Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

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

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