Black Mountain

by Venero Armanno

  The howling in the great Amati manor that the workers had never forgotten, the setting of fires, that had been the work of the true Domenico Amati – but the man who’d sold the property and who I’d found babbling in the mountains, scratching and kicking at the earth, that was my master.

  ‘But we are ourselves,’ I said with what I hoped was a new conviction. I was the image of no one. I was Cesare Montenero, exactly who I wanted to be.

  ‘Yes. And so they failed,’ Domenico agreed. ‘The important thing for people like you and me is that living prototypes had been sent out into the world before the project collapsed. I was one and there must have been more.’

  ‘I wasn’t sent. I know I was discarded.’

  ‘That’s also correct. We can be grateful that the men who were so disappointed with the way we turned out didn’t decide to end the lives they’d given us. They simply let the older ones continue and they set the children free.’

  ‘I wasn’t free.’

  ‘They put you, and boys like you, where you could do no harm. None of us was of any use but they knew that we’d never overburden society.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s another of our shared similarities. We don’t desire sexual activity but more important is the fact that we have no ability to procreate. It’s impossible. So when we die we die, and with the last of us the enterprise becomes a part of history.’

  We fell silent. Despite everything my master had told me the world seemed clearer and somehow less frightening.

  He might have read my thoughts, for Domenico added, ‘We have a future. There are things we can hope for. We all get to live, that’s the gift we’ve been given, despite the dubious intentions of our creators. And like everyone else in the world we carry our own burdens but also our own joys. The potential for our own joys.’ He smiled, his satan’s features softening completely. These were matters he’d considered all his life. ‘If we allow ourselves to go find them, Cesare.’

  The wind had picked up. It found us where we sheltered and whipped at our faces. The chickens pecked and the goats drank and the pigs kept eating. Our three dogs shivered. Back at the house we could hear the shutters rattling. There wasn’t anything else to say and it seemed too cold for more chores, so we returned inside and poked the coals in the grate, then as the dogs drowsily slept we sat together in the yellow shimmer of the fire’s warm glow.

  Red Book

  There was no more talk of the need for me to go away. Domenico must have decided that I now knew enough to make my own choices. On the one hand he wanted me to go find my fortune and life, but on the other hand my presence was pleasing to him. We had no need for others, for new companionships or broader horizons, and so the ensuing months were spent living and working in the sort of tranquillity I still believe few in the outside world can ever achieve.

  Then we returned one afternoon from three days’ riding, hiking and camping, and found a collection of tired and quite emaciated horses tethered at the troughs. The manor’s front door was ajar. Domenico’s features became tight but he rode on as if this was an everyday occurrence.

  ‘Keep going,’ he said quietly, betraying no outward concern. ‘When we get to the courtyard ride around to the back of the house. Get yourself the handgun and fresh ammunition for the both of us. Have everything ready.’

  There were six horses. I wondered if six men were inside and how we’d protect ourselves if these individuals were after more than water and a camp site. Visitors were acceptable, but the open front door was the problem. We did our best to continue displaying no reaction. Eyes were probably already on us. Where were the dogs? Now I wished that we’d brought them with us, but we’d been riding into rough terrain to see the new waterfalls and rock pools formed after a full ten days of storms.

  Now here were these dusty horses, and the dogs didn’t greet us, and the grounds of the villa were silent.

  As we approached Domenico drew his rifle out of its leather scabbard. It wasn’t the bulky army rifle that had killed Salvatore and Gino, but his usual .22. Something about that resonated in the back of my mind, and if the situation had been different perhaps an important truth would have struck me right there and then – but of course there were more pressing matters at hand.

  The only weapon I had with me was a small axe used for chopping fire wood. Domenico leaned toward me. ‘Go now,’ he said, but two gunshots rang out and clods of earth jumped up in front of our horses. They reared back and we fought the reins to keep them straight.

  Then a booming voice: ‘Throw down the rifle and dismount.’

  Domenico whispered, ‘Let’s be smart,’ and dropped the rifle. I noticed he made sure it didn’t fall too far away from himself.

  The owner of the voice was no fool: ‘Ride ahead twenty-five metres.’

  We had no choice but to do what he said, then we slowly climbed out of our saddles. Our horses were parched from riding, so I led them by their reins to the trough where they could drink with the others. As I did this I waited for the explosion of white light that would repay such foolishness. It didn’t come. I returned to Don Domenico standing unprotected in the courtyard. Four men decided it was safe to emerge from our home, then two more walked over from the direction of the barns. All of them were armed.

  The leader was the thinnest and the tallest, and I had a vague memory of him working on the Amati property. Some field hand. Then I remembered; this was Giacomo, one of the first to lose his temper the night Domenico had told everyone on the Amati property that the place had been sold.

  ‘We’re sorry for the dogs,’ he said. ‘They wouldn’t let us alone.’

  I spat at him, mostly hitting the side of his dirty and unshaved face.

