62

 62

THERE WASN’T MUCH left of the afternoon.

Martino stayed stock-still for a moment but hurriedly pulled himself together: in a frenzy, he collected water, bread, and an almost empty jar of jam and ran outside. Pain knocked once more at his injured lip and he shook with anger and frustration. On purpose, he thumped his schoolbag to the ground against the trees. He didn’t even give Silvia time to ask about his bruise, and for the first time he spoke fearlessly and without deferring to her.

“They’re looking for you along the river—Anselmo and Gianni and I don’t know who else. I was with Giulia at the chapel and she wanted to come up and find the place where the roe deer sleep, right around here, but I convinced her not to. She got angry too. And before that I got beaten up by an older boy. My mother hasn’t come back yet. You sit here quietly as if nothing matters to you.”

“How long?”

“What?” Martino wrinkled his forehead.

“I don’t know how long I’ve been here.”

“I found you a week ago, I think. But you’ve been gone for longer.”

The teacher’s hair was crusty. She’d wrapped blankets around herself and held them against her chest with ashen hands. Her gaze, however, was clear, as if she’d just rinsed the blue of her eyes. She reached out and with her index finger touched the fabric of Martino’s trousers near his knees.

“I’ll come back. I promise you.”

“You already said that once.”

Silvia nodded. “So, when?” he pressed her.

“Very soon.”

“Now?”

“Not now, but very soon.”

Martino was suspicious. “Do you still feel bad?” he asked. “That girl, Giovanna. I really loved her.”

“But thinking about people who’ve died and feeling sad about them is something that happens to everyone.”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Giulia, for example, believes you’re dead. But you’re not. On the contrary, you are someone who’s alive.”

The teacher stopped talking and Martino wasn’t sure how to interpret her silence. He tried to imagine what he would say to his mother in such a situation but couldn’t. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him that it was about choosing between the living and the dead and which was more important. He was convinced that you had to look to the living and so, in the teacher’s case, go back to them. But he couldn’t have explained it because it was a feeling rather than a thought, and standing there, mulling it over, made him wish for a hot supper and a good sleep. He ended up saying goodbye, and went on his way.