The Mountain

by Massimo Donati

  Beneath the rain, the garden’s darkening colours appeared dense and defined, as though the water had thickened the mesh of branches somehow, condensing the grass and compressing the bushes. The drops beat down on the large rosebuds and, as they bounced off, they formed a halo of steam so that the entire bush seemed trapped inside a cloud.

  Roberto watched this private spectacle for some time with the ghost of an involuntary smile, at least in his eyes. A smile that was all his because, with his back to the building, nobody could see him. Not even Ada, who had stayed indoors and was watching him through the French windows.

  She held them open for him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She responded with a small, almost military, bow. She took his umbrella and raincoat and was about to leave when Roberto asked her: ‘Where do you live, Ada?’

  ‘I live here.’

  ‘Don’t you have another house?’

  She hesitated for only a moment.

  ‘My work hours kept increasing. I occupy a room on the second floor of the right wing of the building. That’s more than enough for me. But for the last few days I’ve been staying with a friend. I love this villa but it’s not the same being here without…’

  Roberto didn’t let her finish.

  ‘Villa Beltrami is a masterpiece of 1930s architecture. It could be a museum. Are we the only ones here?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Only us two. Just like with Signor Beltrami. But I’ll be leaving you alone mostly. Now he’s no longer with us, a lot of the tasks on hold at the publishing house will need my attention.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, I can’t hear you properly.’

  Roberto went out into the garden and looked around him, trying to find a spot where the signal was better. It took some time, and he thought about ending the call and phoning back. But he kept moving around, cutting back and forth across the lawn without knowing where he was going, with an indecisive air, like he was divining for water. Over the course of the morning it had stopped raining and a pale sun had already dried everything out.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  Truly by chance he found the right spot, just next to the wooden garden bench under the old willow, a few metres from the rose bushes.

  ‘Finally. Now I can hear you properly.’

  The bench looked new. It was the same bench but it had been replastered and painted recently, which was a pity; it had lost all its memories.

  He touched the surface lightly with his fingers, as though searching for something.

  One time he had cried and cried, over nothing really, and hurled his bright red 1938 Bugatti Atlantic, his favourite of all his model cars, against the wooden corner of the bench, so that the Bugatti got broken and the bench got chipped. It had been a clumsy act for which his mother Anna, without saying a word, had punished him by getting rid of the Bugatti forever; the bench had remained damaged. He was only four years old.

  Now the corner of the bench was in perfect condition.

  His mother always used to sit there. For entire afternoons in later years, in silence, alongside the roses.

  He sat down feeling as though this was a return.

  ‘Hi, Adrian.’

  ‘You haven’t been in touch.’

  The breeze off the lake moved the trees and bushes and lightly ruffled his hair.

  ‘I don’t have much to tell you.’

  Silence.

  ‘Will you be back the day after tomorrow as planned?’

  Roberto stared at the ground.

  ‘We have to meet Steiner. He insisted we should both be there.’

  ‘Can’t you meet him on your own? The sale is practically confirmed. Tell him something’s come up.’

  ‘What if he wants to ask us something about the painting? What do I say? You’re the expert.’

  ‘Blame it on me: tell him I refused to entrust the documentation to anyone. He’ll already have done his own research anyway.’

  ‘But what’s happening with the will? Isn’t it going to be read tomorrow?’

  ‘There’s been a problem. We have to wait for my father’s notary.’

  ‘How long for?’

  ‘Till next Thursday.’

  Adrian let out a deep sigh.

  ‘You know everybody’s waiting on your signal. And they’re expecting it any minute now. Disappearing for a week is going to get the newspapers talking, Roberto.’

  ‘Let them talk. It’s a good thing.’

  ‘But at least give them something. One of the friendly newspapers is saying that two in three Zurich residents want you as mayor. And everybody wants someone credible, who hasn’t been compromised. That’s you. Now’s the time to come out into the open.’

  ‘From Italy? I don’t think that’s a good idea. Then tomorrow I’d find all the journalists here tormenting me. We’re in no hurry.’

  ‘But then why don’t you come back in the meantime?’

  He was silent for a moment, undecided.

  ‘I’d rather stay.’

  ‘Okay, Roberto. I can manage on my own for a few days.’

  A hint of a smile crossed Roberto’s lips.

  ‘I don’t doubt it. If you weren’t the best art seller in Zurich, and that means in Europe, we wouldn’t be business partners.’

  ‘Thanks for the kind words.’

  Roberto stood up, forgetting all the effort he had put into getting good phone reception: in the perimeter hedge that blocked off the view from the lake, he had spotted a narrow opening of a few centimetres. He wondered whether it was just a coincidence, or if it had been cut like this on purpose.

  Then he heard a sudden sharp noise. A resounding bang followed by a few seconds of frenetic scratching, which then died down. He turned to find out its origins but to no avail. He thought it must have been an animal.

  ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I have any news.’

  Still on the line, Adrian was silent, and distant.

  ‘Adrian?’

