I don’t know how she does it, Ada Ida, how any of them do it, all those men and women who manage to be intimate with everybody, who find something to say to everybody, who get involved in other people’s affairs and let them get involved in theirs. I say: ‘I’m in a room on the fifth floor with the trams like owls at night. The toilet is green with mould, with moss and stalactites, and a winter fog like over a marsh. I think up to a point people’s characters depend on the toilets they have to shut themselves up in every day. You get home from the office and you find the toilet green with mould, marshy: so you smash a plate of peas in the passage and you shut yourself in your room and scream.’
I haven’t been very clear, this isn’t really how I had thought of it, Ada Ida certainly won’t understand, but before my thoughts can turn into spoken words they have to go through an empty space and they come out false.
‘I do more cleaning in the toilet than anywhere else in the house,’ she says, ‘every day I wash the floor; I polish everything. Every week I put a clean curtain on the window, white, with embroidery, and every year I have the walls repainted. I feel if I stopped cleaning the toilet one day it would be a bad sign, and I’d let myself go more and more till I was desperate. It’s a small dark toilet, but I keep it like a church. I wonder what kind of toilet the managing director of Fiat has. Come on, walk with me a bit, till the tram.’
The great thing about Ada Ida is that she accepts everything you say, nothing surprises her, any subject you bring up, she’ll go on with it, as if it had been her idea in the first place. And she wants me to walk with her as far as the tram.
‘Okay, I’ll come,’ I tell her. ‘So, the managing director of Fiat had them build him a toilet that was a big lounge with columns and drapes and carpets, aquariums in the walls. And big mirrors all round reflecting his body a thousand times. And the john had arms and a back to lean on and it was high as a throne; it even had a canopy over it. And the chain for flushing played a really delightful carillon. But the managing director of Fiat couldn’t move his bowels. He felt intimidated by all those carpets and aquariums. The mirrors reflected his body a thousand times while he sat on that john, high as a throne. And the managing director of Fiat felt nostalgic for the toilet in his childhood home, with sawdust on the floor and sheets of newspaper skewered on a nail. And so he died: intestinal infection after months without moving his bowels.’
‘So he died,’ Ada Ida agrees. ‘Just so, he died. Do you know any other stories like that? Here comes my tram. Get on with me and tell me another.’
‘In the tram and then where?’
‘In the tram. Do you mind?’
We get on the tram. ‘I can’t tell you any stories.’ I say, ‘because I’ve got this gap. There’s an empty chasm between me and everybody else. I wave my arms about inside it but I can’t get hold of anything, I shout into it but no one hears: it’s total emptiness.’
‘In those situations I sing,’ says Ada Ida, ‘I sing in my mind. When I’m speaking to someone and I get to a point where I realize I can’t go on, as if I’d got to the edge of a river, my thoughts running away to hide, I start singing in my mind the last words spoken or said, and putting them to a tune, any old tune. And the other words that come into my mind, I mean following the same tune, are the words of my thoughts. So I say them.’
‘Try it.’
‘So I say them. Like the time someone bothered me in the street thinking I was one of them.’
‘But you aren’t singing.’
‘I’m singing in my mind, then I translate. Otherwise you wouldn’t understand. I did the same that time with that man. I ended up telling him that I hadn’t had any candies for three years. He bought me a bag. Then I really didn’t know what to say to him. I mumbled something and ran off with the bag of candy.’
‘I’ll never manage to say anything, speaking,’ I say, ‘that’s why I write.’
‘Do what the beggars do,’ Ada Ida says, pointing to one, at a tram-stop.
Turin is as full of beggars as a holy city in India. Even beggars have their special ways, when asking for money: one tries something and all the others copy. For a while now lots of the beggars have taken to writing their life stories in huge letters on the pavement, with pieces of coloured chalk: it’s a good way of getting people interested enough to read and then they feel obliged to part with some change.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘maybe I should write my story in chalk on the pavement and sit down beside to hear what people would say. At least we’d look each other in the eyes a bit. But maybe no one would notice and they’d walk all over it and rub it out.’
