Alessandro Baricco - The Young Bride

Many hours later the doors of the room could be heard opening and the voice of Modesto, who uttered, Good morning, oppressive heat and irritating humidity . He had, in such circumstances, a blind man’s gaze in which was inscribed his superior capacity to see everything and remember nothing.

Well, look, said the Mother, we’ve got away with this night, too, I counted on it, the gift of another day, let’s not let it escape — and in fact she was already out of bed and without even a glance in the mirror was heading for the breakfasts, announcing aloud, I don’t know to whom, that the harvest must have begun, since for several days she had woken with an irrational and vexing thirst (many of her syllogisms were in fact inscrutable). But I stayed in bed, I who didn’t fear the night, and very slowly I slipped out from under the sheets, because for the first time I seemed to be moving in a body endowed with hips, legs, fingers, smells, lips, and skin. I reviewed mentally the index that my grandmother had listed for me and I noted that, if you wanted to split hairs, I still lacked cunning and the ability of the stomach, whatever that meant. A system would be found to learn those as well. I looked at myself in the mirror. In what I saw there, I understood, for the first time with utter certainty, that the Son would return. Now I know that I wasn’t wrong, but also that life can have very elaborate ways of proving you right.

Going down to the breakfasts room was strange, because on no other morning had I gone down with a body , and now it seemed to me so incautious, or ridiculous, to carry it to the table directly from the night, just as it was, barely kept under control by a light nightgown, and only now did I measure how it rose up on my thighs, or how it opened in front when I leaned over — things I had never had reason to note. The smell of my fingers, the taste in my mouth. But it was like that, we behaved like that, we were all mad, with a happy madness.

The Daughter arrived, she smiled, nearly ran, dragging her leg, but she didn’t care, she came straight toward me, the Daughter, I had forgotten her, my empty bed, her alone in the room, I hadn’t given her even a distant thought. She embraced me. I was about to say something, she shook her head, still smiling. I don’t want to know anything, she said. Then she kissed me, lightly, on the mouth.

Come with me to the lake tonight, she said, I have to show you something.

We did go to the lake, in the low light of late afternoon, cutting through the orchards to arrive more quickly and at the right time, a time that the Daughter knew precisely — it was her lake. It was hard to understand how that dull countryside had spilled into a hollow, but certainly when it had it had done it well, and once and for all: so the water was inexplicably clear, still, cold, and magically indifferent to the seasons. It didn’t freeze in winter, or dry up in summer. It was an illogical lake, and maybe for that reason no one had ever managed to give it a name. To strangers, the old people said it didn’t exist.

They cut through the orchards, and so they arrived just in time. They lay down on the edge, and the Daughter said Don’t move, then she said They’re coming. And in fact, out of nowhere, small yellow-bellied birds, like swallows, but at an unfamiliar speed, and with other horizons reflected in their feathers, began arriving, one by one. Now be quiet and listen, said the Daughter. The birds traced the lake, flying calmly, a few feet above it. Then, suddenly, they lost altitude and descended swiftly to the surface of the water: there, in an instant, they rapidly devoured insects that had gone to seek a home, or comfort, on the wet surface of the lake. They did it with heavenly ease, and for a moment, as they did, their yellow bellies slithered over the water: in the absolute silence of the heat-dazed countryside, a silvery rustling could be heard, the feathers playing the surface of the water. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world, the Daughter said. She let time pass, and one bird after another. Then she repeated: It’s the most beautiful sound in the world. Once, she added, the Uncle told me that many things about men are comprehensible only if one recalls that they are incapable of a sound like that — the lightness, the speed, the grace. And so, she said to me, you shouldn’t expect them to be elegant predators, but only accept what they are, imperfect predators.

The young Bride was silent for a while, listening to the most beautiful sound in the world, then she turned to the Daughter.

You’re always talking about the Uncle, you know? she said.

I know.

You like him.

Of course. He’s the man I’m going to marry.

The young Bride burst out laughing.

Be quiet, or they’ll leave, said the Daughter, annoyed.

The young Bride tucked her head between her shoulders and lowered her voice.

You’re crazy — he’s your uncle, you can’t marry an uncle, it’s idiotic, and above all it’s forbidden. They wouldn’t let you.

Who else would take me, I’m a cripple.

You’re kidding, you’re magnificent, you…

And then he’s not my uncle.

What?

He’s not my uncle.

Of course he is.

Who told you?

Everyone knows, you call him “Uncle,” he’s your uncle.

He’s not.

You’re telling me that that man…

Be quiet, if you don’t look at them they’ll stop doing it.

So they returned to the yellow-feathered birds that came from far away to play the water. It was surprising how many details had agreed to meet in a single instant to produce the weld of that perfection: it wouldn’t have been so smooth on a lake that rippled slightly, and other, more astute insects would have been able to complicate the flight of the birds, just as without the silence of the dull countryside every sound would have been lost, however glorious. Yet no detail had failed to appear, or been delayed along the way, or ceased to believe in its own minuscule necessity: so every slither of the yellow feathers over the water offered the spectacle of a successful passage of Creation. Or, if you like, the magical opposite of a Creation that hadn’t happened, that is, a detail that had escaped the otherwise random genesis of things, an exception to disorder and senselessness. In any case, a miracle.

They let it go. The Daughter enchanted, the young Bride attentive, yet still lingering a bit on that business of the Uncle. The beauty of the sunset escaped them both — a rare occurrence, for, as you must have noted, there is almost nothing that can distract you from a sunset once it has caught your eye. To me it happened only once, that I can remember, owing to the presence of a certain person beside me, but it was the only time — it was in fact a unique person. Normally it doesn’t happen — but it happened to the Daughter and the young Bride, who had before them a particularly elegant sunset and didn’t see it, because they were listening to the most beautiful sound in the world, repeating itself over and over, the same, then a last time, not different. The yellow-feathered birds disappeared into a distance of which only they possessed the secret, the countryside returned to being obvious, as it was, and the lake mute as they had found it. Only then the Daughter, still lying down, still staring at the surface of the lake, began to speak and said that one day many years earlier she and the Son had gotten lost. He was seven, I was five, she said, we were children. We were walking through the countryside, we did it often — it was our secret world. But we went too far, or, I don’t know, following something, I don’t remember — maybe an illusion, or a presentiment. Darkness fell, and with the darkness the fog. We realized it too late, there was no way to recognize anything and the road back had been swallowed up by a wall we didn’t know. The Son was afraid, and so was I. We walked for a long time, trying to keep going in the same direction. We were both crying, but silently. Then we seemed to hear a sound that pierced the fog; the Son stopped crying, his voice became firm again, he said, Let’s go there. We couldn’t even see where we put our feet, sometimes it was hard, icy earth, sometimes a ditch, or mud, but we went on, we followed the sound, we heard it getting closer. It turned out to be a mill wheel, its blades turning in a kind of canal, the mill dilapidated, the wheel straining, rattling all over the place, and that was the sound. Stopped in front of it was an automobile. We hadn’t seen many in our lives, but our father had one, we knew what it was. Sitting at the wheel was a man, and he was sleeping. I said something, the Son didn’t know what to do, we approached, I started to say we’d better go, and the Son said be quiet, then he said We’ll never find the way home, the man was sleeping. We spoke softly, so as not to wake him, but still raising our voices a little, every so often, because we were arguing, and were afraid. The man opened his eyes, looked at us, and then said: Get in, I’ll take you home.