Once again I realized that it wasn’t fear or even envy, but a frozen wall that had dropped down to isolate me from everything familiar or possible.
I toyed with the box of matches, and watched them. Amidst the greenery, the foliage, they seemed like a pale vanishing point, more and more uncertain and transparent.
Now they’ll vanish and with them the tree, this place, this time, I thought.
It was eleven o’clock.
I closed the window again, folded my clothes after sniffing the mysterious stain on my sleeve to no avail, and rummaged through my suitcase again, all the while knowing I would not find toothpaste or a razor there. They would have consoled me, emerging unexpectedly from that tangle of stuff.
‘Ciccio. Come on over. The bottle too,’ I heard him call me. They were smoking, sitting shoulder to shoulder. From the way he reached out his right hand for the whisky, I quickly guessed that he was more rested and in control. Sara’s eyes were alight with a new passion.
‘Sit down. Why did you disappear? Or were you sleeping?’ she asked.
She had recovered her normal voice, slower, with barely concealed exhaustion.
‘Here I am, sir.’
I squatted in the grass; the sun as it rose higher had reduced the circle of shade around the tree.
He reached out a hand to touch me, feeling the epaulette on my military shirt.
‘The stars already,’ he remarked. ‘We’re clearing out, then. Excellent.’ I was distracted by Sara.
With a smile that was naive rather than convinced, she nodded to make me understand: the crisis was over, everything was all right now.
‘You’re the ones who count, not me. All smoke and no fire, that’s me,’ he said sadly but without hesitation.
‘That’s where you’re wrong. The best part of the fire is the smoke, its scent,’ Sara tried to tell him.
He was worrying the grass with his hand, pulling up blade after blade, his forehead bowed, his hair in stringy tufts, his lips pale.
‘You should have been a philosopher, not a doctor,’ he replied mildly.
Some gnats darted about in the air in erratic zigzags, never straying from their chosen space.
‘I don’t want to get you in any trouble. That much at least, for God’s sake,’ he went on softly.
‘But if Vincenzo, on the other hand—’ the girl ventured.
‘Forget Vincenzo,’ he cut in, his apparent impassivity overcome by some reserve of nervous energy. ‘A shot behind the eye doesn’t miss. Like in the mouth. Only in the mouth it shatters and for the others …’
I listened as I watched him, then her. For some reason they seemed very far away, and their words false and pointless. Nothing happened, ever: it’s only one of those dreams in which he performs, dragging everything with him.
‘Enough,’ Sara pleaded.
‘Enough,’ he agreed, his head snapping from side to side. ‘What should I ask you to do? Hang me? Throw me in the sea? So you two can be convicted? A cowardly bastard, but I won’t go that far. We have no choice. Take me back there. Case closed. And let’s stop arguing about it too. All these words, a useless waste of breath.’
‘No!’ Sara shot back.
‘No, so then what?’ He laughed drily, clenching his jaws. ‘A fine solution. If all it took were a no.’
‘I’m thirsty.’ Sara sighed.
She stood up and took a couple of trailing steps around the tree, stretching her arms, disturbing the hovering gnats, which nevertheless quickly resumed frantically flitting about in their air space.
‘A cigarette. Then we leave,’ he said.
He silenced me with a gesture before I could attempt to respond.
‘Wouldn’t it be better if I went to have a look first? What would it take me? Maybe by this time … But then, no, never mind. We should stay here,’ Sara started in again from behind the tree.
With a sudden impulse she went back to him, rested her temple against his shoulder, her eyes shut tight.
‘Ciccio, you have to explain these girls to me.’ He smiled weakly.
‘It can’t end like this. It can’t. There must be a God,’ Sara murmured.
‘You hear how their mind works, Ciccio?’ he said. Despite the humiliation of his crumpled shirt, the loosened collar and tie, there was something about his shoulders, the way he held his head, that still helped him go on.
