I fled. I went rushing off to Brescia, but I found the noise of the city intolerable. I returned to Garbe, where, after telling myself again and again that time heals all wounds, including the torments of passion and abandonment, I found a few moments’ peace. Nevertheless, I did not get much sleep, afflicted as I was by terrible nightmares and feverish anxieties. I ate very little. I walked a great deal, hoping to tire myself out.
So, as I was telling you, doctor, on 24th October last, I was crossing the Ponte dei Re at Garbe, at nightfall. A man with his elbows resting on the parapet, holding his chin in his hands, was staring very intently at the water. Strands of a very white beard showed through his fingers. It was hard to see his face, which was half hidden by a hat pulled down over his brow. He was not exactly dressed as a peasant, nor as a worker. He wore a cloak and wide-legged trousers of a light greyish colour. I went past the old man. He did not stir. He continued to stare into the furiously swirling waters by the bridge pier, where the river is forced to pass through two arches. I too looked down, thinking there was something strange to see; I detected nothing out of the ordinary, but I liked the way the water surged, which I had never noticed before.
There was a tremendous battle between the onrushing river and the huge stones that tried to bar its way. And what efforts the river has to make, what cunning it must adopt, and how it has to toil to win its way forward, as these waters are pursued by the waters behind, and those chased on by yet more distant waters, all the way back to the rivulets that spring up amid the clouds.
The sight of the inexorable conflict between movement and immobility, eternally perpetuated each moment, is vaguely disheartening, and at the same time such blind impetuosity and such stubborn resistance makes one smile. There are moments when opposing forces of nature are like ill-brought up children, one of whom shouts ‘I will’, and the other stamps its foot and cries, ‘You won’t.’
And growing upon those rocks that stick up out of the riverbed amid those unquiet waters are young willow trees and poplar saplings, seeded by the wind in a handful of soil that has been deposited on those rocks one grain at a time by that very same wind. These weak and pliant plants are made to sing by the fury that surrounds them.
Nature, like life, is an endless series of bad jokes. If the rock does not raise its head very high, the water flows over it, and then falls in lively cascades, trying to reach the bottom: it is a clear and even, curved sheet of crystal, a limpid bell-jar, a transparent canopy, with a few opaque threads of Murano glass in it. And where it falls it shatters into a spray of tiny white pearls, of the kind that the women of Murano thread as they sit on their doorsteps on summer evenings, gossiping about Tita and Nane.
The water is clever: it usually chooses the best route. But sometimes it finds itself trapped among the stones, and then, unable to wait, it bursts into spray and races on. And sometimes it goes chasing round this way and that in a labyrinth, and in order to escape it has to retreat. One final thing that occurs is that it strays into an area where fate has placed an insurmountable stone obstacle, and then it stops, cowed, loses its sense of direction, acknowledges defeat and from turbulence turns to calm.
And beneath the water, which mirrors the colours of the sky in iridescent reflections, or turns into silver foam, there are the bold and varied colours of the rocks – yellow, red, white, moss and lichen-green.
The great battle is concentrated round the bridge pier. Water strives against water, in conflict with itself, crashing, smashing, massing and gathering, maddened with bellicose fury, producing foam instead of blood, and splashing spray up on to the bridge’s parapet with a roar so mighty as to make a hero tremble.
The old man still stared down impassively.
I continued slowly on my way to Nozza, without concerning myself about him. The cloudy, storm-threatening sky was beginning to darken, and a cold wind blew down from the mountains. I decided not to go any further and turned back. The old man was still there, on the Ponte dei Re, in the same place, in the same position as before. He was still staring at the foot of the pier. The whole business seemed strange to me. I went up to the old man and said, ‘Forgive me, my good fellow.’
He did not stir.
I went on. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you, but the sky is black, there’s a storm brewing, and it’s almost dark. If you live some distance from here you should be on your way.’
The old man straightened up very slowly, looked into my face as though in a trance, and without a word returned to leaning on the parapet, gazing into the river.
I pressed him. ‘Do you need anything?’
‘No,’ he answered without turning round.