‘What would you write, on the pavement, if you were a beggar?’ Ada Ida asks.
‘I’d write, all in block capitals: I’m one of those who write because they can’t handle speaking; sorry about this, folks. Once a paper published something I’d written. It’s a paper that comes out early in the morning; the people who buy it are mainly workers on their way to the factory. That morning I was on the trams early and I saw people reading the things I had written, and I watched their faces, trying to understand what line they were up to. Everything you write there’s always something you’re sorry you put in, either because you’re afraid of being misunderstood, or out of shame. And on the trams that morning I kept watching people’s faces till they got to that bit, and then I wanted to say: “Look, maybe I didn’t explain that very well, this is what I meant,” but I still sat there without saying anything and blushed.’
Meanwhile we’ve got off the tram and Ada Ida is waiting for another tram to come. I don’t know which tram I should get now and I wait with her.
‘I’d write this,’ says Ada Ida, ‘in blue and yellow chalk: Ladies and Gentlemen, there are people whose greatest pleasure is to have others urinate on them. D’Annunzio was one such, they say. I believe it. You should remember that every day, and remember that we are all the same race, and not act so superior. And what about this: my aunt gave birth to a son with the body of a cat. You should remember that things like that happen, never forget it. And that in Turin there are people who sleep on the pavements, over warm cellar gratings. I’ve seen them. You should think about all these things, every evening, instead of saying your prayers. And you should keep them in mind during the day. Then your heads won’t be so full of plans and hypocrisy. That’s what I’d write. Keep me company on this tram too, be sweet.’
I don’t know why but I went on taking trams with Ada Ida. The tram went a long way through the poor suburbs. The people on the tram were grey and wrinkly, as though all grimed with the same dust.
Ada Ida insists on passing remarks: ‘Look what a nervous tic that man has. And look how much powder that old woman’s put on.’
I found it all upsetting and I wanted her to stop. ‘So? So?’ I said. ‘Everything real is rational.’ But deep down I wasn’t convinced.
I’m real and rational too, I thought, not accepting, thinking up plans, meaning to change everything. But to change everything you have to start from there, from the man with the nervous tic, the old woman with the powder, and not from plans. And from Ada Ida too who’s still saying, ‘Keep me company just till there.’
‘It’s our stop,’ says Ada Ida, and we get off. ‘Keep me company just till there, do you mind?’
‘Everything real is rational, Ada Ida,’ I tell her. ‘Any more trams to catch?’
‘No, I live round that corner.’
We were at the end of town. Iron castles rose behind factory walls; the wind waved scraps of smoke at the lighting conductors of the smokestacks. And there was a river tucked in with grass: the Dora.
I remembered a windy night by the Dora, years ago, when I walked along biting a girl’s cheek. She had long, really fine hair and it kept getting between my teeth.
‘Once,’ I say, ‘I bit a girl’s cheek, here, in the wind. And I spat out hair. It’s a marvellous story.’
‘Here,’ Ada Ida says, ‘I’ve arrived.’
‘It’s
a marvellous story,’ I tell her, ‘but it takes a while to tell.’
‘I’ve arrived,’ says Ada Ida. ‘He must be home already.’
‘He who?’
‘I’m with this guy who works at RIV. He’s fishing mad. He’s filled the flat with fishing rods and artificial flies.’
‘Everything real is rational,’ I say. ‘It was a marvellous story. Tell me what trams I have to get to get back.’
‘The twenty-two, the seventeen, the sixteen,’ she says. ‘Every Sunday we go to the Sangone. The other day, a trout this big.’
‘Are you singing in your mind?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Just asking. Twenty-two, twenty-seven, thirteen.’
‘Twenty-two, seventeen, sixteen. He likes to fry the fish himself. There, I can smell it. It’s him frying.’
‘And the oil? Are your rations enough? Twenty-six, seventeen, sixteen.’
‘We do swaps with a friend. Twenty-two, seventeen.’
