THIS WOMAN IS not telling the truth. First the noise, the clatter of falling objects, the baby crying. All normal: the baby climbs on the table, knocks over the bottles, slips, and cries. But then her scream, a loud bang, and total silence. Not a sound emerges from inside the house. I break down the door and she doesn’t react. The child is on the floor, lying in the midst of broken glass, and she doesn’t pick him up. She’s not telling the truth, it didn’t happen as she says.
THE DOOR OPENS and a nurse emerges. I go up to him. He asks, “Are you the mother?”
“Yes, how is he?”
“He’s awake. We put in some stitches, and now we’ll do a CAT scan. We’ll keep him under observation overnight. You can see him now.”
“Let me just say good-bye to the man who brought us here.”
He’s on his feet, watching us. He has the face of an old man and the body of a much younger one, with the same droopy trousers he always wears, the same plaid shirt and sandals. The nurse approaches him.
“Did you find them?”
“Yes.”
“On your way, you should stop by the police to give your statement.”
A statement? Oh no, what will he say? I smile at him. Be nice!
“Thank you for driving us here.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Hopefully, I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Do I need to inform anyone?”
“No, thank you. My husband is easily alarmed. It’s better if I tell him.”
What a husband.
“Let me know how the boy does.”
“Of course. Good night.”
“Good night.”
He doesn’t know a thing. What does he suspect? He didn’t see anything.
THIS LONG, EMPTY, blue hallway must have terrified him. And all these faces. He’s afraid of the pediatrician, imagine all these nurses. We go into a room.
There he is. He’s playing with a little box in the crib. Poor darling, his head is all bandaged up. He wants me to pick him up in my arms. He doesn’t remember anything.
“Hello, my love, what are you doing? Are you playing with that box?”
I swallow my tears. I mustn’t cry.
“They put a bandage on your head. How do you feel?”
“He’ll be fine. Marco is a strong little man, and very brave.”
The doctor is a woman. She stares at me sternly, or perhaps I’m only imagining it. Marina, be calm.
“Who told you his name?”
“He did. How old is he?”
“Two in September.”
“I asked him where he fell.”
My heart jumps. I must keep calm. She mustn’t know.
“And what did he say?”
“From the truck.”
Joy. I laugh.
“Before he climbed up on the table, he was playing with his toy truck. He was behaving so well that I thought I could leave him alone for a moment to pee. Then I heard a terrible crash … He had climbed up on the table and knocked over all the bottles, and then he fell on the broken glass … I can’t leave him alone, not even for a moment.”
I feel her watching me. I’m afraid she senses something.
“They call them ‘the terrible twos.’ ”
“I’m sorry?”
“The terrible twos. They don’t know how to play by themselves, but they never stop moving, and they don’t sleep because they’re afraid of everything. Mine was the same.”
Relief, calm. Mine was the same, she says. Perhaps even she has lost control at times. After all, what did I do? A moment of rage; maybe he hit his head when he fell and I didn’t realize it.
“Can I pick him up?”
She nods. I pull him toward me and kiss him.
“So, you tell the doctor everything but you won’t talk to me?”
“Now we’ll do a CAT scan.”
I shudder.
“We gave him six stitches.”
“Six! But there’s nothing wrong? I mean, on the inside?”
“I don’t think so. He’s very alert.”
The world is light, the hospital is a paradise. I could hug this woman. She has saved my life.
“We’ll do the CAT scan, and then we’ll take you to the pediatrics floor.”
I begin to cry. “Thank you.”
She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Is he the first?”
“Yes.”
“Babies fall. Sometimes it can even be an opportunity for growth.”
7
THE MOUNTAIN REAPPEARS from behind the rain and clouds, in a shimmering light. The colors are bright, the meadow is wet with rain. The cows are filling their bellies with wet grass. My clients canceled. After a week of uninterrupted rain, they didn’t believe the sun would come out. I told them: “Tomorrow will be sunny. We’ll be able to go up to the lodge.”
It was no good. They left, but I insisted on being paid anyway.
The woman came back from the hospital the next day. We crossed paths in the entryway. She was carrying the boy, his head wrapped in bandages. She smiled at me. Now she’s gentle and attentive.
“Thank you again. What would I have done without you! The CAT scan results were good. They’ll remove the stitches in five days.”
The following morning I could hear her talking on the phone with her husband as she sat on the bench in front of the house. The baby was sleeping in his stroller.
“He’s fine, I promise. You don’t need to come. He fell. You know how it is, he’s never still, not even for a moment.”
He must be one of those men who believe everything their wives tell them without batting an eye. I can understand. You don’t want trouble with your wife. You sacrifice your kids and wash your hands of the problem.
That night after the hospital, I stopped by the police station. They greeted me with pats on the back and jokes.
“Ciao, Manfred, how are you? It’s been a while since your last visit.”
The last time was after Luna went to the hospital, the night I hit her.
WE HAD BEEN arguing for months.
“The kids aren’t allowed to watch TV, and you take them up the mountain every Sunday! They want to be with their friends! They’re grown up!”
