Not sure about this - A burning story

 

Not Sure About This

"Shall we light it?"

I remember the question well. It came suddenly, interrupting my train of thought.

I've never been clever enough to feel reasoning flow through my mind like a river in spring flood, but I'm no fool either. On that occasion, the gears of pros and cons suddenly seized up, and that annoying squeak of my conscience fell silent.

"I'm not sure about this," I answered, but I was persuaded by that captivating smile, garnished with the glint of a gold tooth peeking out from the base of his tongue. The money was within reach. One bright flash and it would be mine.

Now I'm enjoying the view.

The wind, blowing from the mountains, has warmed itself against the rocks and its pressure inflates my open jacket. I'm surrounded by a rain of dry leaves. They've surrendered to the approaching winter and are searching for a place to rot. Against a backdrop of interwoven branches, two young deer chase each other. The first jumps over a bush and the second imitates it. The earth kicked up by their hooves translates into many dramatic puffs of dust. My eyes fall for the trick of camouflage, and I only sense the gradually fading vibration of footsteps, or perhaps that's just my imagination.

I'm not sure about this.

Caterina has grown up so fast that I struggle to replace the memory I have of her as a child with that five-foot-eleven of gentle curves and peach-soft skin. At the beginning of winter, she's still tanned and beautiful. She moves like a ballerina, every time she smiles it feels like a celebration, and she never speaks out of turn. The thought fills me with pride.

I'm convinced I've been a good father, and I turn my gaze to the clear sky.

The deep blue shimmers a bit from the effect of a tear, and at that moment a pair of buzzards soars over the woods, describing a series of increasingly tight concentric circles. They must have spotted small prey, probably in trouble near a precipice at the edge of the pine forest.

Caterina plays volleyball. She arrives at the gym first and leaves after everyone else is already in the shower. There isn't a uniform that doesn't suit her perfectly, and when she jumps, she stays suspended in the air for a long time, her shoes with diagonal red stripes a good three feet off the floor. In that instant, you can take perfectly focused photos. When she lands, she makes no sound, not even the usual squeak of soles that sometimes turns into a concert. She wears number sixteen on her fitted lycra tank top, or maybe seventeen.

I'm not sure about this.

If there's one thing I hate about mountains, it's that they're an anachronistic obstacle.

Progress hasn't yet managed to tame them, and sometimes you have to bow to their imposing presence and go around them. You have to endure the shadow that makes the asphalt slick, the darkness made sudden by dense woods, and that cold that clashes with the lukewarm air of the plains. The valley at my feet narrows until it disappears behind a fog-inhabited ridge. A winding road runs through it in a succession of hairpin turns and straightaways, before getting lost in turn. It looks like a drunk painter amused himself by cleaning his gray brush while searching for inspiration.

Grazia is a treasure. There's nothing about her I don't like, and the passing years have transformed her into the pillar of my existence. We met when we were still young, and now, at every moment, with every beat of my heart that adds to our story, I feel I've spent my time well. She loves her job with a reciprocated love, receives recognition, is adored by colleagues, and brings home money and smiles. The last time we went to the restaurant together, she wore a long red dress, perfectly married to the harmonious line of her hips and destined to attract envious glances from diners toward her behind. Matching her black faux leather purse, she stylishly wore heels, fifteen centimeters high, or maybe twelve.

I'm not sure about this.

The concept of pillar, granite, and solidity perfectly matches my surroundings. From the rock wall behind me, which only a few brave shrubs have attempted to conquer, the mossy arrow slits of an abandoned fortress peer out. On the space-starved passage that the walls grant to the precipice, a line of chamois organizes itself to reach the beginning of the woods.

Where the sweating wall begins to jut from the earth, a faint scent of smoke and fog rises to meet the squared stones, and a flock of small birds divides into groups as soon as they reach the sky.

"Shall we light it?"

"Yes," I answered, swallowing saliva that felt like a mouthful of thorns. My hand, cold and contracted with fear, tightened around the wad of banknotes that the man with the captivating smile had spread on the desk. Before withdrawing it, I had time to interpret the flash of satisfaction in his eyes, and the question came along with a corrupt breath.

