“Lamberto was good-hearted, too.”
“Who? Lamberto? As good as gold.”
“But was this the Lamberto that …”
“That’s right. The very same Lamberto.”
“Well, which Lamberto did you think it was?”
“There’s only one Lamberto. Or there used to be.”
“There once was a baron named Lamberto.”
Bringing up the rear of the procession is a broad barge loaded with musicians. It’s the band of the trolley conductors of Milan, brought here specially by train, and they’re playing one funeral march after another.
“Baron Lamberto was a true music lover.”
“Lamberto loved all things beautiful and good.”
“True, Lamberto had a heart …”
“What did you say? Lamberto died of heart disease?”
“I said that Lamberto had a big heart.”
“Poor Lamberto.”
“Lamberto here.”
“Lamberto there.”
“Lamberto up.”
“Lamberto down.”
“Lamberto above and below.”
“Lamberto, Lamberto, Lamberto.”
If a listener could float up to a point sixty-five thousand feet above the heads of the crowd and if at that point all the words that are now being uttered by all those people on the lake and around the lake converged, we may suppose that he, the listener, would be treated to an uninterrupted succession of:
“Lamberto, Lamberto, Lamberto.”
It is true, of course, that the people are speaking of other things. While they are watching the funeral, the industrialists of Omegna speak of espresso makers and egg whisks; the manufacturers of sinks and faucets in San Maurizio d’Opaglio exchange information about the Arab sheiks who have ordered a shipment of solid-gold faucets; the umbrella-makers of Gignese are sighing about the weather, excessively dry, at least for their tastes, this summer; the inhabitants of the mountain villages of the Valstrona are discussing the price of lumber; the abstract painters of Verbania are maligning their figurative colleagues and vice versa. But the fact remains that there is always one, at least one, person mentioning Lamberto’s name, and by the time they have reached the ‘o’ at the end of the name, someone else is beginning to pronounce the ‘l.’ Nobody planned it out that way, but the fact remains that one hundred thousand or one hundred fifty thousand people, out loud or under their breath, male or female, are taking turns pronouncing that name: “Lamberto, Lamberto, Lamberto.”
Suddenly—but it was inevitable, it was to be expected, it would have been worth wagering on!—a series of vigorous thumps and knocks emerge from the coffin. Everyone turns in that direction. The priests and the altar boys stop singing. The band stops playing. People hold their breath. The thumping and knocking gets louder. A few people faint from excitement, others tough it out: there’ll be plenty of time to faint later … Finally, with a resounding crack, the coffin lid lifts, lifts a little more, flips open entirely, and splashes into the lakewater, while Baron Lamberto gets to his feet, looks around, and shouts: “You’ve got it all wrong! Charon, take me back home! Anselmo, look out, you’re dropping your umbrella! Ottavio, where are you running off to?”
As soon as Ottavio realizes the new state of affairs, he dives over the side of his rowboat and swims vigorously toward the shore.
Baron Lamberto continues to shout cheerfully:
“You’ve got it all wrong! Start over from scratch! The funeral is postponed to a date still to be determined, because the dead man refuses to participate!”
From Orta and the surrounding area, a vast, long drawn-out syllable rises skyward: “Oh!”
Followed by a vast, long drawn-out: “Ah!”
Then a thunderous burst of applause and choruses of cheers: “Long live Lamberto!”
“Thank you! And in fact, I am alive!”
The conductor of the trolleymen’s band refuses to allow himself to be caught off guard by the unexpected events. He raises his baton and the hundred and twenty musicians of the celebrated woodwind and brass ensemble strike up the “Triumphal March” from Aida.
In his astonishment, Anselmo has dropped his umbrella. He fishes it out of the lake, opens it, refurls it, he no longer knows what he’s doing.
“Lord Lamberto,” he cries, “what would you like for lunch today? Would you prefer pigeons à la Cavour or a duck alla mantovana?”
