by Adri
On the fourth or fifth day spent crouching in the cave with my head down and looking at the ground, I felt a delicate tender hand that stroked my head twice. I looked up and saw before me the girl I'd met on my first day in the cave. She was wearing the same hat with a white flower in it and blue-rimmed glasses.
"And what are you doing here?" I asked.
"I've come to see if your combover can bring luck not just to the others but also to you," she said quietly. "That's why I touched you twice—once to receive luck and then to give it to you."
"Thank you," I replied.
"Don't worry, sooner or later they'll all stop coming up here. I'll come back and see you again," whispered the girl, holding on to her hat in the wind that had suddenly blown up. "I like you . . . I can see you are a good person."
"Thank you, let's hope for the best," I said. I was still sitting on the tree trunk. She took my hand in hers and left.
The wind was blowing through the branches, swaying them and sweeping the leaves through the undergrowth. An agreeable smell of wet earth rose up, and the birds scurried for shelter, flying off with their tails fanned out wide.
"That's enough for today, Arduino, there's bad weather on its way," said Giuseppina as she entered the cave. "Many have gone back, they couldn't manage the climb. See you tomorrow, all being well."
"Alright, see you tomorrow, Giuseppina," I said.
Half an hour later it started to rain. At first there was a light pitter-patter on the leaves, and then, soon after, a heavy downpour began. There was no sign now of any sick and infirm in the woods. Alone once more. I couldn't manage without washing my hair, even though it was raining. I had to cleanse myself, to get rid of all those hands that had been on me, pulling down my hair. I took the shampoo, bucket, and towel and hurried down through the rain to the stream. I stripped off and washed myself from head to toe. Then I returned to the cave, covering myself as best I could with the towel. I smoothed my hair with the comb, lit a fire, and ate some sausages and pie that had been brought for me. So long as it rained there was no danger of any visits and Giuseppina would stay down in Cingoli. It was the first time I had seen the town in the rain: its lights twinkling in the grayness, the chime of a church bell or the sound of a car horn echoing in the mountains. These showers reminded me of when my father got ready to go out in the rain. They were grueling preparations. My mother would wipe down his Wellington boots, take his raincoat out of the wardrobe, put his large umbrella outside the front door, and would then invariably ask: "What do you say, Abele, do you want to take a hat?"
"No, no, better not," he would say, and meanwhile he would comb his hair (not only did he comb it to one side but he made it curl backward, and this took much longer), he smoothed it flat, put on some spray, some cream, a concoction of substances that in the end made his hair firm and shiny, resistant to wind and rain. Then he took off his slippers and put on his clean, spotless Wellingtons. My mother would help him on with the raincoat and then hand him the umbrella with the usual plea: "If you need anything, Abele, just call me."
"Don't worry," he'd say to reassure her.
By dawn it had stopped raining. The air was cooler, and inside my sleeping bag I felt cocooned like an animal. I remained half-asleep until early morning. I heard the birdsong, smelled the grass. When I opened my eyes to look outside, I saw a red roebuck in front of the cave with two twigs on its head, looking at me curiously, thrusting forward its gray muzzle and two enormous black eyes. We stared at each in silence for a moment. Motionless. Two strangers who were not expecting to meet and now scrutinized each other. I knew that the slightest movement on my part would frighten it off. Then I felt a mosquito or a fly buzzing around my ear and instinctively flapped my hand in the air. The deer ran off like lightning into the woods. I went after it for a few meters but immediately lost sight of it. It was no longer raining. The sky was littered with small clouds that floated on the horizon. A few stars were still faintly visible in the gaps between them. I had breakfast, relit the fire. Meanwhile the sun had begun to climb over the mountains until it appeared in full from behind a rocky outcrop. I remained there in the cave, doing nothing. I looked around. Then I heard voices. I felt restless. It had to be the sick and infirm who were coming to touch me to get some luck. I realized that escape was the only possible way of saving myself and bringing an end to it.
"Arduino, Arduino, it's us!"
I have to admit I find it difficult making friends, even with people I know. I get irritated by those smiles, friendly gestures, pats on the back. In short, I don't trust people; it's my Marche upbringing, there's nothing I can do about it.
"Arduino, Arduino, it's us!" someone kept shouting, so that her shrill voice echoed among the trees.