"So you're sure about this?"

The warm wind hasn't yet given its best. A first and then a second powerful gust arrives, and the uncertain gray of a smoke column takes on increasingly compact shades of black. Soon after, tongues of fire twist around the base.

If I'm not home for dinner, Grazia will judge me badly, and so will Caterina. Perhaps she has volleyball practice this afternoon, or maybe after-school activities.

I'm not sure about this.

Fire isn't silent at all. In lovers' fantasies and romance, it crackles, but when it affects a forest annihilated by months of drought, it screams, and it does so along with thousands of creatures.

The smoke slithers low, slips into burrows and kills small rodents still busy gathering provisions for winter. The fire infiltrates under the leaves, disintegrates insects, and runs in search of its release. When it finds oxygen to feed on, it transforms into an explosion.

"Good, then. The money is yours. Take it..."

And finally, the hand withdrew. I noticed that crumpling banknotes produces a sound very similar to flames devouring a bush. After all, there's a perverse affinity that binds money to all things that burn.

The resin that cooks produces its vapors, and the fire feeds on them.

On its path there are flames thirty meters high and a cemetery of glowing trunks in its wake. Sometimes a tongue of fire comes forward and seems to want to catch me.

The man with the captivating smile made things clear right away.

"You'll have to abandon the area long before the trigger can ignite and expose you... Remember that!"

I crumpled the banknotes to stuff them in my pocket. When those people assign you something, you can't refuse. I stood up and reached the door without turning around.

"Well, thank you..."

The desk drawer closed with a sharp snap. I didn't miss the gun handle placed next to the money box, and the man with the captivating smile noticed that.

"Do you have a family? You know, a loving wife and a beautiful daughter who makes you proud?"

I imagined having them.

I thought of a life different from this cesspool, which I believed I'd left behind simply by dressing myself in good manners. I spread one of the most fake smiles from my repertoire. "Yes, they're two wonderful women!"

I leave when the alarm sirens scream like eagles and people rush to face the fire. There's a coming and going of vehicles and men shouting instructions, running and wearing masks. One of the youngest is seized by panic and remains paralyzed as if in a freeze frame. A wild boar, its fur lit up like a matchstick, darts past him and nearly knocks him over.

"Remember, then. Don't disappoint me and remember. There will be people like you starting fires in other places, and it's important that everyone does their part at the same moment..."

The man with the captivating smile lit a cigar and disappeared behind bluish swirls of smoke. I left the office in its gasoline smell and started repeating like a mantra:

Fire purifies, fire purifies, fire...

Purifies.

And I see a large male deer charging toward me like a train.

A female and three desperate fawns follow him. The last one lags behind, slows down, speeds up, and then changes direction. When the others are already far away, deceived by the yielding ground, it loses its footing and ends up rolling into a stream's gorge.

The flames are surrounding me, and I'm tired.

If Grazia and Caterina had really existed, I would have followed my instructions to the letter and left immediately.

The boy paralyzed by fear has been reassured by his companions and now he's pointing at me, or perhaps he's indicating the infernal blades that have attacked a group of conifers behind me.

The fire roars.

Those who speak of crackling live in a plastic world, as small and predictable as their fireplace burner.

If Grazia and Caterina had really existed, I wouldn't have become a criminal and my life would have been different, or perhaps not.

I'm not sure about this.

The male deer's antlers slide under my ribs.

Rough, I feel them pierce through my lung and end up pushing against the inner wall of my back. The heat surrounding me is so intense that the blood pooling in my throat might start to boil.

The young fawn emerges from the streambed and starts running in zigzags toward the valley.

The boy paralyzed by fear is about to leave with his team, and I hear him shouting without understanding his words.

From reading his lips, I see an encouragement to save myself, or perhaps it's a curse, hurled at me and garnished with a crown of profanities.

I don't know, I'm not sure about this.