PRAISE FOR
MAVIS GALLANT’S FICTION:
“One of Canada’s best short-story writers.”
– Edmonton Journal
“Gallant achieves the extraordinarily difficult task of capturing a world and a way of thinking in these little masterpieces.… She is something of a magician: one can watch closely, but in the end her stories defy our rational senses, and the result is a type of literary magic.”
– New Brunswick Reader
“When so many others are forgotten, Gallant will be there.”
– Globe and Mail
“Reading any one of Mavis Gallant’s stories is like viewing the entire universe through an electron microscope; in her hands fiction seems infinitely flexible and capacious. And all the complexity of insight, the breadth of understanding, the density of thought and intensity of feeling are delivered with thrilling charm, a thrilling lightness of touch.”
– Deborah Eisenberg
“One of the best that ever came out of this country.”
– Morley Callaghan
BOOKS BY MAVIS GALLANT
DRAMA
What Is to Be Done? (1983)
ESSAYS
Paris Notebooks: Essays and Reviews (1986)
FICTION
The Other Paris (stories, 1956)
Green Water, Green Sky (novel, 1959)
My Heart Is Broken (stories, 1964)
A Fairly Good Time (novel, 1970)
The Pegnitz Junction (stories, 1973)
The End of the World (stories, 1974)
From the Fifteenth District (stories, 1979)
Home Truths (stories, 1981)
Overhead in a Balloon (stories, 1985)
In Transit (stories, 1988)
Across the Bridge (stories, 1993)
The Moslem Wife (stories, 1994)
The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant (stories, 1996)
Copyright © 1973, 1974, 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978, 1979 by Mavis Gallant
First published by Macmillan of Canada, 1979
First Emblem Editions publication 2001
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Gallant, Mavis, 1922-
From the Fifteenth District
eISBN: 978-1-55199-627-1
I. Title.
PS8513.A593F76 2001 C813′.54 C2001-900791-4
PR9199.3.G35F76 2001
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.
All of the stories in this book originally appeared in The New Yorker.
SERIES EDITOR: ELLEN SELIGMAN
EMBLEM EDITIONS
McClelland & Stewart Ltd.
75 Sherbourne Street
Toronto, Ontario
M5A 2P9
www.mcclelland.com/emblem
v3.1
To H.T.
CONTENTS
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Four Seasons
The Moslem Wife
The Remission
The Latehomecomer
Baum, Gabriel, 1935–( )
From the Fifteenth District
Potter
His Mother
Irina
About the Author
The Four Seasons
I
The school Carmela attended for much of six years was founded by Dr. Barnes, a foreigner who had no better use for his money. It had two classrooms, with varnished desks nailed to the floor, and steel lockers imported from England, and a playing field in which stray dogs collected. A sepia picture of the founder reading a book hung near a likeness of Mussolini. The two frames were identical, which showed the importance of Dr. Barnes – at least in Castel Vittorio. Over their heads the King rode horseback, wearing all his medals. To one side, somewhat adrift on the same wall, was the Sacred Heart. After Carmela was twelve and too old to bother with school anymore, she forgot all the history and geography she’d learned, but she remembered the men in their brown frames, and Jesus with His heart on fire. She left home that year, just after Easter, and came down to the Ligurian coast between Ventimiglia and Bordighera. She was to live with Mr. and Mrs. Unwin now, to cook and clean and take care of their twin daughters. Tessa and Clare were the children’s names; Carmela pronounced them easily. The Unwins owned a small printing press, and as there was a large Anglo-American colony in that part of the world they never lacked for trade. They furnished letterhead stationery, circulars, and announcements for libraries, consulates, Anglican churches, and the British Legion – some printed, some run off the mimeograph machine. Mr. Unwin was also a part-time real-estate agent. They lived in a villa on top of a bald hill. Because of a chronic water shortage, nothing would grow except cactus. An electric pump would have helped the matter, but the Unwins were too poor to have one put in. Mrs. Unwin worked with her husband in the printing office when she felt well enough. She was the victim of fierce headaches caused by pollen, sunshine, and strong perfumes. The Unwins had had a cook, a char, and a nanny for the children, but when Carmela joined the household they dismissed the last of the three; the first two had been gone for over a year now. From the kitchen one could look down a slope into a garden where flowering trees and shrubs sent gusts of scent across to torment Mrs. Unwin, and leaves and petals to litter her cactus bed. An American woman called “the Marchesa” lived there. Mrs. Unwin thought of her as an enemy – someone who deliberately grew flowers for the discomfort they created.
Carmela had never been anywhere except her own village and this house, but Mrs. Unwin had no way of knowing that. She pressed a cracked black change purse in Carmela’s hand and sent her down the hill to the local market to fetch carrots and not over a pound of the cheapest stewing beef. Carmela saw walled villas, and a clinic with a windbreak of cypress trees and ochre walls and black licorice balconies. Near the shore, work had stopped on some new houses. One could look through them, where windows were still holes in the walls, and catch a glimpse of the sea. She heard someone comment in an Italian more precious than her own, “Hideous. I hope they fall down on top of the builder. Unwin put money in it, too, but he’s bankrupt.” The woman who made these remarks was sitting under the pale-blue awning of a café so splendid that Carmela felt bound to look the other way. She caught, like her flash of the sea, small round tables and colored ices in silver dishes. All at once she recognized a chauffeur in uniform leaning with his back to a speckless motorcar. He was from Castel Vittorio. He gave no sign that he knew Carmela. Her real life was beginning now, and she never doubted its meaning. Among the powerful and the strange she would be mute and watchful. She would swim like a little fish, and learn to breathe under water.
