Dark-haired Mara

 

The fogged windshield transforms the yellow streetlight into a circular halo, fading into a sickly luminescence at the edges. The side windows are also covered in condensation, and the passenger's side is decorated with a pair of parallel, thick rivulets that slide down toward the seal until they gather into large drops. It seems to be crying.

Mara smells of deodorant stick, the kind that only makes itself known after exertion. She slides down in the seat, rests her foot against the glass, and admires the result. It's a small and delicate footprint that branches out under the heel into a pattern of drips resembling a spider web. Marcello detests the idea of his new Golf being treated with such disrespect, but the sight of the bare, tanned leg encourages him. A few sprays of glass cleaner and a microfiber cloth will be the remedy.

For the girl with the dark bob cut, blue eyes that border on black in the darkness, and small firm breasts with nipples pointing skyward, it seems there is no remedy at all.

She was beneath him for a brief time, too brief, equal to the duration of the Hollies song that played on the radio plus the commercial that followed. It boasted of a tire shop so quick that the customer wouldn't have time to drink a coffee in the bar next to the garage before the flat was fixed. A few seconds, and for Mara, that half-minute jingle plus the length of an old rock song isn't enough to elevate that ungraceful and clumsy weight, accompanied throughout by the annoying squeak of springs, to a proper act of lovemaking.

"Come on, take me home," she says, struggling with the tight shirt that's difficult to put on because of her sweaty skin. She has the look of someone who wants to gulp down some chamomile tea and throw herself into bed.

Marcello, however, sees existence as a football match, where there's always a second half, a final minute, or extra time to find a remedy.

Mara has an entirely different concept of existence. She sees it as a void to be filled, and those times when there's a bit of space left, it's just wasted time with no possibility of comebacks, overtime, or penalty kicks.

Marcello, like all fans, accepts defeat but trusts in the next match.

"Shall we grab a beer at Tony's?"

"Let's make a dash to my place. Then you can go drink your beer alone."

Marcello remembers a moan and a half-cry at the end that resembled a cough. Instinct tells him he shouldn't appeal to such flimsy evidence, but he's a fan, one of those who remain frozen in the now-empty stands, brooding over the defeat. "Didn't you like it?"

Mara doesn't respond. She adjusts her underwear beneath her miniskirt and looks right toward the highway. "Did you like it?"

"Yes... no, god. Of course, we weren't as comfortable as in a bed, but you're..." he runs his hand over her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. "You're so beautiful you make me lose control..."

"You shouldn't lose control. Drive straight and take the curves properly." She looks at her phone's clock. Midnight is approaching. "I want to be asleep in half an hour."

"Let's talk some more..."

"Please, Marcello, I'm getting sleepy," she says, holding back a yawn.

"Let's go another round, then," he suggests as a condom appears as if by magic. "I've got the tire change ready, quick as in the radio commercial!" he laughs.

"Quick as your trigger-happy dick. Step on the gas and let's leave this parking lot to someone who'll make better use of it."

Marcello swallows but that bitter taste remains spread under his tongue. "Why are you insulting me?"

Mara fiddles with the controls until she finds the window button. She presses it and the glass disappears into the door while the warm night air mingles with the car's odors until they're swept away. The look she gives Marcello is elusive and unreadable like that of a bird of prey. She sighs. "Who even are you? What do we have to share, you and I? Forget about me and I swear, I'll forget about you."

"So you didn't like it?"

"Are you taking me home or not?"

"I don't think it's fair to judge a book by its cover..."

Mara fixes her eyes on him. He notices a cement-like grimace that erases the memory of the smile that had enhanced their only selfie together hours before, and alters the beauty of her lips. It seems to last a century. "And you want to call a brief and insignificant chapter a book?"

"No, beautiful, I just didn't think I'd signed up for the Olympics!"

"Well no, but you're definitely signed up for Formula One, or the 24 Hours of Le Mans if you prefer. Make those tires screech and take me home!"

"You know what? You're just a stupid whore!"

She doesn't flinch. "Well, pay me then."

"I paid for dinner, if I remember correctly."

"Not that the restaurant was the wonder you claimed it to be."

"It still cost me two hundred euros!"

"You choose restaurants like you manage your tool. You'll have to come to terms with it, sooner or later."

"You're... you're..."

And anger drowns his thoughts in a deep, stormy sea.

At this hour, the highway is practically unused: just a few motorcyclists challenging death, some drunk claiming the whole road for himself, and a few couples of lovers with their cars still warm. None of them care about Marcello's defeat, who's been shown a red card, or about Mara, who will have to work to fill that void that echoes like a shout in a cathedral. No one has noticed the car parked in the remote corner of the lot, and Marcello knows this well. He knows the place where he lives, is sure of people's disinterest in their neighbors, of the cold detachment with which they participate in others' lives, and so...

"Get out!"

"What?"

"Get out and walk home!"

Marcello sees. He understands that the hand on her knee opens because it's about to transform into a slap, but he does nothing to avoid it. To him, Mara is still a good girl, loving and patient, capable of nurturing a passion until it transforms into the most genuine of loves, of dispensing a smile so warm and soft you could take it to bed to keep your dreams company.

And instead the slap arrives, and with it a flash that forms directly in the center of his brain and then crumbles into a myriad of razor blades that fall down his neck and cut everything, right to the heart. The humiliation burns like that famous core sealed inside the sarcophagus.

He only understands the second half of the phrase because his ear is whistling like a train in the middle of the steppes.

