12

 12

WHEN THEIR TEACHER, Fogli, entered, the children quickly became quiet and Martino looked up from his imaginary piano. There was something unusual about the teacher’s appearance, something saggy about her face and hairstyle; her movements were hesitant. She was young and athletic, and to play down both characteristics she’d adopted an unnaturally slow walk, wore a teased hairdo, and had a habit of sucking peppermints—moving them to one side of her mouth to explain something and then pausing in the middle of a lesson to crunch them between her teeth seemed to her the privilege of any teacher worth her salt.

That day she should have been teaching a lesson in math but instead she raised the issue of Misfortune—she called it that mentally, with a capital letter that stood for the capital G in Giovanna. She thumped her palm on the desk, though everyone was silent, touched her golden wedding ring, and saw her face reflected in it. She didn’t know where to start. When the older members of her family died, one after another, she was the one who’d changed their beds and disinfected the final sheets with baking soda, the one who’d rolled up their carpets, sprinkled mothballs in their drawers, packed their things, and filled huge sacks with rubbish. She’d done all of those things quietly, vigorously; in fact, precisely because doing them meant she could stay quiet.

It must be easier for Sister Annangela, she thought. It must be an entirely different matter. It’s a good thing that she’s going to Giovanna’s class.

She unwrapped a peppermint but immediately covered her mouth and spit it back into its paper, wrapped it well, and put it in the desk drawer, wiping her fingers on her skirt. Thank heavens the desk was paneled at the front and sides, a cheap wooden chest that protected her like a fortress. She decided she’d say only what was essential, and quickly. She apologized for being late and explained that there’d been unforeseen difficulties, a very sad event. Tragic.

“Unfortunately, a girl from the other year-six class has died. We found out this morning,” she said.

She didn’t add anything else apart from the girl’s name, because a hand shot up: naturally, they asked. Saying Giovanna’s name in front of the class was the most difficult thing she’d done since she’d gotten to school that morning; in fact, since she had become a teacher, and perhaps ever.

The thought somehow boosted her: of course she was in a difficult situation. How could it be otherwise? Even Sister Annangela was having difficulties: she was devastated, she was. It was just that she seemed to react a bit better than the others, but as she was a nun she must have certainties along with the strong character everyone recognized in her. After all, Annangela didn’t have a family to burden her or whom she had to fear for more than anything else in the world. What could ever happen to her? She couldn’t lose a husband, a child. Silvia couldn’t either, and yet it had happened. Something had destroyed her. She’s not coming back tomorrow, they won’t find her, Fogli said to herself, and she felt it was true and was amazed by her sudden conviction: it was as if she’d caught a gnat in midair but distractedly, by chance and without even trying.

Praying seemed a respectable way of making the time go by. They recited the Hail Mary and the Eternal Rest, the prayer for the dead. The children moved their lips in unison and looked around, sizing each other up and matching their reactions. For many of them, the clearest thing was the excitement of a morning different from the usual. They were called upon to show their sorrow and they gave themselves over to it, imitating the mournful expressions of adults they’d seen at funerals.

Meanwhile, Fogli was giving some thought to what she should do with Giulia, because Giulia was the daughter of Anselmo, Silvia’s cousin, and Fogli knew very well how close they were. Already she seemed the most disturbed of all the children, her gaze fixed and the corners of her mouth turned down.

Giulia looked like her mother, Luisa. Gemma, her grandmother, was a hard nut, but those two, no.

“You and your mother have a push button for tears,” Anselmo would say. “The pair of you are crybabies.” And now Giulia couldn’t stop imagining the girl’s death. She didn’t know Giovanna and could barely recall her appearance—she was blond, she thought, and looked taller: whether coming or going, she stood out in the crowded entrance.

The teacher hadn’t gone into detail, so Giulia kept her eyes glued to the blue-green paint on her desk where she saw the tragedy unfold, the one her father emphatically warned her against almost every day: crossing the road on a red light or without looking both ways several times and thus getting hit; taking a bad fall from her bicycle; leaning too far over the balcony; climbing a tree and the branch breaking under her weight; getting sick from eating poisonous berries or mushrooms; swimming in the river (whirlpools, or getting a cramp from indigestion); slipping and hitting her head while getting out of the bathtub; dropping the hairdryer in water; getting a shock from touching an electrical outlet or exposed wires.

It could easily have been me in Giovanna’s place, she thought. Yet deep down, Giulia couldn’t quite believe that. She was still a little girl, she thought she was special and the world owed her something: luck, some way out. All around, her classmates, too, were secretly relishing the morning light, hair they could touch and arrange with their hands, chairs squeaking over the floor, paper in their exercise books and agendas plastered with fingerprints that bore the pungent odor of ink and snacks. And they exchanged furtive glances shot through with the guilty relief of the survivor.