A Handful of Happiness

by Massimo Vacchetta

  It’s really very small. Massimo, you’ll need a lot of luck.

  I started to treat her with a suitable antibiotic. I came up with some unbelievable dilutions to give her an appropriate dose for her weight and her condition. Jo responded well. And she had an appetite. And she grew. I remember when she finished her milk, she would fall asleep in the palm of my hand. It made me smile with tenderness. Then I set her very softly on a cashmere throw someone had given me as a gift, and she snuggled up between the folds. As she grew, it became clear that the toes on her back feet had necrotized. A line of dark tissue formed, and then they fell off. All at once.

  So Jo lost her toes.

  It was a handicap that would preclude her the possibility of a life of freedom. She was very sweet and very affectionate. And I loved her more every day.

  Dorthe didn’t give up:

  Massimo, maybe Jo fell out of the sky just for you. She’ll probably stay with you forever. And I bet she will help you detach from Ninna, ease your suffering, fill the emptiness.

  But I, for my entire life, had always tried not to let go…I never had the strength.

  At the thought of releasing Ninna, I was again seized by a vague feeling of abandonment. A stifling sadness that clouded everything.

  25

  I thought about it. Constantly. Without coming up with anything concrete. And then suddenly, in the first days of September, the decision came.

  In a flash.

  Tomorrow was the day.

  To release Ninna. And Ninno.

  I slowly worked out a plan, and every last detail was clear. I would leave them at Susanna’s house, in Paradise.

  I couldn’t bring myself to think that we’d never meet again. It would have been impossible, or at least unacceptable, for my mind to conceive of such an idea. Not seeing her ever again was just an abstract image for me, unreal. Ninno, maybe him I wouldn’t see again. As I’ve said, he was more shy—he tended to hide and didn’t respond to my calls. But not her. She would come.

  At first, I thought of releasing Ninna in the grove near my house. That way there would be more of a chance of running into her. But a street runs along the perimeter, so it was dangerous. Yes, Paradise was better.

  Ninna was stressed. At the beginning of spring, she was eating abundantly, but now she ate less. Cranky, she huffed at the other hedgehogs, and no one dared come close anymore. She even huffed at me. She was fitful. Dorthe said, “If she goes on like that, one of these days you’re going to find her dead.” And that was precisely what I didn’t want. It would have made me too upset. Actually, I thought if I let her go, I’d never know when she died. That way, in my heart, she would go on living forever, running through the fields, hopping, hunting bugs, hiding, having babies, going into hibernation in winter, and waking up in spring.

  By then, I’d released many hedgehogs. And I’d seen their eyes sparkle like bright stars when they realized they were free. In the moment, those little creatures oozed happiness from every quill and hair. I wanted that same happiness for her, for my Ninna.

  Those releases, for the most part, were preceded by a kind of preparation, so that the hedgehogs could get settled, the same as we did with the hoglets Patrizia had found. An enclosure set up in the place chosen for the release, a few weeks under observation, and then…out! And I liked that method. But it wouldn’t be ideal at Susanna’s, a wonderful place but more remote. Predators could come from the nearby, immense forest, and in a pen, Ninna and Ninno would have no chance of escape. So I’d do the same thing I did for Trilly.

  I prepared them two new houses. Big, nice, functional. I’d even insulated them. I also bought a large house to make into a trough.

  And that night, as I did before every release, a five-star dinner with a side of pine nuts.

  The following morning, I went to the enclosure outside. I started calling, “Ninna, Ninnaaa…” in a slightly disguised voice, the singsongy sort you’d use with a child. She popped out of the opening of her house. She looked at me with sleepy eyes. I extended her some food and filmed her as she ate. My last memory of her at my house. I put her in her new place, with a little of her old hay so that she would have her scent. And I left her there. She fell asleep, calm.

