12
I recall every moment of Africa, starting with the sky I found before my eyes as I stepped off the plane. It was a resplendent blue, complete and unbroken. Nary a cloud. Nary anything. I was instantly enveloped by the crisp air, which I eagerly welcomed. It, too, seemed to shine.
I knew that ancient land from my school textbooks, from a thousand television documentaries, yet it astonished me. Intoxicated my senses with wonder.
Broken up into groups, we traveled by car: a caravan of four-by-fours, one behind the other in single file, loaded with everything from tents to food. The roads were wide, long, straight; everything around us flat and endless. Red sand. Green shrubs dotted here and there. Black silhouettes of umbrella-shaped trees. I remember every sunrise and every sunset. The sky would burst into flame and turn the color of fire, with different shades each time. At the Okavango River delta—which doesn’t empty into the sea but fades into the desert—we left the cars behind and canoed through the waterways surrounded by reeds and islets. After that, we traveled by car again to the Zimbabwe border. We were in total contact with nature, full immersion. Hippos, elephants, lions, giraffes, wildebeests, baboons, hyenas, crocodiles. And many others. And too many species of birds to name. And a leopard. Yes, just one. They’re not easy to spot. My eyes couldn’t contain it all. Even the nighttime stars were too much. A mythical journey. More than that: magical.
Every night we found a suitable place to stop, parked the cars in a circle, and pitched the tents in between. Then we set up a row of picnic tables. We all ate together, commenting on our experiences that day.
But that’s not all.
On the first night, my fellow adventurers saw me walking all around the campsite trying to find a phone signal. When I wandered a little too far, the guide quickly advised me to be careful because it was extremely dangerous. I told him that I absolutely had to call my mother. As soon as I got back, a few people in the group teased me, saying: “Gotta call your mommy, do you now?” Someone else took the bait: “You miss your mom. What a mama’s boy!” More echoed, while others tittered.
“No no, I’m just worried about Ninna and need to check in,” I explained.
“Ninna?” three or four asked in unison.
And so it was that every night—in Africa!—I found myself talking about my little hedgehog, how I’d met her, how I’d nursed her, how I’d taken care of her. A miniseries. Yes, we talked about lions and vultures, warthogs and gazelles…and Ninna…till late, when it was time for bed.
It became a ritual. I searched for a spot where I got cellular service and called my mother.
We kept it short: “Hi, Mama, how are you?”
“Fine. You?”
“Fine. How’s Ninna?”
“Good.”
“Okay. Talk to you tomorrow.”
Then I’d go back to the dinner table, and everyone would ask, “How’s Ninna?”
Later, as our conversations died down, the voices of the night became clearer. The darkness filled with rustles, cries, crackles, calls. One night we were startled by a lion’s powerful roar. A big lion, close by. It had filled the air enough to rattle our spirits. We all fell silent, our eyes jumping around, uncertain. Full of wonder. And a sort of respect. Some had a barely concealed look of fear. The guide told us that it could be dangerous, we should retire to our tents. There, we would be safe. So that’s what we did.
That night, for some of us, it was harder to sleep. I was sharing a tent with Enrico. I woke him up around three: “Enrico, listen…the roaring is further away now.” In fact, it was deeper, but muffled. Muted, yet still robust. We listened.
“Yeah, he’s going away.”
Then we burst out laughing. It wasn’t actually the voice of the king of the jungle, but one of our travel companions with the most incredible snore I’d ever heard. I’m sure his thunderous, rhythmic purr—or roar—kept all the animals of the savannah at a respectful distance every night.
Near the end of the trip, we went to Victoria Falls. But I couldn’t enjoy that exceptional sight. The indisputable beauty of that cascade of water, its impetuous force, deafening rumble, countless rainbows, and clouds of mist reached my heart but couldn’t capture it. I was too worried. I hadn’t managed to get in touch with my mother for three days. The phone just kept ringing. I was afraid something had happened.
Maybe she wasn’t picking up to avoid giving me bad news about Ninna. My anxiety became more evident with every passing hour.
