Lamberto, Lamberto, Lamberto

by Gianni Rodari

  “We’ll give them the photograph,” agrees the bandit chief.

  “Anselmo,” the baron commands, “go to my camera collection and select a Polaroid camera, and do as the bandit chief says.”

  Anselmo takes the picture, waits a few seconds, and peels apart the film. Baron Lamberto’s portrait has come out perfectly. He looks like a movie star. His smile reveals all his teeth. One of his curls dangles over his right eye.

  “Now,” says the bandit chief, “they have everything they can ask for. If they don’t give us the money, I’m sorry to tell you, the next chapter will be painful.”

  “Don’t worry,” Baron Lamberto responds. “There is a time for everything.”

  Duilio makes another trip from the island of San Giulio to the Palazzotto della Comunità. The twenty-four managing directors hand the photograph around without batting an eye, and wait for the ferryman to leave the hall. As soon as he does, the storm breaks.

  “Treason! This isn’t Baron Lamberto!”

  “Aggravated fraud! False certification of credit and malfeasance: this man is an impostor!”

  “Too handsome to be true.”

  “It’s a good thing we asked for the photograph.”

  The thunderstorm slowly subsides. The exclamations and imprecations make way for judicious observations, well thought-out reflections.

  “But if you look carefully,” someone says, “it does bear a certain resemblance to Baron Lamberto.”

  “Where?”

  “Well, for example … the ears.”

  “The real Baron Lamberto is much older. Just look.”

  As he speaks, the director pulls a photograph out of his wallet that depicts him with Baron Lamberto on the terrace of a hotel in Lugano. In this picture, the baron is resting his weight on a pair of canes, has the face of a tortoise, his eyes buried in folds of flesh under his sagging eyelids, and looks more dead than alive.

  Everyone immediately begins rummaging through their wallets and extracting photographs of themselves with the baron, and in all of them, the baron is not an athletic young man with a vigorous forelock, but an elderly gentleman who remains on his feet only because the monsoons are not blowing.

  “Observe the head. When did the baron ever wear ringlets?”

  “Perhaps he put on a wig,” a voice murmurs timidly.

  “And the wrinkles? Where are the wrinkles?”

  “With good makeup,” the same voice persists, “you can do miracles. I knew a soprano opera singer who was seventy but looked twenty-five.”

  “The baron isn’t a soprano!”

  “But he likes good music.”

  “Well, that’s true …”

  After an hour’s discussion, the board decides to demand another photograph, this one showing Baron Lamberto in profile.

  “Why in profile?” the gangleader mutters, after reading the counterproposal.

  “The only truly handsome feature of my face,” Baron Lamberto sweetly explained, “is my nose. Perhaps you couldn’t see it in that other photograph.”

  “That may be,” the gangleader concluded, “but I’m not going to let myself be led by the nose. We’ll take a picture of you in profile, but we’ll send the picture to those gentlemen, accompanied by an ear.”

  “What ear?” asked Baron Lamberto.

  “One of your ears. Don’t worry, we have a surgeon with us. He’ll do the operation to the highest medical standards. You won’t feel the slightest pain.”

  “Thanks, you’re too kind.”

  The bandit chief is not kidding around. Neither is the bandit-surgeon. He’s sharpening a straight razor on a leather strop with an unmistakable style.

  “Forgive me,” asks Baron Lamberto, “but were you ever a barber, by any chance?”

  “At your service, Your Lordship.”

  “What a relief: I can breathe now. You won’t put my sideburns out of alignment.”

  Baron Lamberto is calm and serene. He winks an eye at the unfortunate Anselmo, who manages not to faint only because he puts his weight on his umbrella, and asks, in the simplest of tones:

  “How is Delfina?”

  “Very well, thank you, Your Lordship.”

  “And the rest of the family?”

  “Excellent, Your Lordship.”

  Having reassured himself about the work that is going on in the attic, the baron is even more relaxed than before and allows himself a joke:

  “Doctor,” he says, “do you want to check for excess earwax?”

