she’d been thinking that the Veteran might arrive at Poetto, walking nimbly on his crutch.
And then there was that winter’s day, when Nonno had come home with a bundle of mountain gear he’d borrowed from who knows who, and had proposed a trip up to Supramonte, organised by his office for the staff of the saltworks, and she, even though she’d never been to the mountains, had felt only irrepressible annoyance and had just wanted to tear that ridiculous clothing from his hands. But he stubbornly kept telling her that true Sardinians needed to get to know Sardinia.
They’d lent Nonno an ugly pair of sports shoes and a heavy jumper, also very ugly, while the nicest things were for her and the boy. In the end, Nonna unenthusiastically said, ‘Alright then’, and started preparing bread rolls, while Nonno, who usually would have helped her, for some reason made sad plin plin sounds on donna Doloretta and donna Fannì’s piano. They went to bed early because they had to meet the group at five in the morning and go to Orgosolo, up to Punta sa Pruna, across the Foresta Montes, and then continue as far as the Dovilino megalithic circle and across the mountains that join Gennargentu to Supramonte, up as far as Mamoiada.
Everything was covered in snow. Papà was beside himself with excitement, but Nonno’s teeth were chattering, and others in the group recommended the warmth of a fireplace, and potato ravioli, pork on a spit, and fil’e ferru in a local restaurant. But, no, he was stubborn. They were people of the sea and the plains, and they had to get to know those Sardinian mountains.
The Foresta Montes, one of the few old-growth forests in Sardinia — its ancient holm oaks have never been cut — was immersed in silence and in a soft white snow that came up to their knees. So Nonno’s shoes and trousers were immediately soaked, but he went on in silence, without stopping. And he marched along at the same speed as everyone else. Nonna had walked ahead for a good stretch, almost as though she had neither husband nor son, but when Lake Oladi appeared down in the valley, frozen like something out of a fantasy world in that immense solitude, she stopped to wait for them.
‘Look! Look how beautiful that is!’
Later, when they went through the durmast woods, where slender trunks all crossed over one another and were covered in snowflake-shaped moss, she put one of those fantastic leaves in her pocket, and picked a bunch of thyme that she’d use in broth once they got back to Cagliari. And she kept watching her footsteps, comparing her nice, fur-lined shoes with Nonno’s ugly shoes, because she wasn’t annoyed with him, not at all — in fact, she felt very sorry that she didn’t love him. She felt very sorry, and it pained her, and she wondered why, when it came to love, which is the most important thing, God had organised things in such an absurd way: you do all the kindest things imaginable, and yet there’s no way of making it come, and maybe you act like a bitch, like she was right now — she hadn’t even lent him a scarf. And still he followed her in the snow, half frozen, even missing the chance, hearty eater that he was, to eat potato ravioli from that part of the world and pork on a spit.
During the return journey she felt so sorry for him that, in the dark of the bus, she rested her head on his shoulder, and a sigh of resignation escaped her. And Nonno was so cold it was frightening; he looked like a frozen corpse.
At home, she prepared a hot bath and dinner, and she was frightened by how much Nonno drank. It must have been the same amount as usual, but it was as though she’d never seen it before.
That night, though, it was beautiful — more beautiful than all the other times. Having put Papà to sleep, Nonna sat in her old nightgown and petticoat, ready to go to bed, lost in thought and eating an apple. Nonno locked the door of the kitchen, to make sure the boy couldn’t come in, and started
And then there was that winter’s day, when Nonno had come home with a bundle of mountain gear he’d borrowed from who knows who, and had proposed a trip up to Supramonte, organised by his office for the staff of the saltworks, and she, even though she’d never been to the mountains, had felt only irrepressible annoyance and had just wanted to tear that ridiculous clothing from his hands. But he stubbornly kept telling her that true Sardinians needed to get to know Sardinia.
They’d lent Nonno an ugly pair of sports shoes and a heavy jumper, also very ugly, while the nicest things were for her and the boy. In the end, Nonna unenthusiastically said, ‘Alright then’, and started preparing bread rolls, while Nonno, who usually would have helped her, for some reason made sad plin plin sounds on donna Doloretta and donna Fannì’s piano. They went to bed early because they had to meet the group at five in the morning and go to Orgosolo, up to Punta sa Pruna, across the Foresta Montes, and then continue as far as the Dovilino megalithic circle and across the mountains that join Gennargentu to Supramonte, up as far as Mamoiada.
Everything was covered in snow. Papà was beside himself with excitement, but Nonno’s teeth were chattering, and others in the group recommended the warmth of a fireplace, and potato ravioli, pork on a spit, and fil’e ferru in a local restaurant. But, no, he was stubborn. They were people of the sea and the plains, and they had to get to know those Sardinian mountains.
The Foresta Montes, one of the few old-growth forests in Sardinia — its ancient holm oaks have never been cut — was immersed in silence and in a soft white snow that came up to their knees. So Nonno’s shoes and trousers were immediately soaked, but he went on in silence, without stopping. And he marched along at the same speed as everyone else. Nonna had walked ahead for a good stretch, almost as though she had neither husband nor son, but when Lake Oladi appeared down in the valley, frozen like something out of a fantasy world in that immense solitude, she stopped to wait for them.
‘Look! Look how beautiful that is!’
Later, when they went through the durmast woods, where slender trunks all crossed over one another and were covered in snowflake-shaped moss, she put one of those fantastic leaves in her pocket, and picked a bunch of thyme that she’d use in broth once they got back to Cagliari. And she kept watching her footsteps, comparing her nice, fur-lined shoes with Nonno’s ugly shoes, because she wasn’t annoyed with him, not at all — in fact, she felt very sorry that she didn’t love him. She felt very sorry, and it pained her, and she wondered why, when it came to love, which is the most important thing, God had organised things in such an absurd way: you do all the kindest things imaginable, and yet there’s no way of making it come, and maybe you act like a bitch, like she was right now — she hadn’t even lent him a scarf. And still he followed her in the snow, half frozen, even missing the chance, hearty eater that he was, to eat potato ravioli from that part of the world and pork on a spit.
During the return journey she felt so sorry for him that, in the dark of the bus, she rested her head on his shoulder, and a sigh of resignation escaped her. And Nonno was so cold it was frightening; he looked like a frozen corpse.
At home, she prepared a hot bath and dinner, and she was frightened by how much Nonno drank. It must have been the same amount as usual, but it was as though she’d never seen it before.
That night, though, it was beautiful — more beautiful than all the other times. Having put Papà to sleep, Nonna sat in her old nightgown and petticoat, ready to go to bed, lost in thought and eating an apple. Nonno locked the door of the kitchen, to make sure the boy couldn’t come in, and started
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