"... and then you'll drop me off at my door and never show your face again, not even in a postcard, you dickhead!"

When he regains control of himself, when his heart stops punching like a speed bag, when the two roads he thinks he sees reunite into the single, unique and real ribbon of asphalt, he's driving toward home, maintaining moderate speed and riding with the right wheels on the edge line.

Before convincing himself, he looks at the passenger seat at least three times.

Finally, he's alone.

One step after another, but the shoes are uncomfortable.

After less than five hundred meters, Mara surrenders to her aching feet and sits on the guard rail that slowly releases its heat to the night, creaking. Only three cars have passed since Marcello pushed her out and drove away with the door still open, and none of them stopped. Too many stories about pretty girls hitchhiking for gangs of robbers, too many stupid urban legends.

Her phone's battery is at three-quarters. Mara crosses her legs to catch the attention of even the sleepiest driver, bows her head over the screen, and opens the selfie taken that afternoon.

Marcello had picked her up around six, and the blooming oleander in the garden, in the flattering light of the low sun, had seemed like a perfect backdrop to immortalize the moment. He had tried to make his smile appear irresistible and had asked to widen the frame to show off his pectorals straining under the tight t-shirt. His robust collarbone was also eye-catching, and everything suggested something truly powerful.

The social media app opens and reminds her there are eighty-six notifications to check. Nothing unusual when you have more than a hundred thousand followers. Dark Mara, even when posting utter nonsense, receives likes by the cartload and comments by the dozen. Many of these are invitations to go out or lewd proposals.

Her profile picture, showing her in a tiny carnival-colored swimsuit, with beach sand sticking to her skin and the elastic of her bikini bottom at the lowest latitudes, certainly doesn't invite philosophical discussion.

The post leaves no room for interpretation:

"Time wasted. All dynamite, no bang..."

One second

Two seconds

Three.

The first response is from Gigi Shock. "You bring the explosives, I'll bring the detonator." 💣😆

Madame Hawk follows up. "Are you saying appearances are deceiving?"

Mirko Mirk. "I'm sending you a photo in DM."

Lady Bondage. "Show us the face of this... time waster." 😜

Private Raian. "I'll rip that swimsuit off you!" 😈😈

Baby Boom. "Did you send him crying back to mommy?" 😭

Ale XXX ia. "Put up wanted posters on the streetlights." 🤣😂

The fourth car only slows down to check if she's a hooker. It speeds up again in a suffocating cloud of diesel fumes from a car ready for the scrapyard.

Gengiv Kan. "Come visit me and when I'm done you'll walk crooked for three days." 😵‍💫

Olivia Oli. "You got played, #Dark haired Mara. Didn't think you had it in you..." 👎

Muscle Works. "Let us meet this steam train, maybe he's just running low on water to boil..." 💪💪

Mara lingers on the selfie. Marcello is so pompous, tanning bed bronzed and inflated like a chicken on estrogen that he deserves public shame. She laughs out loud without realizing it, clicks on the photo which enlarges, and in moments the menu offers sharing options. She feels heat rising from down below, a genuine sexual excitement. You don't leave Dark Mara in the middle of the road, and if she slaps you, it means you deserved it. You should just bow your head and apologize. The comments are in the hundreds and likes keep growing, and it doesn't matter if it's bedtime because the web people never sleep.

Want to share?

Mara hasn't heard the car. It stopped right in front of her.

Truth be told, she isn't suffering at all from the sharp metal against her bare legs. Her dimension, past, present, and future, is all contained within those pixels casting a morgue-like light on her face. The notification chime, repeating with each new alert, is the soundtrack to her personal ballroom, the rhythm of her life where there's never time to waste.

"Everything okay? Need a ride?"

It's a woman in her fifties, blonde, that washed-out blonde, almost ashen. She's pathologically thin, as if work and years had consumed her. Her facial features are drawn and she has grayish dark circles that no makeup attempts to hide. She wears a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck and smells of hospital. She hasn't been to the hairdresser for at least a month, that's certain. Mara, incredulous, postpones sharing the photo with Marcello and asks:

"You'll really give me a ride?"

"I believe in not leaving young girls alone on the road, especially at night. Get in."

Mara doesn't need to be told twice, and before sitting down she has to wait for the woman to move a heavy leather bag to the back seats.

"I'm Mara. Are you a doctor?"

"Yes, night shift, and tonight everyone's sick. I've been driving this road for years, back and forth, always in the dark."

Mara is pleased to have guessed correctly. "I don't envy you."

She thinks about the terminal patient she visited just ten minutes ago: a papier-mâché mask smelling of wilted flowers with a heart as weak as a broken radio. Indeed, there's nothing to envy.

"Let's look at the bright side. I've become friends with every curve, know all the dangerous spots, and I know, before others do, when I need to avoid a pothole." she laughs.

"You're right, this highway is really a trap!" says Mara, and it seems the dimple that accompanies her smile appears on command.

"Where can I take you?"

"Are you heading back to the hospital?"

"Yes." She joins her hands to simulate a pillow. "And I hope to catch a few minutes of sleep."

Her facial expression is perfunctory. Mara can't be sincere unless she's looking into a camera. "Perfect, then. I live right in that area."

The car regains the road.

It's an old white Panda worn out by miles. The driver's seat is collapsed, the steering wheel corroded by sweat, and the engine is annoying. It makes a huge racket while the speedometer needle struggles to rise. To be honest, it also smells of burnt iron.

