Free When the Night by Cristina Comencini Page B

mother, my sisters, happiness, judgment.
    ONE DAY WE came back from the park with the stroller—just like every other day—with the groceries. Called the elevator, looked for the keys. Where are the keys? I’ve locked myself out again.
    I sat on the floor of the elevator—like I am sitting today on these rocks—and cried. This is all women are good for. I’ve heard it time and again. The baby stared at me and grabbed a package of cookies from the grocery bag. He bit into it; he was hungry. I knew exactly what Mario would say.
    “Again! Go to your mother’s and wait for me there.”
    And my mother: “Locked out, again? Marina, where is your head?”
    They’ll never know; I refuse to tell them.
    The baby started to cry.
    “Let go of those cookies!”
    We got out of the elevator with our groceries. The baby was crying. We went to the locksmith.
    “I want you to open this goddamned door with a credit card, like a thief.”
    He came with me, opened the door, and finally I was inside, safe. Mario would never know.
    The locksmith stared at me with compassion. I could fall in love with a man like that, a plumber, an electrician, a builder, a locksmith, a mechanic. Before making love he would fix the door, the washing machine, the car motor.
    It was late. The baby was asleep in the stroller, with the bag of cookies still in his hands, unopened. I could have let him eat a few cookies before lunch, but it’s not allowed because it spoils his appetite. Now it was too late to eat. Too late for everything.
    GET UP. WALK. Catch up. He ran off with your baby.
    I see a bird in the sky, flying above the mountaintops. Is it an eagle? It never stops. I wonder what it sees from the icy heights? A landscape of rocks, mountain peaks. A woman sitting on a boulder.
    Why am I crying? The baby is with him. You’re free. Go back to the town, pick up a few things, and leave. Flag down a car on the road.
    Stop at a hotel and sleep for two days. When you wake up, decide where to go, and with whom. Confess: “I give up. I’m not up to it. I don’t know how to be a mother.”
    Mario can take care of the baby. During the day he could leave him with my mother and then pick him up in the evenings. My sisters would take him to the seaside. I could live anywhere, in a little house, with a job, money of my own. Iwould go to the movies and on long walks and I could have a man if I wanted, or live by myself, in peace and quiet. Like this spot. I could let my thoughts wander, daydream. Stories, loves, parties … And no one would get hurt.
    At night, if I missed him, I could look at a photo, the one where he’s wearing a red sweater. I would look at the photo and talk to him.
    It would be better for everyone. Papà would read you stories. Grandma would help out, and your aunties too. You wouldn’t want for anything. And I wouldn’t be able to hurt you. It’s right that I should only have a photograph.
    “ARE YOU FEELING all right?”
    Who are these people? I didn’t see them arrive. A man and a woman. The Austrians from the gondola. No, Italians. A young girl stands silently to one side, watching me.
    “I need to catch up with my son and the guide. I stopped to rest and now I don’t know the way.”
    “Were they headed toward the lodge?”
    “Yes.”
    “We’re going that way. Come with us.”
    I stand up and look at the sky. The eagle is gone. The sky is empty.

10

    T HE LODGE IS a two-story building made of stone and wood. This is the place from which his mother fled. There are flowers in the windows, and billowing curtains. In the winter it must be covered in fog. Like a mirage; it looks close, but then you walk and walk and you never get there. Now I feel like I could keep going for hours. I can’t feel my legs or my feet.
    He’s not outside; maybe he’s inside with Marco. During the climb I planned my revenge. I dried my tears. He’ll never see me cry again. No more crying, yelling, complaining, making excuses. I must stand firm