I USED TO swim when I was little. We went to the mountains as well, but I always felt cold when we went skiing, and I would fall because I was distracted. I preferred skating, because it was like dancing. There was music and I could lean on a boy to steady myself. I liked to be lifted. I felt light, like I could become part of a boy’s body. If he was good, he didn’t have to push much, a touch was enough. If only life were like that. Instead, the music ends and then the same boy who seemed so perfect, made for you and you for him, can barely hold a conversation. Mario doesn’t like to dance. No boy worth spending time with likes to dance. Why is the world divided between the men who dance and the men you can really fall in love with?
THE BUMPKIN WALKS quickly, effortlessly. It’s all he does, after all. He climbs up rock faces and glaciers with ropes. Who knows how many mountains he has climbed. I’d like to ask him about his wife, his children, his brothers. But he doesn’t speak. Even so, it’s nice of him to bring us here and carry the baby on his back. Marco is asleep. His head bumps against the metal bar of the backpack.
“Wait a minute, let me put something under his head.”
He stops without turning around. I pull out Mario’s sweater, the one the baby sleeps with, and fold it under his head. Ever since that night, I can’t look at him when he has his eyes closed. When he opens them I feel better.
“Done.”
He starts walking again. We’ve just begun, and I’m already tired. Two hours! I’ll have to push through the fatigue. I’d rather die than slow down. He leans on his ice axe as he walks.
When the carpenter came to nail two planks over the hole in the door, he was impressed by the damage.
“Manfred really did a number with that axe!”
The following day in the hospital, I reconstructed the series of events. The banging, his screams. I didn’t answer; it was as if I weren’t there. He broke through the door and found me hiding behind the kitchen door. The baby was on the floor, alone. I wonder what he really said to the police?
And now this morning he decides to take me to the lodge. I wonder why? I mentioned the idea a few days ago; I wonder if I should pay him? Yes, it’s better, that way I don’t owe him anything. Even if he thinks he knows something, he has no proof. And after all, why should he? What does he care? It’s none of his business.
We reach the forest. The sun doesn’t filter through the branches. The man chops a mushroom with his axe, and it rolls down the slope. It must be poisonous.
“What are these trees?”
“Larches and firs.”
“You know the area well.”
“I grew up here.”
“You have two brothers?”
“Yes.”
“No sisters?”
“Luckily.”
And not the faintest trace of a mother, I’d like to add; that’s why you are the way you are. You barely utter three words, and there’s no one waiting for you back home.
“I have two sisters.”
“Your poor father.”
“He says he’s a lucky man, because he has four women to look after him.”
“So he says.”
I can’t stand him. As soon as we get to the lodge, I’ll go my own way, of that you can be sure.
“You have two children, don’t you?”
“Who told you?”
“Didn’t you say you got that backpack for them? And I saw the bicycles back at the house.”
“Simon and Clara.”
“Beautiful names.”
“If you say so.”
“How old are they?”
“Ten and seven.”
I’m a little frightened to ask about his wife, or why the children don’t live with him. But if I don’t ask, it will seem like I already know, like I’ve been asking around.
“They don’t live with you?”
“No. They’re coming at the end of the month.”
I’m out of breath. The bumpkin is going too fast. This path is steep, and I’m getting tired. How much time has gone by? If only Marco would wake up. If he cries, we can stop. But he’s sleeping like an angel. He never sleeps this time of day. I’m out of breath. Perhaps it’s the altitude.
WE USED TO go for hikes in the mountains. Mamma never came. Our father would line us up and tell stories to make the time pass and help us forget how tired we were.
I would daydream, embroidering on one of his stories and imagining myself as a character in its plot. With a bit of stardust, I could make the others around me disappear one by one, first my father, then my two sisters. I would imagine I was climbing the mountain on my own, that I wasn’t afraid of encountering the bear who lived in the cave just around the corner. Under the fur there was a nice man, but first I had to tame him, otherwise he would tear me apart. Under the first layer of fur, there was another, and another; it took hours to strip him down to his skin, even days, centuries. If you weren’t careful, he would kill you and you would lie there, in a pool of blood. His claws would carve out parallel furrows in your flesh, then he would bite off a chunk of your cheek and the veins, tendons, and nerves would dangle like electric cords. You could see them hanging outside of your body. Dead. The bear would sniff at the sockets where your eyes once were and the gaping gash in your cheek. Then he would leave you there, and you would just lie on the ground, observing your own body, separated from you forever.
I found many different ways to tell the story; sometimes the girl would have a sword, or she would suddenly become a woman and the story would start over, with a different ending. That way, I didn’t feel tired on the way up the mountain, or bored. Boredom is more tiring than hiking.
SHE’S A GOOD walker, I never would have guessed it. With those skinny legs and no muscle. She’s all nerves, this one.