You can see the doctor struggling to maintain trajectory: the tendons in her arms surface under her skin and her gaze is concentrated on the road. Mara wonders if the lady is quiet because she's naturally silent or because she has to tame a kind of ship with drunk rudders.

"Well, thanks anyway."

The glance is fleeting. After all, there's the Panda to keep in check. "Rather, why were you alone in the middle of nowhere?"

Mara returns to social media. The comments on her new post are over a hundred and the likes at least double that. Her satisfaction surfaces in a grin that seems stuck on with fish glue. She answers distractedly while scrolling the screen.

"The guy I was with kicked me out of the car."

"What a bastard! And... what did you do to deserve such treatment?"

Mara shrugs. "He couldn't fuck me properly, that's what, and I told him so."

The right curve is challenging and a noise from what sounds like squared ball bearings adds to the tension. "Boys have their pride, though, and they should always be, shall we say, handled with care." On the straight stretch, the doctor examines Mara once more with a quick glance. "He didn't hit you, did he?"

Meanwhile, another thirty users have commented and almost all want to see the loser's face. Par de balle stands out above all:

"If you introduce me to Mr. Speed I can recommend him a Tantra Yoga teacher. But from what I understand, he'd need more of a miracle." 😭

Mara thinks it's magnificent. Counting quickly, the new followers are more than thirty, all for a terrible fuck. The doctor seems impatient.

"Won't you answer me?"

She shakes her head. "What, sorry?"

"I asked if he raised his hands to you..."

"Who, that loser? No, don't worry, I was the one who hit him."

They pass over an old bridge where the road narrows. Every time, the doctor wonders how many drivers are capable of interpreting that right-of-way sign with the red arrow paired with the inverted white one.

"You hit him?"

Mara finishes typing a comment and then responds. "But that's nothing."

"Using violence is always wrong. Leaving a girl alone in the middle of the night is equally wrong. To hell with pride! Talk to each other and make peace."

Mara rotates the phone toward the doctor. You don't need to be an expert to understand that she's online with a very popular social network, and not just by good people. "What peace. I've humiliated him and soon I'll put his face up there too."

"They'll stop you!"

"Probably, but not before tomorrow morning."

"They will because someone will report your post."

Mara scrolls through the page while a concert of notification chimes confirms that the discussion she launched has gone into orbit. She looks at the doctor showing commiseration. "Everyone adores me on here, they hang on my fingertips. Nobody reports shit to me. Want to see for yourself?"

There's a traffic light, one of the few that stays on at night. It's a good opportunity to rest her arms, curse that steering wheel without power steering and without grease in the gears, and try to reason with the girl. "Come on, show me what this terrible lover looks like, but I'll tell you right now: don't embarrass him too much because at some point you might regret it..."

The grin has something that makes it go sideways. "No, I'll never regret it but look, look yourself what a pretty face..."

And the glance at the photo is quick, because meanwhile the traffic light has turned green and the pager allows no respite. Somewhere there must be someone who isn't sleeping as they had hoped.

The Panda starts up with effort.

"Don't do it!"

"And why shouldn't I?"

"Because you shouldn't take advantage of your social media success. What's the word - that you're an influencer?"

Mara wants to buy time. She doesn't want to get thrown out of a car for the second time. She sees the doctor even more engaged in driving than before. The roadway, bordered here and there by old sheet metal guard rails, has decreased in width and that stretch of road is even darker. "But I can't disappoint my followers, you understand? It's just a moment from glory to anonymity."

"You mustn't do it!"

"But of course I will! I'll share my selfie with the loser and tomorrow I'll post one full of compliments for you, doctor. You'll thank me for this because it could get you a promotion, you know?"

The doctor is nervous. She pushes on the accelerator and this time it seems the car gains speed. Mara notices the hands tight on the wheel and the rapid, precise gear changes. In fifth gear they're approaching a hundred.

"Instead you need to learn to show respect for others!"

Mara reloads the photo: her, him, and the oleanders in bloom. She raises the phone and touches the share button. "How many followers do you have, doctor?"

They're less than sixty and she doesn't remember when she last logged in. "Leave that boy in peace! It was a bad evening for both of you and you'd better forget..."

Her eyes shine with malice and the dimples, those that hypnotize everyone, have disappeared. A row of straight white teeth shows behind barely parted lips.

She looks like a hyena.

Mara screams. She yells with her mouth open, spits, and to be honest, her breath smells of wine too. "Instead I will and who the fuck are you to stop me!"

The doctor calms down. She must have understood.

She is nothing, after all. She just has to obey a stupid pager and learn to like her filthy existence.

She slows down.

The right wheels step on the white line. The steering wheel seems less hostile than usual and her tired back finally rests against the seat.

"Look ahead, Mara..."

"What the fuck are you saying?"

"Ahead, you must look ahead!"

And Mara does.

She can't share the photograph because in front of her, maybe fifty meters away, a new guard rail begins but this one is really special. It doesn't have the curved protection to prevent it from behaving like a knife blade and the meters now are only ten.

The phone falls to the floor mat and while the worn tires eat up the grass, the scream comes out with the force of a million terrified voices and her eyes could shoot out of their sockets and it's not elegant to say but she still has time to empty her bowels.

The blade shatters the grille, wedges into the frame, penetrates the old engine like a hot knife through butter, tears through the hood metal, crosses the dashboard with the violence of a sword and slices through both the passenger seat and the passenger. In a hell of noise, smoke, sparks, and the smell of burnt flesh, the guard rail exits the Panda's trunk a few tenths of a second later and it's a shame, because in passing it destroys the medical bag which explodes with the sound of a crushed bladder.

