When the Night (6 page)

I HEAR A loud thud—what happened?

The wine bottles are on the floor, and there’s oil everywhere … The baby is crying, surrounded by broken glass. My
God, he’s hurt! Is that blood or wine? What have you done? Don’t cry! Oil and wine are spreading across the floor and blending together. The kitchen is full of liquid, like a sinking boat; the liquid spreads toward the living room. It smells like a tavern. I’ll have to mop it up, but when, how? Where do I put him? I can’t put him to bed, he’ll climb out.

I pick him up and slip on the oil. We sit on the floor amid the broken glass, like two shipwrecked souls. His head is bleeding and so is my leg. He’s crying now. He won’t stop.

“Mamma, go away!”

I can’t handle it, he’s right. I wasn’t born for this; it’s been wrong from the beginning. Rage! Rivers of incandescent rage. I can’t hold them back any longer. I’m full of hate. Mario, my mother, my father, my sisters … They can all go to hell! I want to die here with him, on this floor stinking of oil and wine. I’d like to close my eyes here with him.

Come darkness, cold, silence. Save us both from this disaster. Come and take me, I’ve been waiting for you. Make this crying animal be silent, he’s killing me. I scream.

“
Basta!
Be quiet! Quiet! Stop it!”

That’s it. Good. He’s not crying anymore. It’s finished. Finally some quiet.

WHAT ARE THOSE two doing up there? The baby is crying and she’s screaming. Objects falling on the floor, banging. What has she broken? I’ll make her pay for it. They should take babies away from their mothers the moment they’re born, just as my father said.

It’s none of my business how people raise their children. The earlier they grow up and leave home, the better. I became a mountain guide so I could leave home. I’d rather not be indoors any more than necessary. I sleep three hours, get up, and walk out into the night.

With Luna and the kids it wasn’t possible. I allowed myself to get trapped in a prison. But it was she who complained, “You’ve locked me up in a prison.” And I would respond, “Do you realize what I did for you? I locked myself up in a house. And now you want to go out, eat in restaurants, go to the city? No, that’s too easy. We’ll stay here, together in our trap, with our beautiful children.”

It’s too quiet now. I can’t hear anything at all. Maybe they’ve gone to bed. But it’s only six, it’s too early. After her idiotic scream, a dead silence. No child quiets down that quickly. Something must have happened. I’ll go and listen. I’ll go upstairs quietly, and if I hear them I’ll turn back.

On the stairs, silence. I can’t hear either of them. Something must have happened. I ring the doorbell. It’s my house, I’m responsible.

No answer. I try again. Silence.

“Do you hear me?! Answer the door!”

Silence.

“Open up!”

I yell and bang on the door.

Silence. I look down and see liquid seeping under the door. I lean down and smell it. Wine.

A broken bottle. What happened? I have to knock down the door. I run to get the ice axe next to the fireplace and back up
the stairs. I aim it at the lock and try to break it. Neither she nor the baby make any sound, as if they can’t hear me. Something serious must have happened. Maybe they’re dead. I strike the lock again, three or four times.

The wood splinters but doesn’t break. It’s a solid door. A carpenter used to live here; he must have reinforced it. I’ll try again, harder. It can’t be harder than rock. Finally, a hole, now I just have to make it bigger. Big enough for my hand. I unlock the door from the inside and open it.

The light is on and the floor is wet. The room with the fireplace is empty. In the kitchen, the baby is on the floor with his eyes closed, lying amid broken glass and liquid. Blood? I pick him up, he’s breathing. There is blood on his head. Where is she? I move slowly, careful not to slip with the baby in my arms. There she is behind a door, curled up on the floor like a pile of rags.

“What happened?”

Her eyes are empty.

“Can you hear me? Wake up!”

I should slap her, but my hands are full. I kick her.

“Get up!”

Now she’s trembling, like Luna. She does as I say.

“Did he fall?”

She doesn’t answer. I hand her the child.

“Hold his head, talk to him. Try to wake him.”

She takes him in her arms without looking. She says nothing, awaiting orders.

“Let’s go.”

D
ARKNESS. TREES, A bridge, twists and turns, a dark stream. Who is driving? Where am I? The baby is sleeping. Where are we going? He fell and hit his head. I hold him close. My God, why doesn’t he wake up?

The landlord is driving. We are in his car. Where is he taking us? How did he get in? I hear his hard voice, whispering.

“Did he fall asleep again?”

He stares at me in the rearview mirror.

“Yes.”

“Talk to him, wake him up. What’s his name?”

“Marco.”

Why does she have that haunted look? What is she afraid of?

“We’re almost there. He shouldn’t fall back asleep. Wake him, talk to him!”

“My darling, wake up! Come on, sit up.”

“Don’t move him!”

“Don’t sleep, my love, open your eyes, look at Mamma.”

She’s crying now, the fool.

“Keep going, speak louder.”

