A fairy tale

Hammond Harper International Literary Prize
Editor’s choice
2019

Aminatta is the only one who knows why, at 5 p.m., all the church bells of the town start chiming from their high towers, one by one or all together. They tinkle softly, then toll more and more intensively and slowly fade, echoing across the valley in which the town lies, from the hills surrounding the buildings on the North side of the medieval centre to the open plain to the South. They strike again together, at a quarter to 6, then once again at about 7, then slowly fade away again. The town is not in a valley, she was told, and the church bells ring because of the daily Christian worship. Her mother often gets extremely angry with her: her bad habit of daydreaming! Her childish wild flights of fancy! She’s already 14 years old: she’s almost an adult, she’s already a woman! Her mother almost went mad when she said: “I know why the bells chime together above the town: there’s a fairy who lives in each tower. They know my Muslim angel, they talk to him when the bells strike then they fly together over the roofs to talk to me, but they must go back as soon as the sound gradually fades. They ride off into the sunset, then come back at dawn, when the first bell strikes. They ride yellow, pink, red rays of light as if they were horses. They know everything. My angel relays on them: they’re close friends”.
What did she mean? Had she gone completely crazy? Her mother scolded her terribly that day. When she arrived there from Africa, her parents drove her up a hill to show her the whole town: she looked quite astonished at the strange shape of the river among the buildings (“It’s like a lazy silver snake”, she said) and especially at the chiming bell towers. “This place is magic”, she added. Her parents agreed, but only because they felt relieved at their daughter’s sudden liking for the town.
Furthermore, she was still growing into a fairly attractive girl, tall and slender, as elegant as African girls often are thanks to their natural dignity, to their innate noble presence. She still looks as if she were almost 17 or 18, and yet shines in admiring eyes. She has got a light step and always walks softly, turning a bit with her hips, smiling innocently at everybody and letting her arms wave happily. Her mother is seriously concerned about her: on one hand, Aminatta feels absolutely confident and surprisingly comfortable with this foreign, dank and crowded small town, where on the contrary she has been working hard and frantically like a beast of burden for almost 8 years and African people are not welcome at all. On the other hand, she passes most of her time daydreaming, the dull child! She’s too often alone, that’s all…


*


She is late this evening: she went to her daughter’s school after work to talk to the teachers again about Aminatta. She doesn’t want to create the impression of being a careless mother: indeed, she isn’t. She gets home, and feels slightly upset: she has just been told again by teachers that her daughter is much more than a clever student, that she’s a smart, brilliant girl and has a remarkable IQ. She feels strange remembering their words. Aminatta might well be as intelligent as they said: this doesn’t matter at all for a black African girl in Italy, particularly when she was born in a black Muslim family. She only has to get a good job as soon as possible, not to waste her time studying worthless subjects and reading unhelpful Italian books any further; she should get a job immediately, but… When a teacher told her that school is compulsory in Italy until a child is 16 years old, she almost fainted: two more years at school! She had already managed to find Aminatta a good job at her Sri-Lankan friend’s grocery or at her Ghanaian friend’s laundry, but… That’s the law here, and she always obeys the laws: indeed, Italians can only put up with black people if they manifestly obey the laws. They must pay taxes which Italians usually don’t pay, get their ticket validated in front of everybody on the bus then stand up and avoid taking a seat even if empty ones are still available. Italians also get mad when Africans talk loudly to each other in their own languages: on the contrary, they must wait their turn quietly - especially at the surgery, at the pharmacy and at the supermarket - and never run a red light not even crossing the street on foot. Obeying the laws, standing up on the bus and keeping silent everywhere is the only way to earn a bit of respect in this country: she knows it perfectly. Aminatta’s teachers suggested sending her to a good State High School. She was told everything about a particular one, warmly recommended to her daughter and entirely suited to her skills, they said. Five more years at school, then… a further five years at university! She deserves that, they said: she must become a doctor. Aminatta a doctor! What nonsense! Nevertheless, she went on thinking about what the teachers said.


