When the Night

by Cristina Comencini

  I walked down too quickly, and now the stream is far away.

  Once you’re on the moraine, never wander from the path, and don’t lose sight of the stream. If you go the wrong way, you come up to the crevasses.

  All the kids in town know it. I should head back up. I can’t see the mountaintops or the lights in the valley. I’ll stay here till dawn, or I’ll wait for the lights of the jeep on its return. I should be able to see it from here. But where am I? They passed me; maybe she was with them. Albert didn’t stop.

  I hear a dry sound nearby. Is it a goat, a bird, a hare? We used to be able to recognize each sound: the whistling of a woodchuck, the peep of a marten.

  I’ve experienced this silence many times. But I was never alone; I always knew whom I would find at either end. My father or my brothers at the lodge; Luna and the kids in town. Now there’s no one, neither up above where I was born nor down below where I live. I wouldn’t know whom to turn to. I stand up. It’s cold; I can’t wait here till dawn. I walk toward the right, along the ridge, without descending, listening for the bubbling of water. I take small steps, testing the terrain. The rocks are loose; I pick one up in my hand, but it tells me nothing. I don’t know where I am.

  I’m not afraid of dying on the mountain. If they don’t find you, even better: no coffin, no tomb. Your body breathes until the end, decomposing slowly. I speed up. I can hear the stream now; I’m going in the right direction.

  A thud. What just fell? A rock moves, my foot slides, carrying the rest of my body with it. I can feel the tip of the ice axe against my side, then something pulls it away. I roll, trying to grab onto something, but nothing holds steady, everything pulls away. I can feel objects against my back, chest, shoulders, legs. Something stops me. All around me, things continue to slide. I hear soft thuds, then the patter of rocks, and then silence. Everything hurts. I close my eyes. My face is covered in dirt, but I can’t clean it off. I go inside, deep down; once upon a time it was like this. A light shines, a fire.

  “Warm your hands, children, but don’t get too close, or you’ll get burned.”

  IT’S ONE O’CLOCK and it’s cold out. No noise on the stairs; Manfred still hasn’t arrived. I can see the dark street through the window; his car is not there. Maybe he went to the city or he’s drinking in town.

  Why didn’t he come with us? He went down alone, and he didn’t turn around when we passed him. He must have left his car at the gondola station. At night it’s closed. It takes a long time to go the whole way on foot. How long? Two hours from the lodge to the top of the gondola. And from there to the valley? It took us half an hour in the jeep, so it must be at least two hours on foot, or maybe one. He’s fast and he knows the path by heart.

  We passed him on the mountain at ten o’clock, halfway to his destination. He should be here, but the car is gone. Everything in town closes at ten, or even earlier. Where is he? It’s none of my business; maybe he’s with a woman. He must need to make love from time to time.

  I get undressed. Marco has been sleeping well since we were up at the lodge; let’s hope it lasts. I sit on the bed and put on my nightgown. On the dresser, I can see the photo with my sisters; I take it wherever I go, ever since I was a little girl. I don’t know why. When I was with them, I felt less strange. I’m glad I’m not at the beach now; I needed to face the darkness inside me. It couldn’t last. It would have happened again, but Manfred came in, took the child, and he doesn’t believe the lies I told him. How many lies I’ve told. Mario would have believed me, for the sake of not knowing. It’s better that it happened here.

  I pick up my book and look for the bookmark, but I can’t find it. I flip through the pages and turn it upside down. Where is Mario’s letter? I use it to mark the page. I don’t read much; I fall asleep quickly at night. I turn it over again and flip through the pages. I sit down. Who took it? Marco. It must be somewhere, under the bed or on the dresser. I move the photograph and pick up my notebook. I leaf through the pages. I see the letter tucked into the notebook before the last page. Who put it there? He did. He came in when the carpenter came to fix the door, dug around, and read it. My eyes scan the letter.

  I look at the clock, get up, return to the kitchen, peer out of the window. The car is still not there. He came into my apartment, went through my things. Strangely it does not make me upset, only sorry that the place was such a mess. What he already thought, he is now sure of. That I’m worthless as a woman and as a mother.