I said goodnight and set off towards Garbe. I went a hundred yards and looked back. I don’t know whether it was out of curiosity or compassion: I thought I had seen in that old man’s face a profound sorrow, a fearful melancholy. With his sunken eyes, pallid complexion and dark lips, he had roused in me both pity and terror. I found myself at his side, driven by an almost involuntary force, and I said to him, brokenly, waiting for a reply that did not come, ‘Forgive me again. Tell me if I can do anything for you. Are you not feeling very well? Let me offer you a room in Garbe for tonight. I take it you’re a stranger here. I, too, have happened to find myself away from home with no money: perhaps you are in need of some?’
Whereupon the old man gravely turned round, trying to work his lips into a smile. ‘No, thank you. I’m not in any need,’ he replied. Then he dug his hand into his pocket and drew out a closed fist; then holding it over the parapet, he opened his hand. Some twenty little banknotes were caught by the wind and blown down into the river, scattered here and there.
As I was about to reprove him angrily, he stammered in a faint voice, ‘I’m thirsty.’
‘Go down and drink from the river!’ I exclaimed harshly.
The old man walked to the flight of steps that descended on one side at the end of the bridge. But having got there, he swayed unsteadily on his feet. I ran to help him, and gripping him under the arm led him down to the river. It was I who filled his hat with water, which he drank in little sips.
‘Don’t put your wet hat back on your head, you’ll catch a chill. Do you live far away?’
‘No.’
‘But you’re not from this village?’
‘No.’
‘Where are you staying? I’ll walk back with you.’
‘There’s no need. I’ve not far to go.’
‘I’ll come with you anyway.’
The old man looked me right in the eye and in a determined voice he said, ‘I don’t want you to.’
Then he added, less curtly, almost reluctantly, ‘I’m waiting for someone.’
‘A son, perhaps?’
‘I have no children.’
‘A relative?’
‘I have no relatives.’
‘A friend?’
‘I have no friends.’
‘Who then?’
He thought for a while, and replied, ‘Destiny.’
He leant on the parapet again, and went back to staring into the water below.
‘Forgive me for pressing you, but where are you from?’
‘From a place where a person may die of sorrow.’
‘And where are you going?’
‘To a place I don’t know.’
These mysterious answers awakened in my mind some foolish suspicion. I exclaimed effusively, ‘If you have to remain in hiding, if the law is after you, I swear I shan’t betray you.’
The old man drew himself up and replied in quite a different manner, ‘No, I have nothing to hide from other men.’ Then, murmuring to himself, he said, ‘My conscience is clear.’
‘Perhaps someone has tricked you, or done you harm? You’ve found many enemies in the world?’
‘Enemies? I have only one.’
These last words were uttered by the old man in such a hollow voice, with such a sinister look in his eye that my blood ran cold.
; ‘I’ll leave you then, and God bless you.’
‘God! God!’ I heard him say several times. And the old man’s sepulchral voice was drowned by the warring Chiese.
I did not mean to abandon the poor fellow. I reached Garbe in no time, with the intention of talking to the mayor, a good doctor with a heart of gold, and of taking two villagers with me to stand guard, perhaps all night, over the strange old man. I found the mayor beneath the portico of his house, an old house built by one of his ancestors, a French nobleman who had fled the St Bartholomew Massacre.
The mayor was in conversation with the town clerk and the keeper of the inn at Sabbio, both odd characters. The publican is round-faced, large, and fat, with a long, thick, Vandyke beard and a big black moustache, fearsome eyebrows, a thundering voice, and a wide-brimmed hat on his head – all that’s missing is the feather and he could pass for a Spaniard. Familiar with everybody, expansive, hail-fellow-well-met, he will place a protective arm on any man’s shoulders – be he lawyer, chemist, or local bigwig – and readily opens his big mouth to laugh coarsely while telling some smutty joke. He’s a kind of hidalgo, who grandly pours the wine from the jug into his guests’ glasses; who holds his hand on his hip, amazed to find no sword there; who consumed his small inheritance within a few months, in order to acquire a taste for looking like a wholesale trader; and who hopes to take himself off to a big city worthy of him, far from the smallness of life in the mountains, where he really feels out of place.
