He hadn't been walking for long. Just twenty minutes. But she already noticed the fatigue in her legs and a certain weight in some unlocated part of her back. His muscles refused to execute the movements necessary to continue advancing, and the sound of his own body became immense, all-consuming: his breathing, the rubbing of his hair and the skin of his face against the hood of his raincoat, the thoughts that They did not stop generating in her head like water in constant birth and fall from the stream of an open pipe... She knew that if she stopped, even for a moment, and dedicated herself to contemplating what was around her, stopping listening to herself , she would immediately perceive, in an almost invasive way, the authentic reality of a landscape foreign to her. An autonomous landscape, that she did not need to exist, and that would continue there, with its gradual transformations of color, of texture, according to the greater or lesser arrival of sunlight, whether she was there to analyze it or not. So she did it. She stopped moving and looked more consciously, more attentively, at the presence of the oaks, the junipers, the wire fences that defined the borders between one property and the next despite being the same constant and constant land. identical. The same bright green moss clinging to the same rocks. The same inclined trunks of trees similar to each other. The same wet leaves scattered on the ground. "All this is of no use," she thought as she took off the hood of her raincoat. «The human activity that draws limits. So much effort. “So much measuring and planning and signing up and bragging.” She felt the rain on her hair, so far untouched, and she appreciated the freedom of being able to move her head as she pleased, left and right, without the protective restriction of the knot with which she secured her hood to her neck. her. The water soaked her face and hands, and she breathed deeply, realizing that the scent of the air there was a virgin scent, so pure that it almost hurt.
It was starting to rain harder. So he put the hood of his raincoat back on, and then he saw, not far away, in one of the meadows delimited by stone walls and new fences, how behind a white cow that was walking slowly, in search of grass, his horse was also advancing. young, hungry, stalking the bearer of its food. She wasn't going to be able to stay much longer. It would take her another twenty minutes to return, and the rain was getting worse. But he stood there for a while, motionless, watching as the cow finally stopped, solid and shiny, looking in front of her, looking at her, so that her little pursuer could eat. The milk that could not be swallowed flowed from the baby's mouth and ran down its neck, in thick threads, until it fell to the ground, where it formed a puddle of liquid that lost its color as it mixed with the grass and scattered leaves. on the soaked ground. Meanwhile, the enormous white cow remained standing with its undaunted gaze, without fear or impatience.
Marina put her hands to her lips to try to warm her fingers with her own breath, and then she rubbed her eyes. That same morning, very early, she had watched from the windows of her house how the fog triumphed over the thickness of the nearest mountain. She had watched its descent through the trees, like sugar spilled on a dark green, almost black, dessert, and she had come to the conclusion that the stuff had to taste like something. He couldn't taste it or touch it or get any of it inside a metal box. And yet, there she was, royal and majestic, sliding over the submissive trees, completely resigned. She took another deep breath and thought that the dignity of nature was greater than that of the human being. In that place there was no room for lies, nor for infidelity, cowardice or greed. The events followed a seasonal pattern, I could even say logical, but in no case unfair. Vanity, pomp, arrogance were heroic actions reserved for men.
He had lost the heat accumulated during the walk, and with the feeling of cold now came also that of strangeness. What was she doing standing there, almost hypnotized, in the increasingly fierce rain? Had she transformed back into the obfuscated being she already knew? The being that ran, that asked inappropriate questions and that let itself be dominated by the rhythm of her own interrogations. She had to turn around and go back. With her hands buried in the pockets of her raincoat and her gaze fixed on the ground, she had to take the same path. The same feeling of suffocation. The known relief. The stones. The bare trunks. The distant barking. The same need and the same street that led to her own house.
The trees would stand firm in the rain and the rocks would show their isolated, permanent shapes.
When he arrived, he discovered that there were people inside. He wanted to leave. Not entering and not having to see anyone. But she knew Caesar would be there, with his most vulnerable expression in her eyes and the same desires she harbored not to listen, not to know. César, sitting in the living room, in his armchair in the corner, under the lamp that he had not yet turned on, would be receiving the voices of the women who had entered his house like blows against his body, and he would be returning them with silences or with some sporadic, very sad smile, with which he intended to nod and show that yes, that he agreed with everything, that things were happening just as the others said they were going to happen... That he would not cause problems because everything was, always, as it was. the others said. But please let them go. He wouldn't refuse anything, but please let them say goodbye now. No more visits. No more information from outside. No more words. Please.
She wanted not to have to go in. But Caesar was there, pretending to possess abilities that he did not possess and trying to show a nature that was not his own. With his book open on his knees, waiting to be able to resume the line he was on when those women arrived who asked him for more information about the distribution of the inheritance, and who intimidated him and cornered him in that corner of the room in that he sat down to read. With no other aspiration than to be able to read.
