by Dino Buzzati
“But when did you say she was coming?”
“Next month, I hope; anyhow, that’s what she said.”
So time was rushing by, carrying him down toward the darkness through ever-increasing degrees of humiliation. “But be serious!” I wanted to shout, for I knew him capable of being strong-minded if he wanted to. But he sat there motionless: he didn’t attempt action or resistance. Yet despite these blows of fortune his face rose unchanged, even in some way victorious, from this whirlpool of events.
He shivered. “Yes,” I said, “I’m cold too. Why don’t you light the fire?”
He muttered something in surprise, gesticulated.
I looked around. The walls of the small dining room ran smoothly from floor to ceiling without a sign of a fireplace. It was dimly lit by the central light, from which hung the bell, and which projected our two shadows onto the wall. A damp, cold night. Antonio rang the bell and it sounded next door. But the maid didn’t come. “I was forgetting,” whispered Antonio as though he were letting me into a secret. “I’m quite alone now, you know,” and he rose from the table. “I’ll have coffee ready in a couple of minutes, if you don’t mind waiting.” When he was at the door there was a sudden ominous roar in the distance. The walls shook a little. Then silence. He turned around for a moment and smiled. Then I heard the sound of crockery in the kitchen.
“It’s my own particular blend,” he said a few minutes later, stirring it in the cup. “Luckily I’ve got quite a bit put aside. Not for me, I don’t care for it particularly. But if she were to come back . . .” He’d put a woolen scarf around his neck. It was in fact icily cold. “After all, if she were to come . . .” he went on, “it is light here in the evenings”; he appeared to think that this would be likely to be a great attraction for her. “When it’s really cold we’ll light the stove. I’ve still got a bit of wood in the cellar. Or do you think? . . .”
What could I reply? “No, no,” I said, “I’m certain she’ll come back. She’ll be fine here.” There was a sudden whistle down in the road, answered by another, farther away: rather sinister. “That’s how it always is,” said Antonio, doing up his shoe, “it’s been like that for some time now.” At that point the light went out.
Pitch dark. All that could be seen, through a hole in the ceiling, was a patch of night sky, unbroken cloud. Antonio was sitting on a small box with his back to the scorched wall, his arms clasped to his body in the hope of keeping warm. So alone. Yet he stared at me through the darkness without any desire for pity. It was then that I realized that the house around us was completely empty.
Without rising, he struck a match and lit a candle end, which he then stood on the floor. “Do you think that’s all right?” I asked, indicating the light of the candle and then the gap in the roof. “Airplanes?” he queried softly. “There’s not much for them to see.” The flame trembled.
Then, through his torn clothes, I caught sight of a large wound, dark and deep; it must have been quite old already, and it smelled. “She could have this corner here, if ever she were to come back,” he explained without a shadow of irony. “It’s more sheltered. I could organize myself over there, opposite. . . . But won’t you sit down? Must you go? It’s early yet.”
“No, no, I must go. I hope we’ll meet again soon,” I said. “And thank you so much.”
“On the contrary, it’s I who must thank you. You’ve suffered, I know. Let’s hope that another time . . .”
Now, in his attempt to overcome the cold, he was actually beating his arms against his sides, as carters do in winter. But he did it with an aristocratic detachment, as though it were an exercise, or some kind of joking reference to the poor, whose teeth chatter. Small white objects began to flutter around the candle. “It’s snowing,” he said, and sounded pleased.
The Alarming Revenge of a Domestic Pet
OF THE MANY HORRIBLE THINGS THAT I’VE HEARD IN recent years, the one that made the deepest impression on me was the following story, told to me by a young girl.
“Once when I was going through Milan,” she said, “I had to visit an aunt, already fairly elderly, whom I hadn’t seen for several years. It would have been terrible if she came to hear that I had been in Milan and hadn’t gone to see her. She’d have been mortally offended. But as I was busy in the afternoon, I telephoned her to say that I’d see her that evening, after supper. The tone of her reply implied that she was absolutely delighted—too delighted, really—at the prospect of my visit.
“She lived somewhere near Via Settembrini in a quiet, elegant house; she had an old apartment in it, kept scrupulously clean, but so full of furniture, pictures, carpets, screens, vases, curtains, stools, work baskets and general bric-a-brac that on entering you felt positively weighed down with its fussiness, with dust even. And then the lamps had the most complicated shades and gave out a depressing sort of light. No sooner was I inside the door than I felt I wanted to get out and into the open again as soon as possible.
