Estella rummages in my bag for my notebook, opens it at the right page, and slams it down in front of me, along with a glue stick. “Stick it in yourself. You know how to do it.”
I start rolling the glue onto the page and peer at her from behind my glasses. “Estella, are there any writers in Romania?”
“Romanian writers? Of course there are. Why shouldn’t there be?”
“Why do we never read Romanian stories?”
She smiles a bright pink smile that makes me happy I came to the janitors’ room.
“Do you know the most famous Romanian story in the world? It’s the story of Dracula.”
I spring to my feet and the chair keeps spinning. “Dracula? Was Dracula from Romania? I thought he was English!”
Estella sits down and crosses her hands over her knees with an impish look that gives me the shivers—happy shivers. I love horror stories.
“He’s not English. He’s from Transylvania, in Romania. His name means “son of the devil.” My grandma used to read it to me as a child, and it would terrify me. But I loved it at the same time.”
I kneel down in front of her and she starts laughing. “Please, Estella, will you read it to me like your grandma did? Pretty please!”
“Do you like horror stories too?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Why did you like them?”
“Because if I could feel fear, it meant I was alive.”
“Same here,” I reply, although I don’t really understand.
Estella can’t keep me at school any longer. She looks out of the window and sees Mom’s car. “Time’s up today,” she says, shoving my bag under my arm. “Another day. Ah, Mafalda . . .”
We stop at the door. Estella squeezes my hand.
“I wanted to ask you if you’ve thought about your essential thing?” I look at the ground. I hear her bending down to look me in the eye. “You have to think about it. It’s important.”
“Okay. Can I tell you some other time?”
We go down the steps. I see a red cloud outside the gates—Mom’s car—and Estella lets go of my hand. “Yes, on you go. You’ve still got two or three months to decide.”
I get into the car. Mom starts chatting right away, but I think about what Estella has just said. I don’t have long, she’s right. But even if that’s true, and I like her to tell the truth, I sometimes wish she could be a little less truthful.
But time is running out.
Dad’s home. He came back to have lunch with Mom and me, and to do something else. “We have a surprise for you,” they announce, all touchy-feely and smiley. I squeeze Ottimo Turcaret and pop some tuna into his mouth. (I hate the stuff.) Dad stops being smiley and shouts at me. I wonder if maybe Dad hasn’t read his favorite book lately because if he’d read it last night, for example, he’d know that you can’t force children to eat things they don’t like, otherwise they’ll run away to trees, like Cosimo did when he didn’t want to eat snails.
I put some tuna in my mouth, don’t swallow it, and stare at Dad. There’s a fuzzy aura around the edge of his head, like most things when I look at them for more than a few seconds, and I imagine Dad with a long, curly wig instead of his normal hair. I’m about to laugh, but then I think that my dad and Cosimo’s dad, the baron, look very alike.
I’d like to do my homework as soon as I get home, so I can work on my secret plan to run away to the cherry tree, but Mom calls me into the bathroom, puts extra-tight pigtails in my hair, and tells me that we have to go somewhere. They end up taking me to see an apartment, much smaller than our house, on the ground floor, with a minuscule garden and no stairs (like Dad wanted). In the small room I bet they want to give me, I look out the window and all I can see is the wall of another house. The kitchen is gorgeous, all shiny with a new oven and dishwasher, but you can hear the footsteps of the people upstairs, and there’s a big sign on the door of the building that says NO PETS.
On the way home, Mom and Dad keep asking what I think of the house, but I refuse to answer. I’m now planning how to get away as quickly as possible. Dad shouts goodbye from the hallway—he has to go back to work. I go out to say bye, then return to my bedroom.
I look around like I did at school. Ottimo Turcaret is sleeping on Grandma’s blanket, which is spread out on my bed. He’s not actually sleeping, because when I turn to look at him, he raises his head, purrs, and waits to be cuddled, like always. Looking at him reminds me of a picture in a book that Mom and Dad used to read to me as a child—it showed two children running away from home, on a raft with a bundle tied to the end of a stick as a suitcase. I could use Grandma’s blanket to make a bundle like that.
“Well done, Ottimo Turcaret!”
I pull the blanket out from under the cat, nearly dragging him off the bed, but he clings on and mews angrily. I lay the blanket on the floor. It’s light enough to tie knots in but also strong enough to carry things inside. I start gathering up a few objects and place them in the center of the blanket. I think I’ll hide it under the bed for now, so that when I’ve finished getting everything ready, I can tie it up with a knot and slip the bundle into my schoolbag the first chance I get. The stick is a good idea, but I’d be found out right away—who goes around with a stick on their shoulders? I’ll pretend I’m going to school, and instead of my books, I’ll put the things I need to live in the tree into my schoolbag. The perfect plan. I glance at the mirror to give myself a thumbs-up, but all I see is a shadow, and it seems a very long way away.
I get my notebook from the shelf above the bed and open it to the second page.
See what my face is like when I’m grown-up.
My glasses steam up and I can hardly see to cross out the words before everything goes cloudy in front of me, around me, and inside me.
Cosimo, why are you not helping me?
