Black Mountain

by Venero Armanno

  Then one particularly cold night, the creature came to me and I saw what Domenico saw all his life. The fire was embers and I’d been sleeping restlessly, and when I opened my eyes it was standing back several steps shaking and quivering. It wasn’t facing me, and it drew no comfort from what was left of the fire. At first I lay where I was as if in some waking dream. Maybe this wasn’t a creature but a man made eerie by a trick of the light. I rubbed my eyes and sat up. It sensed my movement and turned toward me.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Of course it couldn’t answer.

  Mist seemed to melt out of the rock walls. Thunder skittered and I unwrapped myself from my blankets and went to the thing and draped the warmest covering I had over its shoulders. The individual was as milky white as Doctor Vliegan’s sad creature had been and just as blank, just as featureless, but it had two arms, and something else that the other one had lacked.

  The creature wasn’t cold at all. It shook from the rage that flowed from its body like magnetic waves.

  Thunder neighed, unsettled. I had to sit down. Those waves caused a nausea that ran from my belly to my face. My temples throbbed. The good meal I’d made myself before sleep came up in one violent spasm. I coughed and looked at the creature and it was Domenico. A hand seemed to blot out my vision and when I looked again it wasn’t the creature or Domenico or even Doctor Vliegan. It was me. My face, my body, and still with such fury. I looked at myself and saw that in the throes of this anger I was capable of destroying men, women, untold lives.

  Then I was wrapped in my blankets and Thunder was quiet and the embers created a friendly glow in the cavern. The dream was a warning: I knew now what Domenico had been seeing and what the nature of his so-called spirit guide and protector had been. It was no guardian.

  It was himself, the horror of what had been done to us embodied in a terrible vision. It was rage. It was what had been bred into him and what he had forced himself to fight every day of his life.

  Domenico had kept it down. My dream told me I had to do the same.

  There was no more sleep that night.

  Soon, everything had to go back, including Thunder. I didn’t mind – the expedition now seemed tainted. By my reckoning we’d been away sixty-six days; the world was well into another year.

  When we rode through the outskirts of Catania a steam train hurtling on its tracks blew its deep throaty whistle. I saw blurred faces at windows. The closer we came to the city the more slowly I proceeded. Thunder sensed my mood and ambled with the gait of an animal that doesn’t want to go where it’s being directed.

  With the increase in the general population and the density of the streets, I thought it better to get out of the saddle and lead Thunder by the reins. He didn’t react to the individuals around him or to the children who simply had to touch and caress him. I tried to keep to quieter streets then, as we passed a small tavern and a smaller bookstore beside it, I stopped in my tracks and collected my thoughts, and went back several steps. The shopfront window was full of books, but it was only one title in multiples, and there was a discrete banner attached to the window’s glass and it said one word: Sensation.

  I didn’t want to tether Thunder and leave him unattended, so I tapped on the bookshop’s glass door until a dapper man opened it to see what I wanted. He had brilliantined hair and a small moustache.

  ‘We are open for business if you’d care to come in.’

  ‘This book,’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’ He surveyed his display. ‘It arrived last week and I put it out immediately. As the banner reads, it’s something special. Would the gentleman like to examine a copy?’

  My book had a grey-black cover with the title and my name and a line from a northern newspaper: ‘. . . the writer has created nothing less than the sensation of the season.’

  It was difficult to leave Thunder behind, but after I’d settled matters with the stable manager I walked to the relative of Bruno Pasqua’s house and wondered who’d created this sensation, me or Domenico? Wasn’t I a simple leech feeding off a corpse?

  ‘Cesare!’ Bruno exclaimed as soon as he heard my voice on his cousin’s telephone machine. ‘We thought you’d dropped off the edge of the world! Now listen, the advance reviews are good. I can’t guarantee the public will catch on but we’ve made the best possible start. I hope your travels haven’t worn you out, because we’re going to France, you and me. I’ve got companies in Paris interested. They’ll want to meet you so they can see what they’re getting. Your Italian words translated into French, would you like that?’

  ‘Why do I have to go?’ I asked.

