But sometimes it’s everything, sir.
The Father looked at her. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen that meek impudence in her, and he couldn’t help being fascinated by it every time. It was an inconvenient trait, but he sensed in it the promise of a patient force that would be capable of living, head held high, any life. For that reason, as he looked at the young Bride, proud in her convictions, it seemed to him for a moment that it might be a good idea to tell her everything: to warn her that the Son had disappeared and to confess to her that he had no idea of how to resolve things. Then a suspicion that came from nowhere stopped him: that where his rational approach to the problem had failed, that girl’s boundless intensity might be successful. In a moment of strange lucidity, he thought the Son might really return if only he allowed the girl to truly wait for him.
No one has ever stayed in this house when we go on vacation, he repeated, more to himself than to the young Bride.
Is it so important?
I think so.
Why?
In the repetition of actions we stop the world: it’s like holding a child by the hand, so that he doesn’t get lost.
Maybe he won’t get lost. Maybe he just starts running a little, and is happy.
I wouldn’t delude myself too much.
And then, after all, sooner or later he’ll get lost, don’t you think?
The Father thought of the Son, of the countless times he had held him by the hand.
Maybe, he said.
Why don’t you trust me?
Because you are eighteen years old, signorina.
And so?
You still have a lot to learn, before you can think you’re right.
You’re joking, right?
I’m very serious.
You were twenty when you took a wife and a child that you didn’t choose. Did someone tell you that you weren’t old enough to do it?
The Father, caught off guard, made a vague gesture in the air.
That’s another story, he said.
You think so?
The Father made another indecipherable gesture.
No, you don’t think so, said the young Bride. You know that we are all immersed in a single story, which began a long time ago and isn’t over yet.
Please sit down, signorina, it distresses me to see you standing there.
And he brought a hand to his heart.
The young Bride sat down facing him. She sought in herself a very calm, very sweet voice.
You don’t think I can manage, by myself, in this house. But you have no idea how big and isolated that house in Argentina was. They left me there, for days. I wasn’t afraid then, I couldn’t be now, believe me. I’m only a girl, but I’ve crossed the ocean twice, and once I did it alone, to come here, knowing that, in doing it, I would kill my father. I seem like a girl, but I haven’t been for a long time.
I know, said the Father.
Trust me.
That isn’t the problem.
What is it, then?
I’m not used to trusting in the efficacy of the irrational.
I beg your pardon?
You want to stay here because you feel that the Son will arrive, right?
Yes.
I’m not used to making decisions on the basis of what one feels.
Maybe I didn’t choose the right word.
Choose a better one.
I know it. I know that he’ll return.
On the basis of what?
You think you know the Son?
The little that we’re allowed to know our children. They are submerged continents, we see merely what is on the surface of the water.
But for me he’s not a son, he’s the man I love. Can you admit that I might know something more about him? I don’t say feel, I say know.
It’s possible.
Isn’t that enough?
Like a flash, the suspicion that, if he just allowed that girl to truly wait for him, the Son would come back, returned to the Father.
He closed his eyes, and, resting his elbows on the desk, brought the palms of his hands to his face. He ran his fingertips over the wrinkles on his forehead. He remained like that for a long time. The young Bride said nothing: she waited. She was wondering what she could add, to bend that man’s will. For a second she thought of talking to him about Don Quixote, but immediately realized that it would only complicate things. There was nothing else she could say, and now the only thing to do was wait.
The Father took his hands away from his face and settled himself placidly in the chair, leaning against the back.
As they certainly must have told you that day, in the city, he said, for years I’ve been grappling with a task that I chose and that, over time, I’ve learned to love. I’m striving to put the world in order, so to speak. I don’t mean the entire world, obviously, I mean that small portion of the world that has been assigned to me.
He spoke with great tranquility, but searching for the words, one by one.
It’s not an easy task, he said.
He took a letter opener from the desk, and began to twirl it in his fingers.
Lately I’ve been convinced that I will be able to complete this task only by making a gesture most of whose details will, unfortunately, not be under my control.
He looked up at the young Bride.
It’s a gesture that has to do with dying, he said.
The young Bride didn’t move a muscle.
So I often ask myself if I will be up to it, the Father continued. I have to keep in mind the fact that, for reasons I wouldn’t know how to give a convincing explanation for, I find myself confronting this, like other tests, in complete solitude, or at least without the safe presence of some suitable person near me. It’s a thing that can happen.
The young Bride nodded assent.
For this reason I’m wondering if it would not be too audacious, on my part, to go so far as to ask you a favor.
The young Bride raised her chin very slightly, without changing her gaze.
The Father put the letter opener on the table.
That day, when I find myself confronted by the need to make that gesture, would you be so kind as to be with me?
He said it coldly, as he might have pronounced the price of a fabric.
It’s also possible, he added, that when that day arrives you won’t be in this house, and in fact it’s reasonable to think that I will have long since become accustomed to not to hearing about you. Yet I will know how to find you, and will send for you. I won’t ask you anything in particular, it will be sufficient to have you near and to talk to you, to hear you speak. I know that I’ll be in a hurry or have too much time ahead, on that day: will you promise to help me spend those hours, or those minutes, in the right way?
The young Bride laughed.
You’re proposing a trade, she said.
Yes.
You’ll leave me alone, in this house, if I promise to come to you, that day.
Exactly.
The young Bride laughed again, then she thought of something and became serious again.
Why me? she asked.
I don’t know. But I feel it’s right that way.
Then the young Bride shook her head, amused, and recalled that no one shuffles the cards better than a cardsharp.
All right, she said.
The Father made a slight bow.
All right, the young Bride repeated.
Yes, said the Father.
Then he got up, walked around the desk, went to the door, and before opening it turned.
Modesto won’t appreciate it, he said.
He can stay, too, I’m sure he’d be happy to.
No, that’s out of the question. If you want to stay, you’ll stay alone.
All right.
Do you have a vague idea of what you’ll do in all that time?
Of course. I’ll wait for the Son.