What We Don't Know About Children

Chapter One It is six o'clock in the afternoon and the light is exactly the light of six o'clock in the afternoon at the end of summer--hot and yellow, a veil of red where the field meets the sky. There is only one car in the parking lot in front of the apartment building, a blue Ford covered with dust and dirt. The sun hits the glass of the rearview mirror and slices back, a blade, onto the blond bob of the little girl standing in the middle of the courtyard. She faces the field of tall corn. She wears a short, light-blue dress with a frayed hem and enormous pockets. Her legs are parted slightly, her feet planted firmly in a pair of red combat boots with blue laces. Her hands are in her pockets and she is singing. She sings one of those songs that children sing occasionally. Songs that when you hear them remind you of something, you don't know what exactly--maybe of when you used to sing them yourself. She sings in tune and her voice is pretty. She sings as if she is singing to someone, with precision and patience, neither speeding up nor slowing down. It's the way children sing when they're sad. They sing carefully, as if it were an assignment, a mantra that if you repeat and repeat and repeat it, perfectly and clearly, all the bad and ugly thoughts will go away. The building is orange. It's the kind of building found on the edge of every Italian town. It has a big parking lot and a courtyard in front; the stretch of cement is sectioned off by a green, tubular iron fence with two automatic gates that open to let cars through. The benches are green, too; the trash cans are yellow and round. Lampposts are positioned symmetrically around the yard and there is a big one in the center with three heads. Control panels open the gates at each end of the yard by the street, and their lights flash red. Yes, it's the kind of apartment block found on the edge of every town, exactly the same, except that in front of this one, the countryside continues right up to the foot of the building. It was constructed right on the edge of town, facing the fields. At night, when the lights are on, it's a strange sight. A throbbing box, alive and full of people, in the darkness of the plain. The little girl sings and keeps her eyes fixed on the far end of the field, the horizon, her gaze skirting the top of the corn, which is taller than she is. Her hands deep in her pockets. Her blond hair lit by the sun. No one will come today. No one comes anymore. The other children haven't been to the yard or parking lot for a week. They rush out the main door and take off in different directions. No one calls to her, no one waves either. They don't even wave to each other. Eyes lowered, they head directly over to their bicycles and scooters parked in or beside the yellow bike rack at the opposite end of the courtyard. They unlock the padlocks in the silence of the early afternoon, pull the chains from out of the wheels, and climb onto the seats. Their enormous sneakers press urgently on the pedals. They leave without saying anything. Only the whirr of bicycle chains or the disappearing rumble of the scooter motors can be heard as they move away--tires scraping against the asphalt. The little kids stick around, but they don't come down until later in the afternoon, four o'clock, four thirty. They come with their mothers, grandmothers, or babysitters. They're still young. They play with dolls, toy cars, with pails and shovels, stirring up the gray sand in the sandbox. They scream and shout. The older kids hang out at the ice-cream stand around the bend, or else they go to the pool. No one stays here. It seems as if a lot of time has passed. When she thinks of those days, Martina thinks: When I was little. But it was only two months ago, the beginning of summer. Now it's chilly at night. And no one is in the yard in front of the building. ThVinci, Simona is the author of 'What We Don't Know About Children' with ISBN 9780375404115 and ISBN 0375404112.