Anna

by Niccolò Ammaniti

  Anna grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and started moving forward, with her head down, hiding behind the fence. ‘Keep down and follow me without making a noise.’ But she’d only gone a few metres when a shot rang out behind her.

  Michelini was standing in the middle of the road. A plume of white smoke was coming out of the barrel of the shotgun.

  She gaped at him. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘That’ll scare them off.’

  ‘You fool.’Anna started pushing again, but the wheelbarrow swerved to the right and left. She ditched it and ran towards the building, without looking back. Going down the concrete ramp, she was confronted with three lowered shutters. The one on the left was raised about twenty centimetres. Leaves and earth carried by rainwater had accumulated in the gutter. By scrabbling like a dog, she opened a gap, then she took off the rucksack, and squeezed underneath, holding her breath to make herself thinner. Her legs went through, and so did her thorax, but her head wouldn’t. Pressing her cheek on the floor she made it inside, her face grazed on both cheeks. She reached out to retrieve the rucksack.

  The workshop was in darkness. She tried to lower the shutter, but it wouldn’t budge. Holding her hands out in front of her, she advanced towards the end of the room. Her knee banged against a car and her shin hit some shelves full of metal objects, which fell down onto the floor with a crash. She swallowed the pain and with her fingers followed the shelves, touched the rough wall, found a door and opened it. Beyond, the darkness was even blacker, if that were possible. She ventured forward on her hands and knees until she felt the edge of a step.

  Outside, some shots rang out.

  She sat down, nursing her knee, and prayed they hadn’t seen her.

  *

  The first shot had made the small group turn round.

  A fat boy was standing in the middle of the road holding a shotgun, and a figure was bent over, running towards a small block of flats, pushing a wheelbarrow.

  The older girl had blown a whistle, pointing them out to the blue children. They had picked up some stones and charged at him, screaming.

  Michelini, holding the weapon at hip level, had fired his three remaining shots into the group. The last shot had hit one of them, who’d collapsed in a cloud of ash. ‘Yes!’Throwing the gun aside, he’d started galloping towards the block of flats, but the fever and all the kilos he was carrying made breathing difficult. He turned round to check where his pursuers were and a stone hit him on the head. He let out a yell and, as he was putting his hand to his temple, tripped over. He took three disjointed steps, wheeling his arms in an attempt to regain his balance, but crashed like a bulldozer into the fence at the side of the road and fell on his face, with his arms outspread, in a field. He didn’t even try to get up again. He clutched the grass in his fists, pushed his face into the warm earth and thought of his brother.

  *

  The children’s shouts echoed in the garage.

  Anna stumbled up the last flight of stairs and slammed into a closed door. Opening it, she found herself in the entrance hall of the block of flats. Daylight came in through the frosted glass of the big front doors. To one side were the mailboxes, covered with dust, next to them a yellowed notice announcing the date of a residents’ meeting and another one decreeing that bicycles and pushchairs must not be left unattended.

  She tried to open the small wicket door, but it wouldn’t move. Not knowing what else to do, she ran up the stairs. On the first floor all the flats were locked. Same thing on the second. On the top floor, too, everything was bolted shut.

  The children were in the entrance hall.

  She opened the landing window. Down below was the concrete ramp of the workshop; fifty metres further off, Michelini’s body. To the left, a metre away, a balcony jutted out from the wall.

  They were on the stairs.

  She climbed up to stand with both feet on the windowsill, looked behind her, flexed her legs and jumped, arms outstretched. Her chest hit the railing, but she managed to grab hold of the bars. Putting one foot on the edge of the balcony, she climbed over.

  Gulping down air, she limped along the balcony, which ran along two sides of the building in an L-shape. Round the corner were some air conditioners, a boiler and a French window, which was ajar. She slipped inside, closed it and sat down on the floor, panting and gazing at a dishwasher and a chrome-plated rubbish bin.

  They were on the landing. Banging on the door.

  Anna stood up and searched the kitchen drawers till she found a long serrated knife. She grabbed it and sat down in a corner, waiting. ‘If you come in, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you all.’

