STEFAN HAS GRAY hair; I wonder if Manfred has gone gray as well. Albert is thinner; perhaps he is too. Stefan’s wife tells me about Belgrade. She orders her husband to pour her a drink, without looking at him. Stefan smiles; he’s happy to see us talking. When he arrived, he embraced me and presented me to his wife.
“Marina, a tremendous dancer!”
I laughed. “Not as good you!”
She didn’t laugh. She stared at us suspiciously. So, to smooth things over, I asked her about her country. She warmed up, told me about the war and about her arrival in Italy. If it weren’t for the war, Stefan would never have met her, and perhaps he’d have a different wife.
Husbands and wives are interchangeable. No one says it, but that’s what I believe. You meet a man, you like him, his voice, his body, how he eats, how he touches you, your kids, the house. You lie in bed and you don’t know which leg belongs to whom; but you don’t remember why you chose that particular man.
I’m tired of her war stories, but she keeps talking.
“I left Belgrade with my mother.”
Stefan smiles: “And then she met me.”
She turns toward him with a brazen look: “That’s right! I met him.”
Albert laughs. “You married the handsomest of the three of us, and the biggest rascal.”
Bianca taps her brother-in-law on the back. “It’s not true. He’s a wonderful husband.”
Stefan smiles, a smile that is aged by his gray hair. “I pay her to defend me from my wife.”
Everyone laughs, except his Serbian wife.
“I’m the foreigner here, and the last to know all of you, and I’m telling you that the best of the three is Manfred.”
I was about to get up, but I change my mind. The two brothers and Bianca tease her.
“You wouldn’t have lasted an hour with Manfred.”
But Stefan’s wife isn’t bowed. “I’m not joking. It’s true. He’s quiet, he has a nasty streak, but at your father’s funeral he was the only one who spoke at the church.”
I can’t help myself, I have to ask; who cares if they find me overly interested: “What did he say?”
Albert wants to drop the subject, but Bianca intervenes: “I couldn’t believe it myself. He hadn’t told anyone he was going to do it. When the priest asked if anyone had something to say, he stood up and went to the altar. He said that Gustav was a shining example of how one keeps faith in a commitment; that he had raised the three of them without coddling them; that they were lucky to have had him for a father.”
The two brothers are visibly uncomfortable. The memory is too intimate. After a short pause, Stefan’s wife adds, “At the end, he said, ‘You can judge a man by the strength he shows with the people he loves.’ I’ll never forget it.”
Albert snickers. “Our Manfred is a tough one.”
Stefan looks over at him. “He was the same as a kid. If I cried, he didn’t care. I could scream my head off and he wouldn’t even look at me. As soon as I stopped, he gave me a piece of chocolate.”
They talk about Manfred, his difficult personality, his wife’s patience after the accident. I don’t listen; I imagine him at his father’s funeral, or giving his little brother a piece of chocolate after he stops crying.
I stand up. “I’m sorry, I need to go to bed. I’m tired. It must be from the traveling, the altitude.”
I thank everyone and embrace Stefan and his wife. Bianca walks upstairs with me and hands me the key and a bottle of water.
“Sleep well.”
I TOSS AND turn in bed; I might as well have stayed downstairs to help Luna. I have to admit, the idea that she’s here, nearby, makes me anxious.
After fifteen years, she was dead, like my leg. I never brought her back to life, out of fear that the mere idea of her would make the blood rush through my veins as it does now. The blood pulses in my head, in my hands, in my chest. It’s best if she leaves immediately. Part of me thinks that, but another part wants to see her. I tease my son, but I’m no better than he is.
Fifteen years ago, she was a different person; maybe she has left her husband, has been with other men, it wouldn’t surprise me. Maybe she doesn’t even remember that you live here. Be realistic: 365 days by fifteen years since you last saw each other. First multiply by ten, then by five.
Five thousand four hundred seventy-five days. Well done, Manfred, you still know your multiplication tables. But you’re still awake.
THE STRAP OF my nightgown slides down my shoulder. I bought it before coming here, along with a new set of black underwear and bra, all for an aging mountain man who has gone back to his wife.
Standing in front of the mirror, I touch my lips. It’s typical of women, dreaming of something they can’t have. He doesn’t care about you, he has a life to live.
I stretch out on the bed. I came all the way here to see him; tomorrow I’ll go down into town, I don’t care what I find.
3
WIND, SNOW. THE customers are stuck in the hotel like mice, and finally I’m free. I walk and the leg doesn’t bother me. I can’t feel my chin or my cheeks. I reach the gondola station and come back. It’s nothing, for someone who used to hike all the mountain passes around here in one day and knew every peak like the back of his hand. Now this is enough for me, especially today. There’s not a soul around, no voices, just the dull sound of snow falling from the trees, the wind in my ears, icy needles on my sleeve.
“You want to go up to the lodge on a day like this, with your leg?”
“I’m just going to the gondola station and back. What do I care about the weather?”
She doesn’t try to stop me. Luna knows me too well for that; and it’s not like her to insist. This is how it has been between us since the accident.