  “Glad to, Your Lordship.”

  While the doctor removes the ear, Anselmo looks away. After a short while, hearing neither voices nor noise, he turns and sees that the doctor is bandaging the baron’s head, while the bandit chief slips the severed ear into an envelope.

  “We’ll send it to them while it’s still nice and warm,” he says.

  The twenty-four managing directors receive, in a single delivery, the photo of the baron in profile, the baron’s right ear, and a note in which the chief of the twenty-four Lambertos has written: “This is the first piece. Tomorrow, either the money or the second one.”

  Nine managing directors faint on the spot, nine more run to wash their faces in the bathroom sink, and the remaining six are left speechless. The twenty-four secretaries take note of these proceedings without venturing any personal reactions.

  The photograph in profile prompts contrasting effects. The nose is unquestionably that of Baron Lamberto. But the neck? Stout, smooth, and tan as it is, it looks nothing like the withered wattles that can be seen, just above the tie, in the commemorative photographs now in the possession of various illustrious individuals.

  A doctor is summoned to examine the ear.

  “Nicely cut,” he says, “this is the work of a professional. You could stitch it back on in minutes and you’d never know it was gone.”

  “What else can you tell us?”

  “Well, to my eye, this is the ear of a healthy man, well nourished, who spends plenty of time outdoors and is quite active. Age ranging from thirty-five to forty-five.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’d swear on a stack of bibles.”

  “Would you swear on a stack of hotcakes?”

  “Without a second thought.”

  “Then this is not the baron’s ear. This ear belongs to an impostor.”

  “That’s not my concern,” says the doctor. “As far as I’m concerned, my work here is done.”

  “This is a fine mystery,” the twenty-four managing directors say to one another. “All evidence suggests that an impostor has taken the place of His Lordship the Baron. The photograph points to it, and so does the ear. But why the devil would an impostor allow himself to be subjected to such a painful operation? Why pretend to be the baron at a time when there is nothing to be gained and so much to lose?”

  After lining up a long series of question marks, they decide to sleep on it and retire to the villa in Miasino. The following morning they compare notes: one of them dreamt about white horses, someone else dreamt of the Pacific Ocean, and a few either had no dreams or forgot them. Once again the old proverb failed to deliver as promised: no one dreamt any advice worth remembering.

  “Let’s wait for the second piece,” suggests the most prudent managing director, “and then make a decision.”

  The second piece is the index finger of the right hand. The chief of the 24-L, having failed to receive a positive response to his message with enclosed ear, apologizes to the baron.

  “Your employees don’t seem particularly concerned about your physical safety. Who’s been more cruel: me, for cutting off your ear, or your twenty-four directors for ignoring the fact?”

  “To my mind,” says the baron, “you’re evenly matched.”

  “Bring on the doctor,” says the chief.

  The bandit physician walks in beaming with his implements.

  “The other ear?” he asks.

  The chief explains the new program and the doctor complies with
his instructions, while the baron urges: “Be careful not to cut the wrong finger. This is the index finger, between the thumb and the middle finger.”

  Anselmo averts his gaze to avoid the sight and catches a glimpse of the baron in the mirror, winking at him.

  “How is Delfina, Anselmo?”

  “In fine fettle, Your Lordship,” the butler stammers.

  “And the rest of the family?”

  “Hard at work, Your Lordship. You know how it is, they have to make a living …”

  Anselmo turns around: the operation is finished. The bandit chief is licking the envelope into which he has slipped the severed finger, and the bandit physician, having finished medicating the baron’s hand, is about to change the dressings on his head.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he suddenly exclaims. “Chief, look at this.”

  The baron pretends to be frightened. “Is it serious?”

  “This is rich,” says the chief, “if someone told me about it on a train I wouldn’t believe them.”

  “What is it?” asks the baron. “What’s happened?”