We argue about the children, but really we’re fighting about us. I can’t stand her, her moods, her constant desire to try new things, fix up the house, buy knickknacks. At night her tits fill me with desire. I don’t think about her face or her voice but about her body. Luna is willing, but not enthusiastic. She doesn’t like anything about me anymore. She married me, but now she scoffs at everything I say or do. Even the sex.
That day she got under my skin, yelling about something or other.
I stopped to think for a moment. Look how she attacks you. She’s not afraid of you, she doesn’t respect you. She feels stronger because you still want her.
So I hit her.
“THOSE DAYS ARE over, Manfred. You’re not allowed to hit your wife anymore.”
The officers laugh. They’d like to do it too.
“Luna doesn’t want to press charges, but don’t do it again. It didn’t work out well for your father; it wasn’t easy to grow up with him on your own.”
If your mother leaves you, you’re marked for life. If your wife leaves you and keeps the children, it’s just one of those things. I asked Luna to let me keep the kids.
“They can live with me. I want them. My father raised us on his own. And after all, I’m not the one who’s leaving.”
“That way they’ll grow up crazy like you. Don’t push me. When they’re small, they always give the children to their mother. They’ll come and see you from time to time.”
“Thank you.”
I TELL THE police what I heard in the apartment upstairs. The scream, the thud, and the sudden silence. And what I saw when I entered the apartment.
“You have a grudge against women, Manfred. You can’t stand them. First your mother, then Luna. We understand. But they’re not all bad. Your
father was unlucky, but Luna was all right. You’re a difficult man, Manfred. Just go home. You did the right thing.”
What a compliment. Just like what my father said, after the wedding: “Congratulations, now you’re married.”
It takes courage to get married and it takes courage to bash in a door when it’s too quiet inside.
THAT DAY ON the bench, after she finished her phone call with her husband, she walked up to me. I knew what she wanted to ask.
“How did it go with the police statement?”
“Fine.”
“Did they ask you any questions?”
That night, I used the more casual tu, but now I’ve reverted to the more formal lei.
“Yes, they always do after an accident.”
How sweet the little mamma is! Everything is fine, everyone is OK. Who are you kidding? I’ll make you talk. But it’s better if she thinks everything is all right. That way she’ll let down her guard. Just look at that smile!
“Someday I’d like to go up to your brother’s lodge. I’ve heard it’s beautiful there, and one can take the lift and then hike up a path that’s not too strenuous. Could I do it with the baby?”
Women always walk right into the mouth of the wolf. They have an instinct for trouble. I shouldn’t offer my services right away.
“It’s easy. I take my clients, even the ones who aren’t big walkers. Do you hike?”
“Not really.”
I knew it. I’ll take you up there, that way we’ll have time to talk. You’ll never make it to the top. I’ll take you to the forest, up the steepest shortcut, over the moraine and the Gola della Dama peak. We’ll see how long you last.
“You’ll have to carry the boy on your back. Do you have equipment?”
“Unfortunately, no. If my husband had come, we would have bought a pack, but by myself …”
“I have one that we used to use for the kids when they were little.”
“Thank you! That’s very kind.”
How could I ever have thought this mountain man suspected me? He doesn’t talk much but he’s not mean. And he minds his own business.
“Anyway, it’s nice up there. I grew up there.”
“Maybe we could go after he gets his stitches removed.”
TODAY IS THE day. A group of climbers canceled at the last minute, so I’ve been paid. The boy is well, and he’s no longer wearing bandages. The sun is out. I’ll go up and see if she wants to come.
Karl from the wood shop nailed a piece of plywood over the hole in the door. When her husband arrives I’ll tell him he has to pay for a new door. He doesn’t have time to come when his son falls; he must work a lot and make good money.
She comes to the door with the baby in her arms, her hair messy and loose. She’s surprised, and maybe a little bit scared.
“Hello.”
“Hello. I’m going up to the lodge this morning. If you want you can come too, that way I can help you.”
What do I do? The bumpkin remembered. A whole day with him? No, I don’t think I can stand it.
“Maybe it’s a bit tiring for the baby.”
“As you like, but I won’t ask again.”
He starts to leave without saying good-bye.
“Wait, let me think. Maybe it’ll be good for him. Is it very far?”
How careful she is!
“The path is full of kids. But it’s up to you.”
“I should buy some food for us.”
“I have everything we need. You have ten minutes, while I get ready.”
He leaves. What a strange man.
8
WE’RE ON THE gondola. I look down. The altitude frightens me, but I’m also drawn to it. Cliffs, streams, boulders, pylons. The lift shakes each time we overtake a pylon. I look away. The baby is excited; he wants to stick his head through the half-open window. I whisper to him, “Come on, don’t do that. You have to stay still. I’ll put you down when we get to the top.”
He starts to whimper. A group of Austrians stare at us and whisper among themselves. I shouldn’t have accepted. The baby will drive everyone crazy, including him. For the time being he doesn’t seem annoyed. He has his back to us, and stares out the window. He knows every path, every tree. I bet he has played hide-and-seek in these trees and jumped over the streams with his brothers.
“Calm down, my love, we’ll be there soon.”