  But she heard them go back down the stairs, and before long it was quiet again.

  She crouched down against the fridge, still holding the knife, while the adrenalin drained out of her. She had to make sure they’d gone. Opening the French window, she wriggled on her stomach as far as the railing.

  They were walking in single file along the shadowy road towards the sunset. The white-painted girl, with Michelini’s cap on her head, was pushing the wheelbarrow.

  Anna went back indoors and collapsed on the floor exhausted, her arms round the rucksack.

  *

  She decided to spend the night there.

  A quick check confirmed that the door onto the landing could be opened from the inside.

  The flat was in good condition. It had suffered no intruders, apart from ants and cockroaches. It was agreeably tidy. In the study, which was full of books, a framed certificate stated that Gabriele Mezzopane had taken a degree in general medicine at the University of Messina.

  The doctor was in the living room, in front of the television, on a big beige velvet armchair, whose backrest was tipped forward. His bottom was still on the cushion, but his upper body was slumped over a low table, his forehead on the glass. He was well preserved. The skin still attached to the skull looked like cardboard which had been soaked and then dried in the sun. Dry yellow flax-like hair formed a crown around the scaly skull. The golden arms of his glasses rested on shrivelled ears. He wore a moth-eaten striped dressing gown, pyjamas and felt slippers. A walking stick leaned against the arm of the chair, from where an electric wire ran to a grey control pad with red buttons, clasped in the corpse’s stiff hand. On the table, next to the head, was a plasticky sheet of paper with some numbers and names on it, and a telephone with large keys.

  When she entered the bathroom, a swirl of bats was sucked out of the small window, leaving the green tiled floor scattered with droppings like grains of black rice.

  She found a gas-fired camping lantern in the broom cupboard. Before turning it on, she checked that the blinds were all lowered. In the kitchen units there remained some tea bags and moth-infested packets of pasta. In the fridge, next to some black sludge that had dripped down from shelf to shelf, there was a jar with some meat sauce in it.

  ‘Goved¯i gulaš’, the label said. She unscrewed the lid. A green and black mould formed a layer an inch thick. She skimmed it off and held the jar to her nose. She wasn’t sure the stuff was still edible, but she ate it anyway. The meat was tasteless, but relieved her hunger a little.

  On a shelf, next to some jars of coffee, she found a bottle of Nonino grappa. Carrying it into the bedroom, she put the lamp on the bedside table, took off her shoes and lay down with a couple of pillows behind her back. She took two sips of grappa, which ran down warm and dry into her throat.

  She stroked the bedclothes, which were pulled tight across the mattress. ‘As snug as a bug in a rug.’ How she remembered those words!

  Whenever her father had come over from Palermo to see them, he’d brought some cassata, potato croquettes and arancini from the Mastrangelo takeaway. They called it their wild supper, and you had to eat it with your fingers out of the paper tray, sitting around the coffee table. Afterwards her father would put her to bed and tuck in the bedclothes.

  ‘Tighter, tighter, pull harder!’

  ‘
But you’ll suffocate.’

  ‘More, more. Till I can’t move.’

  Papa would put his hands under the mattress. ‘Like that?’ He’d give her a kiss. ‘Now you’re as snug as a bug in a rug. Go to sleep now, there’s a good girl.’ And he’d turn off the light, leaving the door ajar.

  The flame of the lantern burned with a hissing sound and its white light caught a silver frame on the bedside table. She picked it up and inspected it.

  In the photograph Dr Mezzopane was smartly dressed, with a polka-dot tie, and was holding the hand of a lady in a straw hat.

  She put the photograph back and started spinning round with her eyes closed, banging against the walls, her feet rubbing on the carpet until they burned.

  She opened the wardrobe. On the inside of one door was a mirror.