  “What’s happened is that your ear has grown back,” explains the physician bandit. “If I hadn’t cut off this ear myself, with my own hands …”

  “If I hadn’t put it in the envelope myself,” adds the chief, baffled.

  “Well,” says the baron, “I don’t know why you’re all so astonished. Lizards grow back their tails. Prune a tree and the branches grow back stronger than ever. In autumn, leaves fall, and in spring they sprout again. The sun sets in the west every evening, and the next morning it rises again in the east. They’re all old tricks that nature keeps up her sleeve.”

  “Perhaps,” says the physician bandit, “but this is the first time I’ve seen an ear grow back. Have you been taking any special treatments lately?”

  “Yes, I’ve been taking a treatment to make my hair grow back. You know, I’d gone completely bald. A dear friend of mine managed to procure an oriental remedy for me.”

  “Those Chinese,” the chief muttered, “they invent everything you can think of. But let’s not waste time in chitchat.”

  He writes a message to enclose with the finger: “This is the second piece. Tomorrow morning, unless we receive the money, we’ll send you an entire foot.”

  At the sight of the finger, twenty out of the twenty-four managing directors faint dead away; the rest hide under the conference table. The secretaries take note of everything that happens without batting an eye.

  The doctor summoned to examine the exhibit dictates his findings: “Index finger, right hand, perfectly preserved. Clean cut through the center of the proximal phalanx. This finger belongs to a person in good health, aged somewhere between thirty-five to forty-five.”

  “The impostor again!” someone exclaims.

  “The knuckle,” continues the physician, peering closely at the finger with a fifty-power magnifying glass, “presents the distinctive callus of a pugilist.”

  “What?”

  “This means that the owner of this finger boxes. At the very least, he trains by punching a sandbag. You may examine the evidence with your own personal eyes.”

  “His Lordship Baron Lamberto has never boxed in his life. In fact, until ten years or so ago, he was the chairman of the Association for the Abolition of Violent Sports, and he financed press campaigns against hunting and catch wrestling. In India, he was awarded the Medal of Meekness.”

  “What else can you tell us about this finger?”

  “The flesh presents other notable callosities, caused by the extended use of oars … friction from hemp ropes …”

  “A ropemaker?”

  “Sailing, gentleman. This man sails.”

  “A sailor?”

  The directors speculate about the impostor; but there remains—once the doctor has been sent away, his fee (plus taxes) paid in full—one fundamental question. “Why on earth would an impostor allow himself to be cut to pieces in place of the baron?”

  “A saint, perhaps.… After all, the island was named after a great saint, who chose it as the place to build his hundredth church.”

  “Baron Lamberto is certainly a man of great merit, a benefactor of widows and orphans, an advocate of plentiful credit, a devotee of sound finance, and so on and so forth, but that still falls well short of the idea of a heavenly intervention on his behalf.”

  “We should call for the parish priest.”

  “Where the baron is concerned, I’d call for the bishop.”

  “Gentlemen,” a vigorous voice booms out, “let’s not mix the sacred with the profane. To us, the impostor is nothing more than an impostor. Only one thing remains for us to do: reject his imposture.”

  “Very well, we shall return this finger to sender and accompany it with a written statement that we refuse to recognize it as belonging to Baron Lamberto.”

  The proposal is seconded and approved.

  “Let us demand,” adds another of the more aggressive directors, “that we be shown the entire baron in person.”

  “Excellent idea.”

  “That’s one way to skin the cat.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t make them skin the baron.”

  “But it’s not the baron at all, it’s an impostor!”

  “Oh, yes, I was forgetting.”

  Duilio is already galloping up the stairs of the Palazzotto della Comunità, photographers, and television commentators, both male and female, hard on his heels.

  “What’s happening?”

  “At what point are the negotiations?”

  Duilio holds up the sealed envelope, containing the baron’s finger, the message from the bandit chief and the counter-message from the twenty-four managing directors.

