Limbo by Melania G. Mazzucco Page B

But if he’s understood anything about Vanessa, it’s that he can’t get to know her better without making Manuela like him. He flanks Manuela’s phlegmatic horse, and, to encourage her to open up, tells her he always dreamed of being a reporter: when he was little he’d imitate the TV newscaster, talking into a funnel in front of the window. His parents and grandparents were theater actors, and they didn’t understand where he got the idea. They made fun of him all the time. And they still do. “And you?”
    â€œLook, I don’t give interviews,” Manuela smiles. “Not even if I asked you to, to help me out?” Lapo lets slip. “If I pitch a story on female soldiers they’ll go for it, it’s always a big draw. I only have a temporary contract, I have to come up with something to get myself noticed. They’ve stationed me in the northern outskirts of Rome, it’s deathly boring there. No organized crime to speak of, only a bit of Camorra infiltration lately. Very few homicides, all robberies or immigrants, at most a strike at the power plant or the port at Civitavecchia, commuter protests, poachers’ vendettas—they chop up wild boar and hang the pieces on people’s gates—nothing interesting. There’s no news, I’ll never get any national coverage.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Manuela says sympathetically, “but I can’t help you. I would need authorization from the PIO, which I don’t have.” Lapo doesn’t know what the PIO is, but imagines it’s the office that handles public communication, so he gives up. He could never do a job where you’re not allowed to say what you think to whomever you like. He wouldn’t feel free. Manuela gives in to the repetitive rocking of her horse, careful merely to duck as they snake their way beneath low-hanging branches, noticing only the buzzing of insects, the call of magpies, the shuffle of hooves over rocks and puddles. Italy is surprisingly green, moist, inhabited. Birds—raptors, maybe—perch on the high-tension pylons and wires. The sight of oak, holly, and ash, of dark fields and clouds is so sweet it hurts her eyes.
    Vanessa’s bright voice blends with the crackle of crows, her words forming an intimate, familiar music, laced with memories. What a shame to have grown so far apart. And how peaceful the clatter of the horses’ hooves, how soft the earth, how warm the color of the rocks, how gentle the shape of the hills. “I wanted to be a ballerina, I drove everybody nuts, I wanted to be the next Alessandra Ferri. Mamma had to take me to the opera house in Rome, to see Swan Lake , Giselle , you know, those ballets where it’s all a flutter of tutus, and Manuela was bored to death. But I’m not pulling my hair out because I didn’t live my dream. You should never live your dreams, it’s actually a huge mistake.” Lapo suspects he’s too young to understand what she really means.
    They’ve come to a clearing. The high cliff is full of holes, like Swiss cheese. The tufa looks solid, but it’s actually soft and crumbly, you can carve it with a spoon. Stefano halts his horse, hops down, and helps Manuela dismount. He gets her crutches from the backpack behind her saddle and hands them to her awkwardly. “It’s worth having a look at the necropolises,” Lapo says, “even though the grave robbers have taken everything. There’s no money to fence in the tombs or protect them somehow. And then there’re so many of them around here, they don’t know what to do with them. But you can still see the frescoes above the doors.” Vanessa hops down boldly, deliberately falling into Lapo’s arms. “That’s not why I didn’t become a ballerina,” she clarifies. “I’m not like my sister, I’ve never liked things that require too much work.” “Well, so what