The doctor, dazed, gets out of the car.

The first steps are a challenge to gravity, her legs shake, her head aches, and her stomach wants to turn but then it gets better. Through the broken window she witnesses that disaster of blood, ground bones, viscera, and metal. The impact made Mara's jaws clench so violently that her teeth crumbled.

No trace remains of the hypnotic dimples.

She retrieves the phone from the floor mat. It still works and isn't even bloody. She puts it in her pocket, revives her ash-colored hair with some remnants of blonde, and uses her phone to call the hospital.

"I had an accident, a terrible accident..."

"Oh God, are you hurt?"

The smell of blood is strong but she doesn't have even a scratch. "No, but I had picked up a hitchhiker, a girl..."

"You don't mean..."

"Yes, unfortunately..."

"Oh shit! Stay calm, we'll send an ambulance right away."

"Thanks."

"Is it because of that damn steering?"

"And the fucking bald tires. Hurry up, I feel faint..."

Now the Panda's cabin resembles the inside of a blender.

It won't be easy for her colleagues, but she had reported the malfunction of that car on numerous occasions and what can you say, failure to provide assistance is a serious crime and you don't commit a serious crime, even more serious if the girl is confused, tired and abandoned at night on the side of a road.

It's easy to access the smartphone.

The M for Mara, which appears by connecting the dots, is rather predictable.

Before deleting the selfie, the doctor hides her face with her thumb and with her fingertips caresses Marcello's face. She finds time for a few words, hurried and whispered because in the distance she can hear the ambulance arriving.

"Marcello, my love, my child. Nobody can dare to offend you or even hit you, and from now on, please, choose more carefully the girls you invite."

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On cover "Allo specchio" di Piera Vi

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Various Writer Archetypes: A Field Guide to Modern Authors

 

It's not just my impression - statistics confirm it: in Italy, the number of writers is surpassing that of readers, causing turbulence and some unpleasant mishaps. It's a bit like when warm and cold currents meet to create a tornado, or to use a more local metaphor, like having a single henhouse with a multitude of roosters strutting around among the few hens.

Let's be clear - writing is beautiful, requires dedication, and certainly has its positive effects on good health and general optimism. Everyone has their story to tell, their target readers to reach, and the ambition to improve over time like a Barolo wine from the Langhe region.

So it's positive that stories are emerging from drawers and finding their way into cyberspace. It's equally wonderful that prejudices against bestseller writers are crumbling in the face of certain incredible successes (not in this country, mind you) born from works published by small publishers or completely "homemade," released without a traditional publisher and becoming the subject of million-dollar contracts thanks to Amazon rankings. So yes, self-publishing is gaining ground, small publishers are multiplying, literary contests are more crowded than Sunday afternoon stadiums, printing houses are thriving, and bookstores are flooded with new texts. There are even more book launches than before and many more social events centered around literature.

Good, I really have no objections. The phenomenon is a child of our times, a symptom of freedom and a new economic stimulus. In short, I see many positive things in it, while preserving everyone's right to reject the proposal of a non-vetted author or worse, one capable of convincing potential buyers of their lack of talent and inspiration in the few preview pages that online shops typically grant.

But that's another story.

The problem is the author, their often-emerging bad character, sometimes caused by frustration over poor sales, sometimes because they simply have a bad character - except before, only a few people knew about it.

Because if once we had made Italy but failed to make Italians, now we've built up a frightening apparatus that thrives on writers, without these writers ever having been trained. In short, after a few years of frequent social media observation, I've formed an idea of the most recurring archetypes in the vast galaxy of new authors, and I want to joke about it a bit, hoping not to offend anyone.

THE REVIEWS OBSESSED ONE

By far the most common type. They don't care much about anything else - they keep their Amazon link prominently displayed in their favorites bar and check their book's review count at least sixteen times a day. They reject the evidence that real readers usually don't review but rather read, judge, and often keep their judgment to themselves. With each new review, they post a screenshot, enlarging the image crop until it becomes pixelated. They care very little about whether the review might be from their uncle, and even less about the fact that just two days after their book's release, there are more than one hundred and seventy-two reviews, almost all with four stars trending toward five (I'm not sure the fifth star exists, but I liked the idea). When it reaches pathological levels, the Reviews Obsessed One buys review packages and tends to be tempted by that discount on the two-hundred-and-fifty bundle, including random newsletters and a life-sized author cardboard cutout.

THE ANTI-SYSTEM ONE

Rare but very present in all discussions and controversies about the publishing world. They hate big publishing houses as such and small publishing houses as such. They don't comment on medium-sized ones, although one suspects they have an unflattering opinion of them too. They feel rage against distributors, most booksellers, and all self-published writers. They'd like to eliminate literary salons, contests, book launches, and any book-related events. They don't read mainstream authors as they're too aligned with crude commercial needs, and they shun small authors, who in their opinion are incapable of convincing Sperling & Kupfer to turn their novel into a bestseller. They have a pessimistic opinion of the average reader, don't trust any publication that hasn't been translated into at least fourteen languages (half of which are dead), and only grudgingly draw from foreign literature, usually from South-East Asia, the former Soviet Union, or the Balkans.