  It makes for a wonderful photograph, but the envelope remains a mystery to one and all. It’s too small to contain twenty-four million dollars. It’s too big to contain nothing but a sheet of paper.

  From the heights of the surrounding hills, navy spyglasses and astronomer’s telescopes focus on the envelope, Duilio with one arm raised, the Palazzotto della Comunità. The new arrivals (they still keep coming) ask naïvely: “Who is that?”

  “Why, that’s the famous ferryman, Duilio, also known as Charon.”

  “Ah, interesting. And what is he doing with that envelope in his hand? A scavenger hunt?”

  OTTAVIO, RIGHT? JUST WHAT HAS OTTAVIO been up to? He’s been on pins and needles ever since the bandits arrived. They’re actually prolonging his uncle’s life. So long, inheritance!

  In his pocket, Ottavio has the sleeping pills he’d planned to use to storm the fortress for his own purposes, by way of the attic. But he can’t do a thing without a bandit tagging along.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get some fresh air.”

  “Good idea, I’ll come with you.”

  Ottavio walks along, cursing banditry. As practiced by others.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “To get a glass of water.”

  “You know, I’m thirsty too, let’s go.”

  Ottavio is forced to drink the water—and he hates water—to stall for time.

  Anselmo is keeping an eye on him too. If Ottavio heads for the stairs, both of them—the bandit assigned to him and Anselmo—ask him in unison: “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Up on the roof, to admire the panorama.”

  “There’s no need,” says the bandit. “Just ask me, and I’ll describe Orta and the surrounding area better than a tour guide.”

  “I can describe it all for you in Italian, English, and German,” says Anselmo. “Unfortunately, I can read French but I can’t speak it. I can speak Spanish, but I can’t understand it.”

  Also, the baron, who is forbidden to go out on the lake, is practically glued to his nephew during this period. He expects him to take part in his weight-lifting sessions. One time, he went so far as to demand that he lace on a pair of boxing gloves.

  “Ottavio, le
t’s go a couple of rounds,” he says. “Working out on the punching ball gets to be dull.”

  “Too great an honor, uncle.”

  “Oh, come on, I wouldn’t hit you hard, I’d just pretend.”

  “I’m opposed to boxing on sentimental grounds.”

  Try as he might, he can’t get out of sparring with his Uncle Lamberto. At the first punch, he falls to the canvas and begins to count:

  “One, two, three, four …”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Since there’s no referee, I’m counting myself out. Nine, ten. It’s a knockout, you can’t touch me now.”

  “You’re no fun to box with,” says his uncle.

  Luckily, one of the bandits is a former middleweight regional champion who agrees to train the baron. He beats him soundly on points over twelve rounds. The baron is in seventh heaven.

  Ottavio is flat on the ground.

  Then the bandits cut off the baron’s ear. Then his finger. Ottavio refines his plan: he’ll kill the baron and put the blame on the bandits. But no matter how much he schemes and mulls it over, he can’t ever seem to find the right opportunity.

  At last, an unexpected occasion presents itself. That evening, the baron presses Anselmo into service for a game of chess.

  “It’s time, Your Lordship,” whispers the butler, as he moves his queen, “I need to take dinner upstairs to the attic.”

  “Send Ottavio,” the baron orders distractedly.

  “He’s not a trained waiter,” Anselmo objects, “he’ll knock the salt over.”

  “I told you to send Ottavio.”

  “What are you two mumbling about?” the bandit chief breaks in, raising his eyes from the Asterix comic book he’s been studying. “Silence, or I’ll throw your chess set in the lake.”

  Anselmo is forced to ask Ottavio to take dinner up to the six workers. He does it with tears in his eyes and death in his heart. A horrifying suspicion gives him a queasy stomach. But he must obey the baron.

  Young Ottavio is forced to implore his legs not to break into a waltz, thereby betraying his joy. If you saw him carrying the dinner tray up the stairs, you’d think he’d spent his life working as a waiter in the grand hotels on Lake Maggiore.