IT’S NIGHTTIME. WE’RE home after two months in the hospital. Clara and Simon are sleeping. She has put her things back in the closets, and the house smells clean again. I get up twice a day to do my exercises; but I still haven’t been able to walk around the whole house. I take my time. I don’t want to see the pots and pans in the kitchen, the dishwasher on, their shoes in the entryway, her pantyhose and bras in the bathroom. She has decided to stay, but she hasn’t told me yet. She’s sitting on an armchair next to the bed while I pretend to sleep. She’s been wanting to talk for days. I open my eyes. If it must happen, it’s best for me to decide when. I ask her, “Aren’t you going to sleep?”
She looks at me. She’s tired, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She came to the hospital every day and took care of me like a mother—not my mother. She whispers, as if there were a dead man in the room.
“Manfred, the kids are happy to be back.”
Women always talk about the kids first. I ask her, in the strongest voice I can muster, “What about you?”
She cries. I’ve pressed the button that releases the tears. It should affect me but I feel nothing, I’m not sure why.
In the first years of our marriage, we were on the same side. Then, after Clara was born, we were on opposite sides. And now?
“Do you think it will be better living with half a man than it was when I was whole, Luna?”
She shakes her head.
“So why do you want to come back?”
“You’ll be able to walk again, Manfred.”
She didn’t answer me. That day or any other day since. I didn’t press the issue, nor did she. Anything to avoid touching upon the real question: why did she come back?
She sits on the bed and puts her arms around me. I feel her next to me; a window bangs in the kitchen. The one who saved me from death has gone away.
FROM THAT MOMENT on, nothing touches me: my children’s voices, those of my brothers, the sound of the wind, the snow. It’s all a mere accompaniment. I must go back much further to remember a time when I felt something: the presence of the mountain, the pain inflicted by my mother, the hatred and pity I felt for my father and my brothers. It is as if that were all I ever had.
All because of this woman. She came and turned everything upside down. In another half hour I’ll reach the gondola station and go up to the lodge. I’ll see her, she’ll introduce me to her husband, and we can put it all behind us.
THE GONDOLA SWAYS in the white light, amid a cloud of little white dots. It has already stopped twice. I’m alone with the young man who closed the doors. I asked him, “Is no one else coming?”
“Not many people come up in this weather.”
I’m frightened when it stops and begins to bob up and down in the air. I grip the icy handrail and close my eyes. Why on earth did I decide to ride down the mountain in this storm? I want to go to him. I didn’t sleep; his proximity and the comments about him from last night swirl around in my head, along with images from these last fifteen years and from my time here with Marco, the only time about which I remember every detail. They put wood paneling on the walls and covered up the little boy with the glasses and the wide-open mouth. Marco’s wound, too, is concealed by his hair.
ONE DAY WHEN he was thirteen, after taking a shower, he came into the kitchen with a frightened look. His hair was combed back, his robe tied tightly, his white chest still slender and hairless. These were the last days of his boyhood. He said, worriedly, “I have a scar on my head, Mamma, look.”
I didn’t turn around. “Hadn’t you ever noticed?”
“No. What is it from?”
“That time when we went to the mountains. You fell off a table, I told you about it.”
“But it’s a big scar. Did I have stitches?”
I turn toward him and smile, reassuringly. “One of the many hospitals we visited when you were little. You were impossible.”
He touches the spot on his head: “A hidden scar. I like it.”
I hug him and kiss him on the head. “Like a soldier.”
He pulls away. “Come on, Mamma.”
THE GONDOLA BRUSHES a pylon. I look up at the young man.
“Is it dangerous?”
He smiles. “No, don’t worry. As soon as the wind calms down we’ll start moving again.”
Calm: the wind, my fury, and his. I was ready to leave everything behind, but he said, “You can’t. Stay where you are.”
I stayed, and so did he. His wife, his children, the hotel. Like dogs chained to a post. You try to jump, but you can’t; you’re chained, don’t you remember? Is there anything else in life but this?
The gondola begins to move; we descend slowly in a cloud of white dots, rapping against the windows. I’ll go to the house and ask for him; if his wife is there it doesn’t matter, I’ll just say, “I’m here on holiday, and I wanted to say hello.”
All I need is a tiny sign, to understand whether it was all a dream, like the prayer I used to say before going to bed when I was a little girl: “Tomorrow at school, please, please, let him notice me.”
If I look into his eyes, I’ll know whether I’m still inside of him. Halfway down, the other gondola appears in the fog, traveling upward in the snow. Another box, just like mine, struggling to rise as I descend. One above, one below. Never in the same place, except at the moment of crossing. I think of him; I mustn’t forget why I’m here. It’s too easy to forget, to tell oneself that life is something else, that love and desire are just dreams.
I’ve always been the same, even as a little girl, just like my uncle, as my father used to say. The uncle who sang the song with my name. I’ve stopped following advice; forget the wise path, do what you want, suffer, discover things on your own.
Suddenly I see him in the other gondola, standing in the window. He’s staring at me with his eyes and mouth open wide, like the boy in the drawing. “Manfred!” I yell.
The young man turns around. I don’t care what he thinks, I need to know.
“It was Manfred, wasn’t it? Where is he going?”
