From the stable came the muffled sound of goat bells. Sometimes at night their bells sound oleaginous, like the light on the surface of water in a deep well.
I can see him up there. He can’t see us. If we all shouted together he wouldn’t hear us. The dead are deaf to all the dynamite of the world.
A long silence followed, as if each one of them were thinking about the deafness of the dead.
It’s hard to lose a father, said the Sicilian.
Harder than losing a mother?
When you lose your father you know there’ll be no more miracles.
I never knew any miracles, said Pasquale beside Danielle on the grass. My father disappeared like a stone into a well before I knew him … so I never knew that loss.
The galaxies were visible at Peniel, as they never are on the plain. More than alcohol their silence makes people talk.
Is your father alive, Danielle? asked the boy.
He’s alive … I don’t know him like Virginio knew his father. He doesn’t talk to me much. All he says to me is: You’ll never make a wife, Danielle, like your mother was, you’re not modest enough to make a man happy, my girl.
Perhaps your Papa doesn’t see you as you are, said Pasquale, as if each of his words were a button he was pushing through a buttonhole.
Pasquale should know, declared Virginio, suddenly jubilant, for our Pasquale has eyes only for you!
The men, except Pasquale, laughed and the boy chanted:
Guarda quanto è bella ’sta mela
quanto è bellissima e cotta!
A few days later I climbed up to the pass with the idea of paying Marius a visit. I looked down and saw his herd grazing by the stream. Then I heard his voice.
Marius à Sauva!
This time there was no doubt. Each syllable was distinct and each syllable could be heard twice as it echoed off the Tête de Duet. I crouched down on the ground and protected my head with my arms as you do when lightning is near. Let no more words be said, I prayed. Let him be quiet.
Marius à Sauva!
I crept forward on my stomach. He was standing by the first boulder below. His arms were outstretched.
For your slope I have legs! he shouted.
The words still sounded like an order. What did he expect to happen? What did he hope to see change among the crags?
For your slope I have my old legs!
The first time he had said nothing about his age. Now he was shouting about being old.
For your peak I have eyes!
He covered his eyes with his hands as if weeping.
The echo of each word made the silence which followed more terrible.
For your trees I have arms!
It would have been like a reply if something had moved. Everything remained motionless. Even I was holding my breath.
For your trees, my faithful arms!
Johnny was standing a little distance away from Marius, his tail between his legs.
For your load I have a back!
Not even the shape of a cloud changed. The old man was on his knees, looking up at the rockface.
For braking your sledge I have heels!
He was banging his feet on the earth and leaning his weight backwards as if bringing a charged sledge down a slope.
For braking your sledge I have heels and buttocks!
The cows were grazing peacefully behind him.
He climbed up on a boulder and stood on top of it, a good two metres above the ground. The sight of his tiny figure on the boulder dwarfed by the vast slopes of Peniel made me understand something. Marius was speaking of his achievement. Marius set no great store on the opinion of others. What Marius had done all his life he had done for its own sake. His achievement wasn’t only his herd of thirty cows. It was also his will. Every day now, old and alone, he found an answer to the question Why go on? Nobody ever replied for him. Every day of the summer he had found the answer himself. And now, alone, he was boasting of it. That is what I told myself.
He thrust his hands into his trousers.
For your grot I have balls! For your grot my balls!
In the grass were autumn crocuses, their yellow and violet petals open like the beaks of baby birds. I smashed them with my fist. I smashed every one I could see.
When the woodcutters came to wash that evening, Danielle took Pasquale aside and said: I must talk to you.
Next Sunday, he said.
No! she insisted. Now! I can’t stay another day if I don’t talk to someone.
Pasquale went over to the trough and conferred with Father. She heard them speaking in Italian. Within five minutes Father was chivying the others to get a move on. The ritual of combing their hair one by one before the broken bit of mirror was renounced. They picked up their sacks, said good-bye, and with the slow list of their habitual fatigue, made their way to the car. Alberto the Sicilian got into the driver’s seat.
Pasquale stayed behind and started shaving in front of the broken mirror.
You can’t see a thing, Danielle said. Why do you have to shave now?
It’s the first time you’ve asked me to supper.
Supper, it’s only soup!
She began to sob silently. At first, peering into the mirror in which he could see nothing, Pasquale did not notice. It was her immobility which finally made him look up in her direction. He saw her shoulders trembling.
Shhh, he said, ssshhh. He walked her towards the chalet. A goose followed them. The door was open. Inside he stopped because it was pitch-dark and he could see nothing. She led him by the hand to a chair pulled up by the table, then she sat down herself on the chair opposite. She thought neither of lighting the lamp nor of heating the soup.
Something happened this afternoon, she said.
What?
In the pitch darkness, her hands placed on the table, she told him, quietly and slowly. She even told him about the crocuses. When she had finished there was silence. They heard a cow pissing in the stable, separated from the kitchen by a wall of pine boards.
Why should an old man talk to the mountains like that? she whispered.
Danielle, said Pasquale, speaking very slowly and weighing each word, it was not to the mountains the old man was shouting, it was not to the mountains he was offering himself part by part, it was to you and you know that, you know that, don’t you?
She began to sob again and the sobs became howls. She stood up to take in breath and to howl louder. Pasquale felt his way round the table and took her in his arms. She pressed her face as hard as she could against his chest. She bit his shirt which tasted of resin and sweat. She bit a hole in it.
On his wrist Pasquale had a watch with an alarm. It woke him at four-thirty. He did not want the others to pass by the chalet to fetch him, for he knew she would not yet understand their laughter. He kissed her repeatedly, he felt for his boots and clothes on the floor, and he slipped out to dress on the grass where they always left the Mercedes.
If today you pass through Bergamo and take the road north towards Zogno, you will find at the edge of the town where the sidewalk is no longer paved and the telegraph poles border the road, opposite an AGIP garage, next to a yard where men repair tyres, a shop with a sign that says VERDURA E ALIMENTARI. If it’s winter you will find Pasquale inside serving. He weighs the vegetables on the scales with the scrupulousness and precision of Saint Peter. He looks preoccupied and proud.