I put his head on my shoulder. He cranes his neck and whines. The bumpkin turns suddenly.
“Quiet.”
I start, and the baby hides his face in my shoulder, peering at him out of one eye, in silence. This is the only word he has said in the lift: sharp, dry, and quiet.
Where is he taking us? Up to the lodge. The path is easy and he’ll carry the boy on his back.
The green meadows are behind us now and we approach the dark woods, gray masses of thousand-year-old rocks, dusty and precariously balanced above the valley, ready to carry away homes, men, women, children, and cows at any time.
I hold the baby close. I’m drawn to the black boulders and the abyss.
“Marina, come on! You’re always the last, and it’s getting cold!”
The sea is far away at sunset. The cold here is like the cold inside me; it doesn’t frighten me. At the last pylon, I lose my balance and graze his arm. The tartan shirt, always the same, and the smell of his skin. Thin, lean. Like all mountain climbers. Prematurely old men.
SHE CAN BARELY stand on her own two feet! Now I’ll take her on a nice walk. The meadow, the uphill path through the woods, the waterfall, the moraine, the path beneath the ice … If she doesn’t reach the plateau, no lunch! She’ll beg for mercy. She’ll plead with me to stop, and then she’ll tell me the truth, admit what she did to her child. Unnatural, heartless mother. The baby can’t even defend himself; he wants you near him no matter what you do to him.
I WANTED TO be near as well. Is that her?
Footsteps in the snow at night. My father would step out of the lodge to see who was there. He couldn’t accept that she was never coming back. He would stay up, waiting for her. Now I know. Until that night I was convinced he had been the one to send her away. That was what he said at first.
“I sent her away. She couldn’t live here with us. She wanted us to move into town, and I said no.”
I hated him. Why hadn’t she taken me with her? I would have hidden away with her, down in the valley, where the roads are straight and smooth, not like here where we have to take the snowcat, struggling through the snow and rocks.
That night I got out of bed with my brothers and we all went downstairs, quietly, in order of seniority: Albert, Manfred, Stefan. Albert’s feet were filthy; already back then, he didn’t like to bathe. Mother used to scold him.
“Albert, come here and take a bath! Do I have to strip you down?”
Standing in the doorway, we stared at our father. He was crying. Like one of us. Though, it must be said, we never cried in front of him, he didn’t allow it. But here he was, crying, with his head on the table. Next to him, a glass of wine, an empty bottle. If our father was crying, anything was possible. Without our shell, we are like slugs, like the ones we used to crush on the path with our boots, always a size too big, so they would last longer. Seeing him like that with his head on the table, I felt like I no longer had a spine, or muscles. I couldn’t speak.
Why was he crying, if he sent her away?
I didn’t ask Albert. He always said that I didn’t understand, that I was dumb. He would tell me, and I would tell Stefan, like a chain. Albert was the eldest, and she had spoken to him the night before she left. I saw them. But he hated her, and never mentioned her. Now we watched him, awaiting an explanation for our father’s tears.
“Another man stole his wife.”
It took me a few moments to understand. Then, suddenly, it was clear: our mother and “his wife” were the same person. Stole? Who? Did he steal her from us as well? No one at school must know. We’re in the same shit, our fathe
r and the three of us.
I threw away the bluebells she pressed for me between the pages of a book. They were no use to me. We threw away everything she left behind. My father burned every photograph.
THE GONDOLA JOLTS to a stop. We have arrived. The Austrians get off first. Look how she shivers! She’s cold. Just wait! She’ll warm up during our walk. I tell her, “It’s cold, but you’ll be warm once we start walking.”
“Shall we let him walk a bit?”
“No, I’ll carry him in the backpack.”
“He might cry.”
“Marco is a mountaineer; he only cries when he’s around women, isn’t that right?”
He puts the baby in the pack. Marco doesn’t make a sound.
“Who told you his name was Marco?”
“He did. Why do you always call him ‘the baby’? He has a name. Let’s go.”
What a bastard. Now he’s telling me what to do, like everyone else.
The meadow up here is beautiful. Sun, wet grass. The cows chew happily. They look up as we go by. Marco answers them: “Mooo!”
I laugh. “He loves cows. He always does that when he sees them.”
The man doesn’t react. The Austrian tourists take the path marked “Rifugio della Dama—easy, two hours.” Why do we go the other way?
“Aren’t we going to the lodge?”
“We’re taking a shortcut.”
“How far is it? The sign says two hours.”
“This way is shorter, if we shut up and walk.”
How could his wife stand it? No conversation at all. I bet even in bed he doesn’t say a word, just touches and comes, what a bore! As my friend says about her husband: “Some nights when he comes home from work it’s like his pants are already undone. It’s written all over his face: he wants it.”
I’ll bet this bumpkin is the same. I’ll bet he takes off his shirt and leaves his pants on the floor, so it’s easier to put them on again the next day. He barely looks at you, and he’s already hard.
“The baby … Marco … will be hungry soon.”
“How soon?”
“About an hour.”
“We’ll take a break.”
I keep my eyes on his shoes ahead of me on the path. For now, it’s not too bad, but what about later? I feel out of shape.
When the Night Page 5