‘Don’t talk about me as if I were like everyone else. As if I were those others. Please,’ Sara protested without moving. She went on leaning her temple against that shoulder, like the muzzle of a pathetic dog hoping to be petted.
His ravaged face lost its composure under those assaults, barely holding it together.
‘You’ve done way too much. You gave me time. I can never thank you enough. But that’s enough now.’ He tried again to soothe her.
‘I didn’t do anything. Ever.’ Sara sighed. ‘If only you had let me, then I would have.’
‘Do you see anything special in yours truly, Ciccio? Something useful, I mean,’ he went on.
‘Everything about you is special,’ I took pains to say.
He laughed nervously.
‘Fool. Better yet: aspiring fool. And this bubblehead who instead of thinking about boys, thinks about me.’
‘I would have found hundreds of them attractive, if you hadn’t appeared,’ Sara objected harshly, pulling away.
I searched for something to say to stop that kind of talk.
‘Don’t you want me to call Turin? Or your cousin in Rome?’ I managed.
He feigned a shudder of revulsion. Wearily he replied, ‘Your shift is over.’
‘Please,’ Sara began murmuring in that dogged monotone. ‘A minute ago … Things were different. You too were different. You were asleep. I felt so happy. The first time in my life. It’s not my imagination. Then you wake up and everything changes again. Who on earth can keep up with you? It can’t end like this, it’s not possible. Before—’
‘There never was any before. Never. Get those foolish notions out of your head,’ he snapped.
The creases on his forehead had become a deep mesh.
‘What kind of a man are you! You don’t even ask for help, don’t even say you’re sorry …’ Sara cried.
I was already on my feet, ready to leave, when a brusque order was promptly fired up at me.
‘Get her out of here. Take her into the house. Leave me in peace for a couple of minutes.’
Sara ran, then turned around to study him; uncertain, she went to take shelter against the wall.
I no longer had the faintest idea but I clearly felt the prick of satisfaction their argument had produced. In three hours we were back to being separate and apart like before, raking up anxieties and concerns.
I saw him take a long swig from the bottle and finally feel the trunk of the tree, the grass around him, that head of his like a nervous pendulum.
I climbed up into the trees, the parched ground crunching. When I reached the top of that bastion I saw other houses scattered about, modest roofs and terraces, gardens too, and in the distance a bumpy stretch of patched asphalt, shining in the sun. A truck passed by on it, then the colourful sweaters of three cyclists appeared in a row. They struggled up the incline, their backs curved and spotted like beetles.
Almost noon by my watch. I went back to the meagre shade along the wall, sat down next to Sara; both of us were intent on the tree in front, the gestures manoeuvring the bottle.
‘Let them come. Let them all come. Bastards and swine. Let it be over,’ I heard her say.
She accepted a cigarette and we smoked in silence for several long minutes, the dusty tips of our shoes lined up in front of us; the heat seemed to send vague shimmers through the air, lightning-fast flashes of light.
‘Do you believe in love?’ she asked suddenly, turning away, a roughness in her throat.
I tensed. ‘I don’t know. You?’
‘In mine. Only in mine. In mine, I do. All the rest, the world and
this life, is nothing. You tell me what really exists. Name me one thing, one single thing that’s decent.’
‘Sara,’ I protested.
‘Let it all go to hell,’ she grumbled.
‘We’re sitting here talking about life, love, he’s there drinking, and meanwhile the lieutenant …’ But my own voice sounded false even though the image of Vincenzo swayed before me for a moment, light and airy, inflated like a colourful balloon figure.
‘Would you stop talking about the lieutenant! Who is he to you? Your brother? You didn’t even know him the day before yesterday,’ she retorted hoarsely. ‘All about whether one or two shots were fired. That’s all you’re interested in.’
‘That’s not true. You’re the one who lacks sympathy. For you he’s the only one who counts, no matter what he does or doesn’t do …’
‘Exactly. That’s how it is.’