The other fellow, the town clerk, is as tall and thin as Garbe’s bell-tower. He dresses peasant-style, in a jacket and trousers made of that shiny, dark cinnamon-coloured material, but with the jacket thrown over his shoulders, revealing a shirt that doesn’t always look clean, with his arms and chest bare, and very much darker than his clothes. He has read Dante, writes like a very educated person, knows by heart all the numerous directives and countless prefectorial circulars sent to the Town Hall, which is a miraculous achievement. He quotes Latin verses and proverbs. He has no house; in winter he sleeps on the bare surface of the Town Council table, with a bust from the archives for a pillow and the green baize cloth for a cover. In the summer he sleeps beneath the little portico of that church of San Gottardo I mentioned earlier, resting his head on the granite step, stretched out on the uneven flagstones, enjoying the cool breeze that blows constantly from the narrow neck of the valley. He lives on bread and onions, and polenta and cheese made of ewe’s milk, but he compensates himself with the odd glass of aquavit, and when he has drunk a little more than he needs, he tries to embrace everybody, including the mayor and even the carabinieri on duty.
These gentlemen, and three villagers I went and flushed out of the nearby tavern, set off for the bridge with me. We passed by the church of San Gottardo, the town clerk’s summer residence, but when we got there I could not restrain myself any more: I left the elderly mayor to continue at his own pace – he, poor fellow, was trying to speed up but still seemed to me too slow – and I ran on ahead. I went back and forth across the bridge. I rushed down the steps to the river. I peered here and there into the darkness of the night that had now fallen: there was not a soul to be seen. The others joined me, out of breath. I lost no time in giving them instructions: the mayor was to stay on the bridge, the hidalgo was to take the search half a kilometre along the road to Nozza; the clerk was to go back up the Chiese, following a path on the left. The three villagers were to climb the less steep of the mountain paths – as for the more precipitous ones, it was out of the question that the old man could have attempted them. Rendezvous: on the bridge.
I had reserved for myself the charcoal-burners’ huts on the far side of the river. In fifteen minutes I had climbed up to the first cottage. Everyone was asleep. I knocked loudly: no one answered. I hammered again so hard that the noise resounded in the valley, and at last I heard voices and cursing. After a short while the little window opened and I saw a black face in which two little eyes gleamed like a cat’s.
‘Do you know anything about an old man with a long white beard who’s far from well, and dressed in light-coloured clothes, a stranger who was wandering about by the Ponte dei Re this evening?’
‘Go to hell.’
‘Please, ask your companions about it.’
‘Go to hell, both you and the old man.’ And he closed the window.
A quarter of an hour later I had already retraced my steps and climbed up to another hut in the other direction. When I banged my stick on the little wooden door it echoed four or five times among the mountaintops.
‘Who is it?’
‘A friend.’
‘Name?’
‘A friend.’
‘I’m not opening the door.’
‘Come to the window.’
‘I’m not moving.’
‘Have you seen an old man?’
‘I’ve not seen anybody.’
‘A sick old man with a long white beard, in light-coloured clothing.’
‘I haven’t seen anybody.’
‘He was on the Ponte dei Re this evening, and walking on the paths nearby.’
‘I’ve not seen anybody, I tell you.’ And there was a sound of snoring again.
Three-quarters of an hour later we were all on the bridge. We had found nothing and learned nothing. Not even the two carabinieri from Vestone that the hidalgo had met on the road and brought back with him, were able to help in any way. The mayor then decided that we should all go and get some sleep. It was indeed the only sensible thing to do.