I speed up little by little, so she doesn’t notice. She stays right behind me. I’m in command here, and she knows it. Only a few people know this path, and we have yet to cross anyone on the trail. But I need a plan. I’ll make her walk until the baby wakes up. It will take some time. Clara could sleep for two hours straight in the thin mountain air, lulled by the steady movement. If she walks for two hours at this speed, she’ll be exhausted. We’ll stop to feed the baby and I’ll say something. Not everything, just a little. She’ll wonder how much I know. She’ll contradict herself and be forced to tell the truth. I’ll be like the police, little by little I’ll back her into a corner, until there is no way out but the truth.
Why are you doing this, Manfred? To punish her. And because the child is in danger; they should take him away from her. My father was right, women don’t know how to raise children. I’ll threaten to tell her husband, good idea; that’s what she fears the most. She didn’t ask him to come and he fell for it. Men don’t want to know, they close their eyes. I would have sacrificed Clara and Simon to have Luna with me at night. My father would have given us up to have her back. It wouldn’t have been enough.
“Love turns into hate.”
My father said that once, when I told him I was getting married. Before.
“Good for you.”
Then he started to tell me about what had happened. He hadn’t explained anything when I was a kid, and when I was getting married, I didn’t want to know. But now that he’s an old man, he’s different. He has a lady friend in the city. He can keep talking as long as he likes.
“The night before she left, your mother still wanted me. She served tables in the dining room, worked, helped with your homework, bathed you, undressed, and came to bed. We talked about the work that had to be done around the lodge, about the guests. She mentioned the American too. ‘He’s alone,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t like American women, he finds them fake.’ ‘Maybe he likes you,’ I said.”
I interrupted him. “So you knew?”
“I could tell. She barely spoke to him, and never looked him in the eye.”
“And you did nothing to stop her?”
“I thought it would pass. I played cards with the Am
erican in the evenings. He didn’t look at her either. Your mother cleaned the tables, poured our drinks, and went to bed. She said good night, and so did he. They never looked at each other. He came up here to hike, and he knew what he was doing. I went out with him a few times. He said that American mountains were fake. ‘Like the women?’ I asked. He said yes, laughing. They must have spoken when I was out in the snowcat, because they never did in front of me. ‘Maybe he likes you,’ I said, but I didn’t look at her, I didn’t want to see it in her eyes. We couldn’t look each other in the eye. She embraced me. ‘I have you and the children. You’re my man.’ She held me close and we made love. That was the night before. For days, months, and years, I’ve gone over every gesture from that night, turning every caress into a blow to the head, the skin … until my hands are covered in blood. Love turns into hatred.”
“What was he like, the American?”
“A man. He knew how to do things, he came from far away. He wanted a real woman, I can understand that. He wasn’t the point. It was about her.”
Like Luna. Maybe she has someone now, but not when she left.
WE HAVE TO cross the stream. If I don’t help her, she’ll slip and hurt herself.
“Give me your hand, and put your feet exactly where I put mine.”
“I can do it by myself.”
“No you can’t.”
Give him your hand, Marina, or you’ll fall. Your legs are trembling.
She’s all sweaty and red in the face. She’s exhausted but won’t admit it.
Her small hand is covered in sweat. She has nice nails. She turns around and I see her face. Red. Exhausted.
“I’d like to stop and wash my face.”
“The cows do their business in that water. You’d better not.”
“At least my hands. I’m sweating.”
“Let’s get to the other side, then we can stop.”
Why did I follow him? There’s no one around. Marco is asleep, and I’m exhausted.
“Are we far?”
Finally.
“Don’t talk. You must be careful here.”
He squeezes my hand with his hard muscles, and it hurts. The water forms little eddies. The noise is deafening but the baby doesn’t wake up. I can see his boots in front of me. I can’t keep going.
“Can I wash my hands now?”
“Yes, but don’t drink.”
She runs her wet hand through the sweaty curls against her neck. Then she looks straight into my eyes.
“I’m tired. Are we far?”
“We still have to reach the moraine, past the forest. There’s a table there, and we can eat.”
“We’ve walked almost an hour, we must be close. Didn’t you say this was a shortcut?”
“We were walking slowly.”
“It didn’t seem like it.”
“If it’s too hard for you, I can slow down.”
You can’t get me, you bastard. I’m stronger than you.
“No, I’m fine.”
She’s stubborn. She doesn’t give up.
“Let’s go then.”
9
HE BITES INTO the bread and cheese and says, without looking at me, “You can let him roam around, there’s no danger here.”
“What about the rocks? He could fall and hurt himself.”
“He’ll learn; there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
It’s quiet here among the rocks, with no one around. Just the three of us, the table, two benches, and the crucifix overhead, planted in the ground. Red droplets descend from the crown of thorns on his forehead, his eyes are half closed, and his body is covered with wounds. Marco plays with two rocks and stares at the crucifix. I search for a topic of conversation.
“These crucifixes are so realistic, children find them scary.”
“The stuff on TV is worse.”
“Maybe, but Marco doesn’t watch TV yet.”
“They see so much.”
He said there’s no danger here. I wonder what he meant. He’s staring at me. What does he want from me?
“Do you work in the city?”
“Yes, I’ll go back to work at the end of the summer.”
“What do you do?”
“I work in a company, I do the books.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Yes.”