There was no doubt about it, Giuseppina was the only one who'd call out like that in the middle of the woods. She had become a nightmare. I had only a few seconds to decide. I've never been quick to react, but on this occasion I had no choice. So I put my comb and hair cream in my trouser pocket, hurriedly tied my shoes, and ran off into the woods, leaving all my things in the cave. I raced through the trees without stopping. It seemed that Giuseppina and her sick and infirm were close on my heels. Had they caught up with me, they'd have made me pay. There were stinging nettles, brambles, junipers, all kinds of bushes, and I rushed through them, grazing my arms and legs on the branches and on shrubs. I fell over several times but hurriedly picked myself up. After a while I reached a clearing. There was a chicken pen in the middle of it. The hens were clinging one to the other under a galvanized metal roof, perched on filthy rungs. I heard the sound of someone following me in the distance. I thought of hiding under the ladder where the hens were, but as soon as I approached they began darting off in every direction. Behind the chicken pen was a massive, broad, high oak. I rested for a moment against the trunk to catch my breath. I was tired of running at random, not knowing where I was going. The hens had settled down again. That chicken pen in the middle of the clearing seemed odd, but I had no time to ponder on the strangeness of the place. I went back into the woods and began climbing the mountainside once more, sprinting fast among the leaves and branches. Then, as if by magic, I came across two coiled snakes moving in unison, in a sort of sensual dance. It would have been wonderful to stay there watching them, but I had to reach the summit as quickly as possible if I wanted to shake off Giuseppina and her band of sick and infirm. No one would be able to catch me up there. And then, if they continued after me, I could still carry on beyond the mountain, toward Monte San Vicino, for example, or even further. I could hear a rumbling in the clouds. All of a sudden it began to rain again and that, for me, was a piece of luck.
12
The hunting knife
The wind blew on the mountaintop like a raging beast, and I could no longer hear whether Giuseppina or any of her band were still following me. It wasn't easy to tell. All the same, I carried on running. I had to get as far away as I could from the cave. But why were they forcing me to flee? And what would have happened if they caught me? Would they have locked me up in the town, in a cell, chained up forever? The ways of Providence are hard to predict. It was tiring work trampling up through the soft undergrowth. My whole body was sweating. I was out of breath. The wind and the rain had transformed my combover into a sort of ridiculous pigtail. I was ashamed of myself (a bald man with a pigtail looks so absurd that not even a whore would give him a second look). On the other side of the mountain, where I caught sight of the Sibillini mountains, the dense vegetation made the landscape seem impenetrable. I had never ventured as far as the other side. There were lots of brightly colored butterflies that let themselves be carried in the breeze. On the opposite slopes you could see large clumps of pine with tall trunks and no branches. I wandered for hours, hiding among the trees and the rocks. I had become quite skilled at walking in woodland. But it was likely to start raining again at any moment. So it was better not to go too far from the cave, not to go wandering off through
the mountains. I had to follow a method, establish a clear plan. I rested on a tree trunk to get my breath back (a birch tree, maybe?). All of a sudden I heard the sound of breaking twigs, of leaves swept away in the chase, and a light quaking of the earth underfoot. A wild boar was on the run, followed by a pack of dogs barking in pursuit. A little later there was the echo of gun shots. It was only when I was back at the top of the mountain, running as fast as I could out of fear, that I realized the poor beast was heading downhill to hide in the woody undergrowth, pursued by a hunter. The wind carried on blowing strongly. No shelter could protect me. I was ready to give myself up. I preferred to end up in Giuseppina's hands rather than in the clutches of a hunter. I therefore retraced my steps. I pulled up a few clumps of herbs and rubbed them between my hands to savor their aroma. I knew that by continuing on through the woodland I would reach the stream. It couldn't be too far—I could hear the sound of water. My shoes were caked in mud. When I reached the strip of grass beside the stream, I peered into the clear water that flowed among the smoothed rocks, forming eddies. A trout with flashing fins stayed motionless in the current. But as soon as I approached, it darted away with an imperceptibly quick flick of the tail, moving further away from my reflection, each time challenging the current head on. Many blue dragonflies skimmed over the surface of the water. I carried on down through the woods until I was close to the cave. I could hear voices a short distance away, including Giuseppina's. A group of sick and infirm were hanging about in front of my cave. I had to keep quiet so as not to be discovered.
"But why are these people obsessed about my combover?" I asked myself. I had already helped out quite a few of them. (I'd gotten rid of Giuseppina's migraines, her husband's slipped disc, the kidney stones of the boy with the crooked eye, someone else's depression . . .) "Enough!" I said.
I had to be patient. It would soon be getting dark, and everyone would have to go back. I tried to get as close as I could. They were rummaging through my things, I felt sure. I was convinced that if I ran away from the cave forever, Giuseppina would have expected me to cut off my combover and leave it there, on display. It would be a reliquary for the sick and infirm who would come up to the cave each day to touch it.
"No, I can't," I said. "I've been battling with this hair for a lifetime."
I took my comb from my pocket and combed my hair forward, as always. But this time I tried to line myself up with the wind, which was still blowing through the branches of the trees and through the bushes behind where I was hiding.
"He can't have gone away, he's left everything here, you see?" This was the voice of Giuseppina once again, trying to convince the others.
"It's criminal to do a thing like this . . . How long do we have to wait?"
"He'll be back, I know him, he's a good man," she continued.
"I reckon he's gone and won't come back—he's a fraud, that one."
"No, something's obviously happened to him."
Once the sun had dropped behind the mountains it began to rain again, and the pleasant pitter-patter of drops could be heard once more on the foliage. From my hiding place behind the bushes, I could hear the voices of the sick and infirm. "Let's go, let's go," they said.
