On December 31, I went into Clara’s room and woke her. Frowning, she looked at me with eyes full of sleep.
“Papà?”
“Wake up, lazybones, we have to go.”
“Where?”
“To the castle of the King of the Elves,” I replied, beaming.
Clara’s little eyes sparkled with curiosity. She sat up in bed. “Where does the King of the Elves live?”
“On a distant mountain. A very beautiful mountain.”
“Are you really taking me to see the King of the Elves?”
“Cross my heart, sweetheart,” I replied, winking. “How many letters in ‘heart’?”
“Five.”
Clara leapt out of bed and ran to the kitchen, where Annelise had already prepared a little snack. In less than half an hour, we were ready.
I’d organized everything with the complicity of Werner and a couple of people I’d met during the filming of Mountain Angels. It was a gift. Not for Clara. It was a gift for Annelise. I wanted her to start trusting me again. I wanted her to look at me again the way she’d looked at me before September 15.
That’s why, when we got in the car, I was as excited as Clara. I started the engine and very soon turned onto the main road.
Apart from a few trucks and a couple of cars, we had the road all to ourselves. I switched on the stereo and started singing Kiss’s greatest hits at the top of my voice.
Clara put her fingers in her ears, while Annelise accepted my performance with a mixture of skeptism and amusement.
It was supposed to be a surprise, and I’d kept her in the dark as to what I had in store for our South Tyrolean New Year, but without being so secretive as to make her suspicious about what I was doing.
No Bletterbach, in other words.
I don’t know how much she trusted me, but there she was, with me, and that was enough to fill me with energy and hope. The year that was about to start, 2014, had to be a turning point.
A year of healing.
“Will it be cold?”
“Quite cold.”
“Clara will get sick.”
“Clara won’t get sick.”
“Then you’ll be the one to catch flu.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me where we’re going?”
I didn’t reply.
I hadn’t made all that effort just to ruin the surprise at the last moment. So, lips sealed. Above all, I made no reference as to how we would get to the castle of the King of the Elves. Annelise would have refused, I knew. Presenting her with a fait accompli was a dirty trick, but it was for a good cause.
I turned up the volume on the car radio and started squawking my way through “Rock and Roll All Nite.”
We got to Ortisei, the first stop on our journey. The village was wrapped in a blanket of snow, but was buzzing with activity.
I left the car in the center and we devoured an enormous breakfast. Clara put away a slice of pie that seemed as big as she was. Once we’d eaten our fill, I looked at my watch.
“We’re late for our special coach.”
Annelise looked around. “I thought this was the surprise.”
“Ortisei?”
“Was I wrong?”
“It isn’t cold enough.”
“It seems perfectly cold to me, Papà Bear.”
I took in a lungful of air. “For Papà Bear, this isn’t cold. This is warm.”
“The thermometer says minus seven.”
“Tropical heat.”
“Papà, if we arrive late, will the special coach turn into a pumpkin?”
“We’d best hurry up. You never know. But Mamma has to promise something, otherwise no special coach.”
“What does Mamma Bear have to promise?” Annelise asked, dubiously.
“She has to keep her eyes closed.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as Papà Bear says.”
“But—”
“Mamma! Do you want the special coach to turn into a pumpkin? I want to see the castle of the King of the Elves!”
Clara’s intervention was crucial. We set off again and less than fifteen minutes later reached our destination.
“Can I?”
“Not yet, Mamma Bear.”
“What’s that smell?”
“Don’t think about it.”
“It’s like kerosene.”
“Mountain air, darling. Concentrate on that.”
I helped her out of the car and walked with her arm in arm to just in front of the hangar.
“Mamma Bear can open her eyes now.”
Annelise obeyed. Her reaction was exactly as I’d expected.
She folded her arms and said, “Forget it.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“I said, forget it.”
“To fly is humanity’s dream. Icarus. Leonardo da Vinci. Neil Armstrong. A small step for a man—”
“Icarus came to a bad end, genius. If you really think I’m getting into that thing, dear Jeremiah Salinger, you don’t know me well at all.”
“But why?”
“Because it won’t stay up. It doesn’t have wings.”
I knew her. Oh, yes, I knew her. That’s why instead of coming back at her, I took Clara in my arms and walked over to the helicopter.
“It’s a B3,” I said to her, “it’s a kind of flying mule.”
“Does it eat straw?”
“Straw and kerosene.”
“Is it the kerosene that makes that stink?”
“Don’t say that too loud or the B3 will be offended.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Flying Mule.”
“I think he’s forgiven you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Papà,” I said gravely, “always knows everything.”
I wondered how much longer a sentence like that would be able to put an end to arguments.
“Are we going to use the flying mule to go to the castle of the King of the Elves?”
“Of course. You see that man there?” I asked, pointing to the pilot of the B3, who was coming toward us. “He’s going to drive the flying mule for us.”
