Free Accabadora by Michela Murgia

have to be amputated, the so-called hunting accident began to seem less amusing.
    * * *
    It was the first time Bonaria had seen Nicola since the incident at Pran’e boe. Even when the young man began to receive visitors, the elderly seamstress had insisted on taking her time, and had not even sent Maria to ask after him. It was as if she had distanced herself from the event and from the person responsible for it, as if the incident in which Nicola nearly lost his life had in fact killed him and then brought him back to life in some distant foreign country that could not be reached without a very long journey.
    The bed where they had put him was the double bed in the guestroom reserved for visiting aunts and uncles staying over for festivals, and otherwise used as a store for valued objects. Nicola sat in the middle of the bed supported by a mass of cushions, wearing a simple light-coloured shirt and with his injured leg outside the covers to facilitate medical attention. The coloured chenille bedspread featured an indiscreet fantasy of little putti carrying abundant cornucopias, but thanks to an irreverent play of superimpositions they also looked as if they were holding up his gangrenous limb, passing it from one to another on their chubby little arms. Above this baroque fresco Nicola lay like an obstinate stain, grim of eye and word.
    â€œThey say I can’t get better. Even Dr Schintu has been here from Gavoi, and he says nothing can be done. They’re going to have to take off my leg.”
    He looked accusingly at Bonaria, as if the blame for this judgement was flitting round the room in the air and could not wait to find someone to settle on. In case the gravity of the disaster was not entirely clear, Nicola added:
    â€œI shall die.”
    Bonaria Urrai looked at the pale figure lying on the bed and clenched her hands in her lap. Until that moment she had deliberately avoided his censorious gaze, because it is never a good idea to apportion blame on a sickbed. When she spoke, it was in a light clear voice, as if chatting about trivial matters.
    â€œYou aren’t going to die, they’re only going to remove one leg.”
    â€œThat’s the same thing. Isn’t a horse dead when it goes lame? Or do they feed it on cripple fodder?”
    â€œYou’re not a horse, Nicola.”
    â€œOf course I’m not a horse. That’s why I deserve something better than to spend the rest of my life mourning for myself.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t be the first or the last.”
    â€œI’d rather kill myself.”
    Bonaria heard him with steely eyes. Despite her fondness for Nicola, her bony ringless hands showed him no pity, locked together like a ball of wool ready for use. Her voice had become as cold as the surrounding air, as if the old woman had turned herself into a bracing draught to freshen the unhealthy atmosphere in the room.
    â€œThe Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. We can’t always have what we want.”
    Nicola laughed, a dry laugh, full of the rage of a man who has never before felt powerless.
    â€œHave they turned you into a priest, Tzia Bonaria? We have a woman priest at Soreni and no-one knew it! Who’s going to tell Don Frantziscu that the daughter of the Urrai family has become his curate?”
    â€œPoking fun at me won’t help you.” Bonaria was not bothered even by what others would have considered an insufferable lack of respect.
    Nicola decided to make the most of it, and put all his cards on the table.
    â€œBut I can change the circumstances of my death. Or you can . . .”
    Bonaria Urrai grew wary, fixing him with eyes like thorns.
    â€œI don’t understand,” she said tonelessly.
    â€œYes you do.” Nicola lowered his voice to a murmur, ruthless in his desperation. “Santino Littorra has told me what you did when his father died. I’m not asking for anything different.”
    Bonaria suddenly sprang out of her