  The alcohol had planted a foolish smile on her face. She took her T-shirt off and sorted through the clothes that were hanging there. Many were women’s garments. Belonging to the lady in the straw hat, no doubt. She pulled them out and dumped them on a chair. They didn’t appeal to her; an old woman’s clothes. Except for one shorter, purple dress which left her back exposed; only it hung down on her like a sack. She tried on a red stretch T-shirt and a light-blue skirt that came down to her ankles. On a lower shelf, neatly arranged, were some shoes. She put on a pair made of black satin with high heels and glitter on the toes. She watched herself as she turned a pirouette. In that dim light she could hardly see herself, but didn’t think she looked at all bad.

  You look perfect for a party.

  She lay back on the bed. A memory burst in her mind like a soap bubble.

  ‘Anna, how vain you are!’

  She was a little girl, standing in front of the mirror, arms straight, legs apart, wearing a pink flowery dress she’d been given by her grandmother. Her short hair held in place by a velvet band. Mama was sitting on the bed next to the ironed clothes, shaking her head and smiling.

  She could smell the hot iron on the ironing board and the sweetish scent of the spray. Getting off the bed, she picked up the lantern and staggered into the study, her eyes only half-open. Among the books on the desk was a large green volume, an Italian dictionary. She was so drunk she could hardly read the minuscule print.

  It took her quite a while, but eventually she found what she was looking for. Slurring her words, she read out loud: ‘Vain. Full of vanity, said especially of a person who, believing him- or herself to possess physical and intellectual gifts, shows them off in order to receive praise and admiration from others.’

  ‘It’s true, I am vain.’

  Returning to the bedroom, she got undressed and slipped between the sheets. She turned the little wheel of the lantern, which dimmed and went out with a puff.

  *

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  What was it? A gate? A Persian blind blown by the wind?

  Anna’s heart beat faster. The noise was so loud the bed and the floor were shaking.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The blows were rhythmic, mechanical.

  The blue children. They’re trying to get in.

  She sat up, got out of bed and walked towards the bedroom door, which was quivering in its frame. After a moment’s hesitation she gripped the handle and opened it a little.

  A bluish glare lit up the opposite wall and the floor. Now the noise was so deafening she couldn’t even think.

  Her legs were stiff with fear. As she approached the living room she was blinded by sabre-thrusts of light which slashed across the ceiling and glittered on the glass of a display case full of cups and medals, on the pictures on the wall, and on the gilded case of the barometer. Beneath the banging a voice could be heard.

  She leaned against the wall, unable to go on. Her body seemed to be crawling with ants.

  The voice was inside the television.

  ‘Some are laughing, others crying. Many are lying on the ground. Many are trying to board the ship by climbing up the sides,’ said a man.

  Anna was in the centre of the room. The lights of the chandelier flickered in time with the shade of the standard lamp, and the red zeros of a clock pulsed like the eyes of a predator lurking in the shadows. A black and white picture showed on the screen. Thousands of people, massed on the quay of a harbour. Behind them, columns of smoke, enveloping cranes and containers.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  In front of the television the armchair opened and closed, roaring and vibrating like the jaws of a mechanical monster. Dr Mezzopane’s withered corpse was being pushed back and forth on the table, his head, on one side, sliding across the glass, dragging the jawbone with it, staring at Anna with white bulbous eyes like hard-boiled eggs.

  She screamed, and went on screaming as she opened her eyes, sucking in the warm, musty air of the flat with a sound like whooping cough.

  The sun filtered through the blinds, sprinkling bright dots on the walls, carpet and bed. Sparrows were twittering.

  Lying there in bed, she realised that she was covered in sweat. She felt as if she’d been pulled out from under a heap of warm damp sand. Gradually she started to fill her lungs and breathe more freely.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d dreamed of a sudden return of electricity. The nightmare was truly alarming, even worse than those in which Grown-ups came back to eat her.

  She got up from the bed. Her mouth was thick with the aftertaste of grappa. In the broom cupboard, behind the washing machine, she found two small plastic tanks full of water as flavourless as rain. Donning her shorts and a white T-shirt adorned with the slogan PARIS, JE T’AIME, she picked up her rucksack and left the flat.

  *

  Michelini’s body was not far from the road, his round head deep in nettles, his hands dug into the earth. His T-shirt was rolled up to his shoulders, revealing a pale back covered with blotches. They’d taken his shoes.