  ‘Roberto. If there’s some kind of issue there, don’t bring it home with you. Put an end to it there. You’ve never explained to me why you don’t go back to Italy, and I don’t understand why you’re staying there now. But that’s fine. Just make sure that when you come back everything is resolved. I’ve done a lot to get us where we are, ready to jump that final hurdle. I don’t want it all to be ruined at the last minute.’

  ‘Relax. I’ll be back Saturday or Sunday at the latest. Hopefully rich.’

  ‘You’re already rich.’

  ‘Well then, even richer.’

  They laughed.

  He ended the call.

  Once again, there was the sound of a jump onto asphalt. Roberto got to his feet, curious and a little worried. And that’s when he saw her.

  A child was walking, one step after another, along the flat roof of the villa at the level of the first-floor windows.

  She was wearing a white singlet that reached down to the middle of her calves. Her skin was at least as pale and her body as slight as a string of spaghetti: in combination with her short red hair it made her look like a Swedish match. A necklace of large fake pearls bounced on her chest. She was walking slowly and carefully four metres from the ground.

  It didn’t take much to work out where she had emerged from: on the second floor, at the corner of the building, one of the large windows was open. From there the girl had jumped onto the mezzanine that separated the first floor from the second, then lowered herself down, sliding her feet along the little wall that led to the level below before letting herself drop the metre or so onto the flat roof.

  Roberto’s eyes were glued to her as she proceeded. Perhaps she had seen him but was ignoring him. She reached the corner eave, where the ivy grew. Beneath it was a diamond-shaped grate: she clutched on to it and, without hesitation, began her descent. She appeared to have played this little game many times before but suddenly her necklace got caught on a branch of the climbing plant. Her face contracted as, hanging from one ha
nd, she sought to tear it off. She remained like that for one long instant, concentrating all her efforts and looking like she was about to cry.

  ‘Take it slow,’ the words slipped out of Roberto’s mouth in an inaudible whisper. ‘Nice and slow.’

  The girl pulled hard and the necklace came free. The rest was easy. Within a moment she was down on the ground.

  Roberto relaxed and stayed where he was, not looking at her. He still felt a sense of danger. The girl was tiny. She went straight to the middle of the garden and sat down with her legs crossed. Now she was combing the lawn around her with her fingers, in a pattern of large circles. She pulled out an occasional blade of grass, leaned down to look at some minuscule animal that was busying itself around the edge of a flower. Roberto was staring at the roses, and beyond, through the little strip that afforded a view of the jetty.

  Then the little girl stood up. She came the long way around the plants, all the while keeping an eye on this unknown man who continued to sit motionless.

  ‘Hi.’

  The girl had come closer. She spoke without any warmth—she was clearly on guard, even though she did not appear to be afraid. Maybe she already knew about him. Even now her face was serious and, skinny as she was, up close she looked like an adult in miniature, a very rough sketch of a woman.

  ‘Hi.’

  They stared at each other, a metre apart.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Roberto thought about it for a moment.

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  The girl did not bother to enquire as to the reason. She said, ‘Do you have permission?’

  Roberto shook his head and looked a little sorry.

  ‘Who am I supposed to get it from?’

  ‘My mother. She’s the queen of the garden.’

  Roberto looked at her a little presumptuously.

  ‘As soon as I see her I’ll ask her.’

  ‘I can give you permission too. My name’s Alina and I’m vice-queen. But you have to ask first. Do you want permission?’

  Roberto didn’t know how to respond.

  ‘If you don’t ask you’ll have to leave.’

  ‘May I have permission, please?’

  The girl turned in a circle on the spot. She wandered around the park bench.

  ‘Only if you give me your first bit of magic.’

  Roberto shook his head. This girl, with her soft voice and such clear ideas, made him uneasy.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Everybody has some magic. Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that. And I don’t think I have any.’

  ‘That’s because you didn’t know about it. My mother says everybody has the right to at least a bit of magic. And if you’re very good you have more.’

  ‘Your mother knows a lot more than me.’

  ‘Of course. She’s a queen.’

  ‘That’d be why.’

  ‘And she says even bad people have some. A few of them even have a lot, and that’s a great mystery.’

  Roberto thought of his father.

  ‘So are you going to give it to me?’

  The Zurich art merchant thought about it for a moment. Then he nodded.

  ‘Yes, but why is it you want my first bit of magic?’

  ‘Because it comes out best. It’s pure magic.’

  Roberto reflected on this.

  ‘I don’t even know what my magic is. I might need to think about it a bit better and decide if I want to give it to you. Maybe I need it for myself.’

  ‘You can think about it.’

  She was silent for ten seconds.

  ‘Have you thought about it? You get more, and it can be even more useful. Magic is like seeds: if you keep it for yourself it’s just seeds but if you sprinkle them around they turn into trees and animals.’

  Roberto smiled at her, perhaps his first truly gentle smile in quite some time. The little girl smiled too.

  ‘You’ve convinced me.’

  She became serious once more, squinting her eyes as though concentrating. She picked up a tiny pebble from the grass and delicately rested it on the palm of his hand.

