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Catherine McNamara
year, added his wife aghast, a
businessman’s son from Turin.
He sat down on his chair where
the child had last night crawled
into his lap, such a miniscule,
lightly-haired being.
They said her sled was not to
be found and the
carabinieri
were already halting cars and
checking the village. Alpine
rescuers had been called
in. They would soon arrive
from their station in the next
valley. Children were usually
found in the first few hours,
said his daughter heaving, as
though the chatter helped.
The hotel manager had sent
them upstairs and told them
to wait for news.
‘If she hasn’t been kidnapped
– ’ repeated his wife in an
outburst. ‘There is always
that chance.’
‘Mother, don’t be stupid! Why
on earth?’
He rolled his hands around
his head. He looked at his
notebook and pen on the desk,
his text still innocent of these
instants. He watched a skier
drift down the run. The view
of the mountain above was
severed by the window frame.
A group of men dressed in red
and black were in a circle on
the snow now, with a dog on a
lead. The dog looked playful,
the men firm. He saw his son-
in-law among them wearing a
quilted jacket. They all looked
over to where the sun was
dropping behind the ridge,
diminishing all aspects of
detail and light.
His wife and daughter joined
him at the window.
For a moment he forgot why
they were standing here in
such silence: there were fewer
children playing, and Luna
was not among them. Where