“More than being a mother?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth! They’re two different things. One is my job and the other is my life. Do you like being a guide?”
“It’s my life. I’ve been climbing the mountain since I was a kid.”
“Did you like being a father?”
“I still am. I’m separated from the mother, not from Simon and Clara.”
“Well, then, do you like being a father?”
“I do. They don’t always like to be my kids. They don’t like to get up early, they don’t want to go up the mountain. We always used to argue with my wife about it.”
“Is your wife less strict than you are?”
“Maybe. When they were little, we saw things the same way, but then she changed.”
“When children come into the picture it’s more difficult to see eye to eye.”
“Did that happen to you?”
“No … A little. You feel alone, your husband works, and when he comes home, you’re tired. You begin to have two lives. But maybe it’s just me.”
What did I just say? I’m crazy! What possessed me to say such a thing?
“What do you mean ‘it’s just you’?”
“I just meant that at first it’s a bit difficult.”
He stares at me. What a fool I am to say such a thing. Marco walks over to him and touches the ice axe. The man speaks brusquely, as he had earlier in the cable car: “Don’t touch. Come here.”
He picks him up and ties his shoelaces. Now he touches the stitches. Marco pulls his head away.
“How many stitches?”
“Six.”
He puts the boy down and gives him a piece of bread. Marco stands next to him, with his hand on the man’s leg. Say something, Marina. Don’t give him time to ask any more questions.
“Why is it called the Rifugio della Dama?”
“It’s a local legend. A long time ago, a woman and her guide died there. There’s a pile of rocks at the top. Whoever gets there leaves a stone for good luck.”
“How did she die?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it isn’t even true. Tourists like stories, mountain tragedies. The papers are full of them. If a guide dies, it’s a big to-do. My father used to tell us that the Dama was the Snow Queen, who lived beneath the ice, and she would come out to keep lonely men company. The glacier melts away completely now, so no more Snow Queen. No one to keep lonely men company.”
“Perhaps they’re better off, as you say.”
She has a sense of humor, this one. “At least they know what they’re dealing with. Women are strange.”
I laugh. “I’d never heard that one. Funny!”
Let’s see if she keeps laughing. “They’re dangerous.”
“Really!”
“They strike when you’re not looking. There’s not much to laugh about, is there, Marco?”
A pause.
“Why did you say that to the child?”
“He’ll be a man one day and he has to begin to understand women, to know that they’re not to be trusted.”
I can barely swallow. I can’t breathe. All around us there are boulders, piled on top of each other, frozen in place, with a crucifix on top. Like the Via Crucis. Why did I come here? My voice is hoarse. “Do you really have such little esteem for women?”
“One feels esteem for a friend, someone who deserves it.”
“Are you saying that men and women can’t be friends?”
“No, they can’t. Let’s go.”
He stands up, puts away the bag of sandwiches, picks up Marco, puts him in his backback, and loads it on his back. The baby doesn’t make a sound. He
turns toward me and repeats, in the same voice, “Let’s go.”
The bumpkin laughs. His face wrinkles up. He has the eyes of a naughty child. Marco laughs with him, at me.
I look for something to say. “I’ll put a sweater on him. He may get cold.”
The man doesn’t answer. I feel pathetic. My legs hurt. The two of them are already far ahead of me, trudging through the rocks, happy and carefree.
WE’VE LEFT HER behind. I talk to the boy so he won’t be scared without his mother.
“When my brothers and I were young, we used to run through these rocks, and the first one home ate everyone’s lunch. Are you still hungry, Marco?”
“Yes.”
“At the lodge, you’ll have a nice plate of pasta. Mamma gives you mush, but you want spaghetti.”
I see her out of the corner of my eye. She’s struggling far behind. I hear her call out, but pretend not to. I’ll pick up the pace and we’ll leave her here on the mountain. Let’s see if she can make it on her own.
“Does your head still hurt, Marco?”
“Yes.”
“You understand everything I say, don’t you? Your mother did that to you. Now you know and she won’t trick you again.”
He turns back and gazes at her. When we’re little, we understand things without the need for words.
“Mamma coming?”
“She’s coming. We’ll walk ahead and she’ll join us later.”
It’s all useless. No matter what your mother does to you, you still long for her. Mamma coming?
“I don’t know how this will end, Marco, but your mother has to confess. She has to tell the truth. She’ll cry, pull her hair, and then she’ll be forced to say what she did. After that, we’ll wait for your father and tell him everything.”
“Daddy.”
“Yes, Daddy. Who knows what he’s like. Maybe he won’t care, or maybe he won’t believe us. She tells him what he wants to hear, and he’s easily convinced. It takes guts to stand up to your wife and to keep your child safe. That’s why she has to tell the truth, to us and to him. We’re not stupid. Even if sometimes we pretend to be. You know that, don’t you Marco? It can be useful to play dumb, so they leave us alone. But if we want the truth, we can get it. We’re strong. You can do without her, Marco, just imagine she never existed. She did her job, she brought you into the world, and now we’ll get rid of her.
When the Night Page 6