  ‘Sicilianu ca scorcia!’ Bruno Pasqua laughed. ‘I’ll be in touch soon.’

  In Paris we had a number of publishing companies to visit. We could have got this business out of the way in a day or two, but Pasqua scheduled only one meeting per day with a weekend in the middle, and more days off for sightseeing.

  We met up at Milan central station and Bruno Pasqua’s wife and children were on the platform with him. Signora Stella Pasqua was taller than her husband, fine-boned, smooth-skinned, with grey eyes only a little too far the wrong side of tired. In her mid thirties, she was probably fifteen years Bruno’s junior. She turned heads and had a soft lilting voice. Her father had set up the publishing firm, and that was how she’d met Bruno, a southerner brimming with passion for books and life in equal measure.

  Wife and husband had a manner of standing very close, some part of themselves always needing to touch. In those days of formal, even severe, public decorum this was quite something. They seemed so loving it was hard to believe he could feel the need for physical comfort from anyone but her. Heads were also turned by the Pasqua children, who at eleven and six were so beautiful it almost hurt the eyes to gaze upon them. They ran and played when they were allowed to, and when they were told to wait with us they did so without complaint. Stella’s eyes glistened at the final goodbye. Bruno’s voice broke a little when he hugged his children and told them to be good for their mother. The youngest, the girl, cried to see her adored father departing on a train without her.

  In our private cabin, Bruno Pasqua broke out a fresh bottle of whisky as soon as the train set off and all the fluttering handkerchiefs of our fellow travellers, not to mention his own, were stowed away.

  ‘It’s like this whenever I go,’ he said, and we drank up. ‘Leaving. Even when you have to, even when you want to, it never stops hurting. When you’ve got your own family you’ll know what I mean.’

  In the new city a carriage took us to the rue du Roi de Sicile, where Bruno Pasqua kept an apartment. The street name had helped him decide on the purchase, of course. We lugged our bags up six floors, going around and around an ancient spiral staircase.

  His caretaker, Madame Seguin, was waiting for us. By now it was midmorning and she’d opened the curtains, so these rooms were bathed in a sort of gold I wouldn’t have believed possible unless I’d seen it for myself. The effect made you want to touch the arms of the chairs and the flat surfaces of the tables just to see if some of that gold could come into your own person.

  Bruno Pasqua greeted Madame Seguin with kisses on her cheeks and he spoke to her in French. His languages, he told me, included German, Spanish, a little Greek and, of course, English. He’d also dug into the Sicilian language’s roots and could converse at a superficial level in Arabic. He had no interest in learning any Asian languages.

  Madame Seguin was in her sixties and had lost her husband and her son in the war. She had two daughters in Paris. Later, when I noticed she was packing, Bruno told me he’d asked her to go visit one of the daughters for a few days. This seemed to be something of a code between them, one which only took effect when he travelled without his family.

  ‘We can look after ourselves, can’t we? We’ll get along fine, true or not?’

  �
�True,’ I said.

  For this first evening, though, Madame Seguin was staying. Bruno wanted us to eat and then indulge in the famous Parisian noctambulisme, which, he explained, was the pleasant sport of wandering around the streets of the city.

  Madame Seguin served dinner. First came crême of asparagus soup, then what she called coq au vin. He’d either neglected to tell the madame I ate no meat or he’d done so on purpose. I hesitated, the steaming casserole dish in the middle of the table and my portion already served. I drank some wine and felt myself succumbing to the seduction of the scent. Since the day Domenico and I had decided to stop eating living creatures I hadn’t felt any urge for what I was missing, but when I took a small forkful of the madame’s cooking I knew there was no turning back.

  I polished my plate two times over. With a grin, Bruno said, ‘Bienvenu à la France.’

  Madame Seguin cleared away the table and he smoked a cigarette, absently picking tobacco flecks from the tip of his tongue. His cigarettes were Turkish and very strong. When he was finished he went for his coat.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘In this city you don’t need a destination.’