THE BOOK LAUNCH ENTHUSIAST

Like the anti-system one, they don't trust distribution (I must say I totally agree on this point). Armed with iron will, a map, and time, they travel around Italy to place their book. Village festivals, bookstores, libraries, wine-tasting restaurants, rented suggestive locations, highway stops, and their rich aunt's good living room - any place suitable for a presentation is their destination. Now, I have the utmost respect for this type of author because they end up with a good number of sales and because they privilege human connection over web spam and the useless arguments that follow.

THE GRAMMAR AND SPELLING NAZI

They care nothing about story coherence, plot development, or character success. They believe that a novel's originality and richness of content have no importance, nor do dialogues and intriguing plot articulation. The Grammar and Spelling Nazi typically wrote just one book, many years ago, and hates every writer in the world based on that single misused article on page 172, an inconsistent verb tense that slipped through in chapter 11, and that damned subjunctive that escaped three different proofreaders and their high school teacher, who read the entire text without noticing the anomaly. They review every single book on the market and systematically trash it, finding that error they knew they would find. Their book, naturally, will be the ultimate text on good writing, the universal reference for orthographic rules, the writers' bible, the incarnation of Chekhov in paper and pixels.

THE "EVERYONE'S A GOAT" ONE

Also rare, but makes themselves heard. They set up a home altar with photos of Sgarbi and Umberto Eco and hate with all their might anyone who writes fiction. Well, not really - they occasionally admit fiction, but only if it's backed by lengthy research in dusty libraries, trips to forgotten countries, speleological missions in mysterious caves, and first drafts born after years and years of painful labor and a couple of stress-related hospitalizations. They're disgusted by genre literature, which they abhor, consider worthy of the name "book" only texts that have well exceeded one hundred thousand words, and usually don't maintain relationships with colleagues. They share with the Book Launch Enthusiast the desire to do thousands of presentations, but only in prestigious, history-steeped venues. They don't disdain deconsecrated churches, ancient manors, and cultural circles, but only of a certain level. For them, everyone else, including most of their readers (whom they already know won't understand the depth of their lucubrations), are simply goats.

THE ARGUMENTATIVE ONE

They exist and aren't so rare. Born of an Italian propensity for controversy and frustrated by their own poor editorial success, they tend to disregard promoting their own books and focus on their competitors'. They share with the Grammar Nazi the same obsession for blunders, but their arguments (fueled via social media) systematically start with more or less explicit references to a certain fellow writer, guilty in their opinion of surpassing them in rankings (always that Amazon ranking) by using questionable means and showing unforgivable inelegance. The Argumentative One responds to objections to their controversy by inviting their competitors to find a worthy publisher, a competent proofreader, a capable graphic designer. The Argumentative One argues. It's completely useless to try to steer the discussion toward constructive topics. They have touchpoints with the Reviews Obsessed One, throwing reviews in your face to prove they're successful, reaching hearts and minds and making soul strings vibrate, all while the competitor mindlessly scribbles without dignity.

THE OVERLY HAPPY ONE

Their book comes out and the world stops rotating. The entire known universe has a hiccup and seems to need a push to restart. They're so happy they don't realize they've sent a newsletter to seven hundred thousand people and that social media is going into overdrive due to the compulsive repetition of their promotional posts. They get photographed with the book in twelve different poses and thank everyone. They thank all their relatives, the love of their life, the publisher with the entire staff, and the courier who delivered their author copies. They're so happy they immediately prepare a promotional video of the book, a couple of YouTube interviews, and various photos of themselves signing autographs at some publishing fair. They're so happy they quote passages from their novel on all networks and sometimes even hire an actor/actress to read them with a well-trained voice. The Overly Happy One usually disappears after a week.

Piero and the Wolf - A Tale of Guilt and Grace

 

