The Novel of Ferrara

by André Aciman

  Then there was Gavino—Aleotti Gavino as he himself had found occasion to specify. Or rather there were the thoughts that his presence in such close vicinity prompted.

  As they went on their way, he gradually found out more about him: that he was from Codigoro, that he had a wife and a baby boy, that from 1944 until the Liberation he had been a “fighting partisan,” and that leaving aside the minor assistance he gave to hunters between November and February under commission to the Land Reclamation Company, for the rest of the year he alternated work as a farm laborer and as a “construction” worker. Not much, in the end, when the main question remained untouched, that being whether or not he was a Communist—courteous, patient, reserved in speech: from his behavior he could well be one. On this topic he was able to determine nothing at all.

  All the same this wasn’t what most disturbed him—it was his physical presence, even more than the dog’s. It was odd. But the calm way in which he felt him occupy the space at his side made him nervous, oppressed him. He observed his right hand, resting a little above his knee on the olive green rubber of his waders. It was a big, dark hand, that of a worker more than a sportsman, with slightly damaged nails and covered in tufts of reddish hair. And every time he looked at that hand, with increasing unease and annoyance, it reminded him of Ulderico. Could he have been his natural son, born before his marriage? he began suddenly wondering, adding to the evidence of the hand his stature, his pale blue eyes, their similarly small heads, and especially the calm and the self-confidence of every gesture that they both displayed. Why not? To wait for some hours practically without moving, and then not say a thing! His adherence to such an undertaking, which was frankly a bit exaggerated, could also be accounted for by this theory.

  He glanced at the man’s hand, and rapidly scanned his thin, suntanned face with its compact, pointed profile. The wind had changed directions—he noted at the same time. And yet he, like Bellagamba earlier, seemed to find him at the very least an eccentric for presuming that there’d be something to shoot at so late in the day. It was true that, unlike Bellagamba, Aleotti Gavino hardly spoke at all. Yet wasn’t that vague air of mockery that hovered round his prominent cheekbones perhaps just as eloquent and depressing as any speech? And while he was thinking about all this, he blamed himself for being the one to insist that he joined him in the car. What a blunder that was! Had he let him drive his motorbike—before deciding to take up the offer, Gavino had entrusted it to the care of the Tuffanelli house with considerable reluctance—later on, he could have dismissed and been rid of him. Now they were bound together. With cords of steel.

  For some time the road, narrowed to a path, had been running along a very slender strip of land, straight as far as the eye could see, and flanked on both sides by open stretches of the lagoon. “Here it is, we must have arrived,” he said to himself, recognizing the place; and suddenly, to the right, he saw the stern of the punt appear between two stumps of tamarisk bushes.

  He slowed down. He steered the car to the right and parked it so that other vehicles, should any appear, could pass. He switched off the motor, applied the handbrake and put the gears into reverse. Finally he opened the door and stepped out into the open air. As Gavino, still wrangling with the dog, gave no sign of moving, he made his way toward the craft alone.

  He reached it and touched it with his foot. Painted in dark colors, sloped like a gondola but with a flat bottom, it was exactly like those pre-war boats. Likewise the floating decoys—metal cut-outs, painted wooden waterfowl and so on—piled up there toward the half-submerged prow seemed more or less the usual kind: many-colored, as they used to be, as they always are . . .

  He lifted his head.

  The wind whistled between the weeping willows and the tamarisks on the shore, bent the thin grey plumed reeds that covered some of the small islets facing him. It was cold, much colder than it was in Volano. But when he’d put on his gumboots and a second pullover under his big Montgomery jacket, which along with the camouflage raincoat he’d had the forethought to pack in the boot of his car the day before, then he’d be fine, and would have nothing to fear from the temperature.

  He thought he heard shots from a long way away. He leaned forward. Yes, they were shots. From hunting rifles. They were fired from close by to one another, at regular intervals and continuously.

  “Have you heard how they’re shooting?” he said, turning toward Gavino who in the meantime had also got out of the car.

  The young man merely nodded. He’d already unleashed the dog who, having run off some fifty meters, paused motionless at the edge of the shore, tensely staring at who knows what in the direction of the open water. He had put down the two rifles and the packet with the sandwiches and fizzy drink a few steps farther on.

  “We’ll need to remove the other stuff from the boot as well,” he added. “Take the keys.”

  And he turned back toward the valley, trying to establish exactly where the noise of the guns was coming from. He strained his hearing to the limit, narrowing his eyes. Was it possible they were shooting in the vicinity of Romea? So far inland?

  3.

  HE’D ALREADY taken his place in the hide.

  He sat crouched up on the small, uncomfortable stool at the back, and was following Gavino’s movements some thirty meters in front of him. The Browning and the Krupp were leaning in front just about within reach, and everything immediately outside the hide was occluded by its upper edge—all except the punt which was almost entirely visible—and at the center of the space framed by the two rifles’ parallel and upright barrels, down there, with the water reaching his thighs, Gavino could be seen bending over his decoy marsh birds like a puppeteer in his theater. Nothing else was visible.

