Andrea Canobbio - The Natural Disorder of Things

“This looks like … a path. Where does it go?”

“To a house nearby. It’s about five minutes away.”

“Is it an easy walk?”

“Completely. Go right ahead.”

I hung up the phone and saw Rossi watching me; I wasn’t disappointed that Mosca was leaving, but I wasn’t relieved either; I simply thought, Today I’m not going to shoot him.

“Give me the key now, please,” I said to Rossi.

I went out and gave the key to one of the twins. Elisabetta was watching me, but I kept my eyes on the ground.

I hold my hand out to her, and after a brief hesitation she shakes it.

“I’ll call you,” she says. And then, almost under her breath, “soon.”

I start calculating the length of that “soon” as I leave.

Someday Witold will get fed up. After we finish the job at the data center, he’ll announce that he’s willing to take a risk, that there’s enough demand, and that he’s decided to launch out on his own; he doesn’t claim to be a garden designer, but he could have a small gardenmaintenance business with Jan; the work would be duller but continuous, and the market is bigger, because there are more fake gardens than real ones — far more, no? And I’ll nod and say maybe the work isn’t even that dull, and I understand: he’s got a family to support, and I’m not so reliable.

Occasionally I explain to him exactly what he thinks of me, to make him feel guilty, and then he tries his hardest to convince me that working with me has been the best experience of his life, that I’m a fantastic person, that he’ll never forget what I’ve done for him, and that if he ever leaves me he’ll help me find someone to take his place. Sure, garden maintenance is much duller and more banal, but for some reason he’s destined to do it. “Because I know very well that I’m a dull person,” he will say. I picture myself bursting into laughter and hugging him; for the first time since we met, I feel like hugging him like a brother.

Then fall will come, and winter. I’ll find another assistant, and anyway I’ll be able to work less, and I can rent out the other wing of the farmhouse, maybe to someone who uses it only on weekends. I no longer want to be alone all the time: maybe it would be enough for me to see people from far away, to witness other people’s lives. The courtyard will fill with icy puddles and patches of snow, I’ll make a bonfire of the dead leaves in the meadow, I’ll start using the wood-burning stove regularly, I’ll put on my heavy clothes again, and count the moth holes in my sweaters. I’ll roast chestnuts for the kids for All Saints’ Day, and light firecrackers for them on New Year’s Eve, but first I’ll hide the firecrackers in the pile of old tires and deny until the last minute that I’ve bought any. In October or November, like every year, some English journalist will come and write an article about me, and I’ll be very loquacious and hospitable.

I’ll have the whole family here for Christmas. We’ll do two trees: one outside, with strings of lights, and a little pine tree in the living room that’s not too tall, so the kids can decorate it by themselves. My mother won’t cry anymore. Cecilia will have taken Carlo back, and she’ll look the happiest of all. Carlo will or won’t smile; he will or won’t talk; he will or won’t be outraged about something. Neither my mother nor my sister-in-law has any idea how to cook a stuffed guinea hen — but for that matter they can’t even make mashed potatoes. I’ll have to cook; the kids count on me.

I think I’ll start walking in the woods again, maybe because I’ll get a new dog, maybe because I’ll stop wanting to eat and drink for two. The kitchen guest won’t come by anymore, but I won’t miss him. I’ll miss Durga when the famous photographer moves away; I’ll remember her frustrated wish to be loved, and the fake dog that was supposed to be her husband, and her fascination with Malik’s baby. I’ll declare Gustavo officially lost, and I’ll ask the famous photographer to sell me the dachshunds. I see dachshund eyes — Indra’s eyes flashing a challenge from the edge of the woods, and Mosca’s dog chasing him. Sure, Gustavo was a more satisfying dog: he was lovelier, more charming, more loyal, and he had no family. Dachshunds have secret, hidden ambitions, or ambitions tailored to fit the situation; they seem more suited to the times that lie ahead. Certainly to the life that lies ahead for me.

And when I’m out walking, I’ll almost always choose the path that heads east, but every now and then, when I see that Indra is nostalgic and pining for home, I’ll go down toward the famous photographer’s house. It won’t be an easy house to sell, but it’ll be empty before fall. He’ll get rid of all the animals, and the pens will be empty. Malik will leave too. There’s an idea: I’ll try to get Malik to replace Witold. In August I’ll offer him the job; I’ll even offer him a place to live. But he won’t accept — I shouldn’t kid myself: ever since the baby was born, Malik’s wife has been wanting to move back closer to the Sikh community. And the famous photographer will be very generous to him.

But for now, as I drive into the courtyard of the farmhouse and park my E270 next to Mosca’s A8, fall and winter are still far off. I get out of the car and head unhastening toward the woods, through the warm and acrid shade of the chestnut trees, along the path. Malik and I have been the ones keeping the path clear in the past few years; just a few seasons of neglect would allow the woods to devour it again, and bring back the natural disorder of things. The impassive tension of the plants, the continual pressure — the imperative is “Grow!” Some time ago, a local farmer asked me to sell him firewood from the forest: he said he’d bring over his power saw and clean the place up, cutting away all the young shoots and leaving only one big tree every twenty feet or so. I never called him back.

I reach the meadow above the famous photographer’s house. The police van and the ambulance are parked on the driveway in front, just where I imagined they’d be; the wheels of the Land Rover Defender are turned sharply, showing off the deep treads carved into the tires, and the doors of the ambulance are flung open. Two carabinieri turn toward me without curiosity.

They brought me into the house where Malik and his wife were sitting off to one side, with fear in their eyes, and Giletti, the only eyewitness, was telling what happened.

They had been in my courtyard for five minutes; they’d tried ringing, but no one answered. Then Mosca had called me, and the misunderstanding was cleared up. At that point Giletti went into the woods after Hello, who had run off toward the chestnut trees for no apparent reason. Wandering in the woods, he didn’t recall passing by the limestone bluff that hangs over the old ocelot enclosure, Durga’s pen. After twenty minutes of looking in vain, though, he continued down the hill and emerged behind the famous photographer’s villa; hearing a dog’s bark, he entered the property by way of the meadow that I’ve so often walked across with the kids.

Then the long glass barrier caught his eye, and behind the glass the shape of a dog much bigger than Hello, standing motionless. For a moment he thought it was a ceramic dog, but as he got closer he noticed it was breathing hard — its torso was swelling rhythmically. He thought, I’ve never seen a striped Doberman before, but since he didn’t know much about dogs, he wasn’t particularly surprised. After looking at the Doberman, he rose up on tiptoes and saw Hello’s corpse, the white fur striped with blood: Durga had ripped a fist-sized hole between the dog’s throat and his belly. Giletti clearly recalled the Doberman turning her head toward him and then looking back at the rear of her pen, with the same petrified stance he’d first seen.