My dear doctor, I’ve told you what a treasure this mayor of ours is. He has his very own way of treating diphtheria, thanks to which he really does save all the children in the community. He talks about his remedies with youthful enthusiasm: they never fail. An inflammation requires blood-letting, indeed every ailment poisons the blood and drawing off the bad blood allows healthy blood to develop. Now he lives a fairly trouble-free existence, looking after his two fields. But for thirty years he was the local doctor, and when he recalls the long, badly paid hours he used to work, the intense heat, the snow, the freezing cold, and the storms in the mountains, he does so with such fondness he almost seems to regret it all. He’s always ready to to talk with affectionate sympathy about his patients, and if he can say that he saved them from death, two tears of joy roll down his cheeks. He has a grey beard, and slightly grizzled hair, very white teeth, blue eyes and the brow of a virtuous and intelligent man. He takes snuff, and offers it to others. Every year he says he doesn’t want to be mayor any more; then he makes the same mistake again. He can’t say no. Good or bad, everybody respects and loves him.
I’ve never heard him say a bitter, or sharp, or harsh word about anyone, were he the most wicked villain. There’s not the least trace of animosity in that soul of his, even towards homeopathy, which says it all. He talks with great naturalness about the humble circumstances of his life, when as a student at Padua University, with only one zwanger a day to his name, he would have old rice served to him at the inn because it cost a few cents less, and bones of beef stripped of flesh, and the ends of salames. He never drank wine. One day, having seen a conjurer performing in the Piazza dei Signori, he made friends with him, and dined with him several times, until he had learned the secret of his magic, thinking that, if medicine failed him, this other art might come to his rescue. He told an endless series of stories, some to make you happy, others that were terrifying.
Now at last I must come to the heart of my story. You will have noticed my reluctance to do so. In fact I realize that with all this scribbling down on paper I’ve been behaving like a person with toothache who goes to have it pulled out. He goes rushing off, almost running, but as he gradually approaches the dentist’s surgery he begins to drag his feet, and when he gets to the door he stops, perplexed, asking himself, ‘Is my tooth hurting now or not?’
And then he turns round and retraces his steps for quite some way. And every little thing serves as an excuse for delay – a notice o
n a street corner, a barking dog. Then, ashamed of himself, he marches up to the door, feeling determined, and with his hand already poised to ring the bell, again he asks himself, ‘Should I have it pulled out or not?’
Well, to continue then. That evening, having given the three villagers money to buy a few jugfuls, and having said goodbye to the mayor, who was going home, and to the clerk, who was going to wish the liquor distiller a goodnight, and the hidalgo, who was returning to Sabbio, singing to himself in his bass voice, I had no desire to sleep, or even to write, read, or talk. I felt a great weight bearing down on my head, and I needed to get some fresh air, to draw the biting wind deep into my lungs.
There had been an interminable discussion in the inn a few evenings back on whether the trout fishing between Vestone and Vobarno was better at nightfall or early in the morning, on a moonlit night or a dark night. One fisherman swore that he would land a huge catch in pitch darkness.
I took my fishing rod and a small lamp, and went and positioned myself on the far side of the Chiese, where some enormous rocks form a kind a dam. Every now and again, thinking there was something biting, I would bring the line up: nothing. Feeling bored, I sat down on a stone and looked round. It was impossible to see anything at all. The sky was black, and so was the ground: there was not a single star, or light. Garbe, which lay hidden behind a clump of trees, was sleeping at that hour. Up on the mountainridge, just where Proviligio must have been, appeared a glimmer of light, perhaps a candle at someone’s deathbed. It was as dark as a tomb, but a tomb full of noise. The Chiese battering against the rocks made a deafening roar that encompassed every pitch, every timbre of sound, to which the wind added the shrillest of notes. Little by little, as my eyes eventually adapted to the darkness, I was able to make out a few things: the big ugly toads jumping sideways close by me, the white foam and the dark green of the water.
I had picked up my rod to try my luck again, when I saw a large, light-coloured mass come hurtling downstream until it was stopped by the dam. I did not know what it was, and yet a shudder ran through me from head to foot. I picked up my lamp, which I had left on the path, but as I approached that grey object with the lamp, the water that had been seething round it, lifted it up and carried it twenty yards further downstream, where it slammed against a big stone sticking up out of the river. Straining to see sharpened my vision. Aided by the pale glimmer of the lamp, I tried to ford that small stretch of water, using the rocks as stepping stones. I did not succeed. I stood there, motionless, staring.
Senso (And Other Stories) Page 17