When the Night (9 page)

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.”

H
E 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.

“Mamma coming?”

“Stop that.”

“Mamma coming?”

“I said don’t cry! Stop that! Or why not, go ahead and cry. It will pass.”

BASTARD! WHERE IS he going with my baby?

I won’t lose you! I won’t get lost, and I won’t slow down, even if I can’t feel my legs and my blisters are burning, and tears are flowing down my face. I can see them, far ahead. The bastard is speeding up; now he’s disappearing behind a pile of rocks. Don’t be afraid, Marina, don’t give up. I’ll call out to them.

“Marco! Marco!”

Don’t scream, stay strong, focus. Don’t lose your head. He’s your baby, and that man has no proof, the police didn’t believe him. He thinks he can blackmail me. There are signs along the trail, follow them. Keep going, don’t cry, think.

It will take time, but you’ll get there and you’ll turn him in to the police. The sun is shining, just follow the markings.

You were strong as a girl, when did you get so weak? How could you do what you did? It doesn’t matter, don’t think about it, it never happened. I must be stronger than he is; otherwise he’ll have me in the palm of his hand. He hates women, he’s a psychopath. I call out: “Marco, Marco!”

He won’t hurt the boy. I am the enemy in his eyes. I collapse onto a boulder. I can see the whole scene in my head.

Marco is crying, he won’t stop. He has blood on his head. I slip, and now we’re both on the ground, amid shards of glass, oil, and wine. I can’t get up, I don’t have the strength. Trapped in my own dark tunnel, suddenly I go blank, blind, and I hit his head against the table. I did it. His mother.

There are rocks everywhere, and dust. The sky is icy and pale. There’s no one around. Can’t I fix what I’ve done? Can I go back in time?

LOOKING OVER PHOTOS in the album, it all seems easy. For his second birthday, I baked a cake, and the house was full of children. A big success.

At night he would wake up, sometimes every hour. I sat on the floor next to his bed. My back hurt, I was sleepy, and I sang to him. I couldn’t bring him into the big bed with me, it’s not allowed. I would take him to the park in the morning, and then again in the afternoon so he could tire himself out. This was our world. Two more carousel rides, only two, or we’ll be late. Don’t put rocks in your mouth. What am I doing wrong? What was my mistake?

I tried to plan ahead for all the potential problems so I wouldn’t be taken by surprise, but it didn’t work. I was too distracted, just like when I was a little girl.

“Marina, what are you dreaming about? Where are you?”

“I’m here, Mamma.”

I must organize my thoughts, concentrate, prepare: do the groceries, cook, sleep, come home, go to the park, organize parties, take care of him when he has the flu, call the doctor. Then there’s Mario, my mother, my sisters, happiness, judgment.

ONE DAY WE came back from the park with the stroller—just like every other day—with the groceries. Called the elevator, looked for the keys. Where are the keys? I’ve locked myself out again.

I sat on the floor of the elevator—like I am sitting today on these rocks—and cried. This is all women are good for. I’ve heard it time and again. The baby stared at me and grabbed a package of cookies from the grocery bag. He bit into it; he was hungry. I knew exactly what Mario would say.

“Again! Go to your mother’s and wait for me there.”

And my mother: “Locked out, again? Marina, where is your head?”

They’ll never know; I refuse to tell them.

The baby started to cry.

“Let go of those cookies!”

We got out of the elevator with our groceries. The baby was crying. We went to the locksmith.

“I want you to open this goddamned door with a credit card, like a thief.”

He came with me, opened the door, and finally I was inside, safe. Mario would never know.

The locksmith stared at me with compassion. I could fall in love with a man like that, a plumber, an electrician, a builder, a locksmith, a mechanic. Before making love he would fix the door, the washing machine, the car motor.

It was late. The baby was asleep in the stroller, with the bag of cookies still in his hands, unopened. I could have let him eat a few cookies before lunch, but it’s not allowed because it spoils his appetite. Now it was too late to eat. Too late for everything.

GET UP. WALK. Catch up. He ran off with your baby.

I see a bird in the sky, flying above the mountaintops. Is it an eagle? It never stops. I wonder what it sees from the icy heights? A landscape of rocks, mountain peaks. A woman sitting on a boulder.