  Why hasn’t he come back?

  Once again, I go over the path he must have taken. After walking for three hours at night, you don’t go out on the town in your car. I’ve always seen the car parked in front of the house, since my arrival. It seems strange that on this particular night, after walking down the mountain, he should decide to go out. I sit at the table. Maybe I should call the police, tell someone. They’ll take me for a fool for thinking that a mountain guide could get lost on the mountain in his own backyard.

  Why didn’t he accompany the tourists he had led up the mountain? When the headlights illuminated his neck, he didn’t turn around. If I call the police, they’ll think something strange is afoot. They won’t believe me; they’ll think I’m crazy. If Manfred told them what he saw that night, they’ll think he was telling the truth. I won’t call.

  He was here, in every room, searching, looking, digging. I wish at least I had emptied the tub and washed the breakfast dishes. No one has ever hounded me as he has; he’s on my trail and he won’t let go. Neither will I. I’m calling the police; I don’t care if they think I’m crazy.

  THE SNOW QUEEN. The chapel, and its altar with empty vases, the benches, the heater that no one ever turns on. Everything is out of focus. I’ve carried the injured and the dead here, in summer and in winter. Now it’s my turn. We keep dead bodies here while we wait for them to be identified. I’m alone. No one has come yet to claim me.

  I remember lights, torches, searchlights, hands pulling me upward, the rods of the stretcher digging into my flesh. Then the air, and the sky coming closer; the feeling of being lifted onto something, rising in the air, screaming with each lurching movement. Nothing comes out of my mouth. I don’t hear words, just screams, dogs panting, and the vortex of the helicopter blades above everything. Then the pain stops—perhaps I’m dead—and they carry me to the chapel.

  I try to move my head, but I can’t. Something is holding my neck in place. Blurry faces. I don’t recognize them. They speak quietly. How gentle they all are. I’d like to tell them: I’m shortsighted, come closer.

  But the faces disappear, and then I’m moving again. I close my eyes; better to look inside of myself, and focus on the fire. Where am I?

  A bonfire at night. My mother holds me and says, “Warm yourselves! But don’t go too close, or you’ll get burned.”

  We warm our hands at the fire, and I put my hands in hers; she squeezes them. I’m warm, inside and out.

  SITTING ON A bench in the park, I watch them play. Marco and Bianca’s children. All the adults are in the hospital, where he is being operated on. His wife and children are on their way.

  I called the police. I stammered, not knowing quite what to say.

  “I’m not sure, and I’m probably mistaken. We passed him on the way down, but he hasn’t arrived yet. I don’t have the number of the lodge, but it might be a good idea to call his brother.”

  I leave my number, hang up, and wonder whether I’ve made a fool of myself. I think of how he’ll laugh when he finds out. I climb into bed but I can’t sleep. The phone doesn’t ring. I turn off the light. I make fun of myself, as I always do when I feel that I’ve done something dumb, to comfort myself.

  You’re an idiot, you’re crazy. You just told the police to call his brother. They’ll call Manfred, and he’s probably in bed with a woman or somewhere else. When he returns tomorrow, I won’t be able to look him in the face. He’ll think I missed him, that I was worried about him. As soon as he sees me he’ll start laughing. Th
e whole town will laugh: Bianca, his brothers, his father.

  I toss and turn in bed as I talk to myself. Then, in the middle of the night, I hear an ambulance siren. I get up, go to the kitchen, and open the window. The siren wails in the distance; I can hear the hum of a helicopter in the mountains. It barely occurs to me that it might be for him. In the dark sky the helicopter circles above the gondola station. The town begins to awaken and lights come on in the windows. The telephone rings.

  “They found him at the bottom of a crevasse. They’re taking him to the hospital.”

  I tell myself: you saved him. But I don’t believe it.

  This morning, Bianca left the kids with me and went to the hospital with Albert. She says they will have to put a metal plate on his spine, at chest height.

  How will he work with a metal plate on his spine? Better not to think about it. Maybe his wife will come and take care of him.