  Giacomo didn’t retaliate at me directly but flicked his fingers at his men, and they shot our horses where they stood. Estella’s head whipped once and she was still, and Esperanto twitched and kicked through another three slugs in the head. By then I was screaming and being held down in the dust on my knees, and Domenico, far from transforming into the decisive hero he’d been on the mountain when he rescued me, started to froth at the mouth, to shake, his eyes bulging.

  ‘Amati lunatic,’ Giacomo said. He stepped forward and shot Domenico point-blank twice in the chest, his body blowing backwards. Then he turned the smoking muzzle to my forehead. ‘Lucky I remember what a good worker you were. But you shouldn’t let yourself be a servant to scum like this. Leave this bastard die and come with us.’

  The men holding me let go and I scurried across the dirt to cradle Domenico in my arms. Flies had already found the bloody rents in his shirt and coat. Blood bubbled from the wounds.

  These thin, sunburned, half-starved criminals took everything they could from the house and split the booty. There was plenty of cash and silver and pearl. They wheeled out Domenico’s automobile from the barn and destroyed the engine and tyres, then smashed the wheels of the truck and buggy. They’d already filled their bellies with all the food and wine and milk they could, and their packs were replenished with foodstuffs they’d stolen, not to mention the salted meat of our pigs and goats, which they’d slaughtered and prepared in our absence.

  As they were leaving, Giacomo circled me on his horse. ‘His family took everything from us then this bastard sold us like chickens and whores. And look at you holding him, faithful little puppy dog.’

  For a second time he chose not to shoot me.

  By nightfall my hands and the instruments I’d used were covered in blood, but the slugs were intact and drying on a small porcelain plate. Domenico was unconscious and breathing. I used a lot of clean gauze to pad down the wound and wrapped his chest in bandages. Help was a good two days’ walk away. I didn’t know if this impromptu operation would save my master, kill him or make no difference at all. At least, following the books and encyclopaedias I’d tried to absorb
like air, I hadn’t cut a major artery. He hadn’t died in my hands. In the bedroom where I’d laid him down I kept listening to the slow rhythm of his breath.

  My master’s hair was awry and his colour was milky white, and to my surprise he came awake. It was the most unnatural awakening I could imagine. His eyes were abnormally wide and his pupils large and round. He barely blinked. When he focussed on me he pulled down my face and kissed me on both cheeks. His breath had an odour like sulphur.

  ‘How do you feel?’ I managed to ask.

  ‘I don’t feel anything,’ he whispered and made himself sit upright. It was like watching a corpse rise. Then he fell back and slept.

  Hours later, with the glimmering of dawn, my head jerked up.

  Domenico was propped on both elbows gazing out the window. His eyes still had that strange quality to them. His face was no longer pale-white; it had darkened considerably.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Those women are beautiful,’ he whispered. The staleness of his breath carried – I can’t quite explain – a sort of absence of life, as if he was already quite dead.

  I followed the line of his sight, which took in the grey-blue above the ridges of the distant mountains.

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘I wish I’d been able to have more women,’ he said. I felt his hand. It was neither hot nor cold. The pulse at his wrist was slow. ‘Like the ones up there.’

  ‘What can you tell me about them?’ I asked, loosening the main bandage around his chest. The gauze underneath was bloody but seemed clean enough. There was no odour that equated to poison.

  ‘They must live by cratere centrale. But don’t tell anyone. If any of these peasants around here found out about a marvel like that they’d go spoil everything.’

  ‘You’ve seen them often?’

  ‘Not really . . . only when the smoke rings are in the sky . . .’

  He slept and dreamed again. Somehow he wasn’t in pain.

  There were no narcotics or anaesthetic in the villa, but Domenico seemed to be experiencing some kind of bodily numbness. Or maybe the lack of hurting had something to do with what we were. Domenico slept peacefully for several hours and whenever I closed my eyes I felt as if I was falling from a high place.

  In the evening he was looking at me with those abnormally bright eyes. Their expression was beginning to unnerve me. In a voice no stronger than it had been in the morning he said, ‘He protected you.’

  ‘The spirit.’

  ‘He did very well,’ Domenico nodded. ‘He’ll stay with you now.’

  I forced myself not to look over my shoulder.

  Domenico said without breath, ‘Can you help me into the study?’

  I didn’t want to move him, but it was what he wanted and so I helped him walk carefully through the rooms. I settled him into his big couch. He lay sideways, propped up with pillows, his legs stretched in front of him. The way he lay like that made it look as if he was ready to take up his blank pages and start writing again. He was happier in this room, but his face had turned almost black and his torso and arms were livid, as if all the dark blood had pushed its way to the surface and had stopped moving. Only his ankles and feet still remained white as plates.

  Then he spoke, again without any wind to drive his words.

  ‘Before I was conscripted I used prostitutes . . . a few times . . . maybe six or seven in total. Then one more time in a northern town . . . before we were sent to Isonzo. There was a queue of fifty men . . . all of us ready to use one of the three women. I waited . . . mine turned out to be sixteen, seventeen. She was nearly worn out but managed to be pleasant and sympathetic. I tried not to take very long . . . as I was leaving I told her, “This will be my last time.” She thought I meant that I expected to be killed in the battlefields . . . and so she gave me a long and very sincere kiss. The kiss meant more than the coitus. I don’t forget it . . . what I’d meant to tell her was that our transaction had given me less pleasure than it did her . . . it was something I didn’t have any more need for. That’s the way it’s been . . .’

