Another mysterious word. Sim! Gap! What a lot of words there must be; Pin wishes he knew them all.
‘I know all about you, though,’ he says, ‘I know that you are also called KGB.’
‘That’s not true,’ says Red Wolf, ‘you mustn’t call me that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we’re not out for social revolution now, but for national liberation. When Italy’s been liberated by the people, then we’ll nail the bourgeoisie down to their responsibilities.’
‘What?’
‘Just that. We’ll nail the bourgeoisie down to their responsibilities. The brigade commissar explained it all to me.’
‘D’you know who my sister is?’ The question has nothing to do with what they are saying, but Pin is tired of talking of things he knows nothing about and prefers to get back to his usual subjects.
‘No,’ says Red Wolf.
‘The Dark Girl of Long Alley.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘What d’you mean, who’s she? Everyone knows my sister. The Dark Girl of Long Alley.’
It seems incredible that a youth like Red Wolf has never heard of his sister. In the Old Town children of six are already beginning to talk about her and telling girls of the same age what she does when she’s in bed with a man.
‘Hey, he doesn’t know who my sister is. That’s a good one …’
Pin would like to call the other prisoners round and begin his usual clowning.
‘I don’t even look at women at the moment,’ says Red Wolf, ‘there’ll be time after the rising …’
‘But suppose they shoot you tomorrow?’ says Pin.
‘We’ll just see who gets it in first, them shooting me or me shooting them.’
‘What d’you mean?’
Red Wolf thinks a little, then leans over and whispers in Pin’s ear:
‘I’ve got a plan and if it comes off I’ll have escaped by tomorrow, and then I’ll make all these Fascist swine pay one by one for beating me up.’
‘Escape? Where to?’
‘Back to the detachment. To Biondo’s. And we’ll organize an action that will really make them sit up.’
‘Will you take me with you?’
‘No.’
‘Please, Wolfy, take me with you.’
‘My name is Red Wolf,’ says the other. ‘When the commissar told me that KGB wasn’t a good name I asked him what I could call myself and he said “Wolf”. Then I told him that I wanted a name with something red in it because the wolf’s a Fascist animal, and he said: “Then call yourself Red Wolf.”
‘Red Wolf,’ says Pin. ‘Listen, Red Wolf; why don’t you want to take me with you?’
‘Because you’re only a child, that’s why.’
From the beginning, ever since Pin and Red Wolf had talked about the stolen pistol, Pin had felt that they could become real friends. But now here is Red Wolf treating him like a child again and that gets on Pin’s nerves. With other youths of Red Wolf’s age Pin can at least assume superior airs by talking about women, but this subject does not seem to work with him. But how fine it would be to go around in a band with Red Wolf and make explosives big enough to blow up bridges and walk through towns firing machine-gun bursts against patrols. It might even be better than the Black Brigade. Only the Black Brigade wears a death’s head as a badge, and that makes more of a show than a tricolour star.
It seems quite unreal to be standing there talking to someone who may be shot next day, to be on that terrace full of men crouching on the ground over their food, under chimney-pots turning in the wind and warders watching from turrets with machine-guns trained. It’s like some enchanted play, surrounded by that park full of the black shadows of those strange pines. Pin has almost forgotten his beating, and is beginning to wonder whether it’s all a dream.
Now the warders are getting the prisoners in line before returning to their cells.
‘Where’s your cell?’ Red Wolf asks Pin.
‘I don’t know where they’ll put me,’ says Pin, ‘I haven’t been in yet.’
‘I’d like to know where you are,’ says Red Wolf.
‘Why?’ asks Pin.
‘You’ll see.’
Pin is always irritated by people who keep on saying: ‘You’ll see.’
But suddenly, in the line of prisoners beginning to march away, he thinks he has seen a face he knows, knows very well indeed.
‘Say, Red Wolf, d’you know that man ahead, the one who’s so thin and walks in that strange way …?’
‘He’s an ordinary criminal. Leave him alone. They aren’t to be trusted, ordinary criminals.’
‘Why not? I know him!’
‘They are proletarians without class-consciousness,’ says Red Wolf.
Chapter Four
‘Pietromagro!’