  I feel a strange calm. Marco runs in the park, followed by Gabriel. He looks bigger; soon he’ll be a boy like those two. Mario will find him changed; will he see something new in me as well?

  In a week I’ll be at the beach, and I’ll forget Manfred. I could have invited him into my bed, just once, before Mario and Manfred’s wife arrived. Who would have known? What would it have changed? For the others, nothing. For us it would have been something different, something crazy. We’re already crazy. Why am I thinking about this while he’s in the operating room and they’re putting a metal plate on his spine? I should be hoping that the operation goes well and that his wife will take him back.

  THIS IS ALL I want: to spend a single night with him. Even if he’s brutal, rushed, or who knows what else, I want to try. Then everything can begin again: Mario, Marco, my sisters, the sea. He can go back to his wife, and everybody will be happy. Once, just once, I want to feel those hands—the hands that picked up Marco, put him in the backpack—pulling down my trousers, undoing my bra. I want to feel goose bumps where he touches me, and to kiss him.

  Afterward I’ll dance slowly in front of you, naked, in silence. You can whisper in my ear, even terrible things, tell me what you think, everything. And I won’t be tender. We’ll tell each other the truth. Finally, someone to whom we can tell the truth.

  I want to hear about your mother, Manfred, or if you prefer, I can tell you a story. The American arrives one day; he’s handsome, different, and talks more than your father does. Before his arrival, she didn’t know how much she hated you. Don’t get angry, wait, be calm. She loved you, but at the end of the day, when she put you to bed and the sun set, and she had finished everything, she would undress, and your father would look at her. “Are you happy?”

  And then she would hate you. Happiness, despair, it means nothing, Manfred. You kicked me when I was sitting behind the door, to make me get up. That’s how it is when you have a child; life kicks you in the gut. You try to shield yourself, you think you can avoid it. But if you know that’s how it is, you just take it, you put on a brave face, you love and you hate, because that’s what you have to do. You just have to know. Now I know, because I met you.

  We make love again. We call it that, but between us, it’s not love, it’s something else.

  MY EYELIDS ARE heavy. I open my eyes, then close them again. There is a tube in my mouth. I can’t move my head, so I move my eyes instead. There is a blurry face nearby, something near my ear. A metallic voice speaks slowly, clearly pronouncing each syllable.

  “How do you feel? It’s me, Luna. Your father is here, and your brothers, and the kids. Soon you’ll be back home. Stay calm. You fell, and the woman living in the apartment upstairs called the police. They found you and operated on you. Everything will be all right. We’re here.”

  The blurry face moves away.

  I think about the words she said, one by one.

  Luna, the kids; I’ve fallen; I’ve been operated on. The woman upstairs called the police.

  Marina. Of course. Falling, rocks, pain. I feel nothing. My thoughts begin to come back to me. The distant rage, like the thunder after an avalanche.

  Marina called the police. Where is she? No, she’s not here. She’s at home with the baby. Her husband is coming to get her. She saved herself from me, she raised the alarm, she saved me.

  Marina.

  I articulate her name. She’s clever; now she’ll take advantage of what’s happened and leave all this behind. I have to be thankful. Just wait till I’m better, I won’t give up; she’ll tell the truth. I have the proof on the tablecloth. Where did I put it? In my trouser pocket. It won’t end here. She’s much cleverer than Luna; she shoved the story of my mother in my face.

  Luna never mentioned her; she was too afraid of my reaction. She would tell the kids that Grandma lived far away and that one day they would go see her. Clara told me.

  Simon and Clara are here; it must be serious.

  “Everything will be all right.”

  That’s what they always say. I should consider this: I was operated on, maybe I’ll die, or I won’t be able to move, or I’ll be a vegetable. And her? She’ll get away with it and go off with her husband. Maybe I’m already a vegetable and I don’t even know it. Someone who is about to die and can only think about how to make trouble for that woman has a few screws loose.

  I think about her husband loading up the car, kissing her. “How have you been? And the baby?”