Inevitably, it came time to return home. I got off the plane, and we all piled into the bus for the terminal. I sat down in the back, and the first thing I did was take my phone and shakily type in my mother’s number. Finally she answered.
“Mama, I’ve been calling for days! Are you okay? What happened?” I yelled, agitated.
“Yes. Well, something did happen…” she said in a soft voice.
“What is it? What happened?” I repeated, worked up.
“I have some bad news,” she went on, her voice trembling.
“Tell me, Mama, you’re stressing me out! Did Ninna die?” I shouted again, with all the breath in my lungs and all my desperation.
In the bus, an eerie silence fell. You couldn’t hear a fly. One by one, my travel mates turned to look at me, frozen.
“Did Ninna die?” I thundered again, about to burst into tears.
On the other end, a silence bristling with tension.
A soft murmur spread through the group.
“Ninna’s dead…”
“Ninna’s dead…”
Funereal looks.
Everyone had come to love the little hedgehog I’d told them all about.
I was in agony, my eyes bulging, my mouth bone-dry.
My mother continued: “It happened so fast…”
“Mama, WHAT HAPPENED?”
“I fell and…I fractured my wrist.”
“Madonnina mia! That’s it? You fractured your wrist? Thank goodness!”
My onlookers exchanged radiant smiles and several said, “No, it’s nothing. Everything’s okay! Ninna’s alive! Massimo’s mother just broke her wrist!”
The packed bus heaved a sigh of relief.
“What do you mean, ‘That’s it’?” she replied in a whisper.
“Sorry, sorry, Mama, I’m sorry. I was just afraid that…I mean…you know, a wrist can heal. I love you. I’ll be there soon,” I replied, sheepishly remorseful but calm.
13
My mother was waiting for me at the door. I went to greet her with open arms, but Lilly and Jack came between us. With nonstop jumps, twists, barks, and whimpers. Lilly rolled over on the ground, belly up. Then she turned and euphorically nuzzled my legs. The cycle went on. Only after several rounds of ebullient greetings did the two dogs calm down, and finally I embraced my mother. Then Francesco appeared. More hugs.
“So, Ninna?” I asked them both.
Ninna had already sensed my presence. Maybe she recognized my voice or my scent. She wasn’t in her cardboard house, but was clinging to the side of the cage. Her little eyes were fixed on me as she sniffed excitedly.
“Ninna, Ninnaaa,” I called, and it was like she wanted to break through those bars at all costs.
“Let me get her for you,” Francesco said, reaching out for her to climb onto his open hand. He passed her to me. I took her and brought her up to my face. Ninna started licking me all over. She paused a moment only to turn in my hands, then she resumed lapping at me uncontrollably. At my fingers, too. She was beyond excited. She seemed happy. So was I.
“When you picked Ninna up, she felt safe. She didn’t try to turn over or ball up,” I said to Francesco as soon as the hoglet had begun to calm down.
“Yes, we made friends. She trusts me.”
“She’s grown so much! In these two weeks, you really took good care of her.”
“It was easy. She’s charmin
g.”
I looked at him, smiling. I knew what he meant. He was just like Zio Osvaldo. Physically, there was little resemblance, though he’s a handsome young man—in a different way, but also attractive. Blond with clear blue eyes. And a muscular body that girls went crazy over.
Francesco has a little zoo at his house: ponies, dogs, cats, parakeets. A little of everything. And he looks after them with love and attention. He’s a good man. Like his father was.
At that moment, as we were talking about Ninna, it occurred to me (as it had many times before) that our relationship was like mine and Zio Osvaldo’s. Only now the roles were reversed: I felt like the big brother. And Francesco was like the little brother.
My mother shouted from the kitchen, “Massimo, are you staying to eat?”
“Yes, yes,” I replied. Then I turned to Francesco. “Stay too, please. We have so much to catch up on.” He nodded, smiling, then yelled to my mother, “Zia Franca, set another place at the table. I’m staying, too.”
I was still there the next day. I realized that my mother was having a hard time with her fractured wrist, and I wanted to help her out. Plus, I wanted to spend some time with her. And Francesco, too. I thought I’d stay a week at most. But it ended up being much longer. My mother and my cousin transmitted familial warmth. I was happy there.