  Now it was Ninno’s turn. It would be harder with him. He often burrowed down in a hole by the olive tree. In fact, that’s where I found him. But I couldn’t get him to come out. The opening of the burrow was narrow, and Ninno was big. He’d gotten huge like Trilly. Entering and exiting spontaneously was a breeze for him, because he could shrink down by stretching and flattening out. Without his collaboration, it was impossible. I had to dig a little around it to widen the hole. For a moment, I felt like I was doing him wrong; after all, he was fine there. He had never shown signs of restlessness. But who knows. In the end, I put him in his house, and once I loaded the car, we left.

  As in a screenplay, this time I carefully chose the soundtrack that would accompany us on our trip: some music by an American band I’d heard a few days before on the radio. I don’t remember their name, but the feelings it sparked, those I remembered. Sweet notes that touched my heartstrings and brought me back to childhood stories and nursery rhymes. Sounds that pleased the child still inside me.

  It was a slow drive, with several stops. For Ninna and Ninno. I didn’t want them to get carsick. And for me. To extend that time with them as much as possible. When we arrived, I looked around for a moment. It was clear, this was truly a fantastic place. And I was happy for my hedgies.

  Susanna was there waiting for me, with her usual serene smile. We headed straight for the guesthouse, then went a little farther, past a small field and some rosebushes. We stopped in front of a little log cabin that had been built years ago for her grandchildren to play in. But they’d grown up, and no one used it anymore. It had windows, a door, a roof. On the bottom of the door, there was a wide slit that seemed created specifically for hedgehogs to pass through. It was all perfect. A little farther on, there was a majestic weeping willow. Behind it, blackberry bushes. On the right, a stack of wood. Good hiding spots. I set the hedgehog houses, with the two inside, in the children’s log cabin.

  Cabins in the cabin.

  I finished setting up the trough nearby. It was a beautiful day, and in that natural setting vibrating with life, it was even more so. There was a to-and-fro of butterflies, dragonflies, bees, birds, lizards, and so on. I stayed at Susanna’s for dinner. “That way we’ll see if Ninna and Ninno come out,” she said. In what seemed to me like an instant, the sun set and the first shadows of the evening appeared. We ate quickly and rushed to check on the two hedgehogs. I reached right into their houses.

  Empty.

  I wish I could have seen her come out.

  I wanted to see her happiness.

  I heard a rustle behind me. I spun around, pointing my flashlight. It was Ninno. I stroked his back.

  Of her, no trace.

  I stayed for a while longer. Susanna stayed with me. “May they enjoy their first night in Paradise,” I said, breaking the silence that had fallen.

  A moment later, I told her good-bye. I returned home, driving very slow.

  I was strangely happy. Very happy. For Ninna and Ninno.

  26

  On the way back, at points, that feeling of happiness started to crack. I felt a little like a father, or mother, when they leave their kids, now grown, to find their own way. You’re happy for them but worried at the same time, because you won’t be able to protect them anymore. And you know the dangers they could run into. And you’re scared.

  If only I could follow Ninna, at least to keep her from badgers…

  As soon as I got home, I was swept up in another reality: I had to feed all the hedgehogs there waiting for me. And tend to them. I got to work swiftly, but when I reached the pen outside, I stopped cold. At that moment, it really hit home that my hedgie was gone. And she wouldn’t c
ome running to me anymore. The silence around me and the despair I felt weighed heavily on me.

  And I felt the emptiness.

  But I immediately erased that thought.

  The emptiness was just mine, and it didn’t matter.

  Ninna was happy. And that was everything.

  I didn’t move for a while, as if bolted in place. Minutes filled with thoughts: I did it! I got through it. I freed her. It’s incredible that I had the nerve. It’s incredible, given how I am. There, that’s what love is. Dorthe was right: Loving is letting go.

  I was distracted by a soft rustle of grass and leaves. It was Selina. She had gone to Ninna’s house and was sitting in front. She looked at the doorway. Then she looked at me. Then again at the doorway. And then me. It seemed like she was asking, “Where’s Ninna?” It was written in her eyes, in her movements. After their initial tiffs, once the hierarchy was established, she and Ninna had lived together harmoniously. Maybe Selina felt her absence, too. That action touched me. We both missed her.

