Read Don't Move for Free Online Page B

wheel and raised my hands to my face so I could sniff them. I was looking for a trace of my brutality, Angela. But all I could detect was the odor of rust, perhaps from the fire escape. I spat on my hands. I spat on those creases: my life line, my head line, my heart line. Then I rubbed my palms together until they burned like fire.

3

    The beach house, built in the 1950s, was low and square and rather plain. Outside the kitchen window stood a tall palm tree, and next to the tree was a pergola, where a jasmine vine clambered, diffusing its overpowering perfume. The rest of the yard was bare, enclosed by a fence of little iron spears corroded by salt. The gate, which opened directly onto the beach, screeched on its hinges at every gust of wind, emitting a sound identical to the cries of the frightened seagulls. The house faced a strip of comparatively unfrequented shoreline. The bathing establishments were located farther down the coast, beyond the mouth of the river, beyond the fishing boats riding at anchor, their trawls hanging idly in the air like famished mouths.
    Your mother was the one who picked out that place, that summerhouse. She said it made her think of a tent in the desert, especially at sunset, when the glare coming off the sea seemed to move the walls. There was also a cat that influenced her decision. He was drowsy and docile, and he let Elsa pick him up, then stayed with her all the while the girl from the real estate agency was opening the shutters and getting rid of the musty odor that accumulates in houses when they’re closed up all winter long. She showed us the house on a weekday near the end of March. Your mother was wearing a coat of Casentino wool, as violently orange as the sun we’d enjoy there later that summer. On the way back, we stopped to eat at a restaurant that was too big for just the two of us. Its windows overlooked the rocky seashore, but sea salt had made them opaque. It was cold, and we both got drunk, though we didn’t drink very much: one carafe of wine, followed by one
amaro
apiece. Elsa and I left the restaurant embracing each other, staggering a little, and carrying a souvenir plate. We hid in a nearby pine grove and made love. Afterward, I laid my head on her belly. We stayed like that, on the lookout for the future that we expected. Then your mother got up and walked around, gathering a few shriveled pine nuts. I stayed where I was so I could watch her. I think that was the happiest day of our life together, but naturally we didn’t realize it.
    Almost ten years had gone by since that day in March, and I drove past the pine grove without turning around. The road under my wheels was getting covered with sand. I parked the car on the side of the house, under the thatch. I had to duck so I wouldn’t run into the clothesline, where Elsa’s beach towel and swimsuit were hanging. It was a plum-colored one-piece suit made from some elastic waffle-weave material; she’d roll the top down to her waist when she was sunbathing. The swimsuit was hanging there, inside out. As I passed, my shoulder grazed the white lining of the crotch, the piece of Lycra that snuggled up between my wife’s legs.
    I walked around the house and went in through the living room, which featured a big sky blue angled sofa. The sand on the soles of my shoes made a grating sound. I took them off—I didn’t want Elsa to hear me. I walked barefoot over the stone floor, which was always cool. I spread my toes and stretched my heels to get more of my feet on that cool surface as I stepped into the kitchen. The faucet hadn’t been turned off all the way and was dripping onto a dirty plate. There was a knife lying on the table, and next to it a piece of bread abandoned among crumbs. I picked up the bread and started to eat it.
    Your mother was upstairs, taking a nap. The bedroom door was half-open, and I gazed at her as she slept there in the dark: her naked legs; her silk undershirt with the thin shoulder