‘Let’s hope he doesn’t get drunk again. Great idea, the bottle.’ I pointed to the tree.
‘He’ll get drunk. What else can he do?’ she replied slowly. ‘Or maybe not even. That small amount of whisky can’t be enough.’
‘Do you really think he wanted to die?’
‘Before. Not now. Not any more,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Now he’s actually a different person. Still the same, yet different. So many flies here. And I’m so thirsty. Has the water come back maybe?’
Beyond the trees, a dog barked in the distance.
‘Who knows what the newspapers are saying. Have you thought about that?’
‘That’s just what I want to think about, the newspapers, of course.’ She scoffed at me, disheartened.
‘And yet it’s not every day that a blind man—’
‘Don’t say blind. Don’t call him disabled. Don’t ever let me hear you.’ She recovered the spirit to stop me.
‘You close your eyes and hope that things will change. That’s what you do. Nice trick.’
She denied it, shaking her head.
‘You’ll never understand. Not if you live to be a hundred. Not even if they drilled it into your head,’ she replied quietly. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.’
The tips of her shoes kept playfully moving apart and back together again. She stubbed out her cigarette in the dirt, twisting her fingers.
‘Then too even if you understood, all of you, a lot I care,’ she added. Understanding – from you, from all of you – is just the treasure I need, what one dreams of at night.’
‘Okay. I won’t understand. You’ll understand everything. Only you two will know it all. You and that other one. But now drop it. We’d better go back. What are we doing here? What are you still hoping for?’ I said impatiently.
‘Hope, despair, what’s it to you?’ she retorted bitterly. ‘Do you think there’s something you can teach me? There’s nothing I can learn from you, not a thing, ever.’
‘Good for you.’ I turned to laugh at her. ‘Now I’ve made up my mind, so long and amen. I should have done it sooner. And you two who are so clever: fend for yourselves.’
She had no strength left to react. The anger that barely rose to her face vanished in a slight grimace. The tips of her shoes nervously sped up the pace of their tapping.
‘All the better. Right. Whether you stay or go, does anything change?’ she replied in a faint voice. ‘If you at least manage to get away, then go. I won’t think badly of you, I swear.’
‘Sara, but why …’ A groan escaped me.
She lowered her eyes, biting her lips not to cry.
I took her hand; I felt those cold, stiff fingers of hers between my own.
She allowed it in silence.
I moved my hand to caress her, my fingertips lightly grazing her cheek, the top of her neck. Her skin was smooth and barely warm. She moved away slowly, stopping me.
‘I can run down for something cool. An orange drink – want me to? I’ll gladly go.’
She shrugged.
‘I may certainly not be a great beauty. Definitely not,’ she murmured. ‘But I’m young. Someone might find me appealing. What did I ever ask of him? To marry me? No. Not at all. To be together, that’s all. Marriage and children and respectability and all those other syrupy things, I never thought about them, not me.’
My hands felt awkward, I stuck them in my pocket, slumped against the wall.
‘How can a man say no, always no?’ she added.
‘He’s not a man. He’s not like the others,’ I replied, resigned.
‘With just one word, he could have me. Just one.’
She said it without embarrassment, her chin lowered.
‘What do you think? My fault because I don’t know what’s what? You heard him: “bubblehead”, that’s what he thinks of me. Is he right? I don’t know what to think any more. My head is pounding …’
‘He’s afraid,’ was all I could say. ‘Maybe he’s even thought about it, but he’s ashamed and is afraid of taking advantage. And now, at this point, he’s zero. Zero plus zero, after everything that’s happened, and he knows it.’
‘Every other word for you is “now”. Always this “now” that comes out of your mouth,’ she said slowly, her arms wrapped around her knees, her pale face as transparent as fine muslin. ‘Instead, nothing can change for me, for him. Not even if the wrath of God were to descend. Nothing will change. I say “never”. Not your “now”.’