Piero hadn't even had time to wake up.
With the dampness of the just-passed night evaporating from his clothes, he pointed the barrel of his rifle toward the bush and fired.
Morning had begun with timid light bouncing off the blanket of mist at the mountain's feet, the muffled chime of the village bell tower, and a warmth that smelled of home, breakfast, and sugar meant to sink generously into the black surface of coffee.
The bullet had pierced the foliage, scattering acrid swirls of bluish smoke, and ended its course lodged in a fallen trunk. The wolf had escaped unharmed yet again. It simply left. It had turned its back on Piero, who fumbled clumsily around his belt for another round for his rifle. The wolf had peeked out between two trees, like a curious onlooker leaning out a window onto the square. Then it vanished, kicking up a little cloud of dead leaves and dirt.
The previous day had passed like that, in anticipation of another chance.
Piero had christened a stump as his seat, waiting for the wolf to reappear, and, staring at clusters of red berries and lance-shaped leaves stirred gently by a timid breeze, he had fallen asleep.
The next day, as dawn chased away the last stars and the same ever-present fog rolled thickly across the valley floor, Piero had taken position in a trench. He had dug it with his bare hands, taming roots and negotiating with a pair of stubborn stones that refused to budge. When the wolf’s scent wafted into the air and the familiar rustling among the leaves betrayed its presence, the rifle barrel erupted with a bang, and the wild berries exploded, giving the illusion of blood. Even that day, the animal slipped away without bothering to run, and once again, Piero’s scorched fingers tangled as he tried to reload the rifle, desperate for a second shot.
He had cried.
It happened when the wolf, safe behind the trunk of an ancient chestnut tree, looked at him with its small green eyes. With its fur slightly ruffled along its back and a bit of dry earth around its nose, it looked as though it, too, had amused itself by digging a hole.
The night following his latest failure, with yet another dose of frustration weighing down his already heavy soul, Piero had neither slept nor eaten nor dreamed. For him, it was natural to feed on expectations, letting his sagging bundle remain closed next to a flask of wine that was turning into vinegar. The only thing that mattered to him was that the wolf would return, that his hand would be steady, and that the rifle would be willing to repeat yesterday’s scene.
At the next dawn, the gray coat crossed his sightline, always blending into the omnipresent foliage, always camouflaged by the black streaks that melded with the dense underbrush. Piero fired, and a mushroom in the distance disintegrated in a burst of fragrance. Desperate, head in his hands and eyes fixed on a carpet of burrs, he realized the wolf had escaped once more. He didn’t even react when that damp nose lingered on his neck, accompanied by the tickle of stiff whiskers and a breath that wormed its way beneath his jacket.
Shortly after, the animal moved away, turning its back on him.
Before retreating to safety, before slipping out of range, it melted into the twilight until it vanished, and the night’s chill began dictating its terms again.
Rain had tended to every single leaf, cleaned the wood, dusted the fruits, and put the ants on alert. On the forest floor, pine needles floated like tiny ships, and a network of miniature mountains, valleys, and waterways redrew the terrain’s geography. The day climbed in with a slight delay, shaking off the clouds and leaving a sea of cream over the roofs of the still-sleeping village.
From a high branch, the forest was invaded by shafts of light. Some pierced all the way to the base of the trunk, as if intent on igniting the piles of dead leaves at its feet. Others extinguished themselves in the dense vegetation, while still others cast luminous islands on the distant peaks of larch trees. Below, the familiar fog blanketed the valley, and a stream murmured in the distance. The water, emboldened by a curve, plunged into a small waterfall that resolved into a flurry of foam and vapor. A little farther down, a weathered wooden bridge had digested the nails holding it together, its exposed side coated with moss.
"And instead, we had it all wrong. We, because we thought we were big and strong by shooting at animals; you, Piero, because you thought the world was just a simple process of actions and consequences. But the wolf wasn’t in the bush, and I died in its place. Look at him; he lived his life knowing that a man had been struck down instead of him. In some way, he’s grateful to you…"
He was there, at their feet, his mouth curved into something that resembled a smile, ears upright as if he understood every single word. Suddenly, he licked Piero’s palm, and Piero grabbed his muzzle as though he were a house dog seeking affection by the fireplace. At that moment, a light whimper could barely be heard.
"And him, will he have forgiven me?"
The friend had laughed. With his corduroy pants that seemed fresh from the cleaners and that shirt smelling of laundry, he looked like he had just come from Sunday morning Mass, standing on the church square with the freshly folded newspaper tucked under his arm. His hair still shone with pomade.
"I hope so; otherwise, dear Piero, we wouldn’t know which road to take to get back home. Because they’re waiting for you at home, you know?"
"Re…really?"
"Of course! Everyone’s impatient. Your wife, especially… Though time up there is felt very differently from how it is in the world of the living, yes, sometimes we get a little bored too..."
He had trembled.
"Ah, your son is doing well. He’s down there..." His finger pointed toward the village. "Everyone speaks highly of him, and trust me, he still has a lot to do before they call him. So, what do you say, shall we go?"
Piero had hesitated. His purgatory—that immense and repetitive forest that he thought he had learned to know but that had always reserved surprises for him—was about to be left to its slow and inexorable cycle. He had to leave it, and he had to do so immediately.
The wolf had already started walking and was looking at him impatiently a few steps ahead.
"I killed you..."
"And I forgave you. Everyone has forgiven you..."
"Really? Are you sure?"
That smile was worth more than a thousand words.
A rustle of leaves marked the beginning of the journey.
The wolf led the way, sniffing the exposed roots, the stones of the path, and every other corner of the trail. Fern fronds jutted out from the sides, and sometimes they had to push them aside. Wild rabbits, crouched in shelter behind tufts of grass, watched their passage, unconcerned about the wolf just a step away from their noses.
They climbed with a slow but steady pace toward the upper part of the forest, the one Piero had never had the courage to explore.
In no time, they disappeared, embraced by a sea of green. Piero, his friend, and the wolf.
The forest breathed like a child absorbed in dreams.
Before leaving together, they had buried the rifle under a meter of damp earth.

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Inspiration

 ...so I sit down at my computer, adjust my chair's backrest, sniff out the air currents, assess the background noise: the TV from the next room, the fridge that's kicking in more often than usual, the cat crunching kibble, and my neighbor, who insists on mowing a lawn the size of Tennessee with nothing but a weed whacker.

I can see him sweating, wearing his tank top inside out, with bushy shoulder hair and a half-moon of redness spreading across his back. I pay him no mind.

I readjust the backrest.

To clear my conscience, I check my work email. A disgruntled client's unanswered message could ruin my inspiration, or worse, take their business elsewhere.

Nothing.

Well, not exactly nothing: a couple of petitions, an energy company rep with the world's best rates who just arrived in town, Russian woman seeking Italian husband, some alleged bank that isn't yours advising you to change your password.

The neighbor with his weed whacker must have stopped at the edge of a cotton field somewhere near Kingston Springs and is refilling the gas tank. The cicadas almost resume their song, but the 25cc engine roars back to life on the second pull of the cord.

Facebook notification on my author page.

I minimize the blank page, check it out, and discover I've been added to a group without my knowledge. Meanwhile, the Sardinian girl is showing off her new glasses and an unconventional neckline. I scrutinize the photo looking for a flaw. Disappointed, I postpone the task for another time.