‘Pin!’
When a warder takes him to his cell and opens the door Pin gives a cry of surprise; he’d been right about the prisoner he saw on the terrace, the one who walked in that odd way; it really was Pietromagro.
‘D’you know him?’ asks the warder.
‘Bloody hell do I not! He’s my boss!’
‘Good. Then the whole firm has been relocated here,’ says the warder, and locks the door. Pietromagro had been inside a month or two, but to Pin, seeing him, it seems that years have passed. He’s all skin and bone, yellow skin covered with hair and hanging from his neck in flabby folds, He is sitting on a heap of straw in a corner of the cell, with his stick-like arms along his sides. When he sees Pin he raises them. Up to now Pin’s only relations with his boss have been shouts and blows; but now, finding him here in this state, he feels a mixture of pleasure and pity.
Pietromagro even speaks differently: ‘Pin! You here too, Pin!’ he says in a hoarse, wailing tone, without any curses at all; and it’s plain that he too is pleased to see Pin. He takes him by the wrists, but not in the way he always did before, to twist them; and looks at him from yellow eyes. ‘I’m ill,’ he says, ‘I’m very ill, Pin. These swine here won’t send me to the infirmary. I don’t understand what’s going on here; the place is full of nothing but political prisoners and one day they’ll end by mistaking me for a “political” and putting me up against a wall.’
‘They beat me,’ says Pin, and shows the marks.
‘Then you’re a “political” too,’ exclaims Pietromagro.
‘Yes, yes,’ says Pin. ‘A political.’
Pietromagro thinks this over. ‘Of course, of course, a “political”. I’d begun to think, seeing you here, that you’d started a career as a jail-bird. For once you get into prison you’re never away from it long; as soon as you’re freed you get put back in again. But of course if you’re a “political” it’s a different thing. Why, if I’d known more as a young man I’d have become a “political” too. Ordinary crimes don’t get you anywhere; steal a little and you go to prison, steal a lot and you end up with villas and palaces. But commit a political crime, and though you go inside just the same – in fact whoever does anything ends up in prison – it’s at least with a hope of a better world, without prisons, one day. That’s what I was told by a “political” who was in prison with me years ago, a man with a black beard. He’s dead now. For I’ve known every kind of convict, ordinary ones, smugglers, tax-evaders; but I’ve never known any as decent as the “politicals”.’
Pin cannot quite grasp the meaning of this speech but he feels sorry for Pietromagro and stands quietly looking at the veins swelling and ebbing on his neck.
‘Now, you see, I’m ill. I can’t piss. I need treatment, instead of which here I am lying on the ground. I haven’t blood running in my veins any more, but yellow piss. I can’t drink wine, and I long to get drunk for a week. The penal code’s all wrong, Pin; it lists everything you mustn’t do in life, stealing, murdering, receiving stolen goods, but it doesn’t say a word about what you should do instead of all that, when you find yourself in certain situations. Pin, are you listening to me?’
Pin looks at his yellow face which is hairy like a dog’s and feels his breath panting over him.
‘Pin, I’m going to die. You must swear to do something. Say “I swear” to what I’m going to say. “I swear that I’ll fight all my life long to do away with prisons and to rewrite the penal code.” Now say “I swear”.’
‘I swear,’ says Pin.
‘Will you remember, Pin?’
‘Yes, Pietromagro,’ says Pin.
‘Now come and help me catch my lice,’ says Pietromagro. ‘I’m full of them. D’you know how to crack ’em?’
‘Yes,’ says Pin. Pietromagro begins looking inside his shirt, then hands Pin a corner of it.
‘Have a good look in the seams,’ he says. Catching Pietromagro’s lice is not much fun, but Pin feels sorry for the poor man, with his veins full of piss and without perhaps much longer to live.
‘And the shop, how’s the shop going?’ asks Pietromagro. Neither apprentice nor master has ever liked his job much; but now they begin discussing the work still to be done, the price of leather and thread, and who will mend shoes for the neighbourhood now that both of them are in prison. Soon they are sitting on the straw in a corner of the cell, cracking lice and talking about welting and soling, stitching and heeling without ever abusing their jobs, which has never happened in their whole lives.
