The Mountain

by Massimo Donati

  Roberto took the photo and examined it closely and at length, with a scientist’s concentration. Then he placed it on the pile.

  ‘I’d forgotten this.’

  ‘What’s Tasis?’

  Roberto hesitated.

  ‘If you’d rather not answer, I won’t be offended.’

  ‘It’s a college. A rather exclusive college.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘I did the last year of middle school there, as a boarder, and then high school…’

  Ada stared at him, unable to understand.

  ‘It was my choice.’

  ‘You were so little when you went away…’

  ‘It was better that way, believe me.’

  ‘Perhaps for you, but your father…’

  ‘My father was happy.’

  Ada felt sad for them.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry. He used to come and visit me often, at the start. Then less and less. In the end, he decided not to come anymore.’

  They finished working on the archive, officially because it was lunchtime. Then when it was time to start up again, Roberto stopped Ada.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t feel like doing any more.’

  ‘So when do you think you’re going to do it?’

  ‘Over the next few days.’

  Ada tried hard to hide her disappointment. She had been hoping to finish that same day.

  ‘If you tell me when, I can plan for it.’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow, if I don’t have anything else on. You do what you need to do. I can always continue alone. Thank you.’

  Later, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen incuriously, certain it would be a client. But it was Ciprini.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Ciprini.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Roberto. Is your stay at Villa Beltrami going well?’

  Roberto already knew that this was not the intended topic of their conversation, but he admired the smooth, unforced way Ciprini seemed able to tackle any issue. He wondered whether he was going to be the one to provoke an explosion of rage from Ciprini at some point.

  ‘Yes, thank you. What did you need me for?’

  The lawyer hesitated for just an instant and then went straight on. ‘It’s about the business. You’re aware of the situation, I take it?’

  ‘If you’re wondering what I plan to do…’

  ‘That’s not why I’m calling. I wanted to let you know that they’re all a bit apprehensive over there. They have no idea what’s going to happen, and we don’t have much time to spare.’

  ‘I really don’t know what I can do for them. I’m not the owner yet; not until we’ve read the will.’

  ‘You will be soon. And you can come and make a visit to the publishing house. As a sign of interest and a goodwill gesture.’

  Roberto was silent for a moment, annoyed, and began to shake his head. ‘I don’t feel like it.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to get their hopes up. I’m asking you to go there, listen to management, have a look around.’

  Roberto remained silent.

  ‘I’m asking you as a personal favour. At this time, we all need to do our best not to make things worse.’

  5

  The large, grey, square industrial office building looked the same as it always had. Three storeys of windows wrapped around it in transparent rows, while the main entrance with the central stairwell, and at the top the big glass and steel door, made it resemble an embassy more than a publishing house.

  ‘The company has changed a lot over the years.’

  ‘From the outside it looks just as I remember it.’

  They were going up the entry stairs when some timid applause broke out, a few employees clapping loudly and others following, less convinced, as though embarrassed by the awkward initiative. Roberto nodded at them and entered the building.

  ‘Molteni. Pleased to meet you. I’m the CEO.’

  The man had a firm handshake and an imposing presence, yet there was a natural reserve about him which, along with his simplicity of manner, announced him from the outset as exactly who he was: a good person.

  The others were directors of the two divisions of the publishing house. The only woman was the executive PA, Signora Alma Butti. She had the condescending manner of the person who, regardless of her official duties, is actually in charge.

  They sat down in a nondescript little meeting room. The PA spoke first. She set out the current state of play at Beltrami Publishing, listing for each imprint, with a certain emphasis, the most prominent writers and a few of the most notable works in their catalogue.

  She sat down; nobody applauded. They all remained silent for a few icy seconds, until the CEO spoke. He was brief and did not mince words.

  The firm was going bankrupt.

  Within a month they would need to stop paying salaries.

  ‘While your father was alive we could get credit, but now…’

  A damp pallor had appeared on his face, beading his forehead and cheeks with moisture. He pulled out a handkerchief to gently dab himself dry.

  ‘All right. Thank you. Now I’d like to continue my tour.’

  Butti stayed on to accompany Roberto and Ciprini.

  They went down one corridor after another. The employees lined up on either side, smiling, almost always standing, ready to introduce themselves, to shake hands. The older ones approached and, composed, offered Roberto their condolences.

  Afterwards, Roberto asked to visit the printing works.

  Beltrami Publishing was perhaps unique in that it had always had an entire floor dedicated to printing and binding. This was because for Carlo, and before that his father, quality publishing also included the production side of things, binding books well and printing them with care. Beltrami books needed to be made to last.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Roberto, I’ll just pop upstairs for a moment to deal with something in administration. I’ll see you out the front when you’ve finished your tour,’ said Ciprini, before slipping away.