  It was past eleven and I thought this was a ruse; in minutes we would be inside some brothel that would welcome him like a king. It turned out Bruno Pasqua was completely sincere. From rue du Roi de Sicile in Le Marais we walked the quiet streets of the quarter, taking in an area I never suspected I would one day come to know as perfectly as I had known the twisting tunnels in Salvatore’s sulphur mine. We crossed to a major thoroughfare, the rue de Rivoli, and followed it to the enormous square of L’Hôtel de Ville, then followed the Rivoli for a long time, walking just briskly enough to shake off the cobwebs of a long journey and the effects of the whisky and champagne we’d drunk along the way. Place de la Concorde, les Champs-Élysée, l’Arc de Triomphe – I liked the overall sense of peace in the Parisian night. We strolled under and around the great arch, looked at the inscriptions, then headed home via quieter and smaller avenues. It was hard to believe my book might be sold in little stores in these streets and that Parisians might even read it.

  I tried to remember the boy who’d slept on a pallet in rags and who carried sacks of rock on his back through tunnels hot enough to cook human skin. When I had this image I held onto it. There’s so much magic and wonder in the world, I thought, more than I could have imagined, but I didn’t want to let myself be swept away. My bastion was always going to be that small boy I used to be.

  The first publisher we visited was a fool in immaculate clothes, with fat wet lips that seemed to have a life of their own. It was clear that his staff lived in terror of him. Walking through his offices was like walking through a gentrified version of the old mines. Young women worked at typewriters with downcast eyes; they were overseen by a harridan who lacked only a whip. I was uneasy even before we sat down and I fidgeted in my stiff shirt and starched collar.

  His name was Maurice Chaumeil and he spoke no Italian. I sat there dreaming while he and Bruno Pasqua took coffee and smoked thin cheroots that smelled like burning cow manure. The two men seemed to be catching up on family and political matters as much as they were discussing business, and I couldn’t tell if Bruno liked this man or not. Once they started talking about books and new lists, and my work in particular, Bruno translated for me.

  When we were free of his office Bruno said, ‘Thank God that oaf doesn’t want your book, but it would have been bad for business not to go through with the theatre of offering it. He has, unfortunately, some of the best authors in the world.’

  To clear ourselves of an unpleasant encounter we wandered the afternoon away in the Bois du Bologne, among trees and grass and chirruping birdlife. As evening fell, we stopped by a small restaurant and ate a light meal. Something told me we wouldn’t be going straight home; soon Bruno Pasqua took me down so many side streets and turns that I thought I wouldn’t be able to find my own way back to our district.

  We ended up in a busy quarter a long way from my easy central marker, the Seine, and we were in a strip that was as full of people as any city centre at midday. Gaiety was in the air and food sizzled and steamed from vendor’s carts and small pavilions. Here, Bruno Pasqua seemed more at home than ever. Carriages, horses and automobiles competed for space in the narrow streets, and my companion took me by the arm so I wouldn’t be lost in the melee. We ducked down an alley that stank of wine and garbage. I thought we were headed for some miserable place even more stultifying than the office of Maurice Chaumeil, but at a heavy black door Bruno rapped hard and two well-dressed young men greeted him like a long-lost friend, and from behind them out spilled the sounds of an orchestra, a strong female voice singing, and many people laughing and talking.

  We passed on into a place that was ornate, immaculately designed, busy with men and women. The hubbub was astonishing. We left our hats and coats at the check-in and received our receipts. Bruno tipped the three young ladies at the counter. One of them, in what I took to be a negligee, came around from her position and linked her arms with ours. The gossamer material showed the full roundness of her breasts and the red of her nipples, not to mention her bare, stocky legs. I liked the way her hair hung in playful bunches. I thought she was going to spend some time with us but her job was only to pass us on to two slightly older women, who relieved Bruno of a significant wad of cash.

  I heard him say the word ‘Champagne’, and then in a lighter tone ‘Celeste.’ Was he looking for someone? The two women kissed Bruno’s cheeks. We left them and Bruno strode through men milling in good clothes and women in mostly nothing, until we went into a separate grand chamber resembling a ballroom. The chandeliers were bright, and here was where the orchestra played. They made music with real verve, backing a singer who sounded as good as anything I’d heard on Domenico’s old phonogram. Twelve angels in silk danced with the expertise of trained ballerinas. A handful of times Signora Rosa had taken me to the theatre and the opera, and in movie theatres I’d learned something of the frivolity and beauty of dance and music, but this was something else again.