“How is your pretty child? Are her tits swelling up yet?”. A drunk man is just shouting at her: she is on the footpath, digging for keys in her purse right in front of the door of her block. He is drunk, obviously; she doesn’t know him, but he dares to shout at her and talks dirty to her about her child! She no longer likes the neighbourhood in which she lives: only migrants live there now, most of them from Arab countries. In the beginning, only some noisy African families lived there, some hardworking Chinese families running their cheap shops filled with everything you need and some Sri-Lankan people who worked in the posh houses of rich people and never shouted or made noise… then, an increasing amount of cocky Arabs who spend their time smoking fags or even joints all the day, drinking beer on the pavements in front of their favourite cafés then pissing in the street, on the walls, like dogs, even in front of women or children! Arrogant disgusting Arabs who despise black people in the same way they hate dogs and rats and spit at them! When Aminatta walks to school they always peep at her butt and laugh among themselves, devouring her with their dull eyes and talking dirty about her. Smug drunk men who openly criticise her because neither her daughter nor she wear a veil, and laugh while telling her where her husband is and what her daughter’s future might well be!
Black people, on the contrary, are quite messy but genuinely respectful: most of them are Christians, partly Catholic and partly Evangelical, but she doesn’t know why they are different. A Catholic family from Ghana lives in the flat near hers: they’re kind people, as poor as she is and always ready to help her. The Catholic parish priest, a kind thin man who often pays her a little visit when passing by, helped Aminatta to borrow her school books also this year; he even taught her something about Latin, a language which was spoken many centuries ago by people she had never heard anything about. Additionally, he helped her mother to find a better job, offering a good reference to her new employer. At the parish church Aminatta has got good friends, no matter if she’s a Muslim, whereas the neighbourhood is getting increasingly tough and dangerous for her: she knows that her mother is determined to move somewhere else as soon as possible, and agrees with her. If only she had enough money! Furthermore, Aminatta misses her father dreadfully: who knows why, she feels nostalgic. The girl often talks to herself warmly, softly, but sometimes her mother’s got the impression she’s speaking to someone else, thus gets terribly angry at her. She’s an adult, for God’s sake! She’s still a woman!


*


Several bells are chiming together now; she is going home and doesn’t mind them. She enters their small flat, determined to control her temper and to talk to her daughter kindly and warmly. Aminatta is sitting in front of the window, listening to a fading peal of bells: the last of the day, indeed, because it was 7 p.m. Her mother always feels angry when she gets home in the evening, but usually Aminatta doesn’t mind her rage. She knows her mother is always tired and exhausted: no matter if she gets nervous the second she enters her family’s home. Anyway, they have to talk seriously to each other this evening: there’s no need for anger, now. They have to take decisions, to plan their shared future. Aminatta a doctor! In the end, why not? She’s daydreaming herself, now... If only it could happen! How proud she would feel! Why not? Aminatta a doctor! Her daughter... an Italian doctor! If only her father would come back home! He had gone out some months before as if he were going to work as usual, early in the morning, but never came back. Some friends told her he lives in a village with another woman, 30 kilometres South from the town: just a white slut, a ugly, thin Italian blonde who runs a flower stand in front of a cemetery. He works as a florist for dead people in a Christian cemetery, she was told, being pushed around there as if he were a puppy by the Italian bitch he sleeps with. She doesn’t miss him as a husband, but her own income is extremely modest; besides, it isn’t guaranteed, and that’s seriously worrying. If her husband likes spending nights with that blonde thin whore, well, no matter, she doesn’t mind; but he has still got a child, and this does matter to her - he has still got a child who must go to high school then to university in Italy, who must become an Italian doctor! She deserves it, the teachers said. Why not, in the end? Why not? She can, she must, she will!


*

The music of the bells is fading now, chime by chime; Aminatta’s talking to a red nightfall, her perfect oval face turned to the sky, her eyes closed, in front of the window. She turns to her mother, opens her wide twinkling eyes and whispers:
“My father is dead”.
“What are you saying, Aminatta? Are you mad? Are you joking? Stop it, this is a special evening: we’ve got to have a serious talk, you and me, my little lamb…”.
Aminatta feels surprised: her mother hasn’t called her “my little lamb” for years; besides, no anger is heard in her tone of voice, which sounds almost sweet. She speaks to her gently, hugs her, puts her arm around her shoulders and kisses her on her cheek. But Aminatta is immersed in her thoughts, and whispers again: “He died...”.
“Who told you that, Aminatta? If I wasn’t told anything about your father, nothing happened to him: I’m still his wife, in the end...”.
Aminatta is miles away: she focuses on a bell tower, not too distant from them. She speaks to her mother as if she were talking to herself: “They know everything...”. Her eyes are filled with tears.
“Who knows everything, my little lamb? Tell me, don’t be scared of your mum. We have to talk seriously, you and me. You are too often alone at home, I know: my fault, I work so much! But you’re no longer a child, my little lamb. You are keen on studying, you are smart, the teachers said: you deserve so much! I think they’re right: they’re good people, aren’t they?”.
She kissed her again, while she rested her face on her mother’s shoulder; why does she feel so tender to her daughter now? No anger, no scolding this evening: no more screams for nothing between the two of them. She promises herself: Aminatta will be her little lamb again; she will be her pride forever. She’s skilled, the teachers said; she’s clever, she’s smart; she will be an Italian doctor.