  I called Dorthe. I needed some comfort. “Go to Jo and give her a big hug.” I went to Jo. Now she, without her hind toes, was the one who needed me. I pulled her sweetly to my chest. Nostalgia and consolation blended together. And thus, the former was softened.

  Ninna left room for the other hedgehogs. But she would never leave her place in my heart. It would always have a special spot for her.

  In the days that followed, I wanted to go back to Susanna’s, but a litter was brought to the center. The babies needed to eat every three hours, so there wasn’t time.

  “There’s activity,” Susanna told me. “Lots of hedgies come to eat and drink. But I don’t know if Ninna is one of them.”

  I wished I could go and stay there an entire night. When I finally managed to find the time, I had to content myself with just an evening. It was a busy one, though: Hedgehogs upon hedgehogs of all sizes and all ages scurried around Paradise. But no Ninna. She didn’t come. Had she found Trilly? Could their love finally bloom? Who knows. Well, it was possible. The silver moonlight fell, soft, on this thought and my smile.

  27

  The summer was ending. The first leaves to become spotted with red and yellow and rust orange suggested as much. As did the cool air.

  It was sunset when the telephone rang. “Hello, La Ninna center,” I said.

  On the other end, a little girl said, “I found a sick hedgehog. Can you help him?”

  “Bring him over right away.”

  Sofia—that was the girl’s name—had her mother tell me on speakerphone what happened.

  “We were walking along the river, and on the gravel road parallel to the path we were on, but a little farther down, we saw a hedgehog. It wasn’t moving. Sofia ran to help it like she had winged feet. But a car, a big four-by-four, was coming. We had stayed back, and we were scared and told her to move, to get away from there. But her only response was to plant herself in front of the hedgehog and raise her hands, with her fingers all spread out to tell the driver of the car to stop. You had to see it—a girl so little but so determined, in front of that off-roader.”

  “Oh, I can imagine! Sofia, you’re a hero,” I exclaimed.

  “They wanted to squash him!” the girl said in a little voice, sounding like an indignant angel.

  “Squash him?” I echoed, disconcerted, seeking confirmation.

  “Yes. And I protected him.”

  That little girl’s gesture stole my heart. I was touched by her courage, her swift reaction, her spontaneity.

  The mother went on. “The guy who was driving slammed on the brakes. They stopped a few yards from my daughter. They rolled down the windows and were pissed off, yelling, ‘What are you thinking, jumping into the middle of the road like that?’”

  Sofia intervened again. “I told him there was an animal that couldn’t move. And they yelled back, ‘Can’t you see it’s half-dead?’ and I replied, ‘So? Since it’s dying, you want to squash him with your big fat wheels? At least let me move him, then you can go.’ Meanwhile Mom and Dad had come down, and they helped me move the hedgehog over to the side of the road.”

  I followed the story attentively, at the same time picturing the whole scene in my mind, and I took consolation from that little girl who had rebuked grown-ups to defend the defenseless with her whole heart. Sofia had sent a big message, with all the rawness and sincerity of her feelings. Children, in their simplicity, can teach those of us who have forgotten or never wanted to learn. Those who don’t know compassion.

  And I felt that maybe, my hope for a better world wasn’t just an illusion.

  A world without violence and without indifference.

  “Hello, Doctor? Are you still there? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m here! Sorry, Sofia, I got lost in my thoughts for a second. I’m listening.”

  “Doctor, can you save this hedgehog?”

  “I’ll give it all I’ve got. I’m expecting you.”

  They arrived a while later, the time it took to travel the many kilometers dividing us. When I opened the door, I found the whole family. In front, Sofia. About eight years old. Blond curls and sapphire eyes as big as lakes. In her arms was a box, and in the box the hedgehog. My welcoming smile dissolved as soon as I saw him: a dirty rag barely holding on to his last seconds of life.

