Just to contemplate that man of the church she went to see yesterday is to relive a dreadful nightmare. She finds it very hard to accept that the afternoon was not just a figment of her imagination, that she really did meet him. She has to keep reprimanding her brain, forcing it to accept that truth. That it was that filthy bastard, who’s probably already croaked—in fact he expired just before dawn, I can confirm—who remote-controlled her childhood and adolescence the way a puppeteer pulls the strings of a marionette. He’s the one who put her in those boarding schools where she grew up with the nuns, he’s the one who paid for her. She hadn’t known it, but she was a puppet. She still is. A marionette come unstringed that cannot be repaired.
Now she thinks she hears voices. Her stepfather’s dull warble, in a very loud conversation with someone. She cocks an ear, and for a moment imagines she can make out Aphra’s limpid tones. I’m hearing things, she thinks; the only person here is that washed up neo-Buddhist who always knew who was pulling my strings and never said a word. He deceived her, and never even realized that monster was meddling with her. The silences and the voids are filling up, the different pieces fitting together neatly, as if her past were that of a normal person.
Now the door cracks open and a face appears, the gay and naughty little face of the short one, Aphra. Yes, it really is Aphra, and she’s brought her a cup of coffee, which she presents with the obsequious bow of a maître d’. I came to find you, she says in reply to Daphne’s evident astonishment. She’s clearly very pleased to have surprised her, and pleased to share her happiness. But the beanpole is paralyzed. To have something to hold onto, she takes the cup in hand and conveys it to her lips. It’s very good this coffee, she thinks, it’s just what she needs. She smiles, unable not to smile, although she thinks she might be a character in a video game. Aphra sits on the edge of the bed, looks at her. Your stepfather is a gas, he just slays me, she says. She smiles. Her gum-colored gums and her very white teeth are showing. We’re waiting for you to have breakfast, she says, getting up.
In the kitchen the table is set for three, and there are many good things on it. There’s even the black fig jam made by the ex-Communist banana wholesaler’s girlfriend, the jam she especially likes. And a sort of flaming bouquet of red and orange leaves very tastefully arranged (it could only be by Aphra), lit up by a ray of sunlight piercing the spiderwebs covering the window pane. The air outside is super clean and the sky so blue that even the yard full of rusting remains looks beautiful. The three dogs, too, seem happy about this autumn splendor, not to mention the family atmosphere.
Francesco took me to see a very nice cottage, says Aphra, rubbing her face against the mug of the short-haired big dog. It was locked, but we managed to get in, she says, her rascally smile spreading. There’s a nice plot of land attached, it would be perfect for us. Daphne’s gaunt stepfather nods, bobbing his white California apostle’s beard, as if the little one has just said the most normal thing in the world. I’ll bet they don’t want much money for the rent, he says. Aphra’s looking at him. It would be awesome, the little one says, and it’s obvious the two of them have already discussed the matter, and what’s more, that they like each other quite a lot. This too makes Daphne wonder again whether she’s strayed into a science-fiction movie.
Aphra insists they visit the house of the seven dwarfs immediately. Daphne’s feeling a bit dazed and would rather lie down again, but they set out on foot, followed by the sex maniac, the small dog having developed a total crush on the wee one. The sky is a deep blue sea, the autumn woods seem to be burning with an inextinguishable fire. This valley where her stepfather lives looks a lot more cheerful than usual. The cottage in the bracken with its worn orange roof tiles seems to swim in that wild sea of thorns and brambles; it’s quite charming. On one side there’s a sort of ditch with two downy oaks (species information provided by me, she knows nothing about plant life) and in front, a nice clearing with some scruffy fruit trees.
They get in through a broken window and tour the three rooms and kitchen. Must have been an old lady living here (yes, I can confirm); it’s a real miracle they didn’t make off with everything, Aphra says (please, easy on the miracles). That customary benevolent smile on her face, she looks around and memorizes various details, making an inventory of what needs to be done. With a paint job and a few repairs, we can move in, she says, as if they already had. Next winter we’ll probably need a better wood stove than this one. She closes her eyes. My soul is going to flourish here, she concludes. But Daphne too feels content; for some reason, she likes the place. For the first time the prospect of living in the country doesn’t terrify her; for the first time she doesn’t immediately see all the insuperable obstacles. Maybe we really will be living here in a couple of weeks, she thinks.
They manage to force the worm-eaten front door open and stand out front. By the facade stands a gray stone bench, and a huge laurel tree with the smoothest of bark, like a person’s skin. We’ll plant the garden here, says Aphra, pointing to a wide, flat piece of land between the long-untended apple trees and some apricot trees with bucolic ailments. She purses her doe’s lips in a serious frown, for that is where she intends to grow her carrots, turning the soil with just a hoe and fertilizing with manure from her organically raised livestock. We’ll put the beans there, she adds, indicating a sloping stretch. She’s not looking at the earth but a yard above ground level; she can already see the bean plants tied to their stakes, tall and bushy. For water, there’s a little spring beyond the chestnut grove; we need to replace the pipe. Daphne is a cork drawn from a bottle and seized by the current; she’s unable to picture the garden in its high summer lushness, she just isn’t familiar enough with growing things. I’d like to plant some sunflowers, she says nonetheless, a little uncertain. When she was a child, she was fascinated by the way those gigantic, beautiful flowers sprang forth from little seeds. Of course, says the other, as if sunflowers were fundamental. You just have to choose where, she says. She seems to think they need to decide immediately.
They’re rather touching, these two lunatics, one too short, one too tall, each with her own personal code of purity—not yet faith in yours truly, but still something. They might be some engaged couple visiting the place they’ll live in when they’re married. I’d almost like to reassure them about the owners of the house—three of them—they’re all in agreement to rent it out. Well, one of them isn’t yet, she even blocked earlier negotiations with a would-be tenant, but by tonight she’ll have come around. I know all the right arguments. And even the rent will be reasonable, the way it can happen when you have a number of heirs. But I’ll leave the two of them in doubt because that way, they’ll be even happier later. When things are gained with difficulty, humans appreciate them more.