  At small circular tables, happy groups of men drank and watched the performance. In larger booths at the more darkened corners of the room even more angels were mingling, sitting on laps, caressing fat, thin, smooth, bristly, handsome or repulsive cheeks alike, and receiving kisses. A bottle of champagne in an ice bucket was opened for us. A silver platter of hors d’oeuvres arrived.

  ‘It’ll be quieter upstairs, but let’s get the lay of the land and see who’s around, all right?’ Bruno said.

  As she poured our drinks I gazed at the barely covered breasts of a lovely girl with a head of cute red curls. Despite the cloying cigarette and cigar smoke hanging like a pall I could smell perfume like strawberries. Bruno tipped her. She looked at me and spoke something in French, and with a flounce of her pretty hips went to assist the next table.

  ‘She said that if you’re in the mood, think of her. That means you only have to mention the name “Françoise” and if she hasn’t already become busy, she’s yours.’

  The dancers were coming closer to our table. I felt myself grow tense. ‘What’s this place supposed to be?’

  Bruno Pasqua took out his handkerchief, wiped his brow and straightened his collar. He looked around as he spoke. Thankfully, the group of dancers had decided to veer away.

  ‘People like fancy names, but it’s a bordello through and through. Wonderfully legal in this country. There are others – some a little bigger, some a little gaudier, and then of course there are the more exclusive places. Half-a-dozen girls and a single madame. They’re my preference but I thought I’d start you with the most dazzling type. How do you find it?’

  ‘I’m dazzled. Who is Celeste?’

  ‘She works here. She also works for me. A very interesting young feline, you’ll see.’

  Bruno touched h
is fingertips to his brow, acknowledging a heavy-set man in his seventies or thereabouts who sat with a number of younger men. Three young women exactly like Françoise were feeding him canapes.

  ‘Actor, surrounded by better actresses than he ever was,’ Bruno said. ‘American films, always played the hero. We looked at his memoir last year but it was extremely dull, hardly a shred of truth in it. God-fearing war hero, etc., etc., when everyone knows he likes young pussy and fat cocks. You’ll find bloated egos in here and massive self-deceptions. There for instance is the French minister of defence. A good man, but let’s hope there’s no war soon. Pacifist at heart, even if he enjoys being beaten.’

  ‘It seems very expensive here.’

  ‘Die with your money in your pocket then, see if it makes you happier.’ He snacked and drank, then said, ‘But they’re very civic-minded here as well. Thursday nights are for war veterans, especially the ones who’ve suffered the worst injuries. They’re entertained and ministered absolutely free of charge. Ninety percent of establishments do the same. It lifts the heart, doesn’t it?’

  Françoise was back and refilling our glasses. After an inquisitive gaze, which I didn’t return, she took our platter away.

  ‘Hurt her feelings, Cesare. Aren’t you ever going to take a woman?’

  A waiter delivered a new bottle of champagne packed in fresh ice. The orchestra’s lively tune slowed, became moodier, and the dozen dancers left to appreciative applause. The lights turned low and four new dancers, naked except for diaphanous ties around their waists, performed with a well-built young man in a golden jockstrap. He was as powerful as a wrestler but moved like a cat. Their performance wasn’t in the least bit sexual. With the use of nothing but lighting and their own muscular control they created a number of wonderful human tableaux. Even I could see how exquisite it was.

  Bruno Pasqua had grown impatient. He stopped Françoise as she passed. She didn’t stoop to hear his voice but actually went submissively onto her knees beside him. She must have hoped he’d decided to choose her. They spoke in French, and Françoise had news he didn’t seem to like. He thought a moment then asked her to get him something. I watched the performers create a final scene. This was a funeral procession: the dancers lifted the man high and carried him like a fallen hero or king, their heads bowed.