I tried to change the subject: ‘We should take the bottle away from him. Just look at him.’
‘I’m looking, I’m looking; what is there to see?’ She continued in the same half-hearted murmur. ‘Let him do what he wants. Drink, shout. Anything, as long as he feels alive.’
‘You’re not being rational any more. You don’t want to think rationally.’
‘Does being rational do any good?’ She laughed. ‘Tell me: does one survive by being rational? Take a look around.’
‘You should look around. You’re not being fair.’
She agreed sadly. ‘I’m not fair. Why should I be? What does your fairness have to do with me?’
‘Sara …’
‘Don’t beat yourself up.’
Neither of us had raised our voice. The words came out in a whisper and quickly subsided, anxious and concerned.
‘Sara, you can’t go on this way. You’re intelligent, and …’
‘I don’t want to hear about it. Not about fairness or intelligence or a thousand other things,’ she murmured.
I snapped: ‘Fine, then drop it. I’m going down. To make a call. To your house. You don’t believe me? Wait and see. It’s insane to stay here for hours having these conversations. You’re out of your head.’
She rolled her shoulders, threw her head back as if to let out some kind of laugh.
‘An obvious discovery. Good for you,’ she replied from the depths of the spell that held her, though with a certain irony, and a resignation that was undoubtedly not due to exhaustion, or awareness of danger, a resignation that was more intimate, that went further back. ‘It’s obvious that I’ve lost my mind. I had one, and it’s for him alone. You’re kind though, you’re also a man: what do you think? He can’t keep saying no to me until judgment day. Can he? He’ll have to understand, he’ll have to take pity. He’s bound to by his nature, as a human being. Answer me. Because if not, I have a hundred years of this agony waiting for me.’
14
In the fluid air which expanded and contracted before my eyes in braided streaks and filaments, a dark spot began to float, running and sliding as though on a slope until it took on a solid form: the face and hair of the soldier Miccichè.
He moved a few cautious inches behind the blinding outline of the car, parked in the sun among the weeds. He peered around, eagerly taking in the house and clearing, the pale spot that was him against the tree, me in the garden.
He winked to get my attention.
As I walked towards him he backed away, a thousand hand signals urging caution, silence.
I caught up with him
around the curve of the track; his gaze was veiled with suspicion.
‘And the girl?’ he whispered.
‘Sara? Inside. In the house. There’s almost no water. She’s trying to collect some.’
Dully I looked at that faded uniform of his, the shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows, the pockets sagging.
‘Have you been here all along? What a situation. And nothing to eat besides.’ He smiled. ‘But all in all you’re okay. All of you.’
He had big teeth blackened by smoking.
We faced each other in full sunlight, squinting in the brightness, his face tilted to one side and dry as a lizard. All my doubts were suddenly put to rest in the unexpected calm expressed by his presence.
‘A cigarette. Or are you out?’ he asked placidly, amused. I breathed again.
Now he’ll tell me all about it, he’ll explain the whole thing, everything will be restored to order, whatever that may be, let’s hope, if only we get out of this limbo. Instead he was slow to utter the first word.
He sat down at the edge of the path after examining the dusty grass very carefully, his still unlit cigarette in his mouth, a vague, shrewd smile.
‘Her mother—’ He made up his mind at last with a self-important smile. ‘… the screams. The despair. A mother, you know. Try and imagine.’
Slowly, in detail and with a few studied pauses, he got on with the story.
Sara’s mother herself had thought of the house while Ines, Michelina, Candida, in a frenzy, speculated about trains, the highway, even a ship. Candida had actually been slapped for too much talking and agitation. Urged by the woman, Miccichè had then taken off on his motor scooter, wasting time among tracks that were all the same. The lieutenant wasn’t dead, not at all; the bullet must have been deflected by a bone. He was in the hospital now, he’d had two transfusions already and was not in any further danger.
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