Ho freddo, ho molto freddo
The commotion in the train on the Trieste — Mestre line lasted half an hour. First the conductor came down the corridor, then immediately scuttled back, then a pair of carabinieri turned up, and then the conductor flew past again, returning from the dining car with a girl holding a glass of water. In Monfalcone a plump bald man with a doctor’s bag got on and was followed down the corridor by the taller of the two carabinieri, and then all was quiet. When the train pulled into Mestre an ambulance was waiting on the platform. Two paramedics entered the nonsmoking car in second class and remained there until the train was empty. Then they went back to fetch a stretcher. On the stretcher lay a black plastic bag. They exited the train ten minutes later. The bag on the stretcher was no longer empty.
At that moment a full three hours had passed since Barbara Veronesse, a retired piano teacher from the music school in Sarajevo; her seven-year-old granddaughter, Azra; and Gianni, Aldo, and Marco, senior-high students from Trieste heading to Venice for a Black Uhuru concert, had all entered the compartment. Nana Barbara sat next to the window, across from her sat Azra, look here, Nana said, this is where my grandma and grandpa were born, and Azra looked and saw nothing but grass and stone houses, look here, Nana pointed, your grandpa fought here, and Azra looked and saw nothing but grass and the odd pine tree. She watched Gianni, Aldo, and Marco out of the corner of her eye, shouting, laughing, and clapping in a completely incomprehensible language. Azra knew the whole world didn’t speak the same language, didn’t even speak English, but she had never imagined that laughter and clapping in a foreign language might sound so strange.
Nana sighed and closed her eyes. Azra watched a lock of hair fall on her forehead, the wheels of the train banging away, taram-taramtaram, the lock falling lower and lower, now just above the eyebrow, with the next taram-taramtaram it’ll be almost in her eye, no it won’t, it’ll take one more taram-taramtaram, there we go, it’s fallen. Nana’s asleep and doesn’t notice, the foreign boys holler away, what’s wrong with them, can’t they see Nana’s asleep? Azra closed her eyes, if they see she’s sleeping too maybe they’ll quiet down.
Barbara Veronesse had lived with her granddaughter in Poreč for two years. They had made it out of Sarajevo in the fall of 1992, a month after Azra’s father was killed. Her mother, Eva Veronesse-Teskeredžić, had been dead for exactly how long Azra had been alive. She died two days after giving birth, eaten up by a tumor that had grown inside her for nine months, maybe a little longer; the doctors had told her she must abort to save her own life, a childless one for sure but a life all the same; she didn’t want to, the doctor, Srećko, asked her whether she believed in God, and not waiting for her answer said even Christ would forgive you, don’t kill yourself, please, to which Eva looked at him sadly and said but doctor, I don’t believe in him and I know there is no God. Azra’s mother only saw her once in her life. She was given her first dose of morphine shortly after, and the next day she was already dead.
Nana Barbara had wanted to show Azra Venice, believing the child would remember her by the city for the rest of her life. In seven days she was to see Azra off on an airplane that would take her to Boston, where her uncle Mehmed, a computer scientist, lived, with whom Azra would live too, with him and his wife, Nevzeta, in a big house with a yard full of cats and dogs. The truth was that Nana had only heard about the one dog, but she had told Azra there were at least ten to make the leaving easier on the child, and so she wouldn’t cry because Barbara Veronesse couldn’t stand tears. Tears were all that remained of her own daughter and she wanted to avoid them, even if she had to make up all the cats and dogs in the world. With her granddaughter leaving, she would return to Sarajevo, and then what would be, would be; if we have to die, let us die where we belong, where we’ve lived our whole lives.
Aldo tapped the old woman on the shoulder, who opened her eyes to see Azra bent over the seat throwing up. My child, she searched her handbag for a tissue, the Italians had squashed into their corner, palely looking on, Azra was crying, the conductor came in and asked Grandma something, she replied, and Azra choked Grandma, don’t leave me, she squeezed her hand, I won’t, sweetheart, I’d never leave you, just relax, Azra threw up again, it’s nothing sweetheart, you just had a bad dream, the girl with the water came, trying to catch Azra’s eye and make her smile, yet the child didn’t see her, but Grandma, I don’t want cats and dogs, Barbara Veronesse struggled to breathe, the child threw up again, who knows where she’s getting it all from, the doctor came in mumbling something in a foreign language and pinched Azra’s cheek, Grandma, don’t let me go, Barbara Veronesse started to get dizzy, God, just not now, don’t kill me now, she closed her eyes, she just had to close her eyes a little, Azra cried, the doctor murmured, someone held Barbara’s hand, someone held both of Azra’s hands, Azra screamed and lost her voice, let’s go home, please Grandma, let’s go home to Bistrik, Barbara Veronesse remembered her piano, the brothers would open the monastery windows when she played, when Brother Ivan died she had played Eine kleine Nachtmusik the whole night through. Don’t cease God’s work, a young seminarian had told her, and she had played until five in the morning when Brother Ivan’s soul expired; she felt someone trying to take her pulse, she couldn’t hear Azra anymore, the child must have stopped crying, must have calmed down, a silence grew from all sides, as big as Trebević and as wide as Sarajevo, she tried to open her eyes but couldn’t, Barbara Veronesse’s eyelids were as heavy as the big red curtains at the National Theater and didn’t want to rise. Mi aiuti, per favore, his voice was shaking, she felt someone grab her feet, someone grab her shoulders, she was lying down, signora, signora, somebody had undone the buttons on her blouse, someone was slapping her face, someone’s hands were pressing violently on Barbara’s chest, they must have taken the child out of the compartment, signora, signora, there was a humming in her ears, she remembered the Bistrik stream and how it flowed when she was a little girl, she could tell apart every stone at its bottom, the hands pressed her chest in the same rhythm as the Bistrik’s flow, and with each press the stones would jump from the bottom, just look how light they are, like they aren’t stones at all but full of air, before sinking again, the water so deep you could drown in there in the fall, who had drowned? Barbara Veronesse was afraid, she was so terribly afraid that she opened her eyes and saw a big sweaty forehead with glasses. Azra wasn’t beside the window anymore and the water was gone. That calmed her, it calmed her so much she no longer even needed to sigh. Signora, signora, come sta, come va, signora, the bald face shouted. Barbara opened her mouth, smiled, and said ho freddo, ho molto freddo and closed her eyes. The doctor took Marco’s coat and covered her with it. For some time he held the wrist of Barbara Veronesse, the retired piano teacher from Sarajevo, and then he slowly laid her hand on her chest and with his fingertips, as if he was scared of waking her, placed the coat over her face. His eyes were full of tears. At that moment all the doctors in the world detested him, him, the doctor who cried.