The baron pays no attention to him. He’s too absorbed in enjoying his celebration. And at this very moment, our theoretical listener poised sixty-five thousand feet in the air over Orta, at the point of convergence of all the voices and words rising from the shores of Lake Orta would have heard, recurring with greater force and intensity even than before: “Lamberto, Lamberto, Lamberto.”
“So Lamberto is alive after all.”
“Lamberto’s must have been nothing more than a case of apparent death.”
“Lucky Lamberto!”
“But let’s admit it: Lamberto deserved it.”
“Lamberto here.”
“Lamberto there.”
In the general air of exultation, the twenty-four managing directors and their twenty-four personal secretaries stand out by contrast. They aren’t shouting, they aren’t speaking, they don’t give the least sign of joy. They focus their forty-eight plus forty-eight eyes upon Baron Lamberto, they scrutinize his physique, they study his physiognomy, they compare it with their memories, with the photographs in their possession, which they constantly pull out of their wallets as they look at one another, consulting each other with silent glances. Finally they order their boatmen to turn toward the island, in the wake of Charon who is already mooring his boat to the pier.
As Baron Lamberto steps out of the boat, he turns to wave to the crowd once again, clasping both hands above his head in the traditional gesture of a victorious boxer.
“Long live Lamberto!” the crowd shouts back.
Then the crowd slowly begins to melt away, because there is nothing left to see. The spectators go home contented, however, because this is the first time in the history of the lake that a funeral has had a happy ending.
There are still a few minor scuffles midway between the island and Orta, where the coffin is bobbing in the water and aficionados are quarreling over the last scraps of wood, which they mean to save as souvenirs of this fine day.
Ottavio, by now, is far away. He only stops in Florence to fill up his gas tank. It’s unlikely we’ll ever hear his name mentioned again, on the green shores of Lake Orta. Ciao, Ottavio.
DELFINA IS THE FIRST TO WAKE UP AFTER two days and three nights of involuntary sleep. She doesn’t immediately realize that she’s woken up; in fact, she feels as if she’s started a new dream, in which a band floats down from the clouds playing the “Triumphal March” from Aida. She isn’t sure whether what’s filtering down through the small high attic window are shafts of sunlight or the blare of trumpets. Her eyes are open, but that proves nothing, in a dream your eyes are always open, except when you’re dreaming that your eyes are closed. She stretches her arms and legs and kicks a chair with one foot. Ouch! This bed is hard as a rock …
Delfina looks around and sees Signora Merlo stretched out on the floor, her head under the table. Finally, it dawns on her that she too is lying flat on her back on the floor and she leaps to her feet, as if something had just stung her.
She runs to look out the little window and sees a huge celebration underway on the lake.
She runs to look at the table and finds the note that Anselmo wrote: Baron Lamberto is dead … your fault … fired on the spot.
“What? What? Signora Merlo! Signora Zanzi!”
With a hail of pinches, slaps, glassfuls of water poured down collars, and shouts, she manages to awaken her five coworkers.”
“Is it my shift?” mutters Signor Giacomini. And still yawning, he immediately sets to work: “Lamberto, Lamberto, Lamberto.”
“Stop!” cries Delfina. “Halt! There�
�s nothing left to lambertify. We’ve been fired, look at this. We may even stand accused of lamberticide. Signor Armando, please don’t fall back to sleep.”
“What time is it?” mutters Signor Armando.
“Maybe you should ask what day it is.”
Signor Armando looks at his watch, which not only tells the time but what day of the month it is.
“By Jove! How long did we sleep? In other words, what’s happened?”
“It sounds to me like a fanfare of the Carabinieri,” says Signor Bergamini. “Nice trumpets.”
“It’s the ‘Triumphal March’ from Aida,” Delfina corrects him,
“I once met a lady in Treviso named Aida. She ran a trattoria and was quite a good cook. By the way, aren’t you hungry? What’s for lunch today?”
“Signor Bergamini, you still don’t understand the situation. And to tell the truth, neither do I. Let’s see if we can find someone to explain it to us.”