‘Say, Pietromagro,’ exclaims Pin, ‘why don’t we set up as a cobbler in prison, to mend the prisoners’ shoes?’
This has never occurred to Pietromagro, who used to go to prison quite willingly once so as to eat without working. But now he rather takes to the idea; perhaps if he could work he wouldn’t feel so ill.
‘I can ask. Will you come in on it?’
Yes, Pin will come in on it; working in these circumstances would be something new, something they had thought up for themselves, as amusing as a game. And being in prison wouldn’t be too unpleasant, with Pietromagro who wouldn’t hit him any more, and singing songs to the prisoners and warders.
At that moment a warder opens the door, and outside is Red Wolf, who is pointing at Pin and saying: ‘Yes, that’s the one I mean.’
The warder calls him out and locks up the cell, leaving Pietromagro all alone inside. Pin cannot understand what they want.
‘Come along,’ says Red Wolf, ‘you must give me a hand with carrying down a barrel of refuse.’
Just along the passage, in fact, there stands an iron barrel full of refuse. Pin thinks how cruel it is to make Red Wolf, who is in such a bad state from his beatings, do heavy work with only a child like himself to help him. The barrel is so high it reaches Red Wolf’s chest and so heavy it’s difficult to lift. While they are trying to lift it Red Wolf brushes Pin’s ear with his lips and whispers: ‘Now keep a sharp look-out, this is our chance,’ then out loud: ‘I’ve been asking for you all round the cells, I need your help.’
This is wonderful, Pin thinks, he never dared hope for such a thing. But Pin soon gets attached to places he is in, and even prison, he finds, has its attractions; perhaps he would like to escape with Red Wolf a little later, when he’s spent a little time here, but not just when he’s arrived.
‘I’ll do it by myself,’ says Red Wolf to the warders, who are helping him lift the barrel on to his shoulders. ‘I just need the boy to steady it behind so it doesn’t tip over.’
They start moving, with Red Wolf bent double under the weight and Pin holding the iron barrel straight by one end.
‘D’you know the way?’ the warders shout after him. ‘Careful not to fall down the stairs.’
As soon as Red Wolf has turned the first landing he asks Pin to help him rest the barrel on a window-ledge. Is he already tired? No, Red Wolf wants to talk to him. ‘Now listen carefully. When we reach the lower terrace you’re to go ahead and begin talking to the sentry. You must hold his attention so that he doesn’t take his eyes off you; you’re small and he’ll have to keep his head down to talk to you, but don’t get too near him, you understand?’
‘And what will you do?’
‘I’ll put a helmet on him. Mussolini’s helmet. You’ll see. D’you understand what you’re to do?’
‘Yes,’ says Pin, who has not understood anything yet, ‘and what then?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Just a moment. Open your hands.’
Red Wolf pulls out a piece of soap and rubs it over the palms of Pin’s hands, then over his legs, particularly inside the knees.
‘Why?’ asks Pin.
‘You’ll see,’ says Red Wolf, ‘I’ve studied my plan in every detail.’
Red Wolf belongs to the generation brought up on boys’ coloured adventure albums; only he has taken them all seriously and life has not disproved them so far. Pin helps him lift the barrel back on to his shoulder, then when they reach the terrace, goes on ahead to talk to the sentry.
The sentry is standing by a balustrade, looking sadly over the trees; Pin goes toward him with his hands in his pockets, feeling in his element again; his old bravado of the alley has returned.
‘Hallo,’ says he.
‘Hallo,’ says the sentry.
It’s a face Pin has never seen before; a sad southerner with cheeks all hacked about from shaving.
‘Hell, fancy seeing you here!’ exclaims Pin. ‘I was just saying to myself, where’s that old bastard got to, when I see you there in front of me.’
The sad southerner looks at him, trying to prise open his half-shut lids. ‘What? Who’re you?’
‘Hell, you’re not going to tell me you don’t know my sister?’
The sentry mutters something about not knowing anyone. ‘Are you a prisoner? I can’t talk to prisoners.’
And Red Wolf hasn’t arrived yet!