Chapter 1

To avoid reformatting from scratch, I save my last successful novel under a new name, tacking on a string of Xs followed by a (1). I keep the first word and delete the other seventy-two thousand. While doing this, doubt creeps in. I pause to verify I've saved a copy on my computer, one on the external hard drive, one on the triple USB stick, one on the double CD-ROM, and one in the cloud.

I adjust the backrest, satisfied: all copies are accounted for, and I can return to deleting those seventy-two thousand words minus the first one with peace of mind.

Pristine page.

I insert the quotation marks, the accented capital E, and worry about that Scandinavian character I know I'll need sooner or later, the one with the Danish-Norwegian slashed O. Out of laziness, I consider taking some flavor out of the character by calling him Mario, and while I ponder this, the cat jumps on my keyboard and licks my chin with the taste of North Sea herring.

The first word of the novel is his.

I save it, wondering if the word might come in handy someday as the name of a fictional town, perched on a picturesque fjord with a large abandoned hotel on the snowy slopes of the mountain behind the settlement.

Second work break for the neighbor in his lawn, and tenth like for the Sardinian girl with her new glasses.

An email arrives from a colleague with a massive attachment. Thirty years ago, it would have crashed NASA's computers all by itself.

I stretch, rest my eyes by gazing at the blue-hazy horizon and contemplate starting with a dream-like opening, something that might go down in history:

"All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way"

"Call me Ishmael"...

I need to think about this. Like songs that are too perfect, relegating their entire album to being their eternal container (don't believe me? Try naming the other eight tracks from Hotel California...), overly successful opening lines might become self-contained aphorisms. Not everyone is Tolstoy.

I verify that all the location photos are in the folder. They're there, keeping company with the floor plans, maps, notes, the draft I sketched while waiting for that client who was an hour and a half late, and the list of three possible titles.

I stretch again.

The noisy neighbor, the intrusive cat, that other feline glaring resentfully because its bowl is empty in the center (believe it or not, cats judge the amount of food in their bowl by evaluating how many kibbles are grouped in the middle. The others, piled on the sides or scattered about like hand grenade aftermath, leave them completely indifferent).

A WhatsApp notification from three hours ago (I tried to save on the blinking LED and now I look like a jerk once a day) and the washing machine starting its spin cycle. I challenge anyone to remember the maximum spin speed beyond the third day after purchase.

I drink, do some sit-ups, lazily eye the pair of five-pound dumbbells and regret it. The bike has been sitting in the garage for too long to find an excuse that wouldn't make the entire planet laugh. I consider changing my t-shirt. I'm struck by the certainty that tomorrow's breakfast is limited to a couple of somewhat stale rusks, but I abandon the idea of running to the store. Impossible to park. Impossible to reach the checkout without being stuck behind the forward-thinking family with their apocalypse food supply, in quantities sufficient for regular time, overtime, and penalty shots.

I choose a vinyl to put on the turntable. Better said, I review about thirty before realizing I have no clear idea what I want. Italian prog, rock, hard rock, dark, fusion, and blues. I decide to ask YouTube for help.

Meanwhile, the computer has gone into standby mode, and the game is about to start.

Chapter 1, see you tomorrow.

Red on the Hill: A Winter's Tale

 

Maria spotted the red tent just hours before it started snowing. It was a late snowfall, arriving at the tail end of a dry and cold winter, so harsh that the countryside around her house had fallen ill with a jaundiced yellow. That day, like thousands before it, she had spent studying, nourishing her young mind with books.

Barely thirteen, with a body that was slow to bloom and boredom as her life companion, Maria had few reasons to venture out. Partly because she had to wait for the bus that passed only twice a day, partly because reaching the bus stop meant walking half a kilometer down a dirt road, where stones refused to compromise with shoe soles, and where she feared the neighbors' dog might come charging at her, foaming at the mouth, dragging its broken chain behind.

The village, distant and inhabited by people without imagination, was small enough to not merit a tourist's stop or careful visit. It was also so predictable and shabby that the school at its center, painted in pastel colors borrowed from sadness, was the only building in town that dared to exceed the canonical two floors, venturing into a third attic level dedicated to a dreary library deserted by almost everyone. Maria, on the contrary, borrowed many books, made herself comfortable in the armchair before the fireplace, and read until exhaustion.

During the fair season, the outdoor porch was perfect for the purpose, with its green-enameled swing that creaked like an old music box, the table with its flower-patterned oilcloth secured with windbreakers, and the wooden railing that shed flakes of dry paint at the slightest movement. Custer, her old mongrel with a tail broken in the middle and a white patch on the side of his muzzle, loved to curl up in the corner of the balcony. In that spot, the railing posts seemed sandpapered, and moreover, a dark halo on the wooden floor testified to how attached the animal was to that piece of world.

On one of those winter afternoons with the scent of snow in the air, the red tent appeared in the meadow atop the hill.

It was perfectly positioned in the center of a crown of trees, with its shorter side facing the wind and guy lines well-tensioned. The zipper at the entrance appeared half-open, with the lower flaps barely fluttering. One of the first snowflakes of the snowfall, which would last for two days from then on, settled on the slanted side. Like the millions that followed in its wake, it rolled to the ground with a barely perceptible rustle. Maria returned home somewhat worried, with Custer by her side. The dog nimbly jumped over the missing plank on the wooden bridge laid across the stream banks. She preferred to pass along the side, relying on a firm grip on the frozen handrail.

