Miha Mazzini - The Collector of Names

He would do it.

Slowly he started reaching for the boy.

A few centimetres from his shoulder he stopped.

Suddenly he could not hear Bruno’s breathing anymore.

But he had already touched the boy! Earlier, by the ankle. Had he been icy cold? He could not remember.

He grabbed him and turned him.

Bruno screamed.

Fear gripped his heart and for a moment he thought it would burst. But his fear was unfounded.

“It’s alright Bruno. It’s nothing. He’s just unconscious!”

“His eyes! Adriano, his eyes?”

“It’s nothing, Bruno, it’s nothing! His eyes have turned! That’s all. That’s all!”

Their shouting and shoving must have brought the boy round. They noticed his mouth opening and his lips moving. They watched him expectantly. As if one word from his mouth could wash away all the fear, return his hair to its normal colour and restore the night peace.

He moved his lips. In bursts and twitches.

Bruno and Adriano leant forward without realising and nearly touched his face.

“A… AAA… AA… A… A AAAA. AAA…..” he stammered for an unbearably long time and then suddenly collapsed, making his startled rescuers jump back.

She replaced the wooden lid and checked whether it was on properly. Then she knelt down, put her hand on it and whispered:

“Goodbye. They interrupted us, before you became complete.”

The contents of the wooden box still had not cooled down completely and she could feel them glowing through the lid. She stroked the wood and got a few splinters in her hand. She got up without moving her eyes away from the box.

In there. Her son.

“Goodbye. Sleep! Wait!”

As she put her foot on the bottom step she looked back once more. The morning sun fought its way through the window and its first conquest was the large tablecloth in the corner, covering the boxes, containing mainly souvenirs from her husband’s diplomatic life.

That window and the nosy village boys. Who knows what they had seen and what they would tell in the village. Would they believe them? Would they come in the night and set fire to the house? Would they try to kill her child?

She added the last bit of protection that was in her limited power: she knelt on the fourth step, bent her head, touched the wood with her forehead, sensed him and then reached deep inside between her legs with her hand, dampened her fingers and used them to write that name on the step. With letters which were immediately absorbed by the wood. Maybe it would help, but only against the weaker ones.

She looked at the wooden box — one of many — and sighed.

“I have carried out my duty, now it’s not up to me anymore,” she told herself. “I just have to make sure it’s dark in here but the rest is out of my hands.”

She closed the cellar door carefully and locked it. She checked that it was really locked. She put the key inside her clothes and the coolness of it refreshed her. It seemed so real — and most importantly — unplanned and unanticipated. Everything else had gone exactly according to plan and — was it really possible? — could she really be craving sensations which would slow her down, break her concentration and convince her that she was still alive?

She picked up the wooden planks and tools prepared in advance and boarded up the outside of the cellar windows so that the sun could not reach the resting place. Should she have done it before the ritual? Was that her mistake, had she relied too much on the remoteness and isolation of the place?

She returned to the kitchen and put on Greta’s apron, deliberately the wrong way round. She did not tie the ribbons, she sewed them together with a shoemakers thread. Then she opened the cupboard containing weights and carefully divided them among the various apron pockets.

She locked the front door and hung the key on the hook by the doorframe.

Whoever came, they would not have to break in.

The sky was completely clear and she turned her face towards the pale sun, which was pretending to be weak when in a few hours it would burn mercilessly. In a few hours, she thought, a few hours after her.

She took a deep breath and started walking towards the sea with her eyes closed. When she passed the last stones and felt the sand under her feet she looked at the horizon. The last bits of white mist were dissolving above the water. The surface of the sea was completely smooth. She did not disturb it with a heavy step, she melted into it with a slow movement and broke the stillness stretching out to where the sea touched the sky.

Suddenly she heard a voice in her head, more a feeling than a voice.

Darkness, loneliness, fear, Mama!

Without stopping, she sent him a message:

“Be quiet, lie there and wait. They will come and then you will get up.”

The sensation passed. How many more times would he have to nearly wake up in all those years of waiting? All alone? Buried? Melted?

The water covered the top of her dress, surrounded her neck, drowned her mouth, eyes, head. She did not stop walking.

She could picture herself all puffed up with decay, floating towards her home, into the warmer seas and their stronger currents and she let go.

For ever.

“You’ll die tonight, guys!”

Max smiled the smile of an experienced sinner who had not only survived Sodom and Gomorra but had long ago surpassed it. As usual, the smile moved via Samo to Alfonz’s awkward attempt and even Raf made the effort but so belatedly that he decided to get up, mumbling something about going to the toilet and walking off down the deck with quick steps.

In the narrow passage between the restaurant and outer rail of the ferry he slowed down, glanced back — no, they could not see him — and did not even look at the door leading to the toilets. There was no sign, just the unmistakable smell. A few metres further along, another door gaped open. By the state of the door hinges he could tell that it had not been closed for a long time. He stopped in front of the dark opening and looked down the metal staircase. A smell of heat and petrol wafted up to him. After a moment’s hesitation he went down towards the part of the ferry he had not yet seen.

They had been going for three hours now and according to the timetable they were due to dock in an hour and thirty-five minutes. So far they had arrived on time at all three islands which were now far behind and it was safe to assume that there would be no delay. Raf looked away from his watch and paid attention to the stairs. On some of them there were large drops of some unknown liquid. It did not smell, just looked disgusting. The drops appeared in regular intervals, as if they had been spilled from a bucket, carried by an uncertain hand.

The belly of the ferry had almost completely emptied on the largest, best known island — the second stop — just over an hour ago. They had leant over the rail at the front, observing the unruly chaos of the vehicles making their way on to dry land. The stop was for half an hour, and at the beginning it looked as if most of that time would be taken up by the drivers hooting impatiently at a confused holidaymaker who could not get his car, caravan and, after a while, even himself turned in the right direction. Because of all the swearing and honking behind him he became more and more agitated and confused and therefore moved further and further away from his goal. Luckily, some of the bystanders started giving him advice, but of course, strongly disagreed with one another, and it all nearly ended in a fight. With the attention turned away from him, the unfortunate caravan owner finally managed to collect himself and drove off. His advisors did not even notice his departure and after a while were unable to notice it, as by this time they had forgotten what the argument was about.