In full agreement, they all go downstairs and walk into the big front hall of the villa just in time to see the door flung open and a crowd pour in, shouting festively. There are policemen and town constables.
“Heavens,” whispers Signora Merlo, “you don’t think they’re here to arrest us, do you?”
Signor Giacomini says, “I’m not saying a word without my lawyer.”
Signora Zanzi proclaims, “I don’t know a thing. I was sleeping.”
“What, And I suppose we weren’t?”
“How would I know? When I sleep, I don’t look around to see what everyone else is doing.”
Here comes Signor Anselmo, cheerful as a cricket. He runs up to Delfina and gives her a hug, bumping her with his umbrella.
“My dear, dear Signorina Delfina, this is the most wonderful day of my life.”
“So we’re not fired on the spot?”
“Forget about that! You’re all rehired on the spot. In fact, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if His Lordship the Baron, in celebration of the event, didn’t give you a raise.”
“Just a minute. His Lordship isn’t dead?”
“Lord Lamberto is more alive than ever.”
“And the note?”
“As if it had never been written.”
“Then let’s go back upstairs,” Signor Bergamini suggests. “Is lunch ready yet?”
“Not so fast,” says Delfina, “I want a clear picture of what’s going on here.”
“Why a picture?” asks Anselmo, with great contentment. “You can see the baron himself, coming through the front door.”
Baron Lamberto is entering the villa, to great applause. He’s smiling, as brisk and fresh as a spring morning. All six stare at him, eyes wide open. That’s the baron? What ever happened to the old gentleman with wrinkled parchment for skin, so like a tortoise, that they met a few months ago, when they were hired?
They remember him clearly, the faltering ancient, with his thin reedy voice that was always on the verge of cracking … As he told them, supporting his weight on two canes with solid-gold pommels, turning his little eyes peeping out from beneath the cascade of eyelids: “Pay close attention, my name must be pronounced clearly … Don’t shout it … don’t whisper it … don’t sing it … Give every syllable its proper emphasis … Shall we give it a try, first all together and then one at a time … Ready? Go … Lamberto, Lamberto, Lamberto.”
“How young he looks,” observes Signora Zanzi.
“He really looks like another person,” adds Signor Armando.
Delfina is looking increasingly grim. She does not smile even when the baron bows low to bestow a kiss on her hand, saying:
“May I say that you are lovelier every time I see you?”
“It strikes me,” says Delfina seriously, “that at this point you owe us an explanation, not flattery. We have even been accused of causing your death.”
“A temporary death,” the baron smiles, “nothing serious.”
“So much the better for you,” says Delfina “but now it’s time for you to tell us everything you neglected to tell us last time.”
“You want to know too much,” the baron sighs. “What if I doubled your pay?”
Signora Zanzi has already opened her mouth to thank the baron profusely, but Delfina is too fast for her: “We want to know the reason for the work we do. What it’s for. What it produces. What it has to do with your life and your death.”
The baron sighs again. Signor Anselmo, scandalized at Delfina’s behavior, tries to interfere, but the baron prevents him.
“Now, now, Anselmo,” he says. “Signorina Delfina has a valid point. She’s not only lovely, she’s very intelligent. I would like to know if the others are in agreement with her …”
The others look at the floor, sighing. They don’t know exactly what they should say. But they can’t go against Delfina.
“All right,” the baron concedes. “I’ll tell you everything.”
But for the moment, he can’t say a thing because the twenty-four managing directors of his banks are arriving, followed by their twenty-four personal secretaries, carrying their briefcases. They march along three by three, with a military gait, determined to see the baron face to face and up close. The crowd parts to let them through. They surround the baron with a menacing air. The managing director of the Lamberto Bank of Singapore, who is the senior member of the group and is authorized to speak for the others, says: “Sir, could we speak in private?”
The baron looks at the bankers, one by one, in surprise. They seem less than pleased at his rebirth. Why ever not?
