30

 30

HOW COME PEOPLE HERE do nothing but jump out of their windows? Martino thought. Could it be that the water tastes bad because it’s poisoned, and it gradually makes them all crazy? He looked at the tap suspiciously. I can’t avoid taking a little to the teacher, though. I have no choice, he said to himself.

He stuffed an aluminium canteen into his schoolbag, a bun, a piece of Gruyère, and a light tartan blanket since there wasn’t anything thicker. Lea had washed the floor backward, up to her favorite armchair, and now she was reading with the big mop against the armrest. She wasn’t paying much attention to him. All she did was remind him to come home early because his father would be arriving from Turin that evening; it was Friday.

This time he hardly saw the woods. He felt proud of his rescue operation and as he hiked up he convinced himself he wouldn’t find her; he grew more worried and increased his pace, even though part of him was almost relieved at the idea. Eventually he became afraid that she might pop up behind him, gaunt and swaying like a zombie. He’d seen posters in Turin for Night of the Living Dead.

He was panting when he arrived at the hut. He stood in the doorway and there she was, still leaning against the wall, head drooping, eyes closed. He felt that sudden emptiness you get in your stomach when you miss a step: for a second he thought she was dead but she was breathing. She was asleep. Martino spotted the crumpled sandwich wrapper and let out a silent cheer. She’d eaten it! He decided to leave the blanket, water, and food in plain sight and then sneak off. He knelt to undo the strap on his schoolbag, and when he got back up he met the teacher’s eyes. She was no longer a blind dog; she looked more like an extraterrestrial who can’t really make out what she’s looking at.

Martino didn’t know what to say, so he went back to emptying his schoolbag. Tension numbed his fingers. “The bread is a little stale.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Martino automatically replied, “You’re welcome.”

Neither dared move more than was strictly necessary.

“Your name is Martino, right?”

“Yes, Miss.”

Silvia’s face changed, as if she had closed herself off. A few moments later, though, she repeated, “Thank you, Martino,” in her hoarse voice.

She couldn’t help but stare at the canteen. She’d heard water sloshing inside when the boy placed it on the ground, and the aluminium was pearled with moisture. The roof of her mouth was so dry it felt like it was about to split. Martino must have noticed, since he picked it up and held it out to her, overcoming his obvious reluctance but keeping as much distance between them as he could. Oh, she was grateful to him, now she really was grateful. The canteen was heavy; her arm trembled. She put it in her lap, hoping she’d be able to unscrew the lid—she couldn’t ask him to open it for her too. She managed and drank, but couldn’t stop a trickle from running down her chin and neck. She wished she were a sponge so she could soak it all up. How marvelous that would be! A simple organism anchored to the seabed, entirely composed of canals, pores, and floating fibers swollen with water, lacking a brain.

Martino had a sudden inspiration. “I could bring you a book if you wanted. My mother has lots of them.”

She didn’t want him to bring a book. She wanted to be a sponge. And yet once more she replied, “Thank you.” The boy nodded seriously. Silvia took in his bony body and angular face, his chin—a little lopsided—his blond hair. At the risk of making him uncomfortable, she continued looking at him because she felt a sort of inner hum lifting. She’d learned that it heralded a breakdown, and she hoped that fixing her eyes on that face, both real and near, would help her to control it. But Martino was already moving out of focus as Giovanna surfaced. She would start gasping in a moment.

“I have to go,” said Martino. “My father’s coming tonight.”

A thud on the roof beams made them both jump.

“A chestnut,” Silvia remarked after a moment. She had come back to herself and felt happy about it. The last thing she wanted was to frighten the boy, make him witness some scene.

“I can bring you one of Gianni’s books,” Martino suggested once more.

“Do you know Gianni?”

“He’s friends with my mother.”

“Ah, Gianni . . . Gianni.” Silvia had not uttered so many words, ones that made sense, for days. It was like walking on a beam. She had managed a stretch without thinking about it too much, but she heard that hum again, felt a sort of dizziness. Don’t do it, she told herself, meaning: don’t flip out. He’s leaving now he’s leaving now he’s leaving now.

“Okay, well, I’m going,” Martino announced. And since he didn’t get any response he added, “I’ll be back tomorrow if I can. Is it okay if I come back?”

How long could the boy keep up his story? Sooner or later something would slip out, someone would follow him, or he’d get tired. She hadn’t decided whether to go back or not. Yet she’d put out her tongue to drink the rainwater and she’d eaten the sandwich. Even before that, she hadn’t managed to throw herself off the bridge.

“Okay.”

She listened to his footsteps rustle through the fallen leaves, made it in time to notice a bobble of bottle flies on a wooden knot and to shake the canteen like a talisman, her ears filled with the sloshing. She huddled under the blanket and closed her eyes. Once they were closed, she found herself at home in her messy room.