When the Night

by Cristina Comencini

In this weather, an hour.

  I’ll wait for him until the last bus.

  THE HEADLIGHTS OF Albert’s snowcat come closer, disappear around each bend, and reappear. We wait for him in the cold, uncle and nephew, at the corner of the broken-down wall of the gondola station. I hear my father’s voice: “Battle on!”

  HE USED TO pick us up here, after school. Stefan would fall asleep inside the bunker, even though it is open and just as cold inside as outside. But inside you feel the wind less. It was evening, and the gondola was closed, like today. I liked to imagine a running battle, shooting, dead bodies. The four of us fighting against the rest of the country, the school, and the outside world into which my mother had disappeared. In my mind’s eye, we crouched by the embrasures, with our rifles and grenades at the ready, holding back the hordes that advanced toward us, the enemy. Stefan was a fallen soldier, and Albert and I guarded him. The general came down the mountain to save us. We would bury Stefan up at the lodge, with full military honors.

  Fallen in defense of the Land of the Sanes against the invaders.

  I used to dream of an enemy that never came; our mother and the American were far away.

  MAYBE SHE WENT down to see friends in the valley. She’ll take the bus into town.

  Christian puts on his cap and claps his hands together for warmth. I tell him, “After school, your grandfather used to come and pick us up here.”

  He looks over at me. “Dad told me.”

  We all tell our children the same stories, as if trying to attach them to these rocks. Clara was right to leave.

  “What are you going to do at the lodge on a Saturday?”

  I want to provoke him. He shrugs.

  “I want to relax. Every day I take the kids out to ski with their parents. I can’t stand to hear them.”

  “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  He stares at me; he didn’t expect this question from me. For several minutes he says nothing.

  “She left me.”

  His parents don’t know.

  “A girl from the town?”

  He pauses again, unsure of whether it is a good idea to discuss such matters with me. But he wants to talk.

  “No. She used to bring her kid to me for lessons.”

  “Was she married?”

  He nods. I don’t know what to say.

  “How old was she?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  He hangs his head and leans against the wall with his eyes closed.

  “Where did the two of you meet?”

  He looks like he’s about to cry. “I would wait at the bar, and she would call me when her son was asleep.”

  He would down his last drink, pay, and run to his rendezvous. How he misses her! How I miss her. I feel a dull pain, like the one I felt back in the days of the wars of the Sanes against the world. Then the kiss on the hospital bed, the saliva. Leaning against the walls of our childhood, covered in snow like two soldiers, we dream of the warmth of bodies embracing after a long wait.

  The beams of the snowcat come closer, cutting through the snow. I turn toward the gondola station. The jeep is still there.

  THE WINDOWS OF the bar are misty; I rub a circle with my glove. The ski runs are deserted and the mountain is bathed in mist; the bus is about to leave for town, and then there will only be one more. Two more runs before the bar closes. The young girl with the innocent look told me. She took the cup and placed the coins in her apron pocket.

  “Are you waiting for someone?”

  “No.” Then I change my mind. “Yes.” I blush.

  Will there be another bus tonight?

  She glances over quickly. “One more, then there’s only the jeep for the gondola operators, which takes us down.”

  I look at the three men at the bar; they drink and laugh with the other waitress. The girl looks over as well.

  “They never leave until we throw them out; it’s the same every Saturday.”

  The last bus, with three drunkards. Manfred has no intention of coming down. Why should he? He’s probably with his brother.

  I peer through the circle in the window. A few snow-covered skiers remove their skis and climb onto the bus. I should go with them; in half an hour I’ll be in town. I’ll go back to the hotel where I slept the first night. Tomorrow I can return to the lodge and pick up my suitcase. Just like last time, but in reverse: then, we left our clothes down in the town and we had nothing to change into.

  That night I thought about him before falling asleep, filled with desire and the fear of being discovered. The next day he saw me standing in the window, my hair wrapped in a towel. Over the years, I had forgotten the details, but now they are coming back, one by one.