At the beginning, she did not always understand what was said, or what Mrs. Unwin expected. When Mrs. Unwin remarked, “The chestnut trees flower beautifully up where you come from, though, of course, the blossoms are death for me,” Carmela stopped peeling vegetables for the English stew Mrs. Unwin was showing her how
to make and waited for something more. “What have I said now to startle you?” said Mrs. Unwin. “You’re like a little sparrow!” Carmela still waited, glancing sidelong, hair cut unevenly and pushed behind her ears. She wore a grey skirt, a cotton blouse, and sandals. A limp black cardigan hung on her shoulders. She did not own stockings, shoes, a change of underwear, a dressing gown, or a coat, but she had a medal on a chain, an inheritance from a Sicilian grandmother – the grandmother from whom she had her southern name. Mrs. Unwin had already examined Carmela’s ears to see if the lobes were pierced. She couldn’t stand that – the vanity of it, and the mutilation. Letting Carmela’s ears go, she had said to her husband, “Good. Mussolini is getting rid of most of that. All but the medals.”
“Have I pronounced ‘chestnut’ in some peculiar way? My Italian can’t be that bad.” She got a little green dictionary out of the pocket of her smock and ruffled its pages. She had to tilt her head and close an eye because of the cigarette she kept in her mouth. “I don’t mean horse chestnuts,” she said, the cigarette waving. “How very funny that is in Italian, by the way. I mean the Spanish chestnuts. They flower late in the season, I believe.”
“Every flower has its season,” said the child.
Carmela believed this conversation to have a malignant intent she could not yet perceive. The mixture of English and unstressed Italian was virtually impossible for her to follow. She had never seen a woman smoking until now.
“But your family are up the Nervia Valley?” Mrs. Unwin insisted. “Your father, your mother, your sisters and your cousins and your aunts?” She became jocular, therefore terrifying. “Maria, Liliana, Ignazio, Francamaria …” The names of remembered servants ran out.
“I think so,” said Carmela.
Her mother had come down to Bordighera to work in the laundry room of a large hotel. Her little brother had been apprenticed to a stonemason. Her father was dead, perhaps. The black and the grey she wore were half-mourning.
“Mussolini is trying to get away from those oversized families,” said Mrs. Unwin with confidence. She sat on a high stool, arranging flowers in a copper bowl. She squashed her cigarette suddenly and drank out of a teacup. She seemed to Carmela unnaturally tall. Her hands were stained, freckled, old, but she was the mother of Tessa and Clare, who were under three and still called “the babies.” The white roses she was stabbing onto something cruel and spiked had been brought to the kitchen door by the chauffeur from Castel Vittorio. This time he had given Carmela a diffident nod.
“Do you know him?” said Mrs. Unwin instantly.
“I think I saw him in the town,” said Carmela.
“Now, that is deceitful,” said Mrs. Unwin, though without reproach. “He knows who you are, because he vouched for your whole family. ‘Hard-working, sober, the pride of the Nervia Valley.’ I hope there is to be none of that,” she added, in another voice. “You know what I mean. Men, giggling, chatting men up in the doorway, long telephone calls.”
The white roses were a peace offering: a dog belonging to the next-door neighbor had torn up something precious in the Unwins’ garden. Mrs. Unwin suddenly said that she had no time to stroll out in pink chiffon, wearing a floppy hat and carrying a sprinkling can; no time to hire jazz bands for parties or send shuttlecocks flying over the hedge and then a servant to retrieve them; less time still to have a chauffeur as a lover. Carmela could not get the drift of this. She felt accused.
“I don’t know, Signora,” she said, as though some yes-or-no answer had been required point-blank.
Where the roses had come from everything was white, green, lavish, sweet-smelling. Plants Carmela could not have put a name to bent over with the weight of their blooms. She could faintly hear a radio. All of that belonged to the Marchesa. She was the one who had said, “Hideous.”
Pollen carried on the wind from the Marchesa’s garden felled Mrs. Unwin in May. She was also assaulted by a large tree-like shrub on the Marchesa’s side called a datura; some of its bell-like creamy flowers hung over the cactus patch. Their scent, stronger than jasmine, was poison to Mrs. Unwin’s nervous system. From her darkened room she sent for Carmela. She opened a leather box with a little key and showed her a sapphire set in diamonds and a loose emerald. She told Carmela the names of the stones and said, “I do not believe in hiding. I am telling you where they are and that the key is in my handkerchief case.” Again Carmela felt she had been accused.