  She pretends to be an angel, a sweet little mamma. I can’t stand the idea, even if I’m half dead. Manfred, you’re cooked, full of pills, and not making any sense. Once you’re dead, what do you care? No, I want to see her cry, plead, apologize, throw herself on the floor, kiss my hands, beg me. Maybe I’m already dead, these are the thoughts of a dead man. Who says dead men are at peace?

  On the contrary, they can finally give free rein to their rage, say everything, curse whomever they please.

  I’ll make you come here, Marina.

  Climb up on the bed, come closer or I can’t see you. I’m shortsighted, as you know. Look at me now. You feel sorry for me, don’t you? You can remove the tube from my mouth. Do I disgust you? That way I can tell you what you are. Come close, and I’ll run my fingers through your hair. You washed it, you put on makeup; whom were you trying to seduce? Everyone; the first man who comes along can take you. I don’t want you. I don’t care if you dance and try to impress me. I saw you on your knees behind the door; I kicked you because you wouldn’t get up and go to him. You want to leave but you can’t; stay here until I wake up, while I still want you, until you’ve done your time. Stay here, I’ll fuck you and you’ll see, I won’t die.

  14

  MAY I COME in?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She holds out her hand.

  “I’m Luna, Manfred’s wife.”

  “Marina.”

  “The kids are sleeping. Yours too?”

  I nod. She looks around at the apartment. She’s a beautiful woman, large, tall, with broad shoulders, large breasts, a wide face, and light almond-shaped eyes. She doesn’t look terribly young, around forty I would say, like Manfred.

  “I haven’t been in here for years. I decorated this apartment. A carpenter used to live here, and it looked like a toolshed. Everything was old, and it was full of stuff; he never got rid of anything. My father-in-law bought the house, both apartments, and when we got married he gave them to us.”

  “It’s comfortable, we’ve been happy here. Would you like to sit in the kitchen? I was having a tisane; would you like one? Or would you prefer a glass of wine?”

  “A tisane would be lovely, thank you.”

  She sits down at the table and looks around with a proprietary air, as if checking to see whether everything is as she left it. Luckily I’ve done the dishes. I take a cup and pour the tea. It’s strange, serving this woman in her own house.

  “I wanted to thank you for making the call.”

  I sit across from her. She has strong, rough hands. Her face looks tired, like Bianca’s. Heav
y work and cold air, and they don’t do much to protect their skin.

  “I don’t know how I got up the nerve to call. He could have been out somewhere.”

  She smiles stiffly. “Manfred hardly ever goes out. At least that’s how it was when we were together. He goes to bed early.”

  “At one in the morning I looked out and the car still wasn’t there.”

  She stares at me. There is something she wants to know. I blush and look down, like an idiot.

  “Do you usually go to bed late?”

  “No, not usually.” Marina, be careful, don’t say anything stupid. “But ever since the accident, and our time up at the lodge, the baby has been sleeping more soundly and I’ve been going to bed later.”

  “The accident?”

  What does that have to do with anything? Why did I bring it up?

  “He fell off the table.”

  She listens, staring at me all the while.

  “Your husband … Manfred … drove us to the hospital.”

  There you go, you’ve told her everything, as if you needed to justify yourself.

  She smiles, but there is still something hard about her. I smile too, as I used to do in school, hoping she’ll like me. After all, she’s a teacher.

  “Are you from around here? A teacher?”

  “Yes, I teach in the city. Did Manfred tell you?”

  She’s diffident.

  “No, Bianca told me.”

  That’s better: short answers. Don’t embellish. Do as she does. She drinks her tea. Now she has a vague look on her face. I don’t want to ask her how he is; Bianca already told me.

  “The rehabilitation will take a long time, but he’ll be all right, though not like before. He’ll need help; he’ll have to live with someone.”

  Silence. Tears stream down his wife’s face. She cries openly, without moving. Maybe he is in trouble.

  My voice trembles. “Please don’t cry … Bianca told me that he’ll be able to walk, and do almost everything he does now.”

  She wipes her tears away with her hand. What drama this kitchen has seen!