by André Aciman
“I reproached him, but under my breath, as you can imagine, for the life he’d been leading these last few days . . . always gadding about here and there . . . forever driving off . . . so much so, one could say, that I almost never had a chance to see him. And he—do you know what he did at a certain point? He stood up, and bang, he loosed a peach of a punch right in my face!”
He touched his swollen lip.
“Here, see?”
“Does it hurt?”
“Oh, no,” he replied, shrugging a shoulder. “It’s true I ended up flat on my back, and for a while I couldn’t understand a thing. But in the end, a punch, what does it matter? And the scandal itself, what does even that matter compared to . . . to the rest of it?”
He went silent. And I likewise, out of sheer embarrassment. I was thinking about his words “compared to the rest of it.” I was left to construe the image of his pain as a scorned lover, an image which at that moment, I have to confess, repelled me rather than awakened my pity.
But I had understood only the half of it.
“Today at one o’clock when I went back to the hotel,” he was saying, “an even more bitter surprise awaited me. Look at what I found up there in the room.”
He dug out of his jacket pocket a small folded sheet of paper and held it out to me.
“Read it, go on, read it.”
There was little to read, but it was enough. At the center of the sheet, written in capitals with a pencil, only the two lines.
These:
THANKS AND BEST WISHES
FROM ERALDO
I refolded the note in four and gave it him back.
“He’s left, yes, he’s gone away,” he sighed. “But the worst,” he added with a tremor of his swollen lip and of his voice, “the worst is that he’s taken all my things with him.”
“All of your things?” I exclaimed.
“Yes. As well as the car, which was his anyway—I bought it for him as a gift—he’s taken all my stuff, clothes, underwear, ties, two suitcases, a gold watch, a chequebook, the thousand lire I kept in the bedside cupboard. He shasn’t overlooked a thing. Not even the headed paper, not even the comb and toothbrush!”
He ended with a strange cry, almost of exultation. As though, finally, listing the objects stolen by Deliliers had had the effect of transforming his torment into a still more powerful sense of pride and pleasure.
People were arriving. Two boys and two girls, all four on bicycles.
“It’s five forty-five!” one of the girls shouted brightly, consulting her wristwatch.
“We booked the court for six o’clock, but seeing as no one’s playing can we start anyway?”
After having left the court, Fadigati and I silently took the little lane of locust trees that reached the dead-end of Zanarini’s red wall. Down in the courtyard you could see waiters coming and going across the concrete dance floor.
“So now what do you intend to do?” I asked.
“I’ll go this evening. There’s a fast train that leaves Rimini at nine and gets into Ferrara at around half past twelve. I hope there’s enough left to pay the hotel bill.”
I stopped in my tracks and stood, eyeing him up and down. He was dressed in his city clothes, with his felt hat and everything. I stared at the felt hat. So it wasn’t exactly true that Deliliers had taken all his things—I reflected—there was an element of exaggeration.
“Why not report him to the police?” I suggested, coldly.
He stared back at me.
“Report him!” he stammered in surprise.
In his eyes there suddenly gleamed a flash of scorn.
“Report him?” he repeated, and looked at me as one looks at a clueless, slightly ridiculous stranger. “Do you even think that’s a possibility?”
13.
WE LEFT Riccione on the 10th of October, a Saturday afternoon.
Around halfway through the month before, the barometer had stuck at Fair/Settled. From then on day after splendid day had followed, with cloudless skies and the sea calm as can be. But who paid any attention to such things? What my father had so long feared had, unfortunately, proved exactly true. No more than a week after Fadigati’s departure, in all the Italian newspapers, including the local Corriere padano, the crude campaign of vilification, which within the space of a year would bring in its wake the announcement of the Racial Laws, had suddenly begun in earnest.