‘Don’t you tell me …’ says Pin. ‘You mean to say that since you’ve been here you’ve never had a dark girl with curly hair?’
The sentry looks perplexed.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. What about her?’
‘A girl who lives in an alley round the corner of the right of a square behind a church then up some steps?’
The sentry blinks. ‘What?’
Pin is thinking: ‘I bet it’ll turn out he really has been with her!’ By now Red Wolf should be there: maybe he can’t carry the barrel on his own?
‘I’ll just explain,’ says Pin. ‘D’you know where the market square is?’
‘Mmmm …’ says the sentry, and begins looking away; it’s not working, he must find something more interesting, but if Red Wolf doesn’t arrive soon everything will be wasted.
‘Wait,’ says Pin. The sentry turns his eyes back at him for a moment.
‘I’ve got a photograph in my pocket. I’ll show it to you in a minute. Only a bit of it, though. Just the head or you won’t sleep tonight.’
The sentry is now leaning over him, and has even succeeded in completely opening both eyes, the eyes of some cave-dwelling animal. Then finally Red Wolf appears at the entrance to the terrace; although bent double under the barrel of refuse, he is managing to walk on the tips of his toes. Pin pulls both hands out of one of his pockets and waves them in the air, as if he were concealing something: ‘Ha! Ha! You’d like to see it, eh?’
Red Wolf is drawing nearer, with long silent steps. Then Pin begins to slide one hand over the other, very slowly. Red Wolf is now right behind the sentry. The sentry is looking at Pin’s hands; they are soapy; why? and where’s this photo anyway? Then all of a sudden a stream of refuse falls on the sentry’s head; and not only refuse, but something hard comes crashing down all round him; he’s suffocating, he can’t free himself; he’s caught, and his rifle with him. Then he falls down and feels himself turning and rolling along the terrace.
Meanwhile Red Wolf and Pin have already jumped over the balustrade.
‘There,’ Red Wolf says to Pin, ‘hang on there and don’t let go,’ and he points at a drain-pipe. Pin is frightened, but Red Wolf has already almost flung him out into the empty air, and he is forced to grip the
drain-pipe. Now he is slithering on his soapy hands and knees; it’s rather like sliding down bannisters, only much more frightening; whatever he does he mustn’t look down or let go of the drain-pipe.
Red Wolf on the other hand has leapt out into space. Is he trying to kill himself? No, he’s trying to reach the branches of a monkey-puzzle tree not far away, and hang on to them. But the branches break off in his hands and he falls with a crash of twigs and a shower of pine-needles. Pin feels the ground getting nearer beneath him, and is not sure if he is more frightened for himself or for Red Wolf, who might have killed himself. He touches the ground, nearly breaking his legs, and there at the foot of the pine tree sees Red Wolf lying on the ground under a heap of little branches.
‘Wolfy. Are you all right?’ he calls.
Red Wolf raises his face, and the bruises from his interrogation are now indistinguishable from those of his fall. He glances around. There is a sound of firing.
‘Run for it,’ says Red Wolf.
He gets up and begins running, with a limp.
‘Run for it,’ he repeats. ‘This way!’
Red Wolf knows where to go and leads Pin through the abandoned park, full of wild creepers and spiky weeds. Shots are fired at them from the tower, but the park is so thick with conifer trees and bushes that there is cover everywhere. Even so Pin is not quite sure if he has been hit or not, as he knows you don’t feel a wound at once, then suddenly you drop down dead. Red Wolf leads him through a little gate, through an old greenhouse, then makes him climb a wall.
Suddenly the shadows of the park dissolve, and before them opens a scene in brilliant light and primary colours, like a child’s transfer. They have a moment of panic and drop to the ground; in front of them stretches a bare hillside, and all round it, vast and calm, the sea.
Then they go into a field of carnations, crawling through them so as not to be seen by women in big straw hats watering among the geometric patterns of grey stalks. Behind a big cement water-tank near a pile of folded mats used to cover the carnations in winter to prevent them freezing, there is a hollow.
‘In there,’ says Red Wolf. They crouch down behind the water-tank and pull the mats round them so that they can’t be seen.
The Path to the Spiders' Nests Page 7