it long except the Fascists, and he, poor guy, was certainly not a Fascist—it was that he didn’t want his hair to get in his eyes when he played. She felt sorry for him, without a girlfriend, all alone with his scores. So grandmother, when she hung up, began to cry, fearful that she had transmitted to her son that kind of madness that puts love to flight. He had been a solitary child, whom no one invited anywhere, an unsociable child, at times awkwardly affectionate, whose company no one wanted. In the upper grades things had gone better, but not much. She tried to tell papa that other things existed in the world, and so did grandfather, though he laughed about it, and they couldn’t forget the night of July 21, 1969, when, while Neil Armstrong walked on the Moon, their son had not interrupted his practicing of the Brahms Paganini Variationen Opera 35 Heft I, for the concert at the end of the semester.
12.
W hen grandmother realized she was old she told me that she was afraid of dying. Not of death itself, which was supposed to be like going to sleep or taking a journey, but she knew that she had offended God, because he had given her so many wonderful things in this world and she hadn’t been happy, and for this God could not forgive her. All things considered, she hoped that she really was insane; if she was sane, Hell was certain. But she would discuss it with God, before she went to Hell. She would point out to him that if he creates a person in a certain way then he can’t expect her to act as if she were not her. She had spent all her energy persuading herself that this was the best possible life, and not that other one, longing and desire for which took her breath away. But for certain things she would sincerely ask God’s pardon: the paisley dress that grandfather had bought her in Milan and that she had torn in the escalator at the station; the cup of coffee placed at the foot of the bed, in their first year of marriage, like a dog’s bowl; her inability to enjoy all those days by the sea, when she thought that the Veteran, so agile with his crutch, would arrive at the Poetto.
And the winter day when grandfather came home with a bag of mountain clothing, borrowed from somewhere or other, and proposed a trip up the Supramonte, which had been arranged by his office for the employees of the salt works, and she, even though she had never been to the mountains, had felt only an uncontainable irritation, and the sole wish to tear that ridiculous clothing out of his hands. But he stubbornly kept telling her that true Sardinians should know Sardinia.
For grandfather there was a pair of ugly sneakers and a heavy sweater, which was also very ugly; there were better things for her and the child. In the end grandmother reluctantly said “All right,” and went to make sandwiches, while grandfather, who always helped her, for some reason, played a melancholy plin-plin on the piano of the Signorine Doloretta and Fanní. They went to bed early because they were to be at the meeting place at five in the morning. They were to go to Orgosolo and climb up to Punta sa Pruna, cross Foresta Montes, continue on to the megalithic circle of Dovilino and walk through the mountains that link Gennargentu to Supramonte, as far as Mamoiada. Everything was covered with snow and papa was beside himself with joy, but grandfather’s teeth were already chattering, and others in the group advised the warm hearth and potato ravioli and porchetto on the spit and a local spirit, fil’e ferru , from a restaurant in the town. But he stubbornly refused. They had to become acquainted with the mountains of Sardinia, they who were people of the sea and the plain.
The Foresta Montes, one of the few virgin forests in Sardinia, whose ancient ilexes had never been cut down, was sunk in silence, and the soft white snow came up to the knees. So grandfather’s shoes and pants were immediately soaked, but he kept going, without a word.
And he
12.
W hen grandmother realized she was old she told me that she was afraid of dying. Not of death itself, which was supposed to be like going to sleep or taking a journey, but she knew that she had offended God, because he had given her so many wonderful things in this world and she hadn’t been happy, and for this God could not forgive her. All things considered, she hoped that she really was insane; if she was sane, Hell was certain. But she would discuss it with God, before she went to Hell. She would point out to him that if he creates a person in a certain way then he can’t expect her to act as if she were not her. She had spent all her energy persuading herself that this was the best possible life, and not that other one, longing and desire for which took her breath away. But for certain things she would sincerely ask God’s pardon: the paisley dress that grandfather had bought her in Milan and that she had torn in the escalator at the station; the cup of coffee placed at the foot of the bed, in their first year of marriage, like a dog’s bowl; her inability to enjoy all those days by the sea, when she thought that the Veteran, so agile with his crutch, would arrive at the Poetto.
And the winter day when grandfather came home with a bag of mountain clothing, borrowed from somewhere or other, and proposed a trip up the Supramonte, which had been arranged by his office for the employees of the salt works, and she, even though she had never been to the mountains, had felt only an uncontainable irritation, and the sole wish to tear that ridiculous clothing out of his hands. But he stubbornly kept telling her that true Sardinians should know Sardinia.
For grandfather there was a pair of ugly sneakers and a heavy sweater, which was also very ugly; there were better things for her and the child. In the end grandmother reluctantly said “All right,” and went to make sandwiches, while grandfather, who always helped her, for some reason, played a melancholy plin-plin on the piano of the Signorine Doloretta and Fanní. They went to bed early because they were to be at the meeting place at five in the morning. They were to go to Orgosolo and climb up to Punta sa Pruna, cross Foresta Montes, continue on to the megalithic circle of Dovilino and walk through the mountains that link Gennargentu to Supramonte, as far as Mamoiada. Everything was covered with snow and papa was beside himself with joy, but grandfather’s teeth were already chattering, and others in the group advised the warm hearth and potato ravioli and porchetto on the spit and a local spirit, fil’e ferru , from a restaurant in the town. But he stubbornly refused. They had to become acquainted with the mountains of Sardinia, they who were people of the sea and the plain.
The Foresta Montes, one of the few virgin forests in Sardinia, whose ancient ilexes had never been cut down, was sunk in silence, and the soft white snow came up to the knees. So grandfather’s shoes and pants were immediately soaked, but he kept going, without a word.
And he
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