*


Aminatta is going to tell her mother that the fairy who lives in the medieval bell tower of the Catholic cathedral, that is to say the noblest one in the town, talked to her Muslim angel that morning, then they went together to talk to her. They always know everything: her father was going to fall from a ladder - he was putting flowers in a pot almost on the high ceiling of a corridor, at the Christian cemetery.
Why don’t Christians dig their graves, the angel can’t understand: “They are strange”, he said to the fairy. “They’re used to burying dead people in tall concrete graves, what nonsense!”. The Catholic fairy from the cathedral was used to seeing graves and sarcophagi leaning from the walls, two or even more meters above the floor of the church, but agreed with the Muslim angel.
“As you can see, we share the same feelings and thoughts”, she told him, and they hugged in the air, smiling to each other, spreading and flapping their wings at the same rhythm.
Suddenly, they both felt sad turning to Aminatta: “He’s going to fall, my little lamb”, both said.
“I’ll be with him, at his side”, the Muslim angel promised. “I’ll talk to his own angel, who is a Muslim angel like me, and together we’ll help him to dream of you while kneeling before Our Great Lady the Noble Death: you’ll be his shelter against Our Dreadful Lady’s strong scythe. Even if everybody must kneel immediately before Our Mighty Lady, even if her cruel scythe never fails and no shield can save a man, you’ll be his last joy and concern in front of Her noble, terrible presence. She can bless a man who is going to die at her skeleton feet: Our Scary Lady of the Graves can really give him a powerful blessing. When a dying man holds a joy in his trembling hands, when a beloved face shines in his terrified gaze, Our Ruthless Great Lady’s heart, made of beating white bones pumping cold silver blood, is often moved; then, sometimes, She has mercy on him. Obviously, he must feel the bitter strike of Our Noble Lady’s sharp scythe to his bare neck, but She can give him the blessing he begs for. I promise”.
The angel spread his wide white wings, ready to soar.
“I’ll come with you”, the fairy said, then turned to Aminatta again: “Don’t be scared, our little lamb: just wait for him”, then flew away across the sky at the angel’s side; they both left a scent of jasmine flowers in Aminatta’s room.
“They are in a great hurry”, she thought. A bell was tolling.


“Don’t tell mum”, the angel whispers in her ear when he’s right back. “Don’t tell her anything. Her own Muslim angel is quite upset, and many kind helpful Catholic fairies are working hard for her: better if she ignores them; better if she let them do their job. Don’t tell her anything”.
“How?”, she asks him desperately, almost starting to cry.
Staying silent at her side, the angel ponders her feelings for a while then whispers again: “Do what you can, my little lamb. You’re right: do what you can. Your father kneeled in front of Our Lady the Great Noble Death dreaming of you: he closed his eyes looking at you, begging for you. She was merciful, Our Dark Scary Lady: she promised him you will be blessed”.


Aminatta’s going to tell her mother everything about the angel, the fairy, Our Lady The Noble Dreadful Death and her father, but the phone rings. Her mother answers the call, then starts crying.


*


A whole year has passed, and Aminatta is fairly happy: she’s the best student in her class! The school year is going to finish successfully for her. She and her mother had just left the odd neighbourhood in which they had been living for years and rented a small but tidy flat right in the centre of the town, in the pedestrian area near the cathedral, among posh shops and good restaurants. Everything looks like a tale, a fairy tale: an incredible one.