-If you want advice... -they said.
"In your case..." they said.
-We'll have to talk about it with Marina... -they said.
And when Marina entered, they fell silent. They stood up to approach her, one after the other, and offered her compassion, looking sad and whispering that they were so good, both of them, so good, that this meant an enormous loss. An irrecoverable loss.
-Such a big shame...
Marina moved away and approached her brother, who spoke little to visitors as his father had spoken little, and who looked so much like him. She bent down and placed a kiss on her forehead.
-If you don't mind... -he began-. We need to rest. It's been a long few days. If you do not mind…
And they cared. But they left.
They left the house with new grandiose phrases, with new attempts bordering on insolence to find out more, to give more opinions. But they left, and Marina returned to César with the idea of asking him if she wanted him to prepare an infusion for her. Maybe a lime tree. There were still a few hours before she could take the pills.
He shook his head, and sank into the pages of his book.
"How impertinent," she said.
-Yeah.
-Has it been very horrible?
-A lot.
-They will feel satisfied…
Caesar did not answer, and she sat at the other end of the room to stoke the fire.
"I don't think they'll come back," he whispered.
-They will return. You will see. And there will be more and more.
Marina stoked the fire again. Sparks of a familiar red flew from between her logs, and she thought that soon she would have to light the lamp so that her brother could continue reading without burning her eyes, out of danger. Far from reality. Like a young Don Quixote who did not want to save anyone, nor for anyone to save him, or like a monk in his retirement who only longed to be left alone, in the only company of his stories from years past, so painless and aseptic. . So perfect and closed in their flat state of flat letters printed on endless flat paper. Throughout those endless days.
"I don't think I can bear this," Caesar continued.
She didn't comment. But she smiled because she tried to smile often. And she also often nodded at Caesar's statements. She then dedicated herself to observing the drawings on the carpet that, spread under the central table of the room, covered a large part of the floor, until it reached her feet. That rug had always been there, she thought she remembered. Since her childhood. With the geometric figures that unfolded across its surface, giving rise to impossible, unfinished shapes, almost trompe-l'oeil without any vocation to be so. She was trying to decipher the labyrinthine meaning of one of those structures, when she heard again:
-Have you heard what I told you? I don't think she can handle this.
-Of course you can. You have me here. For whatever. Now you know.
-But it's not about you. It's about me. And I don't think she can. It's too much. This weight. It's excessive. Not…
At the moment he wasn't crying, but Marina knew he would. And she would have to talk to him, and she would listen to him, and he would try to turn her way of putting things on its head, so stinging and distressing, and she would offer him a new perspective for every argument, for every pain.
-Let the days pass.
-So that?
-So that this affects you less. So you know how to assume it. It's still very early.
-I don't want time to pass. I don't want it to affect me any less. How is it going to affect me less? Our parents, Marina… This is not like a wound on your arm, which you forget about and one day you say: “Wow! "There used to be a wound here that has disappeared." This is not like this.
She already knew it. But what could she tell him?
-I already know it.
-Now you know.
-Of course. But we have to…
-We don't "have to" anything. Nothing is forced. Not even necessary. They are gone, and so can I go.
-Oh my God! Stop saying those things.
He got up from the chair and began to walk around the room.
He had always thought that his brother's way of being was the right one. So quiet and reserved. So methodical… Tireless when it came to studies. He was always willing to learn, to investigate and delve deeper into issues that others went unnoticed. She had been more scattered. She knew how to acquire a couple of fairly basic strategies to pass exams, to pass the course, even during her university years. But Caesar did not want tricks nor did he look for systems to pretend that he knew what he did not know. He wanted to concentrate, to know, and he also wanted to understand. But now he didn't understand anything. His order had collapsed. His entire balanced logical system had fallen apart without reason and without warning. And it was very possible that something like that would succeed in destroying him because it destroyed the basis on which he stood. From the root.
"I'm sorry," he said.
-You do not need to apologize.
"I'm sorry," he repeated.
And he turned his head towards his book as if he were preparing to read again. Although she Marina she knew that she wasn't going to do it.
He watched him for a few minutes, and could see that he certainly was not reading. She let his eyes rest on her brother's, and she tried to imagine what he might be imagining. Despite appearances, despite what an impartial observer might think, Marina was quite aware of what was happening in there and what Caesar was trying to do. The faintness of her eyes, the faint features of her face... Everything seemed to indicate that the only thing she wanted was to disappear. She wanted - with all her strength - to distance herself from the tormenting feeling that oppressed her when she considered that she had let slip away all the opportunities that events and others had been offering her.