I might have found a way to come and live with you and Grandma in the tree, but I need that really big something, remember? You traveled from tree to tree to get to the Spanish village, but what can I do? There aren’t as many trees here as in Ombrosa. And I have to do everything by myself. It’s my birthday soon, and I can already imagine the party I’d have if I lived in the cherry tree—the branches would be decked out in paper chains and balloons, and there would be one of Grandma’s tarts, and loud music, the kind that makes your face tingle and your heart beat so hard you turn it up even louder.
Will you help me organize it, Cosimo?
13
Eat Black Olives, Sing in a Band
The midterm recital is on at the music school today, and I’ve come to hear Cousin Andrea and his guitar students play.
I love music. Maybe it’s because there’s nothing to see. Mom wanted me to learn to play an instrument, but I always said no, especially since I’ve had the mist in my eyes, because I can’t read the notes. They look like ants sitting on a black line to me.
I like listening to music, though. When the lights go down in the theater, I close my eyes, and the guitar, the violin, and the piano music reach out to me, making my skin tingle, like walking really slowly on wet sand in the summer at around five o’clock in the afternoon when nothing bad can happen.
“There’s that boy who comes to talk to you in the courtyard.”
Mom’s pointing to the stage. I sit up straight in my chair and try to get a better view.
“Who? Where is he?”
“The boy on the girl’s bike. He’s in the group of young pianists.”
Filippo? Young pianists? It can’t be him. Mom must have my mist in her eyes now too. We clap and the concert starts.
The nursery children sing first, the ones from the choir course. Then the violinists play. It’s torture.
“There he is, that’s him. What did you say his name is?”
I see someone walk onto the stage, stop for a second in the center under the big light, and then sit down at the huge, black piano.
“Filippo.”
“Oh yes. It’s written on his jacket as well.”
So it is him.
A hush falls over the theater and Filippo begins to play. It must be a difficult song because it lasts a long time. I wish I could see his fingers because the beautiful music they’re making is filling my head, taking my hand, and telling me to run with it, the way a friend would. So, I run, I run along a never-ending keyboard that turns into a beach, and the notes are waves. I jump over them, into them, like a dolphin now, free. The music commands the sea, making it move at its will. When I open my eyes, it has filled the whole room as far as the ceiling with rainbow-colored flowers, under the water and floating on the surface; then the music descends in limpid droplets, like the voice of the man reading the books on my iPod.
The silence when Filippo stops playing is immense. You can hear it. Then everyone starts to clap so loudly, the chairs vibrate. Filippo doesn’t come to the edge of the stage to take a bow. He goes straight off, even though some people in the audience shout for an encore. Middle-school students with guitars come on after him, and Andrea gets them into position on the stage. The music Filippo played is stuck in my head, though, and I don’t know if I’m more surprised he played it, or that there’s something so beautiful in the world, it can make you cry.
Refreshments are served after the show. Mom and Dad lavish praise on Andrea and start chatting with him and Ravina near the sandwich table.
“Can I go and see the piano?”
Dad says no right away, but Mom touches his arm—“John”—and I’m allowed to wander away on my own.
I go into the theater. It’s empty and the lights are off; only the black piano is lit up by a spotlight. “They’re going to take it away now,” someone sitting in the front row says. I didn’t know he was there.
“I didn’t know you were there.”
Filippo stands up. “I know. Did I scare you?”
I go over to where he’s sitting. “No. What are they going to take away?”
“The piano.” Filippo puts a hand round my wrist and leads me onto the stage. We sit on the piano stool. “The school can’t afford such a big piano, so every time we do a recital, a rich man lends us his.”
“You play really well. I didn’t know.”
“Because I don’t tell anyone. My dad forces me to play. I’m not that good.”
I say nothing. Filippo runs the fingers of one hand along the black and white keys.
“He didn’t even come to see me today.”
“It wasn’t because you’re not good.”
“What do you know about anything?”
I’ve made him angry. I try to say sorry. “Play something for me. The song from before.”
“No.” Filippo shuts the piano. “Weren’t you listening? I don’t like studying piano; I only do it because I’m forced to.”
“Even if you choose what you want to play?”
Filippo stops to think. “I taught myself a more modern song once. It’s still kind of old, but not like the one I played earlier.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I’m not sure I remember it. I haven’t got the music here.”
“Just play.”
Filippo lets out a little sigh and places his fingers on the keys but doesn’t start playing right away. He turns to look at me. I look back and am about to ask what’s wrong when he takes my hands and places them, palms flat, fingers spread open wide, on the piano, beside the little shelf where the music goes.
“Why?”
“Just keep them there.”
He starts playing a song I’ve often heard Dad play. It talks about a yellow submarine. It’s weird—before I even hear it with my ears, it feels like the sound is coming into my head through my hands, from the surface of the piano, which is like solid, slippery petroleum, warm below my skin. The notes run down Filippo’s arms. I feel them move beside me, then move the surface of the piano ever so faintly. They tickle my palms. The music rises, wraps round my shoulders, and makes me move and move, and I have no trouble following the rhythm because it’s inside me. In this sea of glimmering drops, I see my submarine, the one I wanted to drive when I was little, when people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up.