The Italian woman his father lived with promised him she would take care of Aminatta, by helping her to study: he was on the floor of the cemetery, lying in his own blood, and asked her to promise so. She did, because she loved him, then went to talk to his wife and offered to pay for everything for the child and also for her: books, stationery, clothing, food, rent, everything they needed - she could afford it, she said. In the beginning, her mother refused any proposal of hers, but she insisted on offering help, because she had promised so to a dying man she loved. She begged her to accept help in the name of the man they had both loved; she asked her for forgiveness falling on her knees; she recognised that he was her husband and Aminatta’s mother was his only wife, while she herself was nothing at all for him.
“Don’t exaggerate”, Aminatta’s mother said. “I had just stopped loving him some years ago. I was used to him, that’s all: we lived together, we had a child, nothing more, nothing less. He was a good man, a joyful one: not his fault if we no longer loved each other. I started feeling so sad when I came to this country, while he was such a merry man, always singing, always joking. Things happen, only God knows why. He was happy with you at least in his last months, and I can see that you are a good woman… I despised you, sorry for doing that. I didn’t know you at that time. Forgive me: I was wrong”. They hugged and cried, whispered and wept together until dusk.


Day by day, step by step, the two women became real friends: nobody could tell how it happened, but it did in a few months. Actually, the two widows started running together a new flower shop right in front of the cathedral: the Italian one sold the stand she owned in front of the cemetery and rented this shop, sharing it with her new African friend. Furthermore, her brother, a kind man, a widower himself who still runs a well known grocery in the very centre of the old town, right near his sister’s new flower shop, is still more than a friend for Aminatta’s widowed mother: unexpectedly, they fell in love almost at first sight! She’s likely to marry him next spring or even before. He is also very fond of the child, and behaves like a real father to her.


Elsewhere, Aminatta is one of the best students in her school: her teachers always praise her, and the other students not only respect her but also genuinely admire her. She’s got a lot of new friends, and feels happier and happier. As tall as she is, she’s also a gifted volley-ball player. Her mother no longer gets angry at her or scolds her for any reason at all: she always calls her “my little lamb”, but… if only she would stop telling stories about a Catholic fairy living in the cathedral bell tower and a white Muslim angel, who are just engaged and are going to get married quite soon!


She told her mother that they promised her she will be their bridesmaid, and she’s still a bit concerned about the dress she must wear that day. The fairy laughed: it’ll be a gift from the fairies of the bell towers.
“Don’t worry, Aminatta”, she said, “you’ll look great, trust me! I also assure you I’ll be the bridesmaid at your wedding, which will be happy and long-lasting”.
“Please, Aminatta”, the white angel said, “never forget that Our Dark Noble Lady, the Scary Mistress of the Graves, felt moved and blessed you in front of your dying father that day. She’s used to keeping her promises, which every man on earth can witness and Muslim angels know perfectly too; her dried bony heart is a trustworthy one. Even though, Catholic angels have different thoughts about her: in our opinion, they feel too confident about Her Noble Presence because of their Young Lord the Wise Noble Carpenter, but we avoid arguing with them about that. They look as if they weren’t scared enough of her, and that’s truly a great mistake: it sounds inconsiderate to us, because the Gracious Great Prophet himself always paid great respect to Our Noble Ruthless Lady. Anyway, we discuss this issue only when Catholic angels can’t hear our talks: we let them think whatever they like. We’ve been trying to work together recently, so we need to get along with each other”.


Aminatta wrote everything about them in her recent classwork and got her best mark ever. Furthermore, she had her tale published not only in the school magazine but also in the local newspaper, with her name at the top of the page! How proud they felt, all of them! Her mother’s new blonde friend, whom Aminatta already called “aunt Anna”, gave her a wonderful bunch of yellow flowers; she also sent a similar bunch to Aminatta’s Italian teacher and to the High School Headmistress, on behalf of their family - they were still a family, weren’t they? Nearly weeping with joy, the gentle Italian widower her mother was going to marry bought the girl a lovely golden fountain pen.

She had been allowed to tell the whole story by the fairy herself, her mother was told by Aminatta’s teacher. The white Muslim angel, she said, agreed with his Catholic fiancé.

---

Women cherish hopes
(unpublished)

Her grey hair looks great, today: she’s no longer been dyeing it for two years. Under her grey bangs falling over her forehead barely wrinkled by the growing strength of passing years, she admires her still pretty face in a mirror. Her grey eyes are still brightening even if a bit faded, indeed. Her hair and eyes actually share the same shade of grey, as if they were twins.


