The Invisible Mountain by Carolina de Robertis

Author:Carolina de Robertis [Robertis, Carolina de]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Sagas
ISBN: 9780307271938
Google: VThjPLISO4UC
Amazon: 0307456617
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 2009-08-24T16:00:00+00:00

SALOMÉ

Seis

——————

THE WORLD IS PUSHED

BY MANY HANDS

Some questions were not for asking. For example, the question of how Papá could be across the river when beyond the river you saw nothing but the sky. Questions about sky and fathers and many other things, they were just for turning on the great wheel of your breath; you inhale without knowing, you exhale the same. Gathered up inside, questions keep their intensity, circulating through you, gusts of their own. Better not to ask too much, better not to make Mamá sad, to chase away her laugh that broke the air to sharp and golden shreds, her smell of flowers and sweat and almonds, her presence itself, smoking, leaning, writing, composing secret messages to strangers or to God. And so Salomé did not ask why they were moving. In any case, she didn’t mind; she liked her grandparents’ house, with its ivory prison outside and the sleek wind in the oaks, its smells inside of onions frying, rosemary drying, Abuelo’s cologne as he gripped her in a tight embrace. Abuela always piled food high on white plates that had tiny pink flowers. Abuelo Ignazio told them stories while they ate: about his adventurous youth in the campo; the ride and shine and gamble of it all; the water-streets of Italy, the boats he used to build, and how his heart was stolen by a beautiful woman adept at sleight of hand.

“She stole it, I swear—right out of my sleeve! I never got it back.” He pointed at Abuela Pajarita with his thumb. “This one here. She leaped out of the crowd like that Wonder Woman lady.”

Abuela smiled. She looked small and old. Salomé pictured her in Wonder Woman’s bright bikini, lasso in hand.

“Eat, Salomé!” Abuelo said. “You’re growing.”

After dinner, Abuelo played with the enthusiasm of a fellow child. He showed them many things: how to play poker, how to bet with cow bones, the card tricks he’d once done on a stage. He shuffled extravagantly, cards flying through the air in a blurred arc. He spread the deck on the table with scarred hands. Pick one. She looked and picked. Then back it went, and shuffle shuffle, while his mouth told a tale or riddle. The cards spread out. He told her to pick another, and she obeyed. He knew—amazing!—exactly what card it was. He grinned at her expression, and leaned in close, wine sweetsharp on his breath.

“Do you want to know the secret?”

Salomé nodded.

“Promise not to tell?”

“Promise.”

“The trick is to keep their attention on one hand, and work your magic with the other.”

Salomé let the trick sink into her, never guessing how, when she was older, stroking guns in a dim room, it would resurface like a buoy in her mind.

As she packed, Mamá would stop in the middle of a gesture to stare out into space, book or dish or box flap in hand, as if something had entered the room that only she could see. She would stay that way, frozen, even if Roberto or Salomé called her name.

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