Very excited, Clara started clapping her hands. “Can I ask him how he’s going to stay up?”
“I’ll do my best,” the pilot replied. “How would you like to sit next to me? That way you can help me drive.”
Clara sat down in the cockpit of the helicopter without even answering.
I turned to Annelise. “Darling?”
“You’re a bastard,” she said.
The flight lasted less than a quarter of an hour. There was no wind at that altitude and no clouds to obstruct our view. From up there, the landscape was worthy of Clara’s little screams. Even Annelise, once she was used to the noise of the turbines, had to admit that it was enchanting. As for me, I was too engrossed in enjoying my daughter’s expressions of wonder to think about the Beast.
Or all the gorges hollowed by streams down there.
We landed in a swirl of snow and ice. We unloaded the rucksacks, I said goodbye to the pilot, and the helicopter set off again, leaving us alone. At an altitude of 3,000 meters.
“Is this the castle of the King of the Elves?”
The Vittorio Benedetto refuge on the Sasso Nero was a slice of history made up of bricks, stone, and lime. It was built by the pioneers of Alpine mountaineering and bore the marks of time. Those walls had saved God knows how many thousands of lives in the course of their 120-year history. Soon, they would be knocked down because the melting of the permafrost had undermined the foundations. It was sad to think that this place would no longer exist.
Now that the helicopter had disappeared over the horizon, the silence was unreal. Around us, there was only sky, snow, and rock. Nothing else. Annelise’s eyes were sparkling.
I gave her a pat on the cheek. “Minus twenty-five, darling. This is what Papà Bear calls ‘cold.’”
“Shall we go, Papà?”
A black-clad old man had peered round the door. His eyes were little more than cracks and there wasn’t much hair on his head. A slight smile appeared on his weasel face.
“You’re Signor Salinger,” he said, taking my rucksack. “And you’re Annelise, Werner Mair’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“And you must be Clara. Do you like my house, du kloane Clara?”
Clara stared for a few moments at this strange character, who really did look like an elf, then, instead of replying, she asked a question. “Do you live here?”
“I’ve lived here for more than thirty years.”
“So you’re the King of the Elves?”
The man looked with delight first at me, then at Annelise. “I think this child has earned herself a double ration of dessert. Come, please.”
Apart from the King of the Elves and a couple of attendants—goblins, according to Clara—there was nobody else there. The castle was all ours. Clara was very excited, and Annelise no less so.
I was proud of myself.
We ate early, as you do in the mountains. A gigantic portion of polenta and mushrooms, speck, sautéed potatoes, and the purest water I’ve ever drunk. Maybe it was the altitude, or maybe the joy of being up there with the people I loved most, but that water went to my head. What happened after dinner was interminable, but in a good sense. We stayed on, talking to the manager of the refuge and his helpers.
He was lavish with his anecdotes, each more incredible than the last. Clara hung on his every word. Often, she interrupted the narrative to ask for more details, and instead of becoming rattled, the manager seemed happy to have such an attentive audience. At eleven, we toasted with grappa and got ready for the final part of my surprise.
I made Clara and Annelise put on a double layer of sweaters and padded jackets and, equipped with torches, we went out into the night.
A few steps were enough to project us into another world. A world of absolute vastness and beauty. We sat down on the snow. I took the thermos of hot chocolate and passed it to Clara.
“Would you like to see something magic, sweetheart?”
“What kind of magic?”
“Look up there.”
Clara raised her head.
No light pollution. No smog. Not even a cloud. We could have grabbed the stars one by one.
Annelise leaned on my shoulder. “It’s wonderful.”
I didn’t reply. There was no need. But I recognized that tone. It was the voice of the woman who had chosen me as her partner. Not diffident, not on the defensive.
Simply in love.
“You know something, Clara?”
“If you don’t tell me, I don’t know.”
“What you’re looking at is the treasure of the King of the Elves. He has no money, he doesn’t even have a car. He only has two suits in his wardrobe, but he’s the richest elf in the world. Don’t you think so?”
“Is this where the stars hide, Papà?”
“It could well be, sweetheart, it could well be.”
We sat there looking at the stars until my watch showed it was midnight.
We toasted again and hugged one another. Clara gave me a big kiss on my cheek and laughed at the echo the kiss set off. She said it was the mountain wishing us good luck.
We went back into the castle much richer than when we had left it.
* * *
Annelise never noticed anything. The trick was simple: take the sleeping pills every evening before going to bed. That meant no nightmares, no screams, nothing suspicious.
In the meantime, I made an effort to be the most caring husband in the world and a father worthy of the name. I continued lying to Annelise about the drugs, but I did intend to keep my promise. I would forget about the Bletterbach killings, I would enjoy my sabbatical year, and I would get better.