It’s beautiful there, in the road where she lives, especially at sunset. Through rose or red light colours can be found bouncing off the walls which are painted in different ways: her town shows several colours laying side by side everywhere not only on the hills, among vines, cherry trees, coarse grass and peach trees, but also in the very centre of the town, among its medieval narrow streets, particularly in the wide crowded ancient square in front of the Romanesque cathedral, made of alternate rows of white marble strips and red bricks.
She likes her small flat in the opposite side of the square, near the corner, almost by the riverbank: it’s small but warm, perfect for her grey twin hair and eyes on her 60th birthday. She has been living there for more than thirty years, since Camilla was born and her father left them both after a few months. She had wept a lot in that flat, fed her child alone, taught her to write and read at the kitchen table and helped her do her homework, argued with her when she was late in the evening for the first time, wept when she got her first joint and boasted about that, consoled her several times because she had split up again with her wonderful new boyfriend; in that flat, she had cooked her favourite dishes so many times and kept her room tidy day by day, until Camilla suddenly left the country.
Most young people leave Italy nowadays: everybody knows. Youths no longer walk over the Roman bridge and the ancient square at sunset, in summer; young people no longer lean on the ancient walls of the town smoking and chatting about nothing for hours, as she had done for years when she was a girl; boys and girls had apparently stopped kissing secretly in the shade under the medieval porch, where young lovers had been hugging each other covertly for centuries. However, on Saturday evening, the loud chattering voices of dozens of kids echo around the square until the middle of the night, but her own daughter is not among them: she has gone abroad, and her friend Elena’s son and her friend Marta’s daughter have done the same too.
In the end, most of her few friends are middle-aged mothers missing their children all the time, almost addicted to international calls and video-calls to them. They talk to each other every day about what Camilla said last night on the phone, what Andrea told her mother yesterday while chatting on Skype, what Francesca found out when she went home on Sunday, in the country where she lives, and a package for her from Italy had been delivered in her absence (her eyes filled with tears, she phoned her mother immediately on Face Time because her favourite cake was there in perfect condition exactly on her birthday; she has always been weeping alone in her cheap flat on the outskirts of London since she arrived there; she’s going to come back home, sure, perhaps quite soon; at least, she’s thinking about that, it depends on her job, it’s badly paid while highly demanding, you know, she’s going to quit it, she’s considering moving to Australia, but it’s not easy to do, such a great opportunity she had in London last month was a real disaster, she’s scared of another one…).


*


When the sun sets, she always lights candles in her living room: she never runs out of candles because she loves them. Their light spreading gently all around, flickering on the walls, melting into the warm shades of the wooden ceiling and floor have always brought her a deep sense of peace and relief. Additionally, their dim light is not a pretentious one: it’s always trembling, as if it were going to fall on its knees at some point; it’s humble, shy; it’s almost limping on the wooden floor; it can’t beat the darkness but only face up to it. A candle’s weak strength is completely exhausted, in the end; it also lacks self-confidence, she thinks while lighting one of her favourite scented candles, and smiles slightly.
She too has always been trembling; she always failed - as a partner, as a mother, as a freelancer; often, as a friend. Some friends quit her: simply, they abandoned her at a certain time and never went back. Her daughter’s father went far away from them both a few months after their child was born. Her grown-up child suddenly went abroad, far away from her.
However, candles can burn in the dark and shine their weak light: a gentle, feeble and warm one, indeed. Any candlelight comes from a poor flame, indeed: it can’t either claim or pretend to be anything but a flickering light climbing slowly up the walls at sunset, rising to reach the ceiling tiles then falling back down immediately. However, the ceiling is a gentle friend: it never refuses to meet some candlelight, and neither does the wooden floor. They always seem to react emotionally to it by continuously changing their shades and colours, perhaps to honour its efforts: to help that weak light cherish hopes. Sincere, desperate, renewed hopes; wild ones, too; fervent and unreasonable ones.


*


Her friends Elena and Marta are going to arrive to celebrate her birthday; she has already baked a cake and bought a bottle of real champagne which is now in the fridge, waiting for its great moment. Camilla still phoned in the afternoon, but she felt nervous and got angry with her mother almost immediately: she is often sore and increasingly distant to her. Nothing has ever worked properly between the two of them: indeed, everything was complicated by a secret, slight but tangible tension she could never relieve. She feels humiliated and mortified now, on her 60th birthday: her fault, she thinks. She can never talk to her daughter in the right way. Something must always go wrong, mustn’t it? Something can always go wrong, and it does.
She lights her candles, looking for relief in weeping just a bit, before her friends arrive. Camilla needs a new opportunity, she thinks: a permanent job as soon as possible, and also a new boyfriend - she deserves them. I hope she’s going to meet a good boy, a right man: an attractive but righteous one, of good character, of good conviction. There are a lot of people there, I hope she can meet him quite soon. Her employer is an unscrupulous one: I hope she can find a better job, more worthwhile, less demanding.