I remember those first days as a nightmare. My father, distraught, leaving the house early in search of printed matter; the eyes of my mother, always swollen with crying; Fanny still unenlightened, poor little thing, and yet at some level aware; for my part, the painful habit of boxing myself up into a stubborn silence. Always on my own, seething with anger, even with hatred, at the very idea of finding myself in the presence of Signora Lavezzoli enthroned on her reclining deckchair, of having to hear her lecturing us that it was nothing to do with Christianity or Judaism, and still less to do with the guilt that should be laid at the door of the “Israelites” for the crucifixion of Jesus Christ (in principle the signora had quickly declared herself against the Government’s new policies in relation to us, but nevertheless even the Pope—it was as if I could hear her saying it—in a certain speech he gave in 1929 . . . ). By this point, I was not even prepared to show my face on the beach. It was enough, more than enough, to be forced during mealtimes to listen to my father, who, in futile polemic with the venomous articles that he ceaselessly read in the newspapers, compiled a list of the “patriotic merits” of Italian Jews, all, or nearly all of them—he would keep repeating, with his blue eyes opened wide—having always been the “most distinguished Fascists.” In short, I too was desperate. I forced myself to persevere with the revision for my exam. But above all I went on interminable bike rides on the hills of the hinterland. Once, without warning anyone, I had gone as far as San Leo and the Carpegna, staying away in all for almost three days: with the result, on returning, that I found both my father and mother in tears. I gave myself no respite in brooding over our fast-approaching return to Ferrara. I thought of it with a kind of terror, with an ever-increasing sense of intimate laceration.
In the end it started to rain again, and we had to leave.
As always happened with me every time I came back from holidays, immediately after arriving home I couldn’t resist the desire to go on a tour round the city. I borrowed a bicycle from the house porter, old Tubi, and even before setting foot in my room, or telephoning Vittorio Molon and Nino Bottecchiari, I went for a leisurely ride, without any particular destination.
I ended up toward evening on the city walls, the Mura degli Angeli, where I had spent so many afternoons of my childhood and adolescence; and, in short, pedaling along the path on top of the walls, I drew level with the Jewish cemetery.
I got off the bike, and leaned against a tree trunk.
I looked at the cemetery below, in which our dead were buried. Among the occasional gravestones, made small by the distance, I saw a man and a woman, both middle-aged, walking about: most likely two visitors delayed between one train and the next—I told myself—who had managed to obtain from Dr. Levi the permit required to visit the cemetery. They were passing between the tombs with the care and detachment of guests, of foreigners. Then suddenly, watching them and the vast urban landscape which displayed itself to me at that height in all its breadth, I was struck by a great sweetness, by a feeling of peace and the tenderest gratitude. The setting sun, cleaving through a dark cope of cloud that lay low on the horizon, vividly lit up everything: the Jewish cemetery at my feet, the apse and bell tower of the church of San Cristoforo only a little farther on, and in the background, high above the vista of brown roofs, the distant bulk of the Estense Castle and the Duomo. It was enough for me to recover the ancient, maternal visage of my hometown, to reclaim it once again all for myself, for that atrocious feeling of exclusion that had tormented me in recent days to fall away instantly. The future of persecution and massacres that perhaps awaite
d us—since childhood I had heard them spoken of as an always possible eventuality for us Jews—no longer made me afraid.
And then, who knows?—I repeated to myself, turning toward home—Who can tell what the future holds?
But all those hopes and illusions I had would not last long.
The next morning, when I was passing beneath the arches of the Caffè della Borsa, in Corso Roma, someone shouted out my name.
It was Nino Bottecchiari. He was seated alone at a little table outside, and, rising, he almost overturned his cup of espresso.
“Welcome back!” he exclaimed, coming toward me with his arms wide. “Since when have we had the honor and pleasure of your presence among us?”
Hearing I’d been back in Ferrara since five o’clock in the afternoon the day before, he complained that I hadn’t telephoned.
“Of course you’ll say that you were about to call me at lunchtime today,” he smiled. “Deny it if you can.”
I would have phoned him, I was actually thinking of that when he called me over. For this very reason I grew silent, embarrassed.
“Come on, forget it, I’ll buy you a coffee!” Nino cleared the air, taking me by the arm.
“Come back home with me,” I proposed.