  We drove down the mountain in the jeep as the baby slept. Manfred didn’t come with us. His car never appeared. I peered out of the window and traced his path down the mountain, over and over. Up and down, and how long would it take, and where is he, and why hasn’t he come? Like now. Finally, I called the police. I couldn’t sleep; I can’t sleep now.

  We’re on the same path, Manfred, you on one side, and me on the other. There’s no reason for him to come down but one: he knows I’m here, he saw me.

  The bus departs, passes me by, and disappears in the mist. The three drunks are singing now. A final prayer.

  Manfred, come down; don’t leave me here with them, don’t leave me alone like you have all these years.

  I SAY TO Christian: “I’m going to my woman. It’s Saturday night; I want to be with her. Tell your father.”

  He nods. “Say hello to Simon.”

  He thinks I mean Luna; it’s better that way. I’d like to say something to comfort him; his eyes are still moist. But there’s no time. The snowcat comes closer. I don’t want to meet Albert, and the gondola operator is walking toward the jeep with the technician. I try to run with my bad leg; the young Manfred runs next to me, his heavy boots, always a size too big, beating against the ice. My ears used to stick out under my hat, and my mother would blow on them to warm them. I stop next to the jeep, my hand on the door handle. I don’t care who they are or where they’re going, but I want a spot in the jeep.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  They peer at me. “We have to load up the others, at the bar.”

  “Don’t worry; I’ll get out and take the bus.”

  As I sit in the backseat, images go through my mind. I press my hands together to keep from going mad. The two men in the front ask questions, talk. I close my eyes so they’ll leave me alone. The technician says to the other one, “Poor Manfred.”

  They don’t know that I’m going to meet my woman. She’s different from the women around here; she dances, and she’s small, brown-haired, with tiny breasts; she lies, gives herself airs, and cuts her hair. I have to catch her, stop her, press her to me until it hurts. That way she’ll stay with me at school, in the classroom and in the schoolyard at recess. She’s all mine, private property, don’t touch. If she’s not there, I’ll kill myself. I should be dead, after all; I’m alive because of her, and now she’s here and she doesn’t want me. I’ll kill her and then I’ll kill myself, after all life is an endless bore, like these two talking and talking about nothing, about the snow, about the machinery, about money.

  Wait for me, Marina. I won’t let you go. First I’ll undress you and stare at you, naked, in the little girls’ room, before you pull up your panties and your stockings; I’ll make you blush with shame. But in truth it’s all you’ve ever wanted, ever since we started school. On the very first day you tripped me in the hall. You giggled with your friends, and I put a cricket in your notebook and you started to cry. Even if you run away, I’ll find you.

  The jeep hits something in the road. We fall back on our seats, and the motor stalls.

  “What was that?”

  The two men in front have gone quiet with fear. I get out, and my legs sink into snow up to my knees. The others follow. A tree lies across the road. My bad leg re
fuses to follow me; I fall, get up, pull my leg out of the snow with my hands, turn around, and scan the road. I scream in order to be heard.

  “If we move it a couple of yards we can get by. Where are the ropes?”

  The technician says nothing. He follows orders. I tell him where to tie the rope—not around the trunk, but the branches.

  “We’ll pull it by the hair, where we can get a better grip.”

  We pull, yell, and swear, but the tree barely moves and our feet slide against the ice and sink into the snow. If I had two legs I’d leave them here and walk down.

  I would have liked to run down the mountain in the fog, like a snowman, with icicles in my eyebrows and white hair. She wouldn’t have recognized me at first. I’d grab her and melt, leaving puddles on the floor. It’s me, Manfred, can’t you see me?

  Instead, here I am, struggling with a car, as usual. My curse! Now I pull with all my might, as if I were hanging above a void, two thousand meters up; just one slip and you’re dead. The rock face obstructs the rope; it doesn’t move unless you pull at it with your whole body, every muscle, tendon, nerve, and thought. Once, when I was climbing the rock face, at the toughest point, I had an erection, as if I wanted to fuck the rock. Now, as I pull, I think of Marina, about how I know everything about her, with just one look, and at the same time I know nothing.