  I examined him carefully. The minutes went by, and Sofia’s blue gaze never left me. Whereas I tried to keep my eyes down, so the girl wouldn’t see the bitter truth.

  “Is it serious? Can you save him?” she asked abruptly. Her voice vibrated in my eardrums. I had to answer. I didn’t want to disappoint her, nor did I want her lovely gesture to seem futile. But I couldn’t lie. “It’s serious, but I’ll do what I can,” I said.

  It was getting late, and Sofia’s parents said they needed to go. I accompanied them to the door and down the stairs. They were at their car when Sofia exclaimed, “Just a second, please!” And she dashed off. Nothing to do but follow. I saw her pet the hedgehog softly. We were enveloped in a silence no one dared break. Still silent, the girl turned her giant eyes to mine, a sea-colored gaze that spoke to my soul.

  “You can go, Sofia. Don’t worry. I’ll update you tomorrow,” I told her, already thinking about what words to use the following day so she wouldn’t be too hurt.

  They left, and I found myself face-to-face with the hedgehog on his last legs. He had a series of grave disorders and also was blind in one eye and had one front leg half-mutilated. I wanted to save him at all costs because Sofia’s sensibilities and efforts were involved. But also for him: He had managed to survive in nature, at least so far, despite his serious disabilities—his leg and eye injuries were preexisting, old and already healed.

  It seemed like an impossible mission.

  I spent the night taking care of him, the hours marked by the nearby bell tower. I started a few different treatments but didn’t see the least improvement. Around 5 a.m., I realized there was nothing more I could do for him. I gave him a blanket and set a towel over one side of the box so the light from the imminent dawn wouldn’t bother him. Then I put him at the foot of my bed, so he wouldn’t be alone.

  Despite his loud and tortured breath, so like a death rattle, I slept like a log. I was exhausted. I woke up two or three hours later with a start. I sat up in bed and realized that the room was totally quiet. Too quiet. That strained breath beating my ears and heart was gone.

  So the hedgehog was dead.

  How would I tell little Sofia?

  I reluctantly got up and went over to the cardboard box. I removed the towel. And then the blanket covering the hedgehog.

  I rubbed my eyes.

  That rumble was gone because his breathing had become regular.

  Happy! I felt happy for him, for Sofia, for me.

  The hedgehog, albeit slowly, had reacted well to my treatments.

  I called him Zoe,
from the Greek word for “life.” Because, after all, it was like he’d been reborn. His recovery, I admit, cost me great sacrifice. I had to spoon-feed him—he couldn’t eat on his own. But at least when Sofia called, I was able to give her good news. And I liked that.

  During that period, there was a volunteer who came to help me out. She was a lovely woman, of a certain age, small and petite. At every moment, shaking her head, she’d say, “Zoe won’t make it. It’s impossible.”

  “Have a little faith,” I would exhort.

  A month went by when one morning, I saw him eating on his own. I always put a plate out for him with a little kibble, hoping to encourage him. I called the volunteer, who was taking care of the other hedgehogs. “Come quick, you have to see this.”

  She came and started looking around. “What’s going on? What am I supposed to look at?”

  I picked her up and aimed her at Zoe’s cage. “You see now?”

  “Oh! All the saints in heaven! Zoe is eating on his own! He did it! You did it!” And as she was still in my hands, she laughed and laughed. We both laughed, content.

  Now he lives here at the center, in an outdoor pen. His advanced age and his handicaps won’t allow him to live freely in nature. He sleeps in a hollow trunk on a bed of hay. He’s doing well. He eats, wanders around his own way, looks at the stars.

  Zoe was adopted remotely by Valeria.

  Awhile ago, the volunteers and I had started a campaign for long-distance adoptions, reserved for disabled or sick hedgehogs. Everyone who does this kind of adoption receives a certificate, the hedgehog’s ID card, documentation of its history, and an update on its condition. Naturally, adoptive parents can come and visit whenever they like, and come along if and when it’s being released. We like to do it together. To share the experience.