Read Online From the Land of the Moon by Milena Agus - Free Book Online
Authors: Milena Agus
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walked at the same pace as the others. Grandmother went on ahead for a good stretch, as if she had neither husband nor son, but when, down in the valley, the lake of Oladi appeared, frozen, as if it had dropped into that immense solitude from the world of fantasy, then she stopped to wait for them.
“Look! Look how beautiful it is!”
And when they crossed the oak wood, where the slender trunks were intertwined and covered with moss in the shape of snowflakes, she saved some of the fantastic leaves in her pocket and also picked a bunch of thyme, for making broth when they returned to Cagliari. And she stayed at his pace, her beautiful fur-lined shoes in step with those ugly ones of grandfather’s, because she wasn’t angry with him—on the contrary, she was so sorry she didn’t love him. She was so sorry, and it pained her, and she wondered why God, when it comes to love, which is the principal thing, organizes things in such a ridiculous way: where you can do every possible and imaginable kindness, and there’s no way to make it happen, and you might even be mean, as she was now, not even lending him her scarf, and yet he followed her through the snow, half frozen, missing the chance, lover of food that he was, to eat the local potato ravioli and porchetto on the spit. During the trip home she felt so sorry that in the darkness of the bus she leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed, as if to say “Ah well.”
And she was frightened at how cold grandfather was, like someone frozen to death.
At home she made a hot bath and dinner and was scared by how much grandfather drank. It was the same as always, but it was as if she had never noticed.
That night, however, was wonderful. Better than ever before. Grandmother had put papa to bed and, wearing an old bathrobe and slip, ready to go to sleep, was absent-mindedly eating an apple. Grandfather, locking the kitchen door to be sure that the child wouldn’t come in, began the brothel game, ordering her to take off her bathrobe and slip and lie naked on the table, laid as if for his favorite meal. He turned on the heater, so that she wouldn’t catch cold, and began to eat dinner again, helping himself to all those good things. He touched her and worked her all over, and, before tasting anything, even the delicious sausage from the village, he put it in grandmother’s cunt—in the brothel, that’s the word you have to use. She got extremely excited, and started touching herself, and, love him or not, at that moment nothing mattered anymore, all she wanted was to continue the game.
“I’m your whore,” she moaned.
Then grandfather poured wine over her whole body and licked and sucked, especially her big buttery breasts, which were his passion. But he wanted to punish her, too, maybe for her behavior on the outing, or who knows, you could never understand grandfather, and, taking off his belt, he made her walk around the kitchen like a dog, hitting her but being careful not to hurt her too much and not to leave marks on her beautiful behind. Under the table grandmother caressed it and put it in her mouth, which by now she was expert at, but every so often she stopped to ask if she was a good whore, and how much she had earned; and she would have liked never to stop playing at the brothel.
They played for a long time and then grandfather got out his pipe, and she curled up on the opposite side of the bed and as usual fell sleep.
13.
W ith the Veteran, on the other hand, the nights were so filled with emotion that—because she had found, surely, the famous principal thing—she stayed awake gazing at how handsome he was, taking advantage of some glow in the darkness; and when he started in fear, as if he heard shots, or because bombs were falling on the ship, breaking it in two, she touched him lightly with her finger, and the Veteran, in his sleep, responded by drawing her to him, so that he wasn’t apart from her even when he was sleeping. Then
“Look! Look how beautiful it is!”
And when they crossed the oak wood, where the slender trunks were intertwined and covered with moss in the shape of snowflakes, she saved some of the fantastic leaves in her pocket and also picked a bunch of thyme, for making broth when they returned to Cagliari. And she stayed at his pace, her beautiful fur-lined shoes in step with those ugly ones of grandfather’s, because she wasn’t angry with him—on the contrary, she was so sorry she didn’t love him. She was so sorry, and it pained her, and she wondered why God, when it comes to love, which is the principal thing, organizes things in such a ridiculous way: where you can do every possible and imaginable kindness, and there’s no way to make it happen, and you might even be mean, as she was now, not even lending him her scarf, and yet he followed her through the snow, half frozen, missing the chance, lover of food that he was, to eat the local potato ravioli and porchetto on the spit. During the trip home she felt so sorry that in the darkness of the bus she leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed, as if to say “Ah well.”
And she was frightened at how cold grandfather was, like someone frozen to death.
At home she made a hot bath and dinner and was scared by how much grandfather drank. It was the same as always, but it was as if she had never noticed.
That night, however, was wonderful. Better than ever before. Grandmother had put papa to bed and, wearing an old bathrobe and slip, ready to go to sleep, was absent-mindedly eating an apple. Grandfather, locking the kitchen door to be sure that the child wouldn’t come in, began the brothel game, ordering her to take off her bathrobe and slip and lie naked on the table, laid as if for his favorite meal. He turned on the heater, so that she wouldn’t catch cold, and began to eat dinner again, helping himself to all those good things. He touched her and worked her all over, and, before tasting anything, even the delicious sausage from the village, he put it in grandmother’s cunt—in the brothel, that’s the word you have to use. She got extremely excited, and started touching herself, and, love him or not, at that moment nothing mattered anymore, all she wanted was to continue the game.
“I’m your whore,” she moaned.
Then grandfather poured wine over her whole body and licked and sucked, especially her big buttery breasts, which were his passion. But he wanted to punish her, too, maybe for her behavior on the outing, or who knows, you could never understand grandfather, and, taking off his belt, he made her walk around the kitchen like a dog, hitting her but being careful not to hurt her too much and not to leave marks on her beautiful behind. Under the table grandmother caressed it and put it in her mouth, which by now she was expert at, but every so often she stopped to ask if she was a good whore, and how much she had earned; and she would have liked never to stop playing at the brothel.
They played for a long time and then grandfather got out his pipe, and she curled up on the opposite side of the bed and as usual fell sleep.
13.
W ith the Veteran, on the other hand, the nights were so filled with emotion that—because she had found, surely, the famous principal thing—she stayed awake gazing at how handsome he was, taking advantage of some glow in the darkness; and when he started in fear, as if he heard shots, or because bombs were falling on the ship, breaking it in two, she touched him lightly with her finger, and the Veteran, in his sleep, responded by drawing her to him, so that he wasn’t apart from her even when he was sleeping. Then
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