Ghosts
by Nicolò Monti, translated from the Italian by Mariarosaria Musco
“I’m a male too, you know. Just like you,” Irene says.
She’s petting a white bunny with creepy red eyes born not long ago. We come and check on it every day because she thinks the cage is too dark and uncomfortable. We set it free and let it roam the old stable for a few minutes, door locked and eyes watchful so it doesn’t run away.
“No, you’re not,” I counter.
Irene stares blankly at the stone wall behind me. She frowns, then glances back to the bunny: it squirms in her hands, knowing it’ll be locked up again soon.
“Why don’t I have boobs, then?”
My cheeks run hot and her stare is suddenly too much to bear. Around us, the chickens and the other rabbits are restless in their cages. I shrug.
“Maybe ‘cause you’re short?”
I brace for a shove or a swear word that never comes. Irene puts the bunny back in its cage and wipes her palms on her pants.
“It stinks in here,” she says, heading for the door. “Let’s go, but don’t let anyone see you.”
I’m ten, she’s twelve.
We pause for a moment in the doorway to the Three càs’ old stable, watching in awe as the rain turns the country’s dust into darkened soil. The grey sky is in stark contrast with my idea of August; it was sunny barely half an hour ago, the earth scorching my exposed legs.
“Shit,” I whisper in amazement. “Arturo was right.”
My curse reaches Irene’s ears but stays clear of the Grownups.
“Grandpa’s never wrong,” she says.
The Grownups are sheltered under the porch of the house on our left, the only one of the Three càs to survive the bombings in the last war and the passing of time. They’re done eating and some are drinking coffee. They’re silent, reminiscent of a soccer team where everyone put on their scruffiest clothes. Irene and I are no exception, but we’re on a different team.
Aside from my family, there’s also Agata, Grandma’s sister, and Arturo, her brother. I only see them once a year, the week we make tomato sauce. It’s like they belong to this place where Grandma was born; the place she ran away from when the war was over, where the only things remaining are tales of airplane Pippo and the scattered soldiers, of her hitchhiking to go dancing, and nothing else but rubble.
I study their worn-out faces: they’re not like mine or Irene’s. I follow Arturo’s watchful eyes and Grandma’s pensive gaze. They’re both staring at the iron barrel full of sauce bottles that someone moved under the porch from the other side of the farmyard. The rain drowns out the sizzling sound of the embers in the burners, but every now and then a tiny explosion is heard and someone curses, blaming the others because the flames are too high or the caps too loose on the bottles. I search for my parents’ eyes but they’re facing away from me. So I watch their movements to try and guess when the Grownups will empty the barrels in the ditch, scatter the lukewarm embers in the fields and stuff the trunks of their cars full of sauce bottles. Only then we’ll drive back to the city.
I look beside me, I’m alone. Fearing my gaze might draw the Grownups’ attention, I join Irene in the back of the Three càs, where the old well stands and the fields sprawl out.
On a different day, we would wander through the cornfield, getting lost or chasing each other. And if the weather were too hot, we would catch grasshoppers with my fishing net. There’s an elongated strip of grass between each field where all you have to do is graze the tips of the blades and they jump out by the dozens.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
I walk closer to the well and remember the story of the ghost. Leaning on the edge with my elbows, I stick out my neck to stare at the bottom. Part of the structure has collapsed, though I remember always seeing it like this. No one uses it now, but there’s water stagnating inside that seems to boil when it rains.
Irene rushes over to me; when the well halts her run, I feel it shake.
“It’s deep, isn’t it?” I ask.
She nods.
“Grandma saw a ghost in here once, you know?”
My voice echoes down the bottom together with the rain, which feels soothing on my sweaty, dusty back after seven days in the country.
“You’re so stupid,” she says, and this time both the shove and the swear word come.
“I’m not lying. She said that when she was young and the war was still going on, she saw a man down there. He had a black beard and was the most handsome fellow she’d ever seen. She asked for his name and he said ‘Ghost.’ So she told him it wasn’t no real name, but he said he had forgotten his real one. The morning after, she came back with her mother but he was gone.”