  Further off, in the middle of the field, the small body of a blue kid lay among the stubble.

  She wondered whether to go back to the convenience store to stock up again. No, the important thing was to take the medicine to Astor. The shop could wait till another day when there was more time.

  She set off for home.

  A light autumn breeze was blowing; soon the weather would change. Anna was happy. She had the antibiotics. All the food in the Michelinis’ shop would keep them going for at least a year. And once it started raining again, they’d have water too.

  Now there could be no more excuses; she must teach Astor to read properly.

  4

  Maria Grazia Zanchetta had fallen ill three days after Christmas, and died at the beginning of June, still repeating to her daughter that she must teach her brother to read.

  In the last weeks of her life, exhausted by fever and dehydration, she’d slipped into a stupor from which she’d occasionally re-emerge, muttering deliriously. They mustn’t miss the last chairlift, there were too many jellyfish in the sea and the flowers growing in her bed were too prickly. But sometimes, especially in the morning, there were flashes of lucidity; then she’d seek out her daughter’s hand and keep mumbling the same things, which even the virus couldn’t erase from her mind.

  Anna must be good, must look after Astor, must teach him to read, must not lose the book of Important Things.

  ‘Promise!’ she’d gasp, dripping with sweat.

  The little girl was sitting beside her. ‘I promise, Mama.’

  Maria Grazia would shake her head, closing her bloodshot eyes. ‘Again!’

  ‘I promise, Mama.’

  ‘Louder!’

  ‘I promise, Mama.’

  ‘Swear to me that you’ll do it.’

  ‘I swear I will.’

  But she still wasn’t satisfied. ‘No you won’t … You …’

  Anna would hug her, inhaling a pungent odour of sweat and sickness, quite different from the pleasant soapy smell her mother had always had. ‘I will, Mama. I swear I will.’

  In the last week she completely lost co
nsciousness and her daughter understood that there was not long to go.

  One afternoon, while the children were playing in her room, Maria Grazia opened her mouth and eyes and stretched out her limbs, as if a mountain had been placed on top of her. Then the grimace that had twisted her face went away and her own features reappeared.

  Anna shook her, squeezed her hand, put her ear to her nostrils. Not a single breath. She picked up the book of Important Things from the table and delicately leafed through it. It was full of chapters: water, batteries, personal hygiene, fire, friendships. On the last page was the following chapter:

  WHAT TO DO WHEN MAMA DIES

  When I die I’ll be too heavy for you to carry me outside. Open the windows, Anna, take everything you need and lock the door. You must wait a hundred days. On the page next to this one I’ve drawn a hundred bars. Every morning cross one of them out. You can only open the door again when they’re finished. Until then, don’t open it, on any account. If it gets too smelly in the house, take your brother and go to live in the toolshed. Only return to the house to get what you need. When the hundred days are up, come back into my room. Don’t look at my face. Tie me up with a rope and pull me outside. It’ll be easy for you, because I won’t be very heavy. Take me into the wood, as far away as you can, to some spot that you like, and cover me with stones. Clean my room thoroughly with bleach. Throw the mattress away. Then you can come back into the house.

  Anna opened the windows, took the exercise book, the toys and the fairy tales and, just as she’d been ordered, locked the door.

  Over the next few days, she and Astor spent most of the time outside. Her brother kept her very busy, but as soon as he went to sleep she’d run upstairs, stand by the door and look through the keyhole. All she could see was the opposite wall.

  What if she’d made a mistake? What if Mama wasn’t dead?

  She seemed to hear her imploring in a feeble voice: ‘Annina, Annina … I’m sick … Open the door. I’m thirsty. Please …’ Then she’d take out the key, turn it over and over in her hands, rest her forehead against the doorpost. ‘Mama! I’m here. If you’re alive, call to me. I’m out here, by the door. I’ll come in. Don’t worry, you don’t disgust me. I’ll come in for a second and take a look, and if you’re dead I’ll close the door again straight away. I promise.’