  In the printing department there was the same machinery that had been in place at the start of the 1980s, when his father used to take him there to show him the marvels of his realm. The web-fed presses appeared to be supplemented by stratifications from different eras—the heavy metal of the cogs and conveyors overlaid with plastic and glass add-ons in the form of screens and keyboards.

  They filed past the machines, which were silent and still.

  ‘There are now only two people left in this section.’ Butti sounded slightly irritated. They were standing outside a glassed-in space that looked more like a doorman’s office or the back of a mechanic’s shop than a printer’s control room. They entered.

  The man at the table was sitting side-on to the glass. He noticed them only when the bell activated by the door obliged him, with some reluctance, to turn around.

  He was reading a novel. Published by them.

  ‘If you’re looking for Enzo, he’s gone to the vending machine.’

  ‘We just want to take a look at the printing works.’

  ‘Well then, you’ve already seen everything there is to see.’

  The man settled back down. This time his movements betrayed his age. An old man who, despite his white hair and the lines on his face, had retained a deceptively youthful aspect in his sleeveless green angler’s vest and worn jeans and sneakers.

  Roberto stood staring at him, searching for something in his memory.

  ‘We’re done here. Shall we go?’

  Roberto did not reply. He was suddenly focused.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  The man stuck out his chin, as if to say: Ask away.

  ‘You’re Franchino Parisi.’

  The man nodded. ‘Though no one’s called me Franchino for twenty years.’

  ‘I’m Carlo Beltrami’s son.’

  The man got slowly to his feet, put his glasses on properly and began studying him up close. At last he said simply, ‘Roberto.’ And smiled. He cleared so
me reams of paper off a chair alongside the table, sat back down and invited Roberto to do the same.

  ‘Miss Butti, do you mind if I stop here a moment to chat with Parisi?’

  ‘Take your time. I’ll meet you on your way out of the building.’

  They were alone.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to find you still here, Parisi.’

  ‘There are many ways to die. I decided to bury myself in here. But that’s fine.’

  They sat in silence.

  ‘I remember, you know. You were a child.’

  Each called to mind his images of days that time had not been able to corrupt. Roberto had spent an entire winter hanging around him, in that noisy and chaotic basement, learning how to start the presses, how to ink, how to send the pages to press. This, too, was part of the practical education the Beltramis wanted for him. Touching real things, with his own hands, grown-up things, without any sweeteners. Free. Free with curiosity, with personal inclinations. Running a few risks, too.

  ‘…I was a child. You’re one of the people my father considered an artist.’

  Parisi turned to the side and winced.

  ‘He liked to exaggerate. The fact is, for forty years I got up at twenty to five every day to stand in front of these machines until the evening. But sometimes something good came out of it. That’s the truth of it.’

  ‘My father used to bring me copies of the art books you printed. He would open them and show me the quality of the reproductions, the colour fidelity, and he always told me to smell them. Because good books have a scent about them. And he would tell me that it was il Parisi who made them come out this way.’

  ‘We don’t make those sorts of books anymore. Haven’t done for a long time.’

  Roberto looked at him, disappointed.

  Parisi raised his glasses.

  ‘But I liked the Beltramis’ philosophy. That’s why I’ve spent my whole life here. That idea of quality at all levels. At prices anyone could afford. It was something to strive for. It was an idea of the world. And, after your grandfather, things went well with your father for twenty years. Before they started to turn bad.’

  Parisi assumed an air of detachment, and began to shake his head. ‘Something was missing.’

  He stopped for a moment, staring into a space beyond Roberto’s shoulder. ‘And you know very well what it was, don’t you?’

  Roberto stared at him blankly. Neither spoke.

  ‘A throne with no heirs is one on which the sun is setting.’

  Roberto became serious.

  ‘Hadn’t you ever thought about that?’

  The old man cleared his throat and then went on. ‘It’s hard seeing the business in this state. They’ve even been selling off spare machinery. It hurt your father too. But there was nothing he could do. Nothing any of us could do.’

  ‘It’s highly likely the company will go bankrupt.’

  The head printer remained indifferent at first, but then his face took on a look of reproach. ‘And that will be a source of great pain for me. But it will no longer be any of my business. Your father is dead, and I’ve done what I could.’

  Roberto looked away in consternation but after a moment, with a final surge, Parisi said, ‘Goddamn it, we’d have everything we needed to do things well if only the world ran straight instead of crooked! But who knows? Maybe things will change. Things change all the time. Sometimes even for the better.’

  6

  Suddenly the beating of wings became so loud that Roberto could not help looking up. The little black dots had been quiet, not a peep out of them, invisible behind the dark foliage of his trees, but now, for no apparent reason, they had all taken flight at once. In the unremarkable afternoon light the dark stain was expanding across the sky like a painter’s brushstroke, but without spreading beyond its own boundaries. Instead, it kept tormentedly folding back on itself, twisting and turning as it circled above his head, and then diving back down to skim the treetops, risking collision with them before rising back up into the void, pausing to reunify, widening out only to descend once again. The spectacle made him think of an orchestra tuning before a concert. Then the flock shot off and in an instant it had disappeared.