“He’s going up to see his brother.”
I think to myself: he’s coming to see me, you fool.
After a moment he adds, “There’s too much wind. After this run we’re shutting down the gondola.”
He was coming to see me. Now what? They’re shutting down the gondola. He’s up there, I’m down here. Separated again.
“MARINA!”
What a fool; she can’t hear me. She saw me. We looked at each other. Her hair is short.
“Who was that, Uncle? The woman who saved you?”
I turn toward my nephew. Christian leans against the opposite wall in his red ski instructor’s jacket. He has Bianca’s face and Albert’s light-colored eyes. We’re alone with the lift operator.
“How do you know?”
“Silvia told me. She was up at the lodge.”
I think to myself: why is she coming down?
“Is she here with her family?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think so. She’s on her own. She had a little boy; I remember him. They spent a few days with us.”
She’s here on her own, without her husband. Calm down, Manfred, she didn’t come for you.
Christian stares at me. What a strange boy he is. He is Albert’s firstborn. When he was little he didn’t talk much and followed his father around everywhere. Nowadays, after he finishes work he goes straight up to the lodge. He doesn’t have a girlfriend, or so his father seems to think. He says Christian reminds him of me.
“Where’s your brother?”
“It’s Saturday; he’s out with his friends.”
“And you?”
He turns toward the gondola operator with a worried look, but he isn’t listening, he’s looking out at the snow. The wind whistles loudly around us.
“Are you shutting down?” I ask.
He nods.
She’s at the bottom and can’t come back up. I’m at the top and can’t get back down. I can’t make it down on foot with my leg. I could ask Albert to take me down with the snowcat. Why did she go into town? Where is she headed? Be calm, Manfred, think.
“Do you mind not being able to drive, Uncle?”
“No. I only miss not being able to walk like I did before.”
“Why don’t you have a car custom-made?”
Kids have no imagination.
“I hate cars.”
She came here on her own, traveled up to the lodge, and came back down just when I decided to visit. Maybe she was planning to return, but she doesn’t know that the gondola will close. And now what? She’ll take the bus into town and spend the night. We looked at each other, and she made a sign with her hand. She waved; what else could she do? She called out my name; I couldn’t hear her voice, but I saw it. I need to go back down and find her; I can’t stand it. Don’t run after her, Manfred, remember your father. Gustav didn’t run after his wife when she left him.
IT’S NIGHTTIME, TWO days before his death. We are alone; it’s my turn to stay with him. I fall asleep on the chair next to the bed. When I wake up, he’s staring at me. His once-strong voice is a whisper: “Manfred, go to sleep.”
“I was sleeping.”
“Go to bed.”
“I’m fine. Why don’t you sleep?”
He stares at me in silence, then says, “Things with your mother didn’t go the way you think, Manfred.”
I want to get up, but he gestures for me to sit. I must obey him, like when I was a boy. He’s dying.
“She couldn’t stop thinking about that man. She told me, in tears, and asked me to help her. She didn’t want to leave us. I told her to get out, and that if she stayed, I wouldn’t want her around anyway.”
He pauses. He can barely speak, his breathing is labored. “Never run after a woman.”
When he stops, I think to myself, You coward, she asked you to help her and you didn’t keep her from going.
Then I’m ashamed for thinking it, and I say, “You were right.”
He falls asleep. I look at my father, the man who took my mother from me.
I MUSTN’T GO down and look for her. She’s alone and free. She left her husband, her son is grown up, and sh
e’s going around making trouble. She cut her hair. Why did she come here?
We’ve almost arrived. The gondola operator looks over at me.
“We’re going to shut down for the day and drive back. Do you want a ride in the jeep? You can’t walk down in this weather.”
The wheels reach the track. Never run after a woman.
“No, I’m going up to the lodge with Christian.”
WALKING TO THE café through the snow is hard going. In no time I’m covered in snow and my face is frozen. There are some skiers inside, drinking and warming up. But no one is out, just a few daredevils. Just him and me. I sit down. I know why he went up to the lodge. I can see his frightened eyes as they see me through the glass, silent words.
It’s you, you’ve come back, it’s been an eternity, where have you been, wait for me.
I sit down at a table. Fine, stare at me. I’m alone, I have no skis; I came here looking for a man.
“Would you like something to drink?”
The girl has an innocent face. I was like her once. I wore flowery dresses, an apron, and I pushed Marco around in his stroller, by myself. I passed the days, one after the other, without knowing where they were leading me.
I order a cappuccino; she cleans the table.
“How long until the bus leaves?”
“Half an hour.”
How long should I wait? What if he doesn’t come? What would Marco and Silvia think if they saw me? “That’s not our mother sitting there waiting for a man.”
And how about Mario? He has never known that I might leave him, that for me none of this was natural. That I still want to dance, to flee, to inflict pain. I’m not betraying them; I never made a promise to them. But I made a promise to him.
“Don’t leave the boy.”
The girl brings my cappuccino.
“How long does it take to get back down from the lodge?”
“The gondola is closed.”
“What if someone wants to come down?”
“They’d have to take a snowcat or a jeep.”
“How long would it take?”
When the Night Page 16