In the evening, with her mother in the kitchen, her father just arrived and his mood slightly worse than the time before, Maria alienated herself from reality and began to read, letting herself be lulled by the rocking chair in front of the fire. The news droned on with its usual rosary of bad news. Meanwhile, Moby Dick was making a fool of Captain Ahab.

A mound of snow. That's exactly how the tent appeared. After more than two days of uninterrupted snowfall and icy wind that had stiffened its contours, none of its sharp geometries could be seen anymore, and the surrounding plants had their branches bent. Maria, wearing snow boots, and Custer, with a touch of arthritis and snow tickling his belly, got close enough to imagine that the red tent could very well be someone's tomb. Maria turned back, running and watching out for the unstable bridge. She arrived home with burning feet and cheeks colored with fever-red. Lord of the Flies, brand new, was just waiting to climb onto the rocking chair with her to be initiated.

On the third day, under a sky that alternated white clouds with timid streaks of blue, the tent had sunk under the snow's weight like a cake taken out of the oven at the wrong moment. On that occasion, Custer had stayed in his bed, and the book told of a pig's head, impaled on a wooden stake and surrounded by a perpetual swarm of flies.

On the fourth day, it rained.

Maria didn't dare find another excuse to leave home, face the frozen slush up to the hill, and see what had become of the red tent. She imagined it pressed to the ground, with crumpled guy lines and the collapsed structure protruding from the canvas like a compound fracture.

The night that followed, she managed to sleep only a few minutes.

Nightmares, oppressive blankets, and too much darkness pressing against her eyelids. The clearing among the trees, with the tent at its center, appeared to her in dreams along with a rapid alternation of seasons, with a flock of crows taking turns at the feast and a procession of worms heading toward that memory of red.

Winter passed, then spring. Frodo Baggins managed to free himself of his burden, Beverly Marsh, along with the losers, completed her initiation rite, and Maria turned fourteen.

One summer morning, having passed her exams with flying colors and with mom and dad down in the village looking for a new car, she returned to the clearing. She brought Custer along, slightly limping from worsening arthritis and attached to an unprecedented leash interpreted as an irredeemable offense. The grass, tall and thick, hadn't managed to completely mask the tent's canvas that the sun had begun to fade. The curved frame tubes had proved irresistible to invasive weeds. In the middle, a newborn tree was reaching toward the sun and had dragged a flap of the tent along with it. The smell of decay in the air was quite distinct.

Lord Jim climbed his river, Guy Montag tried to set as many fires as he could, and Big Brother stared at her for a long time from the large poster on the walls.

In August, under the scorching sun and with the attic heated up, the library closed for its usual summer break, and Maria finished rocking herself under the shelter of the porch, when nothing new was happening on the western front anymore.

She ran toward the hill and arrived there panting. The tree, nourished by abundant spring rains, had grown at least a meter and a half and was dressed in red like a Christmas fir. The tubes, stakes, and now-rusted guy lines twisted in the air like a rather macabre piece of modern art. She ran back even faster and noticed that the bridge had surrendered its second rotten plank to the river. A wooden stump remained as a witness to better times gone by.

The following autumn, only a few unread books remained in the library, and middle school released her into a new world.

She forgot about the hill, the clearing, and the eager-to-grow tree that dragged along the remains of the red tent and who knows what else. She forgot to the point of no longer dreaming about anything related to that place. In her thoughts, there was some space for that curly-haired boy from class 1B and a new excitement for her breasts, which had finally decided to insistently point against her undershirt. In the morning, after breakfast, choosing matching clothes began to require a few extra minutes.

The institute's library, housed in a quiet basement, had so many books that Maria had to give herself a rule. She chose criteria that considered historical chronology and a not-too-rigorous alphabetical order. Before the holidays, she stocked up on the complete works of Flaubert, Guy de Maupassant, and Goethe.

She rocked on the porch with Madame Bovary and learned the rudiments of Sentimental Education. It happened at the end of the afternoon, with an imperious thunderstorm that had made the eastern sky disappear. She learned about the life of Jeanne Le Perthuis and the cynical ambition of George Duroy, an irresistible playboy from a Paris that only appeared in vintage prints anymore.

At the beginning of September, without Custer, who was confined by arthritis to his favorite corner of the world, she found herself again before the tree. It had grown to match its siblings surrounding the clearing. The tent's canvas had turned to piglet pink and fit perfectly among the already lush branches. The frame tubes held it taut, as if a skilled and patient hand had starched and ironed a shirt collar. Among the highest leaves and just beyond the shelter of the canvas, one could glimpse a black head of hair, rather disheveled but still thick. It rested on the main trunk as if someone had arranged their afternoon nap in the shelter from the sun.

Maria hadn't come empty-handed.

She circled the trees, stamped her feet on the ground to drive away vipers, and finally sat with her back against the trunk. Enterprising ants began to take measurements of her bare ankles, and she drove them back, burying them under a light layer of soil. The tent fabric barely fluttered, like that first time at the beginning of the snowfall. Sparrows were singing, and cicadas were certainly not holding back. She felt the hard grass pierce through her flimsy summer pants and a hint of itching in her legs.

She persisted.

She pushed with her back, and the young, still tender trunk began to rock. The black hair, producing a sound of broken bones barely confused with the rustling of leaves, settled on the branch beside her.

With an emotional voice, she began reading The Catcher in the Rye.

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