  I wondered why he was telling me this now.

  ‘It was a mistake . . . I should have found a way. Don’t be as cold as me, Cesare . . . the coldness turns in on itself.’

  ‘If that’s what you think is best.’

  He nodded. While he’d been talking his dark face had developed a sheen of moisture. I’d read accounts of men killed in battlefields, beyond the trenches where their friends couldn’t reach for the sniper fire. Over the days that passed those helpless soldiers reported seeing their fellows’ dead faces turning white, then yellow, then purplish-black, then becoming wet as if sweating. Domenico’s flesh was proceeding in exactly the same way, except that he wasn’t dead.

  It was hard to keep looking at him; he had the manner of an animated corpse, and deep inside I couldn’t help shuddering at the horror of what I witnessed. This wasn’t a human occurrence; it was part of what we were.

  ‘I’ll sleep in a minute,’ he breathed, ‘but if you could help me . . .’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The title page of our manuscript. And something to write with.’

  The pile of pages was arranged on his desk. We’d had so many other things to do that I’d neglected to finish my work with it. I took the first page and placed it on his lap with a firm ledger beneath it, then dipped his stylo into the blue ink well.

  He scratched out Sulphur and very carefully wrote a new title: God is a Young Man, then added the author. It wasn’t his name or our two names together but mine on its own.

  ‘The man who shot me . . . Giacomo. He was right. The Amatis were – what they were. Their name should fade. Disappear from memories and this world forever . . .’

  ‘But this is your book, not mine..’

  ‘Not anymore,’ he said with as decisive a shake of his head as he could muster. ‘One hand passes on to the next, Cesare. Isn’t that the way we renew ourselves?’

  ‘And the title?’

  ‘They bred us for hatred. For the worst of what’s inside humankind. But whenever I look at you, Cesare, I see what God meant everyone to be, in the first days . . .’

  He closed his eyes and his fingers tried to push the page toward me. I took it from him and eased the pen out of his fingers.

  ‘There’s a lot of money,’ he started to say, eyes still closed, ‘just waiting . . .’

  I thought he’d sleep, but as I arranged his pillows he was looking at me again. And smiling. Finally there was some life in his eyes and a little more breath to drive his words.

  ‘In that cabinet, a long thin bottle. If I could have a glass, and something alive on the phonogram.’

  I chose the Rites of Spring then found the bottle in question. Vodka. I poured his drink. Domenico seemed quite his old self and finished it in two deep draughts. As he savoured the taste he looked around and said, ‘We’re far from alone.’ I poured him some more, and he laid his head back and closed his eyes and died so peacefully that the glass was still loosely clutched in his hand, a few drops still in it.

  I stumbled outside and tried to make myself busy, burying my dogs and the pathetic remains of the pigs and goats. I couldn’t imagine what to do with the fly-strewn horses.

  Domenico left no will and the state seized his property. I had no official role or place in the Amati world so the authorities gave me five days to vacate the premises. I filled a pack with all his wads of handwritten pages, my new ones, and left with nothing else other than a few bundles of clothes. At first I was lost, but then a single sentence sprang to mind and impelled me toward the long road again: I’m sorry to leave you, but maybe one day you’ll want to come visit me in Catania.

  Signora Rosa Bortolotti welcomed me more warmly than I could have expected. Of course I should have c
ome to her; of course I had to stay. She’d heard about Domenico’s death and had been pestering every government agency she could reach for the whereabouts of the boy who’d lived with him.

  She gave me a room. Her sons were grown now, and in this city house she lived alone. Her husband had passed away after an accident that involved too much alcohol – his worst failing, she said.

  Signora Rosa wasn’t a lonely widow. Her sons might have been overseas, but in Catania everyone was her friend and people were always dropping in for coffee or long sojourns at her dinner table. Soon visitors came to understand that Rosa’s lodger didn’t like company. I would remain upstairs doing the only thing that gave me satisfaction: finishing the work on the manuscript, my way to keep Domenico in my mind. When it was done I asked Rosa about other manuscripts, the ones Domenico had told me he’d given her to read. Shamefaced, she took four thick-bound piles of paper out of a bureau and told me she hadn’t been able to read them.

  ‘But why, if he wanted you to?’

  ‘Domenico was as much a son to me as my three boys, and to read the secret thoughts in his head . . .’

  ‘I understand.’ I hesitated. ‘I’ve finished working on one we were making together.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  In the bedroom she sat at my desk, carefully turning pages. Then she took in the title page and my name inscribed in Domenico’s hand.

  ‘That’s the problem,’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘Your name belongs there and to do anything else goes against Domenico’s wishes. Do you know what a typing machine is?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but I’ve never used one.’

  ‘You won’t have to.’

  She took the manuscript of God is a Young Man and over the next three weeks carefully typed it up on her machine for me. She politely refused her usual visitors. Pages on which she made mistakes she simply tore up and typed again.