  ‘You can stay in the garden when you have the pebble.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Roberto put the pebble in the handkerchief he was carrying with him and placed it in his pocket.

  ‘That way I won’t lose it.’

  ‘Good.’

  The girl stepped away to do a little dance. With her feet alongside her hands she flew into a somersault, just one, and then continued wandering about as though she could hear music inside her head. It was a terribly austere game, apparently free of any enjoyment.

  Roberto discreetly followed her with his eyes. At the end the girl was still once more, and sat back down on the park bench. She was panting a little.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Why did you come down here via the roof?’

  The girl was still panting and just when it seemed she had deemed the question unworthy of a reply, she said listlessly, ‘It’s nicer.’

  She gave herself away when she glanced at him surreptitiously, her eyes betraying the anxiousness of a child, a child who might be discovered.

  He allowed the wrong question to slip out.

  ‘Do you often come into the queen’s garden?’

  She could feel the circle tightening around her and her flights of fancy. She looked like she was about to cry. She lowered her head and showed three fingers of her little hand.

  ‘Three times a week.’

  Roberto ran his hand over her small red, slightly damp, head. A single caress.

  ‘You’re Signor Carlo’s son, aren’t you?’

  ‘Roberto.’

  The girl squinted, sure of herself.

  ‘I know.’

  A dark shadow passed over her eyes.

  ‘It’s a real pity that you came back while he’s away travelling. Mamma said he’s going to be away a long time.’

  ‘Yes, I don’t think I’ll be seeing him.’

  ‘That’s a shame. He’s really kind.’

  ‘So they tell me.’

  ‘He’s the one who made me vice-queen of the garden.’

  ‘He chose well.’

  The girl nodded with conviction and slid down from the bench.

  ‘Will I see you over the next few days?’

  ‘Yes, maybe.’

  She began to walk away but then turned, struck by a doubt.

  ‘You won’t tell Mamma, will you?’

  Roberto shook his head.

  Then the girl trotted off and disappeared behind a rose bush, like a fairytale hare returning to its refuge.

  3

  From the distant, hazy horizon and across fields blanketed with snow, all the way through to the web of icy trees and the dolls’ houses of the Northern European village. In the centre, the bed of a frozen river where a blurry mass of humanity busied itself, figures of thickset, rugged-up farmers, caught in the act of enjoying the novelty. Some had made a hole in the ice for fishing, like Eskimos. Others skated slowly and awkwardly, while in the middle, two children held their arms above their heads—it was unclear whether out of enthusiasm or terror. Perhaps in an attempt to get attention. A man was running up to them. Further down, a few cracks marked the stretch of whiteness. And in the corner at the bottom, in front of everything else, some birds pecked and circled around a dark, weathered board balancing on a very fragile stick of wood.

  It was a trap.

  He looked at the bird trap one last time and then returned to the two children with their arms in the air. Roberto hadn’t remembered that detail. His mood darkened.

  Inside the glass display cabinet a tiny LED light flashed, indicating that the humidity control device was working.

  Hanging in Carlo’s study on the corner wall near the desk, that painting was by far the most precious in the Beltrami collection. An original Brueghel.

  It was quite simply
a masterpiece.

  He remembered well that it had been his mother who had wanted it, a few months before she died. He had always wondered why she had chosen that painting among so many others. But for his mother paintings were far more than just images that were more or less evocative of reality. They were something like an extension of the world, another dimension—one better than our own—in which object and meaning could combine and be superimposed, becoming indistinguishable. And for this very reason it was possible to believe—fervently—in those mute narratives. This almost religious sentiment animated her purchases and her work as a painter, even though she had never truly tried to make a career out of it.

  His father, after some hesitation, had agreed to the exorbitant expense. A gift, a final unrestrained sign of his love.

  Now that painting remained; it had survived them both.

  ‘Shall I prepare you something for breakfast?’

  Roberto turned and saw Ada.

  ‘If you don’t want to come into the kitchen I can bring you a tray here.’

  ‘Thank you, but please don’t trouble yourself.’

  Roberto left the study and she followed him.

  ‘It’s no trouble and besides, I’m used to it. That’s how it always was with Signor Carlo.’

  ‘Was there some reason you were looking for me?’

  She nodded resolutely.

  ‘Tell me, then.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about the archive.’

  ‘What archive?’

  ‘Your father’s personal archive.’

  ‘Did he have one?’

  ‘Up in the attic.’

  The ring of a mobile phone interrupted them. The display read: Kruger, Engineer.

  Ada went to leave but Roberto signalled her to stay.

  ‘Yes, good morning.’

  He listened to the man for almost a minute without taking a breath.

  ‘Yes, of course. I understand. Yes. All right, I’ll speak to my associate and we’ll try to get some kind of favour from the owner if you’re interested in continuing with negotiations. I can’t hear you very well.’

  He listened for another moment, said goodbye and ended the call.

  He looked at Ada.

  ‘It’s not an easy job, I can assure you.’