It was important. For me. For Clara and Annelise. And for Werner. My wife’s father didn’t say anything, but I could see reproach in his eyes from a distance of kilometers. I don’t know how much Annelise had confided in him—I think little or nothing, knowing her—but there was no way of escaping his eagle eyes.
Ever.
I spent the first week of January sledding with Clara. I won’t hide the fact that, at my age, I was enjoying myself like a schoolboy. Behind Werner’s house was a sloping open space over which the bright red sled ran like a rocket. It wasn’t dangerous, because the slope ended in a gentle undulation that made it possible to brake quite safely.
The eastern side of Welshboden, on the other hand, was another story, and I was categorical with Clara: no sledding on that kamikaze trail. There the slope was steep and ended in the forest, where big trunks asked for nothing better than to make mincemeat out of my princess. Even I was afraid of that descent. So: verboten.
The days at Siebenhoch passed in a joyful routine. I played with Clara. I slept soundly. I had a good appetite, and the bruise on my face was a fading yellowish stain that would soon disappear. I made love with Annelise. Yes, we’d started again. Cautiously at first, then with increasing passion. Annelise was forgiving me.
I went down to Siebenhoch as little as possible, just to do shopping. I bought my cigarettes from the petrol station in Aldino. I never again set foot in Alois’s store.
Every now and again, I would think about the Bletterbach, but I would force myself to dismiss the thought. I didn’t want to lose my family. I knew that Annelise’s threat wasn’t dictated by momentary fear or anger. In any case, I had no intention of putting it to the test.
On January 10, I made the acquaintance of Brigitte Pflantz.
* * *
There was no lack of choice on the shelves. There were various kinds of brandy, cognac, bourbon, vodka, and grappa. I’ve never been much of a one for vodka, and as for grappa I could count on the special reserve at Werner’s house, so I’d ruled them out from the start. Annelise didn’t like cognac, and I wasn’t crazy about it either, but bourbon every now and again . . .
I heard a woman’s voice, but not what she’d said.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked, turning.
“Am I disturbing you?”
She had stringy blonde hair falling on both sides of her face. The make-up around her eyes was smudged.
“No, I was lost in thought.”
“It happens,” she said.
She kept looking at me. I noticed she had big, nicotine-stained teeth. Her breath smelled of alcohol, and it was only ten in the morning.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, making an effort to be nice.
“You really don’t know who I am?”
“I’m afraid not,” I replied, embarrassed.
She held out her hand and I shook it. She was wearing leather gloves. “We’ve never met in person. But you know who I am.”
“I do?”
The intensity of her gaze made me uneasy.
“Of course you do. I’m an important person. From your point of view, Salinger, I’d say I’m central.”
The dark gloves went back into the pockets of an overcoat that had seen too many winters.
“Can I call you Jeremiah?” she asked.
“You’d be the only one, apart from Werner and my mother.”
“It’s a beautiful name. It comes from the Bible. Did you know that?”
“Oh, yes . . .”
“‘Why criest thou for thine affliction? Thy sorrow is incurable for the multitude of thine iniquity: because thy sins were increased, I have done these things unto thee.’”
“I’m not a great fan of religion, Signora . . .”
“Signorina. Call me Brigitte. Brigitte Pflantz.”
“All right, Brigitte,” I said, grabbing a bottle at random and laying it in my cart. “Now, if you don’t mind . . .”
Brigitte blocked my path. “You shouldn’t talk to me like that.”
“Or what? The wrath of the Lord will come down on me for a thousand years?”
“Or you’ll never know what happened in the Bletterbach.”
I froze.
She nodded. “That’s right.”
Something clicked in my brain. “Günther Kagol’s fiancée. That Brigitte.”
“Some people say you’re planning to make a film about it.”
“No, I’m not,” I replied brusquely.
“A pity. I know lots of things. Lots and lots of things.”
For a moment, I was tempted. But I resisted. “Nice to have met you, Brigitte.”
I rerouted my cart and left.
* * *
That evening, after dinner, I replied to a couple of e-mails from Mike. Then I opened the folder marked “Stuff.” I moved file B over to the recycle bin. I stared at it for a few moments.
Then I put it back in its place.
It didn’t mean anything, I told myself. But I didn’t want to delete it.
I wasn’t ready yet.
* * *
Sledding. Snowball fights. Trying new recipes. Making love with Annelise. Taking sleeping pills. Sleeping without dreaming. Then all over again, from the top.
On January 20, I decided to do without the sleeping pills. No more nightmares.
The same on January 21. And 22, 23, and 24.
I was in seventh heaven. I felt strong. Refusing to play along with Brigitte Pflantz had made me more aware of the struggle. Every morning, I would wake up and say to myself, “You can do it, you’ve done it once, you can do it again.”
On January 30, one of the coldest days of the year, there was a knock at my door.