I started handling the grocery shopping, the dishes, and things of that sort. My mother prepared all her special recipes. She was content.
I always got back from work in the late afternoon, and Francesco would arrive soon after. We’d take long walks through the fields and nearby woods. We’d talk about this and that: animals, nature, women, work, the future.
We shared our personal lives and gave each other advice. I told him about my bitterness when my ex-wife and I got divorced. That mutual listening was important. It led us to new reflections and perhaps in a way helped me to get rid of some of my sorrows and fears.
On one of those evenings, I told him about an idea that had been buzzing around in my head. “You know what I’d really like to do? I’d like to start a center to help hedgehogs in trouble. Ninna has inspired me. That little creature I met by chance has really changed something inside me.”
“A hedgehog center? That’s pretty unusual.”
“Yes, a center equipped to rescue as many as possible…” I trailed off, leaving room for my imagination.
I went on: “Ninna has heightened my desire to help the smallest, the most forgotten. Precisely because no one hardly ever thinks of them. Whereas every creature, even the tiniest, is precious. First and foremost, it’s a life. But it’s also an important part of our planet, a piece without which the puzzle is incomplete, an indispensable element of the harmony of the whole.”
We both fell silent to unravel our thoughts. For several minutes.
“And I must be here to do something with this life of mine, right?” I continued, not expecting a response.
“Who knows, maybe nothing happens purely by chance. Maybe you were meant to meet Ninna. To find this path, to make your own way,” Francesco said.
“I’ll build some pens at my house. There’s room. It’s so big! And I’ll put all the needy hedgehogs there.”
“I’ll help, too, Massimo.”
I knew I could count on him.
The next day, I wrote to Giulia about my project, but she threw water on the flames of my enthusiasm. She replied:
It’s not that easy. To house hedgehogs, you need permits, official permits. It might be easier for you to help at a center that’s already approved and active.
As always, she was right. The law states that if you find a hedgehog, you’re supposed to take it to a wild animal rescue center. Or you can leave it with a veterinarian. I’m a vet, so then it’s fine, right? No, even a veterinarian can only keep a hedgehog, or any other wild animal, for the amount of time necessary to provide care. And then you’re supposed to take it to a center where the staff will see to its shelter, for varying lengths of time depending on the case, before releasing it back into nature.
I called the director of the Wildlife Recovery Center in Cuneo, introduced myself, and offered to help them with any hedgehogs they had. He was enthusiastic about me joining their group. However, I didn’t start volunteering right away. This newly born idea of mine needed time to grow. I nursed it and thought about how to make it happen. I felt like someone who goes after his dreams. And I liked it.
The days unfolded one after another and still I hadn’t gone back home.
“Stay a little longer,” my mother said. And I didn’t know how to—nor did I want to—tell her no. I wanted to linger in the warmth and closeness we’d developed during that time.
Perfect moments.
One morning, I was having a quick breakfast since I had a series of patients to see in various places, and my mother remarked: “There’s a different look in your eyes. You’re more at peace. You don’t place so much emphasis on your appearance. You’re not obsessed with it anymore. You’ve gotten better at looking inside. And you can tell what’s important from what’s not.” She said it like that, in the same tone she would have used to give me a grocery list. But her forest-green eyes were damp. Modest, she concealed them, but her emotion was evident. I gave her a hug and, smiling, I murmured, “My sweet Momma Franca…”
It was late. I jumped in the car. As I was speeding down the road, the image of Zia Marilena popped in my head. My mother’s words had brought her to the surface of my memory. I thought about all our talks. The faith she had in me. I sent her a “Thanks, Zia Marilena!” Zia Marilena had been up in the heavens for a few years now. But I liked to think that she still listened to me when, every once in a while, I talked to her.
14
My evenings were devoted to Ninna. I put her in the outside pen. But I soon realized it wasn’t enough for her anymore. In fact, I often found her walking anxiously around the perimeter, as if she were looking for a way out of a prison. I felt terrible for her. So I came up with a solution.