-What I am going to do…? -she murmured then-. What do we do? she asked as he turned his head to look at her. What is the smartest thing? The most prudent thing. I can't make a decision under these conditions... In a normal environment, with less tension, I could find the answer. But now. Like this… With this uncertainty, I am unable to think. Do you want to stay here? Do you want us to stay?
Trailing behind him an implacable terror, Caesar engaged in reasoning that branched off in so many directions that, having reached its end (an end caused, generally, by the sudden intrusion of a new reasoning that demanded his attention), it was almost impossible to remember. the beginning. She had gotten used to noticing the astonishment in her eyes. Those eyes with a lost and sanguine look. To watch how he stopped, petrified, static, to watch any unimportant point in any room. The door or the thick frame of a picture. Concentrated on what seemed like an urgent reflection or an unusual vision.
“What do we do…” Marina repeated to herself.
Let time pass. Few days. Or a few months.
Be patient.
And drink fresh water from meandering streams that would soon freeze over. Observe the inconceivable brilliance of the stars in the darkness of a clear sky. Check how early the confusion of the night arrives and how wonderful it is when it dawns again every morning. Getting soaked by the rain and walking under a misty sun. Withstand powerful gusts of wind in the eyes. Walk into the snow. Make exceptional efforts. Suffer disappointments and scream. Attend those prodigious spectacles of nature that are so rare and impenetrable. Admire the texture and color of two different stones for hours.
Build small huts with small sticks.
Come to the conclusion that the wind is a creature endowed with life; a being that screams and sobs and mocks the fragility of men.
Discover the violet glow of the harshest mountains, where rocks and nameless grasses dominate everything and where the articulate voices of human beings do not prevail. A place where there is no talking. Where nothing is asked. Where the only sound is that of the wind, inextinguishable and maddening...
Knowing that they would soon begin to feel dominated by a kind of increasing passivity, a paralysis of their arms and legs, even mentally, that would lead them to remain motionless for long hours, in an eternal contemplation of what was in front of them, without thinking about anything. At least without consciously thinking about anything.
César was right: more women arrived with the intention of offering new condolences and asking for more explanations. They entered his house, sat in his living room and talked. They talked... But César did not want to see anyone nor did he want to feel the presence of anyone nearby. He did not want to hear any more empty words or engage in conversations of circumstances. He just wanted to continue reading and find himself far away. Not being there.
Marina watched how, during those meetings, her brother sighed long while letting his head fall back to stare at the ceiling. Then, sometimes, when the situation became unbearable, he would get up, leave the living room towards the kitchen and, once there, sit on one of the two wooden stools that had been placed on either side of a small table. , very narrow and also made of wood. And she didn't do anything else. Just plunge into the depths of that curious behavior, so harsh and elusive, that she knew how to display with such great skill from time to time.
-It is not necessary for them to come. Needless…
Marina listened to him and understood that she also wanted to disappear. Leaving that house and not returning for weeks.
"We will not admit any more visitors," he said. She's done.
So when they heard the next knock on the door, they decided it was the furious sound of the storm and did not give up the books they were reading. They did not leave them on the table, they did not close them, and they remained between the lines of the page on which they were found, as if by remaining in the sheltered world of their books they could make those who had had the audacity to stand in front of them leave. from his house. They heard new knocks on the front door after a few moments, and Marina sighed and looked up over the perfect protection of her novel. She had put on a striped wool sweater and a long brown skirt that went down to her ankles. They were in the living room and the fire was burning brightly but, nevertheless, despite knowing that she had enough warm clothing on her, she felt terribly cold.
He repeated fragments of King Lear.
Because you have begotten me, I must obey you. Because you have begotten and raised me, I must love you. Because you have raised and loved me I must, above all, honor you.
The blows became more resounding, more obvious; blows that not even the most violent downpour could cause and that showed human intentionality. Marina then remembered the abandoned look of the cow that she had allowed herself to be pursued by her dependent calf, until she gave in, stopped and prepared to deliver the food that was demanded of her. She remembered the stillness and imperturbability of a peaceful and almost melancholic being. The limpidity. And it was at that moment that she decided that they should get into bed and pretend to be sleeping. Turn off the lights and maybe shout that they didn't want to see anyone. They had to make it clear to whoever she was calling that they were not welcome. Because the two brothers had the same purpose. The two shared a desire that was stronger than any other circumstance or idea: the desire to escape the systematic contemplation of a second that slides circularly next to another second until forming a minute that would lead, inescapably, to another minute. Each of them had outlined their own methods in this regard. They had been learning for years, each in their own way, to save themselves from destruction. Both struggled to avoid the torment of waiting, despite being aware that their only option was to continue waiting until, at the right moment, without delay and without giving any explanation, they risked running away and fleeing, wishing vividly that everything could have a different ending. A slightly less distressing ending.
END
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