Free When the Night by Cristina Comencini

way, but then she changed.”
    “When children come into the picture it’s more difficult to see eye to eye.”
    “Did that happen to you?”
    “No … A little. You feel alone, your husband works, and when he comes home, you’re tired. You begin to have two lives. But maybe it’s just me.”
    What did I just say? I’m crazy! What possessed me to say such a thing?
    “What do you mean ‘it’s just you’?”
    “I just meant that at first it’s a bit difficult.”
    He stares at me. What a fool I am to say such a thing. Marco walks over to him and touches the ice axe. The man speaks brusquely, as he had earlier in the cable car: “Don’t touch. Come here.”
    He picks him up and ties his shoelaces. Now he touches the stitches. Marco pulls his head away.
    “How many stitches?”
    “Six.”
    He puts the boy down and gives him a piece of bread. Marco stands next to him, with his hand on the man’s leg. Say something, Marina. Don’t give him time to ask any more questions.
    “Why is it called the Rifugio della Dama?”
    “It’s a local legend. A long time ago, a woman and her guide died there. There’s a pile of rocks at the top. Whoever gets there leaves a stone for good luck.”
    “How did she die?”
    “I don’t know. Perhaps it isn’t even true. Tourists like stories, mountain tragedies. The papers are full of them. If a guide dies, it’s a big to-do. My father used to tell us that the Dama was the Snow Queen, who lived beneath the ice, and she would come out to keep lonely men company. The glacier melts away completely now, so no more Snow Queen. No one to keep lonely men company.”
    “Perhaps they’re better off, as you say.”
    She has a sense of humor, this one. “At least they know what they’re dealing with. Women are strange.”
    I laugh. “I’d never heard that one. Funny!”
    Let’s see if she keeps laughing. “They’re dangerous.”
    “Really!”
    “They strike when you’re not looking. There’s not much to laugh about, is there, Marco?”
    A pause.
    “Why did you say that to the child?”
    “He’ll be a man one day and he has to begin to understand women, to know that they’re not to be trusted.”
    I can barely swallow. I can’t breathe. All around us there are boulders, piled on top of each other, frozen in place, with a crucifix on top. Like the Via Crucis. Why did I come here? My voice is hoarse. “Do you really have such little esteem for women?”
    “One feels esteem for a friend, someone who deserves it.”
    “Are you saying that men and women can’t be friends?”
    “No, they can’t. Let’s go.”
    He stands up, puts away the bag of sandwiches, picks up Marco, puts him in his backback, and loads it on his back. The baby doesn’t make a sound. He turns toward me and repeats, in the same voice, “Let’s go.”
    The bumpkin laughs. His face wrinkles up. He has the eyes of a naughty child. Marco laughs with him, at me.
    I look for something to say. “I’ll put a sweater on him. He may get cold.”
    The man doesn’t answer. I feel pathetic. My legs hurt. The two of them are already far ahead of me, trudging through the rocks, happy and carefree.

    WE’VE LEFT HER behind. I talk to the boy so he won’t be scared without his mother.
    “When my brothers and I were young, we used to run through these rocks, and the first one home ate everyone’s lunch. Are you still hungry, Marco?”
    “Yes.”
    “At the lodge, you’ll have a nice plate of pasta. Mamma gives you mush, but you want spaghetti.”
    I see her out of the corner of my eye. She’s struggling far behind. I hear her call out, but pretend not to. I’ll pick up the pace and we’ll leave her here on the mountain. Let’s see if she can make it on her own.
    “Does your head still hurt, Marco?”
    “Yes.”
    “You understand everything I say, don’t you? Your mother did that to you. Now you know and she won’t trick you again.”
    He turns back and gazes at her. When we’re little, we