  ‘Hi.’ The delicate voice that had spoken was so close that Roberto looked around him, and then behind him, but could see nobody. It took him a few seconds to understand. A giggle was sufficient.

  ‘Hi, Alina.’

  The little girl was looking up at him, lying on her back on the grass. Her head and chest were poking out from under the bench, with the rest of her hidden under the wooden planks. Roberto had practically sat on top of her. An amused smile quickly crossed her face and then disappeared.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Roberto thought for a moment and had no answer. He improvised. ‘I’m checking that everything’s working perfectly.’

  The girl took him at his word. She had a certain propensity to accept hyperbolic explanations. ‘In the garden?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And the birds?’

  ‘Them too.’

  He looked at her earnestly, to give credence to his innocuous lie, but then she began staring at something up high, past his face.

  ‘What about you, what are you doing?’

  She shrugged her narrow shoulders, and shook her head ever so slightly. ‘The trees.’

  She gestured upwards with her chin, but Roberto still did not understand.

  ‘They’re just hanging in nothingness. I’m checking they’re not going to fall.’

  Alina laughed as Roberto looked up.

  ‘It’s true. They’re hanging.’

  His phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, read the name; it was a client. He stood up, almost leaping to his feet: he had already missed a call. He was about to answer, but hesitated at the last moment. His phone continued to vibrate a little longer, then stopped. Roberto stared at it in his hands, with an expression that was at once regretful and decisive.

  He turned it off, put it away and sat back down.

  Alina had not moved.

  They stayed in their perpendicular formation for a few minutes without speaking. Then Roberto asked, ‘Isn’t your mother around today?’

  Alina’s face darkened and she nodded, frowning.

  ‘She’s out. She has to do some things for Carlo.’

  ‘For Carlo?’

  ‘He’s away, so it’s left to her to do things. If you’re here.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was an involuntary reproach in this. He let it pass. Alina began dangling her necklace of white balls over her face, and seemed to be mulling over something.

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘If your father’s away, your mother must be around. Where’s she? I’ve never seen her in the garden.’

  ‘She went away as well. A long time ago.’

  ‘And you’re all on your own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It happens, once you grow up.’

  ‘I don’t want it to happen to me. It’s not nice.’

  She continued passing one of the little spheres between her fingers.

  ‘What’s your mother like?’

  ‘Beautiful. I don’t remember her very well. It’s been a long time since I saw her.’

  ‘Is she a queen too?’

  Roberto reflected for a moment.

  ‘She was the first queen of this garden.’

  The little girl nodded her approval. ‘So she had some magic.’

  ‘A lot,’ replied Roberto, not looking at her.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘She knew how to grow roses. These are hers.’

  The child admired them from below. She stared at them for a long time, half-smiling.

  ‘What else?’

  Roberto thought it over

  ‘She knew how to paint. Beautiful pictures.’

  ‘And did she give you her pic
tures? I always give mine to Mamma.’

  ‘She always said she painted for me.’

  ‘So do you have a lot of her pictures?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Roberto seemed taken by surprise. He looked at her and then tried to distract himself, as though not wanting to reply, but she’d have waited all day for an answer.

  ‘Not even one.’

  She seemed disappointed. ‘That’s a shame.’

  She regarded him with clear, childish curiosity, awaiting an explanation.

  ‘She destroyed them. Before she left. She didn’t tell me why. All I can do is remember them.’

  ‘Are they pretty, in your memory?’

  He pursed his lips, caught up in a bitterness only he could understand. Once he had overcome the emotion that had welled up inside him, he whispered, ‘They were so beautiful.’

  She granted him a consoling smile. In the end, he smiled too. They sat looking at each other for a moment. Then the girl got up slowly, without making a sound, came out from under the bench and sat next to Roberto.

  ‘Are you going out on the ship today?’

  She was gazing at the grass in front of her to hide her embarrassment.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. It depends on the wind.’

  ‘Do you have to ask the wind if you can go out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It must be great talking to the wind.’

  She looked at him in admiration as she swung her legs back and forth over the edge of the bench. For a while she did not speak, and began looking at the ground again. There was something on her mind that she couldn’t say.

  Eventually, taking a deep breath, she found the courage. ‘Will you take me…take me with you? I’d like that…’

  He got to his feet to cut her off.

  ‘Maybe some other time.’

  The girl didn’t dare lift her head, but there was disappointment on her face. Roberto wanted to escape from the request, but he felt the reproach emanating from his little garden companion and braced himself to at least offer an explanation. ‘It’s a bit dangerous, Alina. Before taking you out I need to get your mother’s permission.’