23

 23

SHE TAKES IN THE BOY’s appearance quickly at first. Silvia is not sure it’s any different from Giovanna’s visits, those of the girls from the boarding school or past versions of herself, all those fleshly spirits that persist in keeping her company. And yet there’s a bundle at her feet, a fist-sized packet wrapped in greaseproof paper.

She doesn’t feel like opening it. She wants to lose substance, slowly break down like the hut, slough off her body. Her cardigan is almost moss, her skin as cold and white as a grass snake’s.

And yet there’s nothing of the woods about the packet. It requires her to use her fingers in a gesture from her previous life, touch something that isn’t wood, leaf, or earth but comes from a kitchen, maybe a deli. It causes her even more suffering.

She closes her eyes and doesn’t open them until night has completed its work. The packet is now difficult to make out, a shadow among many, and it could be a rock. But it’s there and suddenly, after much hesitation, Silvia simply picks it up and recognizes the aroma of butter.

A bread roll, a sandwich. Hunger suddenly makes her head spin; she’s close to fainting. A violent pain bores between her eyes. The boy wasn’t a ghost and he threw her his snack.

If she is to use her teeth to bite, she must coordinate her efforts. Her jaws are misaligned and they can’t bite down; gastric juices are eroding her stomach. She gnaws at the crust until she gets to the soft, buttered crumb. Sugar crunches in her mouth.

When she’s finished eating, her fuzziness has diminished and she feels guilty. Her fingertips are shiny with butter. What a nuisance this is. She needs to vomit, deserves to throw up that sandwich. She pictures her mucous membranes desperately intent on absorbing the food, quickly, quickly before her craziness gets the upper hand, before the nutter in charge decides to put two fingers down her throat.

For the first time, she cries, and behind the dew of her tears she finds Giovanna. She’s eating, too: a slice of melon, and she spits the seeds a long way away. Her expression is scornful; at least that’s how it seems.

Why did you eat that bread, Silvia? You were doing well, the teacher berates herself.

Oh, how many tales Giovanna tells her, or seems to tell her.

Later that night, Silvia forces herself to remember the boy’s face, and she manages to give him a name: Martino Acquadro, from Turin, the asthmatic boy at school. What was he doing up there at the Rovella’s summit, a place not even dogs get to? Martino.

A face, a piece of bread, and a few grams of fat have reconnected the teacher with the world. And she’s thirsty. Her body is now demanding, wants to be looked after, and she has to hold it at bay once more, start over like a good degenerate mother.

Suddenly she realizes that it’s not important because the boy will raise the alarm. Her stomach curdles with anxiety. She wants to escape but she can’t move. She strains her ears and waits for them to come and get her, force her to return to the living.