by André Aciman
However hard he tried he couldn’t see the little villa—sold at the time of the Racial Laws—where he had installed Nives in 1930 and of which, for years, he had been the owner. No, that he couldn’t make out. Isolated at that time on the southern reaches of the village, today it was impossible to distinguish it from the countless other houses put up in that area since, and all of them more or less of the same type. But that didn’t matter. How many hundreds of meters separated that quarter, the most modern part of Codigoro, from the central square? And the ash-colored statue of the infantryman which, atop the monument for the Fallen in the main square, was throwing himself into battle waving the torn and bullet-riddled regimental flag, was it bigger or smaller than lifesize?
The direction of his thoughts changed again.
He now thought about Ulderico, his cousin and friend, his great friend, the inseparable companion of the first two thirds of his life at least who, for something like fifteen years, after having rented out the building in Via Montebello, Ferrara, to the Land Reclamation Company, had come to live in Codigoro, within walking distance of his estates, not even in a lovely villa surrounded by a park but in a nondescript apartment, big, comfortable, but nondescript, right in the center of the town. And thinking of Ulderico, and of himself, and of their lives so similar and so different, he decided that sometime late that afternoon, if he didn’t feel too tired and had a brace of wild fowl to bring as a gift—with the dark and the mist the chance of being spotted and of having an unpleasant encounter in the street was almost zero—he would certainly go and pay a visit to the Cavaglieris: Ulderico, his wife Cesarina and all their kids. It was true that he hadn’t visited them once, neither before the war nor during, nor for that matter in these last three years following his return from Switzerland, and that he hadn’t set eyes on even one of their six children—six! But after the two telephone calls he and Ulderico had exchanged last week, after all his cousin’s unstinting kindnesses to him, not least of which had been not to appear in the least surprised to hear his voice after so long, what point would there be on either of their parts to persist in not seeing each other? How strange life is! He remembered the huge scandal of 1932, within the family and beyond, when Ulderico had decided point-blank to marry, in church, the seamstress of Codigoro, with whom for ages he had been carrying on a more or less public relationship—what the hell kind of surname did she have?—and on top of that, on the very day of their marriage, to get himself baptised. And he remembered, still thinking about Ulderico, the insistense, the unexpected and unbearable interference, the absurd doggedness with which, ironically, his cousin had tried to make him give up on the idea of marrying, in his turn, his own mistress Nives . . .
No, no—he came to a conclusion. To continue not seeing each other, to persist in maintaining a distance as if they had something to fear from one another, would be utterly meaningless.
6.
LATER, WHEN he had come down again, Bellagamba was not to be found. What a trial it would have been to have to take his leave of the militia’s ex-corporal, what a pain. All he wanted to do now was to be off, to distance himself from Codigoro as quickly as possible.
But no sooner had he left and come to the square than he saw Bellagamba himself standing on the edge of the same sidewalk, from which he once used to cast inquisitorial and threatening looks at everyone, townsfolk and outsiders alike. Standing beside the old Aprilia with a foot resting on one of the front tires, he had the air of an expert weighing up the condition of the forecarriage. He realized that it wouldn’t be possible to dodge him and that he’d have to put up with wasting even more time.
Approaching, he observed him. There was something almost unrecognizable about him. Over a high-necked, iron-grey sweater like a cyclist’s he wore a dark double-breasted coat and, on his head, a soft hat with lowered rim of the same tone. Completely inoffensive, and even as camouflaged and out-of-place as he too felt himself to be, Bellagamba looked quite like Mussolini in his last years, when the Germans took him away in a Storch single-engine aircraft from his Gran Sasso refuge . . .
“Hello” he said.
“This yours?” the other asked in dialect, barely giving him a glance and signaling toward the car.
He nodded. He came up beside him and looked out in front of him. It was eight o’clock. The square was filling up. And while Bellagamba spoke to him about the Aprilia, fulsomely praising the “brand and model” and, it seemed, offering to buy it off him—he’d been looking for a car of this type for some time, he said, robust as well as cheap to run, and preferably one that had had few owners, better still just one, to customize it into a small van, given the growing demands of the restaurant—he couldn’t take his eyes off the throng which, gathering in groups, grew ever bigger minute by minute there in front of the low redbrick building of the Trade Union Hall opposite. Others, women, girls, mainly very young girls, were continually being swallowed up by the big dark central entrance to the Church of Santa Maria Ausiliatrice, set alone in a space behind to the left, at the end of the churchyard which was vast as a private square of its own. No one showed any sign of noticing the two of them. Everyone seemed busy with other concerns. With what though? he wondered, feeling reassured, but at the same time strangely unhappy, disappointed. From the top of the belltower which rose slender and pointed at the rear of the church, so tall that on some days of fine weather, coming from Ferrara, one could begin to make it out at least twenty kilometers away, the solemn tones of the great bell were ceaselessly calling the people to Mass.
The bell was tolling. Some moments before, Bellagamba had stopped talking.
Now it was his turn.
“Ok. I’ll think about it,” he murmured, his gaze still fixed on the belltower. “Perhaps we can discuss it later today.”
“You’ll be coming for lunch?”