*


She is thinking now of some lines by her favourite poet, Emily Dickinson:


Oh Poor and Far -
Oh Hindered Eye
That hunted for the Day -
The Lord a Candle entertains
Entirely for Thee.


She has just read them in her worn copy of Emily’s Collected poems and is still thinking about them. Was Emily still young when she felt so desperate? Anyway, candles always provide relief: when a candle burns in your home, you could also believe in God. Emily was likely 30 or a bit more but not yet 60. She is 60, anyway, no doubt she is: it’s her birthday. Some friends died before getting to 50, because of cancer or car accidents; some other friends suddenly disappeared out of sight, nobody knows why. People are strange: friends often disappear for no reason, at least without a believable one; Camilla often gets angry with her in the same way.


Friendships and relationships work as ash does, she often thinks: some of it chills and dies, whereas some of it starts burning again when a gentle wind blows unexpectedly and puts new fire into daily life. Furthermore, nothing is predictable: it’s a wonder to her why a particular friendship came to an end while another one, which seemed less faithful and had always been less promising, came back to life from an almost dead fire of mutual feelings. She’s scared of losing Camilla by having any kind of fire extinguished in her daughter’s heart; she’s afraid of still being guilty for that.
Anyway, you can never see which way the wind is blowing. Let it blow, and wait for new flames where old ash lays. Let the breeze surprise you, let the wind astonish you: it can do it and it will, particularly when your dreams still turn to the glowing ash of a dying fire. Don’t try to have either a forced breath of wind on the ash you still love or your life reignited by a rising flame. Let God do that: let some flickering candlelight be enough for you this evening, until your friends arrive.

---

I wonder why
(unpublished)

to Maddalena




Snow was expected to fall that evening: I raised the whole blind to let her admire the fine flakes from the bed where she lay. We could see them in the beam of light of a street lamp. A thick, soft dusting already lay on the dark brunches of the fir tree: they leaned towards the window like thoughtful neighbours asking me for news about her.
Nothing serious, anyway: only labyrinthitis, the doctor said. She was on the mend: two or three days, and she would be perfectly healed. Meanwhile, she was still lying in her bed: when she tried to stand up, on the previous days, she vomited immediately, again and again.
I had been with her for three days, hurrying from the loo to her bedroom holding basins and towels, sleeping at her side, bringing her trays with hot lemon tea and biscuits, reading her a novel by Abraham Yehoshua, letting her sleep from time to time, holding her hand while she was sleeping and missing her gaze when she closed her eyes to rest, choosing soft music to sway to, smoking cigarettes in the kitchen when she wasn’t awake and often looking at the fir in the garden, at the vines, at the side of the hill which was brightening in the dark with the valley at the foot of the bluff: I could see a lot of wonderful things from the kitchen window. My empty home was there, five kilometres North from the outskirts of the town where she lived at the top of a hill, among firs and vines.


In spring, the fir tree I so often admired during those days was sparkling with voices like a whole village: sparrows, mockingbirds, pigeons, doves, swallows from above, perhaps larks, often blackbirds had a lot of things to argue about and never ceased to get involved in longstanding quarrels, all together or one by one. They continuously went in and out of the brunches, each at his place in the shade of the green giant they chose as their home; two red squirrels were like the tree patrol, pacing up and down to make sure everybody felt comfortable at home and quarrels were not a serious affair.
I had always been daydreaming a lot about that fir tree and its several residents. It was as tall as the house was, and perhaps a bit more.