Then I could see silhouettes going back down to the town with their umbrellas up. I was hungry and tired of having to hide. I went into the cave. No one was there and all my things were where I had left them that morning. I could be sure no one else would be turning up for a while. They had brought a small camping table with four chairs, and on the table, on a flowered tablecloth, they had left two sausages in a bag, a piece of pecorino cheese, a fruit tart, a small loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine. I was sorry to have repaid such kindness by running away, but I couldn't have done otherwise.
Once I had eaten I slipped inside my sleeping bag. My legs were aching all over, and I began wondering whether I had been right to run off like that, leaving people to suffer and wait about impatiently. No, it wasn't right. All they were asking me to do, after all, was to sit there with my head down. I had a gift and could offer it for the good of others: that was why it had been granted to me. I could, of course, have established certain visiting hours, for example. Or read the Ethics while they busied themselves with my hair. But I could have done something to help those poor people. It might have been me who had a slipped disc or kidney stones or needed to ask someone's help. I am human as well. What's wrong with that? "Yes, I'm a rogue," I told myself, "one of those who couldn't care less." I was tempted to rush down to Cingoli and shout out in the middle of the town square: "Here I am, come up to my cave everyone, I'm sorry."
But I didn't. I remained there motionless inside my sleeping bag. It occurred to me then that if I died there I'd have contributed toward increasing the circles of hell. "You deserve it, since you refused to help us," the sick and infirm would say, "and the dogs will go pissing on your tomb in the same way that you pissed on that tree trunk." I know—my apathy and my indifference had a price that I would have to pay sooner or later, either now or in the hereafter. But at that moment, alas, I could do nothing else but remain there, motionless and supine on the ground. It was pleasant to feel the cave floor against my back.
I woke up in the middle of the night—it might have been two or three in the morning. It was still pouring with rain and I still felt the burden of the previous day's escape, the burden and the regret of having disappointed those poor people who had been waiting for me. I took the torch and propped it on a shelf of rock. I stuck the mirror in front of me, pulled all of my hair back, and held it as though it were a pigtail. I took the hunting knife and sliced through the whole combover in one single cut.
"Here it is!" I said. "Take it, it's yours."
I tied the lock of hair with a piece of string and put it in the bag where the sausages had been. I went over my hair with the scissors, so that my head was left looking like Costantino Toldini's, a bald sphere with two eyes and bushy eyebrows. I loaded my things into my rucksack: sleeping bag, the Ethics, axe, candles, and everything else. Then, on the table I left the knife, the bag with the combover, and a note written in felt-tip pen: Good Luck.
I put the red check beret on my head and my rucksack on my back. I repeated the words of Spinoza as I set off down the path: Goodness is that which we know with certainty to be useful to ourselves and to others. I had the feeling that someone, hidden among the trees, was following me, to see what I was doing. Once I had left the woods behind me and had reached the road that led down to the town, I felt a certain relief, even though I missed my hair. I remembered something my brother had once said to me after an argument: "Youth lies in the soul and in the hair, and you have neither soul nor hair, and therefore you're a kind of corpse . . . or do you really imagine that stuff on your head is hair?"
But now I didn't even have that. So much the better. I began to ponder: if a man has no body hair, for example, but only hair on his head, then he's either some kind of angel or a South American Indian. If he has no hair on his head but lots of hair over the rest of his body, then he's a pretty rough-looking individual. But if, by chance, he has hair on his head and hair over the rest of his body (even a lot of it), then in that case, I thought, there are two possibilities: either the man is evolutionarily retarded or just very hairy. And lastly, if he has no hair on his head or his body, in that case we're either in the presence of a Martian from a distant galaxy who is unacquainted with the ugliness of men, or of a poor alopecian.
"Sooner or later I'll get it to grow back," I thought, "then we'll see."
Various uh-u-ou sounds of owls could be heard in the trees along the roadside, or of some other night predator which, immobile on a branch, was checking with its orange eyes that all was in order. These animals are like that. If something isn't right, they launch themselves open-winged from the branches and shriek until the night order is re-established. I had found several owls outside the cave. Each of us respected the other. I'm still proud of that.
I continued wa
lking along the road through the rain. Cingoli seemed ever further away, like something that never lets you reach it, some mirage, and yet I was striding out enthusiastically along the road in front of me. I felt at ease, despite the rain, even without an umbrella and with no hair.
13
Under the umbrella with Costantino Toldini
It was not yet four in the morning when I passed the church of the Salesians, or perhaps, yes, it was already past four. That's of no importance. I was soaked to the skin, and there was no one about, no cars, nothing. Just me walking through the cones of lamplight and the owls peering down at me, hidden in the eaves or on the branches of trees. I felt like a loser with that red checkered beret on my head. I had wanted to go to Lapland and hadn't managed it. I had wanted to get to the well where I had been with Don Teodoro (may he rest in peace) and to try and hear that voice he'd told me about, to visit the small church and the meadow, and I hadn't managed that either.