My mother’s dogs weren’t a danger because they didn’t have access to Ninna’s corner of the yard. So all I had to do was put Lilly and Jack somewhere in the house—I always carefully avoided any direct contact between them and my baby hedgehog—and that little part of the world became safe. I took Ninna out of the pen and put her on the grass. She explored all around. She seemed so happy after a few nights that it occurred to me to let her go farther. And that was how, armed with a good flashlight, I took up the habit of letting her roam outside the yard, down the dirt road that ran through the fields to the edge of the woods. Our walks lasted hours and hours.
In the silver moonlight, me and her: two nocturnal animals.
Her first steps outside, gracefully circumspect, quickly became little sprints broken up with bursts of hunting. When she came across a smell that attracted her, she planted her little nose on the ground and followed it. First she’d sniff a little to the right, then a little to the left, then in the middle, until, finally certain, she went after her target. She started with a soft sniff: a sort of ff…ff…The closer she got to her prey, the harder and faster she breathed: fff, fff, fff, fff. Suddenly, her sniffing stopped and was replaced by the crunch-crunch of little teeth chomping on a beetle or an earwig. Mission accomplished.
Then she’d resume the hunt. I followed. Often, she would stop abruptly in front of me. She’d turn around, looking for me. She’d look at me. Maybe she was waiting for me to catch up? When I moved closer, she resumed walking. We’d get to the edge of the woods, but I didn’t let her go in. I was afraid of losing her.
Even though.
Even though Giulia had written me that hedgehogs, when they’re strong enough to live on their own, must be returned to their natural habitat.
Huge conflict.
Once I did a test, so to speak, but it was agonizing for me. I was walking behind her on the trail through the fields, on
one of those nights full of stars and moonlight. I walked slowly, letting her get farther and farther ahead. When she was pretty far away, I stopped. And closed my eyes.
Ah!
My heart racked with anguish, I whispered to myself: “Go Ninna, go. Run from me. Go and be happy, Ninna. Go, Ninna, go. And may fate be good to you.” I stood there suffering, long enough for her to leave. Maybe even a little longer. But by the time I opened my eyes, I was in a total panic. Had Ninna escaped? Would I never see her again? I was shaken up. A tear slid down my cheek. Then I got a hold of myself and looked down at the spot where I’d left her.
Ninna was there! It was unreal! She hadn’t gone anywhere! She was turned toward me, waiting for me. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but I ran to her and picked her up, electrified at the joy of still having her with me.
My walks with Ninna taught me to listen to the silence of the countryside. That’s how I discovered it was anything but. The rustling, the crackling of the leaves, the music of the crickets, the voices of the nocturnal birds, and so much more populated that false quiet. And when I crouched next to my hedgie, who was busy sniffing every square inch of ground, I noticed the frenetic life teeming between those blades of grass. I used my flashlight less and less and grew accustomed to seeing in the dark. Not that well, of course, but enough to make out, on clear and calm nights, the details of that little-big world living there. At times the show was soft, other times more harsh, but always it was fascinating.
On one of our nightly excursions, Ninna and I found ourselves in an adventure I’ll never forget. She was farther ahead, as usual, and was busy following a scent. I kept my eye on her. We were at the end of the usual path at the point where the forest began. Suddenly something like a grunt reverberated through the air. Loud. Odd. I had never heard a sound like it. A chill ran over my skin. At the same time, instinctively, I sensed that Ninna was in danger. On impulse, I took my eyes off her to look in the direction of the growl. And the blood in my veins went cold. An enormous badger was running in Ninna’s direction, while she continued quietly sniffing, oblivious. As soon as I caught sight of it, I started running toward her, faster than I’d thought myself capable. But it was closer to my hedgie. I was terrified. I flew. My temples were bursting from stress. The badger catapulted into the canal bed alongside our path and clambered up in an instant. It was on her. But by then, so was I. Him, me, and Ninna. Right next to each other. In a flash, I reached out and grabbed my little hedgehog.
A Handful of Happiness Page 5