‘Twenty-two, seventeen, fourteen?’
‘No: eight, fifteen, forty-one.’
‘Right: I’m so forgetful. Everything is rational. Bye, Ada Ida.’
I get home after an hour in the wind, getting all the trams wrong and arguing by numbers with the drivers. I go in and there are peas and broken bits of plate in the passage, the fat secretary has locked herself in her room, she’s screaming.
The Lost Regiment
A regiment in a powerful army was supposed to be parading through the city streets. Since the crack of dawn the troops had been lined up in parade formation in the courtyard of the barracks.
The sun was already high in the sky and the shadows shortened at the feet of the scrawny saplings in the courtyard. Under their freshly polished helmets, soldiers and officials were dripping with sweat. High up on his white horse, the colonel gave a sign: the drums rolled, the whole band began to play and the barracks gate swung slowly on its hinges.
Beyond you could see the city now, under a blue sky crossed by soft clouds, the city with its chimneys shedding wisps of smoke, its balconies with their washing lines bristling with pegs, glints of sunshine reflected in dressing-table mirrors, flyscreen curtains catching the earrings of ladies with their shopping, an ice-cream cart complete with sunshade and glass box for cones, and, tugged at the end of a long string by a group of children, a kite with red paper rings for a tail which skims along the ground, then lifts in jerks and straightens against the soft clouds in the sky.
The regiment had begun to advance to the beat of the drums, with a great stamping of boots on the paving and rattling of artillery; but on seeing the city before them, so quiet and good-natured, minding its own business, the soldiers felt indiscreet somehow, intrusive, the parade suddenly seemed out of place, it struck a wrong note, people could really do without it.
One of the drummers, a certain Prè Gio Batta, pretended to proceed with the roll he’d begun but in fact only skimmed the skin of his drum. What came out was a subdued tippety-tap, but not just from him: it was general; because at exactly the same moment all the other drummers did what Prè did. Then the trumpets came out with no more than a sighed solfeggio, because nobody was putting any puff into it. Glancing about uneasily, soldiers and officials stopped with one leg in the air, then put it down very softly, and resumed their parade on tiptoe.
So without anybody having given an order, the long, very long column, proceeded on tiptoe with slow restrained movements, and a muffled, swishing shuffle. Walking beside those cannons, so incongruous here, the artillerymen were suddenly overtaken by a sense of shame: some tried to pretend indifference, walking along without ever looking at the guns, as if they were there by purest chance; others stuck as close to the guns as they could, as though to hide them, to save people from such a rude and disagreeable sight, or they put covers over them, capes, so that they wouldn’t be noticed, or at least wouldn’t attract attention; others again assumed an attitude of affectionate mockery towards the things, clapping their hands on the gun carriage, on the breech, pointing at them with half a smile on their lips: this to show that they had no intention of using them for lethal purposes, but just meant to give them an airing, like some grotesque gadgetry, huge and rare.
This confused feeling had even penetrated the mind of Colonel Clelio Leontuomini, who had instinctively lowered his head to his horse’s, while the horse, for his part, had begun to put in a pause between each step, moving with the caution of a cart horse. But it took only a moment’s reflection for colonel and horse to recover their martial gait. Having made a rapid assessment of the situation, Leontuomini gave a sharp order:
‘Parade step!’
The drums rolled, then began to beat a measured rhythm. The regiment quickly regained its composure and was now tramping forward with aggressive self-confidence.
‘There,’ the colonel said to himself, casting a quick glance over the ranks, ‘that’s a real regiment on the march.’
On the pavement a few passers-by stopped to line the road, and they looked on with the air of people who would like to be interested and maybe even take pleasure in the deployment of so much energy, but are troubled by a feeling they don’t really understand, a vague sense of alarm, and in any event have too many serious things on their minds to start thinking about sabres and cannons.