Filippo plays it in a fun way, and I can’t help but sing the chorus and sway in time on the stool, laughing. He smiles too, right through to the last note. We both take our hands off the piano.
I applaud just for him. “Well done!”
“I’ll teach you if you want.”
The joy of the moment vanishes instantly. “I can’t read the notes.”
“It doesn’t matter. I played without music.”
“Another time, maybe.”
“Promise?”
I feel my face go red. “Only if you keep practicing your modern songs.”
“Okay. It’s a deal.” We shake hands and I try not to squeeze too hard, scared I’ll ruin his musician’s fingers.
The reception is almost over, and the parents are putting on their coats to go home. Mom and Dad are talking to a young woman with very dark hair. “Mom!” Filippo runs up to her and hugs her. He’s almost the same height as her.
“We were talking about you,” Dad says. I hate it when grown-ups do that. They never tell you what it was they were saying.
“Can they come over to our house?” Filippo asks his mom. Her face is round and pale, like the moon, and she has big eyes.
“Of course they can. Shall we get something else to eat?”
Dad puts on his coat. “We could order pizza. What do you think, Mafalda?”
“I’d love that! I always want pizza.”
“Especially pepperoni pizza,” Filippo added.
“Oh yes, definitely pepperoni.”
Filippo lives above a shop where they print T-shirts with personalized messages on them. His mom works there; that’s why he has a jacket with his name on it. You can print whatever you like, not just T-shirts, but also cushions, tablecloths, towels, all sorts of things. It must be great to work somewhere like that! Filippo says he’ll take me there one day and turn on the printing machines just for me.
On the drive there, his mom tells us the shop came with the apartment, but business is not good at the moment. Everyone just orders everything online. “When I’m grown up, I’ll become a coder so I can make you a website and print T-shirts online,” Filippo says to his mom. She strokes his cheek.
The three of us are sitting in the back of Dad’s car—Filippo is in the middle, and we’re squashed against the windows.
“Or I’ll buy you a perfume shop,” he continues. “It’s what you’ve always dreamed of!”
“Really, Christine?” Mom says, turning round to look at us in the back. “In fact, the perfume you’re wearing now is really nice.”
She’s right. It smells of hazelnut and caramel. Delicious.
“Oh, thank you. I made it myself. I’ll show you when we get home.”
The apartment is on the second floor. It’s just Filippo and his mom, Christine, who live there. They don’t even have a cat. Filippo whispers to me that his mom talks to the plants, especially the geraniums on the balcony. “They’re my other babies!” she sings.
I get the impression Mom likes Christine and her plant-talking, because she’s laughing a lot and I haven’t seen her laugh this much in ages. She helps Filippo’s mom set the table. Dad calls the pizza restaurant to order, and while we’re waiting, Filippo shows me his room. It’s small and there are action figures everywhere. I know because I step on one as soon as I go in. I pick it up and look for somewhere to put it. I notice the shelves are all full. “Wow, nice.”
“My dad buys me them every now and then. I hate them.”
“You can’t say you hate the things you have.”
Filippo throws himself on the bed, kicks off his shoes, and turns on a mini television set sitting on a tiny shelf. “But you told me you hate Christmas.”
“That’s right. You remember everything, don’t you?”
/> “Not really. The opposite, to be honest. For the past few months, I’ve tried not to remember anything. Come over here.”
I take my shoes off and sit down beside him. Piano music is playing on the television. I recognize it—it’s the song Filippo played earlier, the yellow submarine one. “Let’s sing,” he says, and starts jumping on the bed. I feel like giggling, and even though I can’t read the song lyrics on the screen, I sing the words I remember and jump on the bed too.
“We yall live in a lellow subraminnnnne. . . .”
We sing louder and louder, holding a shoe up as a microphone. My glasses fall off, but we keep going till the music stops. Then we dive off the edge of the bed, falling to the floor where we lie to catch our breath.
Filippo twists around after a bit to look at me. His face is close to mine, but without my glasses, it could be miles away. A huge gray cloud is obscuring most of it, and I wonder if he can see it in my eyes.
“What color are my eyes?” I ask him.
“Brown. Why?”
“Can you see anything in them?”
He waits for a few seconds. I think he’s staring at my pupils. “No, nothing. Just . . .”
There, I knew it. He can see signs of the mist.
“Just lots of green and yellow streaks. Like a forest full of mushrooms.”
It’s not great as compliments go, but I like forests. Better than Stargardt mist, for sure.
“Why, what did you think was there?”
I look down at my socks, or rather, where I think my socks are. “It doesn’t matter. Sometimes I think people can see my mist.”
“Your mist? What do you mean?”
Filippo seems genuinely interested. He’s sitting cross-legged in front of me, practically staring at me, his nose just a centimeter from mine.
“Stop it.” I push him away, and he starts laughing, then comes straight back up close. I snort. “I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh.”
“It’s a deal.”
“There are spots in my eyes that are getting bigger and bigger. . . .”
“Lots of them?”
“No. Just two. One in one eye and one in the other.”
The Distance between Me and the Cherry Tree Page 5