The babies sat on their mother’s bed meanwhile. They were placid, sleepy children with yellow hair Carmela enjoyed brushing; only one thing was tiring about them – they were too lazy to walk. One or the other had to be carried by Carmela, hooked like a little monkey above her left hip. She began to stand with her spine slightly bent to one side, as a habit. What she remembered of that spring was the weight of Clare or Tessa pulling her shoulder down, and that she was always hungry. Carmela had never known people to eat so little as the Unwins, not even among the poor. They shared a thin cutlet for lunch, or the vegetable remains of a stew, or had an egg apiece or a bit of cooked ham. The children’s food and Carmela’s was hardly more abundant. Mrs. Unwin did not mean to undernourish her own children; she sincerely believed that very little was enough. Also, meat was expensive. Fruit was expensive. So were cheese, butter, coffee, milk, and bread. The Unwins were pinched for money. They had a house, a printing establishment, furniture, a garden, a car, and they had Carmela, but they had nothing to spend. The drawing-room carpet was scuffed and torn, and the wine-red wallpaper displayed peony-shaped stains of paler dampmold. Mrs. Unwin counted out the coins she gave Carmela for shopping, and she counted the change.
On Fridays the Unwins would send Carmela across to France, where a few things, such as chocolate and bananas, were cheaper. That was not the only reason; it seemed that vegetables grown in Italy gave one typhoid fever. Carmela rode in a bus to within a few yards of the border, walked over (the customs men on both sides came to know her), and took a narrow road downhill to an avenue along the sea. She went as far as the marketplace, never beyond it. She always brought back a loaf of French bread, because it was one of the few things Mr. Unwin could eat with any pleasure. His chronically poor appetite was one of the reasons so little food came into the house. Carmela would break off one end of the loaf to eat on the spot. Then she would break off the other end, to make the loaf symmetrical, but she always kept that crust for later.
Carmela had two other reasons to be anxious that spring. One had to do with the room she slept in; the other was the sea. Although she had spent her life not many miles from the sea, it made her uneasy to be so close to it. At night she heard great waves knock against the foundations of the town. She dreamed of being engulfed, of seeking refuge on rooftops. Within the dream her death seemed inevitable. In the garden, coaxing the twins to walk, she said to the chauffeur from Castel Vittorio, “What happens when the sea comes out?”
In his shirtsleeves, walking the Marchesa’s dogs on the road outside, he stopped and laughed at Carmela. “What do you mean, ‘out’?”
“Out, up,” said Carmela. “Up out of where it is now.”
“It doesn’t come up or out,” he said. “It stays where it is.”
“What is there where we can’t see?”
“More water,” he said. “Then Africa.”
Carmela crossed herself – not out of a more ample fear but for the sake of her father, who had probably died there. He had been conscripted for a war and had never come back. There had been no word, no telegram, no congratulations from Mussolini, and of course no pension.
As for her room, it was off the pantry, almost higher than long, with a tiled floor and a good view, if one wanted that. Someone had died there – a relative of Mrs. Unwin’s; he had come for a long visit and had been found on the tiles with an electric bell switch in his hand.
“A peaceful death,” said Mrs. Unwin, utterly calmly, talking as if Carmela would need to know the history of the place. “Not even time to ring.”
; The old man’s heart was delicate; he could not climb stairs. Who would have heard the bell? It rang somewhere in the passage. The servants they’d kept in those days slept out, and the Unwins took sleeping draughts, yellow and green, prepared in the kitchen and carried up to bed. Carmela felt the sad presence of the poor relation who had come ailing to a good climate and had been put in the meanest room; who had choked, panicked, grabbed for the bell, and fallen on it. The chauffeur from Castel Vittorio had still another version: this house had belonged to the old man. The Unwins had promised to look after him in his lifetime in exchange for the property. But so many debts had come with it that they could not raise any money on it. They were the next thing to paupers, and were known along the coast more or, less as steady defaulters.
The chauffeur had often seen the uncle’s ghost walking to and fro in the garden, and Carmela herself was often to hear the thud as his body fell between her bed and the door. Under the bed – as beneath any bed that she knew of – was a devil, or a demon, waiting to catch her. Not for a fortune would she have sat on the edge of the bed with her feet dangling. At night she burrowed beneath the bedclothes with a mole tunnel left for breathing. She made sure that every strand of hair was tucked out of sight.
Mornings were tender – first pink, then pearl, then blue. The house was quiet, the twins were awake and smiling. From their upstairs window the sea was a silken cushion. White sails floated – feathers. The breeze that came in was a friendly presence and the fragrance of the Marchesa’s garden an extra gift. After a time Carmela’s phantoms were stilled. The softness of that June lulled them. The uncle slept peacefully somewhere, and the devil under the bed became too drowsy to stretch out his hand.
II
Late in June, Carmela’s little brother ran away from the stonemason and came to the kitchen door. His blond hair was dark with sweat and dirt and his face streaked with it. She gave him a piece of bread she had saved from a French loaf, and a cup of the children’s milk out of the icebox. The larder was padlocked; Mrs. Unwin would be along to open it before teatime. Just as Carmela was rinsing the cup she heard, “Who is that, Carmela?” It was Mr., thank God, not Mrs.
From the Fifteenth District Page 1