“So soon? It’s not even midday!” he replied. “Ach bazòrla:§§§ surely you wouldn’t want to miss them coming out of Mass!”
He went in front of me, opening the way for me through the seats and little tables. All the same, after a few steps I stopped dead. Everything disturbed and bruised me.
“What’s up?” asked Nino, who had already sat down again.
“I have to go, I’m sorry,” I stammered, lifting a hand to say goodbye.
“Wait!”
His shout of greeting, and the long procedure he had to go through to pay (the waiter Giovanni did not have the change for the fifty-lira note: the old man, shuffling along and muttering to himself, had to go and change it at the nearby chemist’s, Barilari) distinctly drew the attention of the other customers to Nino and myself. I felt myself being observed by a host of eyes. Even around the two small contiguous tables permanently reserved for the members of the Fascist action squad, who had enrolled in the Party at the earliest date—occupied as well, that day, by the usual triumvirate Aretusi–Sturla–Bellistracci, by the Federal Secretary Bolognesi and by Gino Cariani, Secretary of the GUF–the conversation came to an unexpected halt. Having turned right round to steal a glance at me, Cariani, servile as ever, leaned forward to whisper something in Aretusi’s ear. I saw Sciagura give a faint grimace and nod gravely.
While waiting for Nino finally to receive his change I moved a few paces away. It was a beautiful day, Corso Roma looked gay and vivid as never before. From under the colonnade I was idly gazing toward the center of the street, where dozens of bicycles, mainly ridden by pupils from the upper school, paint and chrome-work glinting in the sun, glided through the Sunday crowd. A blond boy of twelve or thirteen, still in short trousers, passed by at full tilt on a grey Maine racing bike. He lifted up his arm in greeting and shouted, “Hi there!” I started, and turned to see who it was, but he had already disappeared round the corner of Corso Giovecca.
At last Nino came over.
“Sorry to keep you,” he said, out of breath, “but that sluggard Giovanni would test the patience of a saint.”
We moved off in the direction of the Duomo, walking side by side on the sidewalk.
As ever, they had been on holiday at Moena, in the Val di Fassa—Nino was saying, meanwhile, of himself and his family. Meadows, fir trees, cows and cow bells: so much the same as it always was, he’d considered it superfluous to send me the ritual postcard, though now he regretted it. Basically, from the very start, a complete bore. But good fortune had willed it that in August they’d had as a guest for a fortnight his uncle Mauro, the Socialist ex-Member of Parliament who, from the first moment after his arrival, had created havoc within the family circle with his wildly exuberant character. He was never still for a second, his eagle eyes forever fixed on the highest peaks. If he, Nino, had not been there to keep him company, who could have held him back? He would have been more than capable of hiking off on his own into the Dolomites.
“Eh! The old fellow is still in great form, I can tell you,” he continued, and winked knowingly. “What a character! It was a pleasure to watch him clambering up the mountain, singing “Bandiera Rossa” at the top of his voice. We promised each other to stay friends. He assured me that immediately after I graduate he’ll take me into his office as an internee . . .”
We had come up before the main entrance of the Archbishop’s Palace.
“Let’s go this way,” Nino suggested.
He went first into the cool, dark entrance hall. In the background, in full sunshine, the courtyard garden shone motionlessly. The noise from Corso Roma was by now distant: a weak, confused hum in which the bells of passing bicycles could barely be distinguished.
Nino stopped in his tracks.
“On the subject of holidays,” he asked, “have you heard about Deliliers?”
I felt a strange sensation of guilt.
“Well, yes . . .” I stammered ridiculously. “I saw him at Riccione last month . . . Since at the beach we weren’t in the same group of people, I must have spoken with him only a couple of times—”
“I’m not talking about that, for God’s sake!” Nino interrupted me. “News that he was in Riccione on his honeymoon with that graceless old pederast Dr. Fadigati travelled fast even as far as Moena, as you can guess. No, no, of course it wasn’t that I wanted to make sure you knew about.”