“Anselmo,” he says, “accompany Signorina Delfina and her friends up to the attic. I’ll join them there in a moment. To all the other ladies and gentlemen, my sincerest gratitude and my cordial wish that we may meet again. As you can see, I have a business meeting … Very well, we’re alone now. That is, there are only forty-nine of us. Who wishes to speak?”
“I do,” says the managing director from Singapore.
“Be my guest.”
“I’ll be brief. In fact, I’ll be inquisitive. Why do you happen to have two ears?”
“I believe I have every right. Even cats have two ears.”
“Then whose ear was it that the bandits delivered to us?”
“Mine.”
“In that case, you had three ears, not two.”
“Let me tell you …”
“Show us your hands, please,” the managing director interrupts him.
The baron complies with the request, taking a look himself. Look at that! The amputated finger has grown back completely, in its proper place as if nothing had happened.
“Why do you happen to have ten fingers?”
“And just how many fingers do you have? And the other gentlemen, how many do they have? And how many fingers does the Pope in Rome have?”
“Leave His Holiness out of this. You are an impostor!”
“I have to admit,” Baron Lamberto acknowledges with a smile, “that the facts are somewhat peculiar and unusual.”
“And you are right to do so,” the managing director from Singapore interrupts him again. “As for us, we refuse to recognize you as Baron Lamberto, owner and chairman of the banks that we represent.”
“Then who do you think I am?”
“That’s your business, my good sir. Your identity documents are of no interest to us. And you will answer to the police for the disappearance of Baron Lamberto.”
“Hear, hear,” cry the other twenty-four managing directors in chorus.
The twenty-four personal secretaries hasten to take note of this important retort.
Baron Lamberto smiles. Not at the retort, nor at the threat to bring the police into the matter. Something has just occurred to him. And that’s what’s making him smile.
“Gentlemen,” he says, leaping to his feet and hurrying toward the staircase, “I’m sure you’ll be kind enough to wait here for a minute or two. I just remembered something of crucial importance. While you’re waiting, I’ll ask my
butler to provide you with refreshments.”
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
“Where are you going? Come back here!”
“Stop that impostor!”
Twenty-four plus twenty-four indignant men in suits chase after Baron Lamberto, shouting as they go, while he gallops up the stairs, taking them three at a time, throws open the door to the attic, rushes up to the small knot of coworkers waiting there, and cries: “Signorina Delfina, would you like to marry me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I asked you if you’d like to marry me. Wouldn’t that be simply magnificent? It occurred to me just now, as I was having a discussion with these gentlemen. Since the day I met you, my heart beats only for you, my eyes see nothing but your green eyes and your red hair. I sense that we were made for one another and that we’ll live happily and contentedly forever after.”
Signora Zanzi and Signora Merlo embrace joyfully, saying that they’d long expected this. Signor Armando is shocked, because to tell the truth he’s been having warm thoughts of his own about Signorina Delfina. Signor Bergamini and Signor Giacomini clap their hands and venture a little light raillery:
“Is that the sound of wedding bells?”
“Long live Baroness Delfina!”
“Just a moment,” says Delfina, maintaining her composure, “I haven’t yet expressed my opinion.”
“Just say yes, Delfina,” the baron insists, “and this will be the most wonderful day of my life.”
“But my answer is no.”
General consternation, exclamations, and a round of comments: “Well, that’s one way to lose a fortune!”; “Now, look at that, a baron’s not good enough for her, maybe she wants Prince Charming!”; “Why, that’s just bad manners, to say no to such a proper gentleman!”
“Is that a ‘no’ no, or a ‘maybe’ no, or a ‘wait-and-see’ no, or even a ‘let’s-let-a-little-time-go-by’ no?” the baron pushes. “Leave me just a little hope. At least tell me it’s a tentative no.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. For the moment, the last thing in my mind is marriage.”
“And what’s the first thing in your mind?” asks Signor Armando.
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