The Stone and the Rope

The sun is out, so come on, drink your coffee, take a shower, put on your pants and go, as rain is not expected today or tomorrow and walking is good for you.

Sweatshirt, backpack, hat, boots. Come on, don’t be lazy, don’t even think about him while you put your socks on, don’t ask yourself what he would have said about this crisp air. You know, he would have pulled the digital camera out of his backpack, he would have taken pictures after pictures, forcing you to pose, immortalizing peaks and clouds, chamois so small and far away that only he could see them. He would have said the words you know, the words that seemed trivial to you and now you miss like a drowning man misses the air.

You came up here, you rented the usual house, perhaps because the photos are not enough for you, perhaps because you are afraid of forgetting even a single detail.

Be brave, put one foot in front of the other and be careful not to stumble. The path is steep, wet, he was always behind in case you slipped. Now you are alone and you are already out of breath, but the smell of the pines helps you breathe.

Here is the first waterfall, then the second. This is where you always took off your shoes and he would watch while you plunged your feet into the cold water. You don’t feel like it, it doesn’t seem so funny anymore. So, come on, carry on.

Here you are, finally, on the plateau where the river gurgles and the marmots scream. You discover one there in front, on the lookout, ready to sound the alarm to her companions. Around, the usual peace, the superhuman silence of the mountains. There is not a living soul here.

But no, someone sits cross-legged under the rock and looks up. You point your binoculars but don’t see any climbers clinging to the wall. So what is the man staring at?

You arrive behind him, on tiptoe. He doesn’t turn around, he hasn’t even heard you. Now you too can see what his body hides. An inscription from which a rope hangs. Is the dark spot on the string really what you think?

In memory of

Antonio Marradi

August 19, 2001

You sit next to the man, who doesn’t even turn now.

“Was he your son?”

“Yup.”

Almost two hours of climbing and he, old as he is, has to do it every time, to then investigate the rocks that still retain a trace of his boy, perhaps the imprint of a hand, or perhaps the echo of a scream. He wonders what he felt when he missed his grip, when his skin tore and the rope whipped the air.

You know what he’s thinking because that’s what you thought too the night they showed you the body. The creaking of the trolley remained inside you, the rustle of the sheet.

“Is this your husband?” they asked. And you couldn’t say yes, because if you had said it, the body in front of you would have really become your husband’s. You stared at him in disbelief, you wondered if he realized he was dying while the car overturned, if he was still alive in the ditch. You wondered why you had let him go alone that night to his mother. “Are you going to Mommy?” you asked sarcastically and he shrugged. He knew the nervousness would pass you soon.

“I took my son to the mountains for the first time. I also bought him an ice ax. “

“My husband is also dead.” Here, you said it, you pronounced the unpronounceable. You usually use phrases like “he’s not here now”.

“Nothing is forgiven anymore, right?”

“True.”

Which of you two spoke? Is it your voice or is it that of this old man who is weeping now?

“They say that death is an act of generosity. We must give way to those who come after us. But my son was young.“

“I stopped wondering why my husband died. Even if there was a reason, what I feel would not change.“

“Friends say my son disappeared doing what he loved most, that when he climbed he took into account dying. I don’t believe it. “

“One never plans to die.”

Now, if your life were an American film, you would embrace this unknown man and each of you would vent the pain, soothe it, sharing it with the other. But it’s not a movie and so you don’t move, you don’t take his hand, you don’t even give him a handkerchief. You remain silent, three feet away, and he continues to cry and stare at the rock.

In the meantime, you listen to the cry of the eagle, touch the lichen and the pebbles worked by the movement of the glacier. You wonder if all is not lost, if at least one vibration is preserved. You know that the man who sits next to you feels the same agony as you and is asking himself the same questions.

But he doesn’t have the answers either.