He began then to tell me how a week before he had received a letter from Deliliers in Paris, no less. It’s a pity he didn’t have it with him. He meant to show it to me, though: it was truly worth my while. He’d never before held in his hands a document of such arrogant sfattísia,¶¶¶ and he couldn’t decide whether the most fitting response was revulsion or laughter.
“How disgusting!” he exclaimed.
He began to discourse in detail on the letter: on its tone, and of the heavy insults directed at all of us former traveling companions in those journeys back and forth between Ferrara and Bologna, myself included. To tell the truth, he specified, laughing, rather than insult us, the big jerk was trying to make fun of us. We were all good little mummy’s boys, provincials, pampered bourgeoisie . . .
“Do you remember what he was planning?” he went on. “Sooner or later he was going to pull off a real coup, after which he’d dedicate himself exclusively to boxing. Just imagine it. Instead he must have found himself some new, well-heeled pansy, perhaps this time of the international variety. But this time he’ll play it out as long as possible, I’m sure of that, or at least until he too has been squeezed completely dry. So much for boxing!”
He then went on to speak about France. If it hadn’t been the complete disaster it was—Fascism pronounced a thoroughly unfavorable judgement on France that he fully shared—it would have put in place an absolute ban on adventurers of his type.
“As for us, in Italy,” he concluded, suddenly becoming almost serious, “you know what we ought to do with people like that? Avail ourselves of the full powers permitted by the law and put them up against a wall, and there’s an end to it. But Italy, could you call it a society . . . ?”
He had finished.
“Wonderful,” I commented, calmly. “I suppose he refers to me as a nasty Jew.”
He was hesitant about answering. In the half-light of the entrance hall I saw him blush.
“Let’s go,” he said, turning to take me by the arm. “The Mass will be over by now.”
And he dragged me, using some force, toward the smaller exit of the Archbishop’s Palace: the one that, exactly at the corner of Via Gorgadello, opens on to Piazza Cattedrale.
14.
THE MIDDAY Mass was about to finish. A small crowd of boys, of young men, of layabouts, idled as always in front of the Duomo’s entrance.<
br />
I watched them. Until a few months before, I would never have missed the Sunday congregation leaving San Carlo and the Duomo at half past twelve, and even today—I reflected—it wasn’t as if I’d missed it.### But would this suffice for me? Today was different. I wasn’t down there, in among the others, in the usual part-mocking, part-anxious wait for the Mass exodus. Leaning against the doorway of the Archbishop’s Palace, stuck in a corner of the piazza—the presence of Nino Bottecchiari, if anything, only increased my bitterness—I felt set apart, irremediably an intruder.
In that moment the raucous cry of a newsvendor resounded.
It was Cenzo, near enough a halfwit, of an indefinable age, cross-eyed, slightly lame, always on the go walking the sidewalks with a fat bundle of dailies under his arm, and treated by the entire city, and sometimes even by me, to hearty thumps on the back, affectionate insults and sardonic requests to forecast the imminent destiny of SPAL, and so on.
Scuffing his big, nailed soles on the paving stones, Cenzo steered himself toward the center of the piazza with his right hand holding aloft an unfolded newspaper.
“Latest measures of the Great Council taken against the Jews!” his cavernous voice hurled out with indifference.
And while Nino remained in a most uneasy silence, I felt in me, with inexpressible repugnance, the first inklings of the Jew’s ancient, atavistic hatred for everything that was Christian, Catholic, in a word goyische. Goy, goyim: what a sense of shame, what a humiliation, what a loathsome falling-off: to think in these terms. And yet I had already managed this—I told myself—becoming exactly like any Jew whatsoever from Eastern Europe who had never lived outside his own ghetto. I thought of our own ghetto, of Via Mazzini, of Via Vignatagliata, of the blind alley Torcicoda. In a near enough future, they, the goyim, would once more have forced us to swarm there, in the narrow, twisting lanes of that wretched medieval quarter from which, when all was reckoned up, we had emerged only some seventy or eighty years ago. Piled one on top of the other behind the gates like so many frightened beasts, we would never again manage to escape.