“Everything is all right, my love. Wake up, I beg you! Now we’ll see the doctor and he’ll make everything all right. Open your eyes, look at Mamma! I’m here, near you, I won’t leave you!”

What have I done? Mario mustn’t know.

“Don’t console him, let him cry. It’s better if he cries. And you, stop crying! You’re not a child!”

Bastard.

“Did he hit his head?”

Don’t tell him anything, Marina. Be careful. I mutter, “He climbed up onto the table and slipped, taking the bottles with him.”

“Where did he hit his head?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Where were you?”

The fool, why does she look down? “I said, don’t move him! Let him cry, it’s good for him. Caress him, but without moving him. Where were you?”

“In the bathroom. I only left him for an instant.”

Why did I say that? I should have said I was there but didn’t make it in time to stop him.

She’s lying. Why was she sitting behind the door instead of with the child, holding him in her arms?

“You could have put him in his crib.”

“He climbs out of it. He was playing nicely with his cars, so I thought I’d have enough time to go to the bathroom.”

“Why were you behind the door instead of with him?”

Bastard. I won’t answer.

“Stop crying, we’re here. Take him in, and I’ll park.”

A driveway, patches of light on a lawn, flowers, empty benches. Emergency room entrance. Two nurses come out to meet us.

I must repeat the same thing to everyone: he climbed up on the table and slipped, bringing down the bottles with him. He hit his head hard.

The nurses open the door.

“What happened?”

“He climbed on the kitchen table and slipped, taking the bottles down with him. He hit his head hard.”

“We’ll take him in for observation.”

“Can I come? He’ll get scared if he doesn’t see me.”

“No, we’ll call you.”

He begins to scream. They take him from me. I want to die.

I FOLLOW THEM until they disappear behind a glass door. The waiting room is empty except for a mother with her newborn. It’s clean, with pictures of happy children on the walls.

I sit down to keep from crumpling to the floor. The mother stares at me. I look away, but I know she will ask me.

“Did he fall?”

“Yes.”

She smiles. “With my firstborn, I was always at the emergency room. Boys never stop moving.”

What have I done? I feel like I’m about to start screaming. Stop, Marina. No one knows what happened. They’ll be able
to fix him. He’ll be scared without me. I should have gone with him, held him. What harm would it have done? Maybe he won’t want me to hold him anymore.

Mamma, go away!

I cry, and everything grows cloudy: the waiting room, the empty chairs, the pictures of happy children.

“Don’t cry. Children are strong.”

What does she know? What does anyone know about me? No one knows. The bastard suspects something. Where did he go? I have to get rid of him. If he comes back I’ll thank him and tell him to go home. I can manage on my own. The only thing that matters is that the baby is OK and no one knows. Mario. My mother. Otherwise, they’ll take him away. And if they take him, I’ll kill myself. There he is.

“Where is the boy?”

“They took him inside.”

I get up, so he gets the message.

“Thank you for everything. I’m going to stay here with him, but you should go home.”

Now she plays the grande dame, but she won’t get rid of me that easily.

“Let’s see how he’s doing first. The police will want to talk to me.”

My legs are shaking. I’d better sit.

This man hates me. He wants me dead. I must be stronger, and more clever. Marina, get a hold of yourself, think things through, stop crying. Act like an adult. You must protect your baby and get rid of this bastard.

I smile at him. My eyes are still moist; maybe he’ll feel sorry for me.

“I’m sorry about how I behaved before. I was confused. I saw him lying on the floor, bloody, with his eyes closed, and I was terribly afraid, so I hid behind the door like a child.”

The woman with the newborn interrupts.

“It happens. When my son used to fall I would cover my face so as not to see him. I couldn’t help it. My husband always went.”

I smile at her, then at him, without a word.

Nothing to say?

IT’S POSSIBLE. SHE hid behind the door because she’s a fool, like they all are. Like Luna, when Clara fell off the bike and broke her arm. She was frozen, terrified, and clutched her face with her hands. I yelled at her to help me, and then she started to follow instructions like an automaton, just like this one. But why is she so afraid of me, and why does she want to get rid of me? There is blood on her leg.

I GET UP and go to the door. Why hasn’t he come out yet? Let me see him, please. God, let him be all right. I sit down again.

How could I? What part of me did this? It’s like the other time, with Mario. I let him fall off the bed. No, he fell all by himself. It happened to my mother with one of us. Maybe this time, too, it’s not my fault. He climbed up on the table, he fell, he hit his head, and I thought it was my fault. In any case it’s still my fault because I was distracted.

The dark cloud, the crying that won’t stop, it all makes your head spin. I did it, I banged him against the table, I hurt my
baby. It’s not possible. I love him more than anything in the world. Ever since he was born, I’ve never left him in anyone else’s care. I’m sleep-deprived, it’s true, but I don’t complain. I miss my freedom, but he’ll grow up and I’ll be able to go out, work, go to the movies. What am I thinking? He’s in there, alone, and this is what I think about! What are they doing to him? Why doesn’t my baby come out of there?

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.