  That’s the beauty of it: you know everything and nothing about this woman you are running to.

  DAMNED BUS; IT’S there, waiting for me. The drunks are already on board; I can hear them screaming and laughing. The driver tells them to be quiet, but after a moment they start again. They call out to me from the window: “Aren’t you coming? You’re the last one.”

  “I know, but I still have a few minutes.”

  The café is closed. The waitresses are waiting for the jeep. It’s late. They just called; there’s a tree blocking the road.

  “Perhaps I could wait here with you.”

  They peer at me. “Hasn’t your husband arrived yet?”

  I shake my head.

  “Do you want us to send word?”

  “No, thank you, he must be up at the lodge.”

  They look at each other. “There’s not enough space; there are already two men in the jeep, and we have bags to carry.”

  “Will there be other jeeps?”

  “Not in this weather.”

  I go up the steps and into the bus. It reeks of wine. The floor is wet with melted snow; there are muddy footprints. The three men fall silent as I walk by, then I hear a whistle. I pass a couple of frozen skiers, sitting close together. I go to the back of the bus, as I used to on school trips; you could do whatever you liked there, no one paid attention. I turn around; the road behind us is empty. He’s not coming, it’s clear. The last bus, the last jeep. I sit down on the cold seat. I take off my hat, the snow melts on my gloves.

  My sisters used to tease me.

  “Stop daydreaming, Marina, come back to earth!”

  I pat the snow on my wool cap until it melts in wet splotches. He’s like all the others, what did you think? Only you would wait for fifteen years, be a mother, a wife, learn how to cook, take care of the house, and work, while carrying that man inside of you. You bring him out into the light when you can, in the bathtub, sitting in the sun, between two lines in a book. You imagine the end.

  The bus departs. I should call home.

  “I’m fine, and you?”

  I won’t come back here. I rest my head against the window and close my eyes. There’s no light, just a young girl’s fantasies.

  A SCHOOL TRIP. You sit in the back. The boy you like is in the first row. You close your eyes. You don’t want the real him; it’s better to just imagine him sitting beside you. An imaginary kiss. Someone on the bus plays a tape of love songs. It could just as well be another boy; you don’t want a relationship, a boyfriend, a house, friends. All you want is for him to sit next to you while the music plays. You rest your lips against the foggy pane leaving an impression of your lips, and then another one. You were here.

  I HOLD MY jacket close and stretch out in a corner of the bus. Nothing has changed; I’m still alone with my fantasies.

  I CAN’T STAND these people. There are five of us in the car, and a mountain of plastic bags. They laugh and tell each other the story of how they cleared the road.

  One girl turns to me; her thigh touches mine. She’s young.

  “You’re strong, Manfred.”

  “You have no idea how strong I was when I had two legs.”

  She laughs. The others tease her. She likes me. I should go home with her, to make the most of what’s left of the day. I was born to fall on my face. Nothing ever goes right. I consider the pros and the cons, the probabilities, but in the end it all goes up in smoke. Things have a way of going their own way. Look at Luna; she got what she wanted, the hotel, the lame husband, and her children. I should have known from the beginning that I was destined to lose, after the whore left with the American. But I never give up; I keep running, I pull the rope, freeze my good leg while the other one sinks into the snow. And all on my day off. Just lie in your bed of shit, Manfred, you’re used to it, and anyway, you can’t break free.

  And the conversations in the jeep! The older woman describes her husband’s ailments, and then everyone mentions a relative who suffers from the same condition, a cousin, father, mother, uncle, brother-in-law, friend, friend of a friend, or a cousin’s cousin. Suddenly the car feels like a hospital ward. Why do people love it when other people feel sorry for them? What do I care if they know how I feel? It doesn’t make me feel any better. I was sure I would find her at the bar. We moved the tree out of the way; I jumped into the jeep, and I yelled at them to drive quickly.