  He lowered his eyes and glanced at the hands of his watch.

  It was even later than Bellagamba had predicted—he grimaced to himself—a quarter past ten. But what did it matter to him whether it was early or late? Having slumped back into the exact same state of mind he’d woken up in a few hours before, for now, he restricted himself to looking out and to listening to the muted whines of the dog tied to one of the oarlocks of the boat, the isolated cries of some passing bird, the familiar popping tattoo of shots that started off again in the other part of the valley toward Romea. That was enough for him, and to spare.

  He slowly gazed around him.

  Considerably reduced in comparison to how it looked when he used to visit with Ulderico—at this rate, in another fifteen years, the Land Reclamation Company’s pumps would have drained away all the water that yet remained—the Valle Nuova wore a different complexion. It was far from easy to take one’s bearings. Where exactly in the lagoon, for example, was the little islet of a few square meters which housed the hide in which he was hunkering down?

  To the right, on the same side as the driveable Pomposa-Volano track, on top of a low embankment, and therefore clearly distinguishable—calculating by sight he’d have reckoned a couple of kilometers away—a long flat foreshore stretched out, covered with a thick, stunted, tobacco-colored vegetation, like the mane of an old workhorse. On the opposite side, against the sun, was a second island, of the same kind and the same size as that of the hide, and the same distance off from the foreshore, about a hundred meters, but no more, and beyond it was the just-emergent line of the Lungari di Rottagrande, about two kilometers away as well, with the little, shining beetle-backed form of the Aprilia right in the middle. Finally, in front of him, at no less distance, lay dry land crowded with poplars. Good. The hide was in the central part of the valley, then, at an equidistant point between the shores . . .

  The wait extended. If he had been seated a bit more comfortably—he thought—and not like this as if squatting on the lavatory, perhaps he might have managed to doze off. But, in recompense, he could sort out something to eat. He had arranged it earlier. And all the better, at least for that.

  He fumbled below, by the two boxes of cartridges, for the wrapped up sandwiches and
the fizzy drink. He put them on his knees and took off his gloves. After which, having opened the wrapping, he fished out a sandwich, but nothing else. Only later would he take out the small bottle.

  He sunk his teeth into the sandwich and bit off a piece. But he’d already completely lost his appetite, and besides that he was put off by the fact that the bread—which in the semi-darkness of the shack he hadn’t realized was of that French kind, bread that now, it was apparent, had started to make its way into the countryside as well. And then what was that stuff the woman in the hut had filled the bread with? Mortadella? It was greasy, undeniably greasy, yuck. But with a coarse texture. And the taste had something rancid about it that made him recall the years of ’42 and ’43, and ration books, the time during which he’d tried equally laboriously and willingly to play the role of husband, that of the good husband—effectively the worst years of his life.

  Gavino had finished his preparations.

  “Just as well,” he muttered.

  He swallowed with difficulty. And while he continued to eat his lunch off his knees, groping with his fingers in the greaseproof paper, having given up his first idea to throw away the rest of the sandwich, he watched Gavino return to the hide and didn’t take his eyes off him.

  He strode forward swinging his long legs and raising his eyes toward the sky every now and then. And gradually, as he approached, he seemed to him, when seen from below, taller than he actually was, taller with every step. The dog had suddenly stopped her whining. He couldn’t see her, but imagined her still as a statue, waiting for her owner’s commands.

  Now he was standing over him.

  “How many have gone by,” he said. “Did you see?”

  He was joking—he thought. But no, he was serious, although in a way that looked like it was costing him some effort.

  “No, I haven’t seen a thing,” he replied. “I’ve been having something to eat.”

  The other nodded at the Browning.

  “There’s a fair bit of wind and others will be flying past. But with that gun there you’ll be able to bring down as many as you please.”

  He noticed the pack on his knees.

  “How was it?” he asked.

  “Not that good.”

  Perhaps, he added, it was because he wasn’t as yet that hungry. But the mortadella wasn’t of the best. And he didn’t care much for French bread, never had.

  He smiled, or thought he smiled, and then offered him the packet.

  “Would you like some?” he said. “Do help youself.”

  He was amazed that he accepted without being pressed any further. He didn’t even say thank you. Having slipped the packet into his jacket pocket, Gavino bent over to set down the now empty decoy case and, most likely, to stroke the dog. Had he offended him? He’d offered him some leftovers. And stale ones to boot.

  “I’m afraid I’ve already taken a bite” he said.

  “Please! Don’t give it a thought.”

  “Why don’t you take one of the rifles?” he proposed.

  “A rifle?” Gavino exclaimed.

  He had slowly drawn himself up to his full height, and turned to stare at him.

  “To do what?”

  It was happening again just as it had at Volano, beside the Tuffanelli house when without anticipating he would soon regret it, he had insisted he leave the motorbike there and join him in the car.

  Why would he not want to take a rifle? he wondered. From that nearby islet—he pointed to it as he spoke—he could shoot at all the birds that he, on his side, had missed, and for the fifteen years he hadn’t been in the valleys, who could guess how many that would amount to!