Sensing these eyes on them, troops and officials were again overtaken by that slight, inexplicable uneasiness. They went on marching with their rigid parade step, but they couldn’t rid themselves of the idea that they were doing these good citizens a wrong. In order not to be distracted by their presence, Infantryman Marangon Remigio kept his eyes down: when you march in columns your only concerns are keeping in line and keeping in step; the detachment can take care of everything else. But hundreds and hundreds of soldiers were doing what Infantryman Marangon was doing; in fact you could say that all of them, officials, ensigns, the colonel himself, were advancing without ever raising their eyes from the ground, faithfully following the column. Proceeding at parade step, their band at their head, the regiment was thus seen to veer to one side, leave the paved road, stray into a flowerbed in the park and push on determinedly trampling down buttercups and lilacs.
The gardeners were watering the grass and what did they see? A regiment advancing on them with eyes closed, stamping their heels on the tender grass. The poor men couldn’t think how to hold their hoses without directing them at the soldiers. They ended up pointing them vertically upwards, but the long jets fell back in unsuspected directions; one watered Colonel Clelio Leontuomini from head to toe as he too advanced bolt upright, his eyes closed.
Showered with water, the colonel jumped and let out a shout:
‘Flood! Flood! Mobilize for rescue!’ Then immediately he pulled himself together, regained command of the regiment and led them out of the gardens.
But he was a bit disappointed. That shout of, ‘Flood! Flood!’ had betrayed a secret and almost unconscious hope: that a natural disaster would suddenly occur, without killing anyone, but dangerous enough to call off the parade and give the regiment a chance to do all kinds of useful things for people: building bridges, organizing rescues. This alone would have soothed his conscience.
Having left the park, the regiment was now in a different part of town, not in the broad avenues where they were supposed to be parading, but in an area of narrow, quiet, winding lanes. The colonel decided he would cut through these streets to get to the square without wasting any more time.
An unusual excitement reigned in the area. Electricians were fixing the streetlamps with long portable ladders and lifting and lowering the telephone wires. Surveyors from the civil engineers were measuring the streets with ranging rods and spring-wind tape measures. The gasmen were using picks to open up big holes in the pavement. Schoolchildren were walking along in line. Bricklayers were tossing along bricks to each other, shouting: ‘Hey up, hey up!’ Cyclists went by with stepladders on their shoulders, whistling hard. And at every window a maid was st
anding on the sill washing the panes and wringing out wet cloths into big buckets.
Thus the regiment had to proceed with its parade down those winding streets, pushing their way through a tangle of telephone wires, tape measures, stepladders, holes in the road, and well-endowed schoolgirls, and at the same time catching bricks in flight – ‘Hey up! hey up!’ – and avoiding the wet cloths and buckets that excited maids dropped crashing down from the fourth floor.
Colonel Clelio Lcontuomini had to admit he was lost. He leaned down from his horse toward a passer-by and asked:
‘Excuse me, but do you know the shortest way to the main square?’
The passer-by, a small fellow with glasses, stood for a moment in thought:
‘It’s complicated; but if you let me show you the way I’ll take you through a courtyard into another street and you’ll save at least a quarter of an hour.’
‘Will the whole regiment be able to get through this courtyard?’ the colonel asked.
The man shot them a glance and made a hesitant gesture:
‘We-ell! We can try?’ and he led them through a big door.
Lined up behind the rusty railings of the balconies, all the families in the building leaned out to look at the regiment trying to get into their courtyard with their horses and artillery.
‘Where’s the door we go out through?’ the colonel asked the small fellow.
‘Door?’ the man asked. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t very clear. You have to climb to the top floor, from there you get through to the stairs in the next building and their door goes through to the other street.’
The colonel wanted to stay on his horse even up those narrow stairs, but after two landings he decided to leave the animal tied to the banister and proceed on foot. The cannons too, they decided, would have to be left in the courtyard where a cobbler promised he would keep an eye on them. The soldiers went up in single file and at every landing doors opened and children shouted:
‘Mummy! Come and look. The soldiers are going by! The regiment is on parade!’
Numbers in the Dark Page 5