*


It was Christmas night: the first one we really spent together, looking at the first light snow of winter from her bed. She was really starting to feel better. She finally realised that I had been there for three days, avoiding going out, rinsing basins and so on; she was still weak, but she stopped vomiting and started smiling at me. Her elderly parents were on holiday at her sister’s house in the mountains, and she didn’t want to worry them or to have them back to help her; her best female friend, who lived in the flat just near hers, was on holiday too; I was the only one who could take care of her in those days. Anyway, I really had nothing to do: nobody to spend my holiday with, only books to read, some poems to write from time to time and a lot of cigarettes to smoke one by one, in my silent house in the valley.
“Look at my hair”, she told me holding her locks: “I look like a cocker!”.
We laughed together. We both felt relieved: she was really on the mend.
“I think you can get out of bed now”, I told her.
I waited, but she was staring the falling snow again, which was settling on the vines, the brunches and the road outside.
“We were reading a novel”, I added.
“I don’t remember anything at all about the novel… only your voice which was cradling me…”.
“I can start again from the beginning, if you like…”.
“No, TV is better this evening: we can see the Holy Mass from St. Peter’s, with the Pope. We are both Catholics in the end, aren’t we? It’s Christmas, isn’t it?… Anyway, have you eaten something? The fridge is full, you know. If you help me, I think I can reach the couch. I’d like to have a shower, do you think it’s possible? I think I can do it on my own: I can stand up now. If I leave the door ajar, I think I can try… anyway, if I need help I’ll call you”.


I brought her pillows from the bed and a blanket when she actually reached the couch: she had already had a shower, put on light make up as usual, dressed up a bit and lay down.
“Not this one, the other one, please… the brown blanket with Bambi drawn on it… this one, thank you… put it in the other way, please…”.
“Sorry, why?”.
“It’s not aesthetic…”.
“Ok, here it is… your aesthetic Bambi!”.
“Don’t mock me… I like things as they should be, at least at home”.

We watched the Holy Christmas Mass on Tv, whispering together the prayers the Pope said. In the end, I went from the kitchen carrying a tray with tea, lemon and biscuits.
“Are you sure you aren’t going to make a disaster?”.
“No, I worked as a waiter every summers when I was a student…”.
“You’re a teacher now, it was a long time ago…”
“Well, thank God the tray just landed on the table…”.
“Thank you, how a kind of you! A lot of lemon, please, and no sugar at all… I can’t believe that you stayed here with me for three days while I was so terribly sick! How many cigarettes did you smoke in my kitchen? Did you write some lines while smoking?”.


I’d answered: you’re the most surprising woman I ever met. A genuine woman: feminine, charming, fascinating and incredibly brilliant, intelligent, sharp, strong; weak, sometimes; worried as only women can be; not convinced of yourself, as worthwhile women usually are; generous, unpredictable. You live alone among your books but always talk to me, on the phone or in your dining-room; we often share books, meals, movies, chats, but you still are a mystery to me, and I accept you as a mystery I can only admire, not try to solve.
Yes, I smoked a lot of cigarettes, more than you can imagine, and almost got a cold keeping the kitchen window open to let the smoke go away also in the middle of the night.
Yes, I wrote some lines that nobody will read: I wrote them for nobody in the same way the sky is giving snow for nobody now, or perhaps for somebody, how can I think such a silly thing? I’m a bit confused: forgive me. I wrote:


I’m a witness to the snow:
I know these flakes are brave.
I guess they fall so gladly,
so light to melt on earth!


Tomorrow they’re expected
to lie in our thoughts.
They trust, I don’t know why.
I bet they don’t regret.


*


I wonder why we didn’t regard immediately that evening as the evidence of a special bond between the two of us: an incredibly strong link. It was stronger than any passionate physical love, which we had not yet had at that time, despite what friends imagined about us. It was even deeper than our close friendship, which was still a deep one. It was stronger than the boundaries between the two of us, about which we both agreed and which were carefully respected by both.
We recognised it, in the end, but only more than a year later. I didn’t tell her: “I love you”. She already knew that. I told her: “Marry me”. I was not expected to beg for that, but she agreed.


I wonder why we didn’t understand the bond between us that Christmas evening, while snow was falling from a dark sky: it tried to settle on the wide brunches of the fir tree, on the vines, on the hill, on the valley north from there, but it couldn’t and melted into the ground in a few hours. We watched the Holy Christmas Mass together; she was on the mend, sitting at my side on a white couch under her aesthetic Bambi blanket.


When I think of the day we got married, I think precisely of that Christmas night: the first night we really spent together, in our own way. It was the first night of our daily intimacy, deeper than our close friendship which grew day by day. Intimacy, I said: stronger than the most delicate and passionate lovemaking, which happened much later.