When 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 walked at the same pace as the others. Grandmother went on ahead for a good stretch, as if she had neither husband nor son, but when, down in the valley, the lake of Oladi appeared, frozen, as if it had dropped into that immense solitude from the world of fantasy, then she stopped to wait for them.
“Look! Look how beautiful it is!”
And when they crossed the oak wood, where the slender trunks were intertwined and covered with moss in the shape of snowflakes, she saved some of the fantastic leaves in her pocket and also picked a bunch of thyme, for making broth when they returned to Cagliari. And she stayed at his pace, her beautiful fur-lined shoes in step with those ugly ones of grandfather’s, because she wasn’t angry with him—on the contrary, she was so sorry she didn’t love him. She was so sorry, and it pained her, and she wondered why God, when it comes to love, which is the principal thing, organizes things in such a ridiculous way: where you can do every possible and imaginable kindness, and there’s no way to make it happen, and you might even be mean, as she was now, not even lending him her scarf, and yet he followed her through the snow, half frozen, missing the chance, lover of food that he was, to eat the local potato ravioli and porchetto on the spit. During the trip home she felt so sorry that in the darkness of the bus she leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed, as if to say “Ah well.”
And she was frightened at how cold grandfather was, like someone frozen to death.
At home she made a hot bath and dinner and was scared by how much grandfather drank. It was the same as always, but it was as if she had never noticed.
That night, however, was wonderful. Better than ever before. Grandmother had put papa to bed and, wearing an old bathrobe and slip, ready to go to sleep, was absent-mindedly eating an apple. Grandfather, locking the kitchen door to be sure that the child wouldn’t come in, began the brothel game, ordering her to take off her bathrobe and slip and lie naked on the table, laid as if for his favorite meal. He turned on the heater, so that she wouldn’t catch cold, and began to eat dinner again, helping himself to all those good things. He touched her and worked her all over, and, before tasting anything, even the delicious sausage from the village, he put it in grandmother’s cunt—in the brothel, that’s the word you have to use. She got extremely excited, and started touching herself, and, love him or not, at that moment nothing mattered anymore, all she wanted was to continue the game.
“I’m your whore,” she moaned.
Then grandfather poured wine over her whole body and licked and sucked, especially her big buttery breasts, which were his passion. But he wanted to punish her, too, maybe for her behavior on the outing, or who knows, you could never understand grandfather, and, taking off his belt, he made her walk around the kitchen like a dog, hitting her but being careful not to hurt her too much and not to leave marks on her beautiful behind. Under the table grandmother caressed it and put it in her mouth, which by now she was expert at, but every so often she stopped to ask if she was a good whore, and how much she had earned; and she would have liked never to stop playing at the brothel.
They played for a long time and then grandfather got out his pipe, and she curled up on the opposite side of the bed and as usual fell sleep.