Free When the Night by Cristina Comencini Page A

understand things without the need for words.
    “Mamma coming?”
    “She’s coming. We’ll walk ahead and she’ll join us later.”
    It’s all useless. No matter what your mother does to you, you still long for her. Mamma coming?
    “I don’t know how this will end, Marco, but your mother has to confess. She has to tell the truth. She’ll cry, pull her hair, and then she’ll be forced to say what she did. After that, we’ll wait for your father and tell him everything.”
    “Daddy.”
    “Yes, Daddy. Who knows what he’s like. Maybe he won’t care, or maybe he won’t believe us. She tells him what he wants to hear, and he’s easily convinced. It takes guts to stand up to your wife and to keep your child safe. That’s why she has to tell the truth, to us and to him. We’re not stupid. Even if sometimes we pretend to be. You know that, don’t you Marco? It can be useful to play dumb, so they leave us alone. But if we want the truth, we can get it. We’re strong. You can do without her, Marco, just imagine she never existed. She did her job, she brought you into the world, and now we’ll get rid of her.
    “Mamma coming?”
    “Stop that.”
    “Mamma coming?”
    “I said don’t cry! Stop that! Or why not, go ahead and cry. It will pass.”
    BASTARD! WHERE IS he going with my baby?
    I won’t lose you! I won’t get lost, and I won’t slow down, even if I can’t feel my legs and my blisters are burning, and tears are flowing down my face. I can see them, far ahead. The bastard is speeding up; now he’s disappearing behind a pile of rocks. Don’t be afraid, Marina, don’t give up. I’ll call out to them.
    “Marco! Marco!”
    Don’t scream, stay strong, focus. Don’t lose your head. He’s your baby, and that man has no proof, the police didn’t believe him. He thinks he can blackmail me. There are signs along the trail, follow them. Keep going, don’t cry, think.
    It will take time, but you’ll get there and you’ll turn him in to the police. The sun is shining, just follow the markings.
    You were strong as a girl, when did you get so weak? How could you do what you did? It doesn’t matter, don’t think about it, it never happened. I must be stronger than he is; otherwise he’ll have me in the palm of his hand. He hates women, he’s a psychopath. I call out: “Marco, Marco!”
    He won’t hurt the boy. I am the enemy in his eyes. I collapse onto a boulder. I can see the whole scene in my head.
    Marco is crying, he won’t stop. He has blood on his head. I slip, and now we’re both on the ground, amid shards of glass, oil, and wine. I can’t get up, I don’t have the strength. Trapped in my own dark tunnel, suddenly I go blank, blind, and I hit his head against the table. I did it. His mother.
    There are rocks everywhere, and dust. The sky is icy and pale. There’s no one around. Can’t I fix what I’ve done? Can I go back in time?
    LOOKING OVER PHOTOS in the album, it all seems easy. For his second birthday, I baked a cake, and the house was full of children. A big success.
    At night he would wake up, sometimes every hour. I sat on the floor next to his bed. My back hurt, I was sleepy, and I sang to him. I couldn’t bring him into the big bed with me, it’s not allowed. I would take him to the park in the morning, and then again in the afternoon so he could tire himself out. This was our world. Two more carousel rides, only two, or we’ll be late. Don’t put rocks in your mouth. What am I doing wrong? What was my mistake?
    I tried to plan ahead for all the potential problems so I wouldn’t be taken by surprise, but it didn’t work. I was too distracted, just like when I was a little girl.
    “Marina, what are you dreaming about? Where are you?”
    “I’m here, Mamma.”
    I must organize my thoughts, concentrate, prepare: do the groceries, cook, sleep, come home, go to the park, organize parties, take care of him when he has the flu, call the doctor. Then there’s Mario, my