A little earlier, at the entrance of Bosco Elòceo, where he and Bellagamba had parted, there was seated a fellow of about seventy, thin, with a grey mop of hair, the pallid gaunt face of a malaria victim, wearing a filthy, worn-out, striped jacket. Not in the least fazed to see him descending from the upper floors, he had informed him at once that “Signor Gino” had left less than a quarter of an hour before, but without saying where he was going or when he’d return. “Well, would you say goodbye to him for me?” he said to the old man as he made his way out. “Give him my thanks, and tell him I may be coming back for lunch.”
For lunch?—he now thought. He had indeed spoken of lunch. But what if instead, abandoning all his plans, he were to return immediately to the city?
In any case he didn’t reply. He shifted his gaze from the belfry, immediately below the very tall spire, and looked up at the sky. There were no longer any swollen, swift, low altitude clouds coursing over the village roofs but a uniform, grey, compact mantle. And if he really were to return home?
He turned to Bellagamba.
The latter smiled at him with his usual, ambiguous, sly and vaguely sleepy expression.
“And would you care for a coffee?” he heard him propose in dialect.
He was being treated, he thought, with the same intimate, circumspect patience employed by Romeo. But in neither case was it to make fun of him, or with any obscure intent to provoke him, to test him out. Quite the reverse. If he hadn’t misjudged it, he was only trying to reassure him, to make it clear that there was quite simply no need to keep on being disturbed by what were no more than shadows. To suggest to him, as a friend, not to have any unnecessary qualms, worries or fears.
“Where?” he asked.
“Over there. At Fetman’s”
With his big chin propped up by the high collar of his sweater he nodded toward the cafe on the left side of the square.
“They serve much better coffee there than at Moccia’s” he went on, signaling once again with his chin toward the right, at the square’s other cafe. “And also,” he added with a wink, “at this time of the day I can assure you that you’ll not encounter any
unpleasant faces at Fetman’s.” Then he added in dialect, “On that I give you my word.”
As the two locales in the square at Codigoro had been from time immemorial the designated meeting places not only for the various political factions but for all the dealers of the region, he had always avoided frequenting them—both out of instinct and from principle. Fetman’s—what a name for a bar! Before the war it had a completely different kind of name . . . He’d not set foot in there even once. And yet why not? Even now, in ’47, with the Reds in full spate, to go in at such an early hour, the chance of coming up against some ugly hostile mug would have been roughly the same as before, in other words pretty slim. And then if, having taken his coffee, he really should decide to return to Ferrara—in which case he’d have to give up the idea of paying a late afternoon visit to the Cavaglieris’—what more convenient spot could there be than that for him to telephone Ulderico from? If he wanted to simply greet him and nothing more, holding out the possibility of another trip to Codigoro in the near future especially to see him, then he would have to do it soon, before he left.
“Why not?” he replied. “Let’s go.”
They crossed the square side by side like two old friends—with the constant impression in his mind that everyone was ignoring them and, exactly as happens between friends, without exchanging a single word.
They then stood at the bar waiting to be served. During the wait—at Fetman’s there was hardly anyone: a few anonymous, taciturn regulars seated at small tables at the end of the big rectangular room that looked more like a garage than a cafe; a smoky atmosphere impregnated with the smells of expressos, grappa, Tuscan cigars; he could feel his cheeks gradually becoming warm—his attention was once again directed to the I.N.A building. Staring at it through the misted-up window panes, the construction seemed to him like a vague kind of grey-pink outcrop, like something threatening and impervious. It really was an impressive edifice—he thought to himself—as impressive as it was disproportionate. This explained why the street of which it formed the corner and over which it loomed with its ten floors, looked so straitened, wretched and dark. He scanned its ground floor. No visible entrance. In the semi-darkness that still lingered under the arches in front of it were alligned one after the other the three windows of the agricultural machinery salesroom which he had glancingly noticed a moment before while crossing the square. And so, he wondered, how would you enter to reach the floors above? Perhaps at the back? He should remember to ask Ulderico about that when he called him.
In the meantime Bellagamba had resumed his chatter.
He was offering him advice. Confidential but respectful—speaking in rather subdued tones as well, evidently because a bartender was nearby—Bellagamba had begun to find fault with his plan to push on to Volano. What would be the point of that?—he was saying. Apart from the uncertain weather, it didn’t seem to him at all likely that he’d arrive and settle himself in the hide before ten o’clock, however fast he went. And there’d be no serious hunters out there that Sunday, as could be seen from the fact that last night only a single person had taken one of his rooms and gone out, and he wasn’t even a hunter at all but someone from Reggio, a salesman for barber’s razors, and if he, Signor Avvocato, were to go, what would he have to shoot at at ten in the morning? It was pointless. To arrive at the hide so late, you always risk going home empty-handed or worse—out of frustration you’d start taking potshots at a seagull of which unfortunately there were never any shortage.
“Wouldn’t you like me to get a nice bed prepared for you instead?” he added, his voice lowered to a whisper. “Just say the word, and I’ll go straight to the hotel and get things ready.”