  “Go faster or I won’t make it on the bus!”

  They try to reassure me: “If it’s gone, we’ll take you down; we can all squeeze in, don’t worry.”

  Even if she had waited, she would have had to take the last bus. I push them and criticize their driving; if I had my leg, I’d show them! When we get to the bottom, the gondola station is empty, the bar is closed, and the two women are there waiting with the bags.

  “Where’s the bus?”

  “It left.”

  I look around, as if she might be hiding there in the mist, behind the empty gondola station.

  They load the bags and talk about the tree on the road.

  We’re all squeezed into the jeep; the garbage bags reek of beer, and the bus is gone. If only I knew whether she had been there. Finally I decide to ask, what the hell.

  “Was there a woman at the bar, waiting for someone?”

  One of the women nods. My hands and cheeks are burning; something in me jumps for joy. She adds, “She was waiting for her husband.”

  It wasn’t her. It’s like a roller coaster, first up and then down. I settle in next to the girl in the jeep; soon, I’ll be home, I’ll take a shower, and I’ll go down and help Luna. I’ll spread gravel between the cars to make the job of digging them out easier tomorrow. My family is right: I should thank God I’m alive. Even if sometimes it seems to me like living and dying are pretty much the same. The others talk, or sit quietly. The curves throw us against each other, there is laughter. The young woman says to the older one, “If she had come with us, we would have been pretty crowded.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman who was waiting for her husband. She didn’t want to leave. I asked her why she didn’t want to call him. It was strange; maybe they’d had a fight.”

  The young woman laughs: “Or maybe he left with someone else.”

  I sit up. “What did she look like?”

  “Small, with brown hair.”

  4

  IT’S DARK OUT. I can’t see inside the bus. I stand near the door but not too close; I don’t want to frighten her. The three town drunks climb off, followed by a pair of skiers. Young people dressed for a Saturday night on the town climb on. I’ve known them all since they were bor
n. She’s not there. I hesitate, and the driver looks over: “Do you need to get on, Manfred? Are you going to the city to have some fun?”

  I don’t answer. Everyone knows I’m not a big talker.

  The jeep passed the bus on the road. There are no other stops, so she must be on it. I get on, dragging my leg behind me, tired, sweaty, my hair and face wet, hands aching. The kids stare; what is Simon’s father doing here? Even if Luna were sitting among them, I would still go to the back to look for her.

  She’s in the corner, in the last row; it’s dark, I can barely see her face, and I don’t know if she sees me. I draw closer, trying not to limp; maybe she doesn’t know about my leg. She can’t see me. She’s sleeping, that’s why she didn’t get off. I sit down near her but not too near, that way if she wakes up she’ll have time to react. If I woke up with her sitting next to me, I would have quite a shock.

  The bus leaves with a heaving of old metal. She doesn’t wake up. In the light of the streetlamps, her face emerges from the darkness. With her short hair, her head looks small. It rests against the glass pane, so I can see only half of her face. She’s breathing with her mouth open; maybe she has a cold. Her hands are tucked into her armpits; she’s cold. Her hat is on the floor. I pick it up: it’s black, with a red flower on one side. Who would wear a hat like that? I hold it up to my nose; the fragrance of it makes my head spin. I fold it and put it on the empty seat between us.

  She can’t leave now, there’s no way. I’m sitting next to her; I can touch her. How can she sleep with all that noise, the kids screaming, the driver’s radio, the squeal of the breaks, the curves in the road? She has to wake up soon; she’s moving, she stretches, she adjusts her position, and then she opens her eyes.

  IT’S FREEZING HERE. Where am I? It’s dark. I’m still on the bus. How long is the ride?

  I turn around; there’s someone sitting there. I didn’t hear him arrive.

  Hold your wallet close and don’t fall asleep, that’s what my father told me. But I never paid him any mind. This man has wrinkled hands; I won’t look at him so he doesn’t get any ideas.