“My aunt was in the dining room, and she wasn’t alone. Seated opposite her, on the other side of the table, was another elderly woman, a close friend I assumed from the familiar way in which she behaved. But I remember now that there were at least three other people: they were sitting farther back, in the shadow, and I couldn’t see them very well, but from what I remember there was a young woman of about thirty, another little woman rather older, quite unremarkable, and a very fulsome man, with glasses, of about fifty. As far as one could tell, they lived in the same house and came to see my aunt every evening.
“The conversation was taking the course one might expect (news of my family, our mutual relatives, the war), so that I was surprised at the way my aunt and her friends were looking at me: intensely, as though they expected not simply a polite visit but something far more important, something about which they were extremely anxious.
“At the same time, I was struck by the incredible jumble of furniture and ornaments of all sorts: here it was somehow even more stifling than in the other rooms I’d come through. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could live and move in that jungle of antiquated junk. It made me feel physically sick.
“The central table in particular was heaped almost to overflowing with a whole collection of things: a low flower stand with some unhealthy-looking little green plants, a bonbonnière, a photograph album, an inkstand, balls of wool, little vases, books and, among other things, a large tray filled with bottles, flasks and glasses. From the look of them, the bottles probably contained syrups or sticky rosolios, and I felt sickened at the thought that I would probably be offered some. In the middle, hanging from the ceiling but so low that it almost touched the central flower stand, was an art nouveau lampshade like an upside-down lily, shading a lighted lamp; at the bottom was a strange sort of protruding handle, like those on coffee grinders but of shiny brass; I thought it might have something to do with raising and lowering the lamp.
“Then suddenly, through the gloom, I saw a small animal moving restlessly about on the left arm of my aunt’s armchair. For some reason I was immediately convinced that it was a bat, though I can’t think why, since it really had very little in common with one. My aunt obviously kept it in the drawing room like a kitten and found it delightful. It had a small droopy face like a little dog rather than a mouse, a thin slender body and a long ratlike tail; but what struck me particularly were its four tiny legs, about seven inches long, with webbed feet like a duck’s, only black.”
“So it had no wings?”
“No, no wings. But with its blackish color and those slimy webbed feet, it looked more like a bat than all the bats I’ve ever seen put together.
“Weirdly elegant, the little animal moved from its position on the arm of the chair where it had been perched and began to jump strangely sideways until it reached the edge of the table, at which juncture it leapt back to the arm of the chair; it did this several times, always jumping with all four feet at a time. It kept its eyes fixed on me.
�
�‘A bat?’ I asked stupidly, hoping to please my aunt.
“‘Yes,’ she said, smiling rather sadly. ‘Such a sweet little thing!’
“Meanwhile the bat (as I may as well call it) continued its delicate crab-like leaping: it was gradually coming closer to me, swaying languidly, almost flirting. At one of its more determined leaps in my direction I couldn’t control a movement of disgust and drew back.
“‘Oh, dear!’ hummed my aunt mellifluously, as if I’d disappointed her. ‘Now, what harm could it do you?’
“But the bat had noticed my movement and had drawn back itself with a graceful leap, for all the world as though it were offended. It withdrew to the middle of the table, where the collection of glasses, flasks and bottles was thickest, picking its way among them with extraordinary delicacy, without so much as brushing them.
“Not only my aunt but her friends too were smiling in a pleased, hopeful, expectant manner—like a mother whose child is about to recite a much talked-of poem to a guest—and were glancing first at me, then at the bat. Were they expecting me to take it on my lap and stroke it? I was well aware of their ridiculously anxious glances but I didn’t dare return them. Were they somehow in awe, in fear of the hateful little thing? Worried that I might maltreat it? Or did they expect me to join in their abject admiration? By now I was convinced of one thing: the feeling of expectancy I’d noticed on coming into the room was in some way connected with the presence and behavior of the bat. ‘Just look at the sweet thing,’ murmured my aunt, no longer able to contain herself.
“Its webbed feet were at that moment carrying out a series of mysterious maneuvers among the bottles. Incredible though it may seem, I had to admit to myself that it was plainly trying to lift one of the glass stoppers of a Louis XV decanter half-full of a thick raspberry-colored liquid.
“‘Maria,’ said my aunt nervously, nodding with great affection at the efforts of the abominable creature, ‘would you like a glass of Prunella Ballor?’