Bellagamba had turned to look at him. He had the habit of winking but this time his face was all red as if he were offering him something exotic, if not forbidden. But he was right—he couldn’t help acknowledging. There was no denying it. As for the bed, though, not a chance. Far better to get back in his car, and off to Ferrara. In the afternoon, at five-thirty, after a nap, an outing to the Unione Club to while away the time with a game of bridge until supper time, would always be an appealing option.
“No thanks,” he replied. “It’s kind of you, but it wouldn’t be convenient.”
He took out his handkerchief and dried his mouth.
“Excuse me—I have to make a telephone call,” he said, raising his face toward the bartender.
“To Ferrara?”
“No. Here in Codigoro.”
The bartender, a forty-year-old with a greasy, sweaty face and sporting a grizzled three-day beard, stared at him coldly.
“Who do you want to speak to?”
“Cavaglieri, the engineer.”
“Right away!” the other exclaimed, suddenly obliging, extracting a telephone token from a drawer under the till and proffering him it. “The telephone booth’s over there.”
He signaled toward a kind of tall narrow wardrobe of dark wood and glass, sited against the farthest wall of the big room, beyond the chairs and small tables. And making his way toward the phone booth, he wondered with envy how the mere name of his cousin could prompt so much deference toward him. But he was wrong to be surprised, he reasoned with himself at once. Good heavens! Fifteen years of fixed residence in a small town of a few thousand inhabitants, with a wife who was local, a gaggle of kids and so on—anyone in like circumstances would end up becoming assimilated, even the least disposed to be so. And then add in Ulderico with his odd but not unpleasant character which made him sure of himself at every turn in his life, and always so calm and cordial! He was probably a regular at the Cafe Fetman, as it was only a few yards from his house.
Having made his way over, he was about to enter the phone booth.
“Do you have his number?” the barman called out.
He turned round. Down there, Bellagamba was intent on lighting a cigarette, his face hidden in his cupped hands; several customers had looked up and were staring at him.
Of course. The number. It doubtless consisted of just two digits. But which?
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Dial twelve. One. Two.”
He shut himself in and dialled the number. He heard it ringing for a long while at the other end of the line. Only then did he realize it had a different sound to the discreet, muffled tone of the Ferrara telephone network. Insistent, raw, gratingly metallic, and very hard on the ear.
“Who’s calling?” a rude voice finally interrupted, a voice that made him even more inclined to put down the receiver.
“Limentani,” he replied quite loudly, overcoming with difficulty that sort of surprise mixed with embarrassment he always felt in pronouncing his own surname.
“What was that?”
“Limentani,” he repeated.
He was most likely speaking to a housekeeper, an old woman without many teeth in her head, and perhaps a bit hard of hearing. Limentani, Edgardo Limentani. He had to repeat it several times, even breaking it down into syllables. To no avail. The old woman just couldn’t understand. Until, finally, she replied that the engineer was still in bed and that Signora Cesarina had just gone into the bathroom.
He hesitated.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to disturb them,” he said. “But all the same would you tell the Signora that it’s their cousin calling, the one from Ferrara?”
“Wait a moment.”
Their cousin from Ferrara—to drag even this out had cost him dearly. And yet he was in no doubt. When she, Ulderico’s wife, would come to the telephone, keeping any kind of conversation going would be hard work. What sort of person was this Cesarina? The truth is he could hardly remember her. In all he’d seen her a couple of times when she was a girl, without having any clear impression of her physically and without having exchanged a word. Tall, blonde. Maybe a redhead. After some twenty years—twenty years!—including a marriage of that kind and all the rest of it . . . And how should he address her—with the informal “tu
” or the polite “lei”?
In the meantime no one had picked up the phone, and despite the fact that the apartment—as he could tell from the noise—was in a state of commotion.
The apartment. It must be big, very big, some of the rooms like enormous drawing rooms. In the one with the telephone, for example, some children were playing right at that moment with a rubber ball. There were at least three of them and all were boys. And from the thuds their jumps and sprints and falls made on the parquet it wasn’t hard to reach a reasonably exact idea of their surroundings and its dimensions. Far, far away a baby was crying, a baby only a few months old. But then, much closer, he heard the voice of a girl of around fifteen shouting “Clementina!” And as Clementina, shut away who knows where, perhaps in her room or in the toilet, was slow to reply, the other told her to run to Tonino or Tanino. “Come on out,” she said impatiently but with a laugh. “Do come on out, it’s not as bad as that . . .”
He was holding his breath, without making the slightest movement. It felt as though he too was in the Cavaglieri house, hidden behind some door to eavesdrop and spy on them.
“Goal!” yelled a boy from very close by.
“It doesn’t count!” protested another younger one. “I saw you. Get lost. You sneaked it in with your hand!”
“No—it was a goal!” the first boy insisted.
What a din—he said to himself—what utter chaos. If only they’d just go and play somewhere else . . .
And yet, although of their own accord his lips had twisted into a grimace of disapproval and intolerance—see what happens, he thought, when you load yourself down with kids: however spacious and comfortable it is, no house will be big enough, life will turn into a living hell—he felt compelled to remain there, the receiver glued to his ear, listening to the voices and noises with a tense and defeated sort of hunger.