“That’s impossible,” she says. “Ghosts don’t exist. And I’ve never heard of a ghost who flees.”
“I swear.”
“Maybe she was making fun of you or she made it up,” she goes on. “Grandpa says she doesn’t remember stuff anymore and that she’s probably sick.”
“That’s not true. I forget stuff too sometimes, but I’m fine.”
I realize I raised my voice, so I glance behind our backs waiting for the Grownups to appear, but they don’t. I step away from the well and take shelter under the stone wall of what used to be a barn. Irene follows me, the rain stings now and it’s annoying.
“Today’s the last day of sauce, you know?” she asks.
I keep quiet.
“You wanna go jump?”
I stay silent just long enough, then nod.
“I’ll go first, though,” I say.
The air in the barn is so fragrant it feels heavy, like I could touch it if I closed my eyes. We heap the hay at the center of the spacious room, our eyes watery as we cough all along. I grab the ladder hanging from a huge nail on the wall and lean it against the main beam, the only one left untouched by time. I climb silently and stand on the beam when I reach the top. I have no support now and as I take my first steps, I feel my heart hammering through my nails and eyes. I’m no more than nine feet above the ground but it seems so much higher than that. When I get to the middle of the room, I glance down and it feels like I’m thirty feet in the air. I lean out and let myself fall. When I land on the edge of the hay, the force of the impact is so strong I bounce right back on my feet. A few inches further and I would’ve died, I think.
I feel elated at the thought. I flail around the barn and feel like I can touch the ceiling. I burst out laughing for no reason and Irene joins me from behind. I barely have time to step aside before she lands.
“I’ll go first now,” she says, making her way to the ladder. Soon, she’s ready to jump again.
Water drips from the roof, wetting the hay and the packed dirt floor. The air gets damp and my nose prickles. The storm must have darkened the sky even more because it looks like nighttime in here.
Arturo was right.
A car stops a few feet from the barn, in the farmyard, and we halt as well. Irene is about to jump but she freezes. The Grownups are talking, I can hear Mom’s voice and Grandma’s. They’re bantering with someone, discussing what to do. A car door opens and closes.
“They’re packing,” she whispers.
“You think they’re done already?” I ask.
“Maybe.”
She leaps. It’s one of her best jumps but she doesn’t seem to care much. I climb the last rungs with resolve. Time is short and every second matters. I look down: the height scares me but I pretend it’s not there. It works, sometimes.
“Is it true that your grandpa’s always right?” I ask.
Irene is climbing up behind me, her breath short from excitement.
“Almost always,” she says.
I stand on the beam one last time. I spread my arms and balance my way to the middle of the barn, my gaze fixed before me. I’m a juggler walking on a rope outstretched into thin air from the Ghirlandina. A square full of people is watching from below, holding their breath.
“Grandma’s really sick, then,” I say.
I think maybe I should tell Mom when we get home.
I’m in the middle of Piazza Grande now. I close my eyes so I’ll jump from an infinite height this time.
Irene thinks about it. “Maybe not,” she says. “Maybe she told the truth and he just wasn’t home.”
She’s behind me, eager to jump one last time. I feel the beam shake at her every step.
“The man in the well?” I ask with eyes still closed.
“The ghost,” she says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
The horn of Dad’s Focus echoes through the barn just as I’m about to jump. I hear Agata and her daughter say goodbye and leave. I wonder if our parents are already looking for us. I glance at Irene and she smiles back. These are the last moments. Shortly, everything will be over and it’ll be our turn to leave the countryside. I’ll forget about Irene and she’ll forget about me, but we’ll meet again next year, as if it were tomorrow.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I say, surrendering my balance.
ABOUT THE CREATOR
Nicolò Monti, 25, is an Italian scriptwriter. He studied at Scuola Internazionale di Comics - Academy of Visual Arts in Reggio Emilia, Italy. He has published three short comic books with Spaghetti Comics: Cobras Fumantes, L’ultimo negozio di umanità, and After twenty years. His adaptation of “Cat in the Rain” by Ernest Hemingway was published by Open: Journal of Arts & Letters. @nick.monti98 on Instagram.