  But Gavino stood firm, and wouldn’t be persuaded.

  It wasn’t as if, let’s be clear—he replied smiling and shaking his head—it wasn’t as if the idea of shooting didn’t appeal to him. Rather the reverse. But each to his own job. His job these days was only to accompany gentlemen to the site—he used the words “these days” and “gentlemen,” nodding at the same time in the direction of Romea—and then, when the hunt was over, to go around in his boat to gather the dead and the wounded.

  Yet he finally consented.

  “Well alright then,” he said. “As you please.”

  4.

  HE GRASPED the Browning by its strap, lifted it up and began trying it out for balance.

  He treated it with the skill and cool negligence of someone who’d had a great deal of experience with guns, but at the same time with a kind of diffidence, a veiled displeasure. What was he thinking? Perhaps of how much it would have cost. That must be it.

  “Fine rifle,” he said after a while, making a wry face. “You’ll have bought it in Ferrara I guess?”

  “No. In Bologna.”

  “Oh.”

  For some moments he was rapt in examing the various parts: the barrel, the magazine, the trigger, and mainly the trigger guard below, which was of a special quality of steel—opaque and white, like silver.

  “It’s new. Have you tried it out yet?”

  “I got it last November, and it still hasn’t been fired once.”

  “And what’s the other one? A Krupp?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “It’s an old Three Rings rifle from before the war. Made in ’28 or ’30.”

  “I could use that if you’d prefer.”

  “No, no,” he quickly replied. “You start with the Browning for now. And we could swap later if you want.”

  He bent down to rummage on the floor of the hide, and brought forth the leather case containing the choke and a box of cartridges.

  “Here they are,” he added, holding out both.

  He seemed more interested in the cartridges than the choke.

  “G.P.,” he read from the box in a muffled voice.

  But he looked worried, pensive. Having leaned the rifle on his shoulder in his usual phlegmatic manner, he flicked open the lid of the box and drew out a couple of cartridges, then after weighing them distractedly on the palm of his hand, he slipped them into his trouser pocket. Finally, as he leaned down to place the half-opened box in the boat, he frowned slightly.

  Why should he do that? Was there something else wrong?

  “They’re meant to be better than Rottweils and M.B.s. More velocity,” he said.

  The other didn’t reply. He had already turned to stand up. With his body three-quarters twisted round, he was looking up to the right.

  He too began to scan the sky in that direction and almost immediately spotted an isolated bird which, about a hundred meters up, was flying toward them.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It must be a heron,” Gavino said.

  It was quite a sizeable bird—with two large, very large wings, out of proportion with its body which was thin and small. It advanced with some apparent effort, ploddingly. Its long S-shaped neck, drawn in to its shoulders; its huge brown wings, that seemed made of heavy fabric, opened to waft the biggest possible volume of air under its belly—it looked as though it couldn’t manage to fly against the wind and appeared at any moment on the verge of being overturned, of being blown away like a rag.

  “What a comical creature!” he thought.

  He watched it slowly fly over the stretch of the lagoon which separated the sandbank from the hide and then hover perpendicularly above their heads: keeping practically motionless and slowly gaining a little height. It must surely have been the decoys that attracted the bird here. But before that? Just a little while earlier? What a comical creature! It was a fair question as to what had induced it to fly so far and so laboriously against or almost against the wind, what it had come in search of so very far from the shore, in the middle of the valley.

  “I don’t think it would be very edible,” he said

  “You’re right there,” Gavino agreed. “It tastes of fish, or more precisely seagull. But it looks good stuffed.”

  The heron once again flew lower. Then one could clearly spot its talons thin as sticks a
nd tensely drawn back, its large pointed beak, its little reptilian head. Suddenly, though, as if exhausted by its efforts or as if it sensed some danger, it switched directions and, regaining height, within a few seconds disappeared in the direction of the Pomposa church tower.

  “It must be written on high,” Gavino said, with a laugh. “Here it’s wise to give a wide berth.”

  It was amusing, he realized, but he didn’t have any desire to laugh.

  He too gestured toward the opposite shore.

  “What’s to stop it getting itself shot over that way?” he grumbled.

  “No,” Gavino replied with one foot already in the boat. “Give it some time, and see if it doesn’t fly all the way back here.”

  He said nothing more, but pushed the boat out into the water and then, sitting in the stern and shoving off with the oar, he began to row away.

  He watched him, covering his eyes against the sun with his hand. He saw him arrive at his destination, step onto dry land, let the dog off its leash, bend down to pick up the box of G.P. cartridges from the bottom of the boat and finally, having climbed to the top of the islet, quickly search out cover beneath a thicket of marsh reeds. Before firing at almost everything—he must have found something to sit on as only a bit of his cap appeared out of the mass of reeds—he had raised an arm as if to declare “I’m here.” Mechanically, he himself had responded with the same gesture.

  5.

  FROM THE effort of staring at the long, close row of decoys far out in front of the hide, he became drowsy. He fell asleep, perhaps even dreamed. Then, coming from his left, a brief energetic whistle woke him with a start.