thing on my list—to find a true friend. It’s also my essential thing.
I’ll see you in the cherry tree, Mafalda. Meanwhile, have lots and lots of fun. Live every day like it’s your eleventh birthday.
Yours, Estella from Transylvania, Queen of the Amazons
About the Author
PAOLA PERETTI lives in the province of Verona, Italy. She studied literature and philosophy and graduated with a degree in publishing and journalism, and later attended the Palomar School for creative writing in Rovigo. As a teenager, she was diagnosed—the same as her main character—with a rare genetic illness called Stargardt disease, which causes progressive vision loss and eventual blindness. She is currently teaching Italian to immigrant children. The Distance between Me and the Cherry Tree is her debut novel.
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