“Prunella Ballor? I wanted to laugh. Could that revolting concoction really be an expensive liqueur?
“But my aunt didn’t move to pour it for me. She was watching the antics of the bat. I was about to murmur vague thanks when I understood: the creature itself was to pour my drink.
“‘Will you have one, Maria?’ pressed my aunt.
“‘You really must,’ interposed the man with glasses.
“You’d have thought their whole life depended on my answer. They stared at me fixedly, they seemed to be imploring. If only to goodness I would accept, would allow the bat to perform this singular feat, be pleasant to it, not annoy it, they seemed to be saying.
“‘No thank you,’ I answered firmly. ‘Honestly, I never drink anything in the evening.’
“A querulous voice came from the shadows (it must have been the young woman): ‘Come come, don’t feel you have to refuse just out of politeness.’
“‘Please, Maria,’ insisted my aunt. ‘Just a little, one drop.’” She was behaving as though her life was at stake, her voice trembling with emotion.
“What does this absurd pantomime mean, I wondered. To please them, must I bow down to this wretched creature?
“I answered firmly, ‘No thank you, Aunt, I won’t have anything, please don’t press me.’ And without really knowing why, I stood up to go.
“At my words, an inexplicable look of horror appeared on the faces of my aunt and her friends.
“‘Oh, God, what have you done!’ exclaimed my aunt, her eyes wide with fear.
“Meanwhile the bat, turning its little face toward me for the last time, suddenly moved away from the bottles and leapt lightly onto the handle which protruded from the lamp; with a sudden angry movement, perhaps in retaliation to the insult, it gave the lever a push.
“Instead of going upward, as I’d imagined, the lamp swung around on itself and the light suddenly fell.
“At the same time there was a violent series of tremendous explosions and the distant crash of bombs echoed through the whole city, shaking the houses: the air was filled with the roar of a thousand planes.”
And Yet They Are Knocking at Your Door
SIGNORA MARIA GRON ENTERED THE GROUND-FLOOR drawing room with her workbasket. She glanced around to see that everything was exactly as usual, put the workbasket down on a table and went up to a vase of roses, sniffing delicately. The other people in the room were her husband, Stefano, her son, Federico, known as Fedri, both sitting by the fireplace, her daughter, Giorgina, who was reading, and an old friend of the family, Eugenio Martora, who was concentrating on his cigar.
“They’re all fanées, finished,” she murmured to herself, drawing one hand lovingly over the flowers. Several petals fell on the table.
“Mother!” called Giorgina from the armchair where she was sitting reading.
It was already evening, and the great shutters had been bolted as usual. Yet the sound of the heavy endless rain could still be heard. At the back of the room, toward the hall, an impressive red curtain hung from the wide arch that formed the entrance: at that time of day there was so little light that it looked black.
“Mother!” said Giorgina. “You know those two stone dogs at the bottom of the avenue of oaks, in the park?”
“Well, what about them, my dear?” replied her mother, politely uninterested, taking up her basket and sitting down in her usual place near a shaded lamp. “This morning,” the young girl went on, “when I was coming back in the car, I saw them on a peasant’s cart, just near the bridge.”
Giorgina’s slight voice broke sharply across the silence of the room. Signora Gron, who was glancing through a newspaper, set her lips in a smile of warning and glanced toward her husband, apparently hoping he had not heard.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Martora. “Peasants robbing statues now. That’s wonderful—art collectors!”
“And then what?” inquired her father, encouraging the girl to go on.
“So I told Berto to stop the car and go and ask . . .”
Signora Gron screwed up her nose a little; she always did this when anyone brought up unpleasant topics necessitating some sort of retreat. The affair of the two statues implied something else, something hidden, therefore something which would have to be hushed up.
“Now, really—it was I who said they were to be taken away,” she said, trying to close the subject, “I think they’re simply horrible.”
Her husband’s voice was heard from over by the fireplace, deep and tremulous with either old age or anxiety: “You what? But why did you have them taken away, dear? They were very old, found during some excavations . . .”
“I didn’t express myself very well,” said Signora Gron, trying to sound pleasant (How stupid I am, she thought at the same time, that couldn’t I think of anything better to say?). “I did say I wanted them moved, but only in the vaguest terms, of course I was really only joking . . .”
“But please listen, Mummy,” the girl insisted. “Berto asked the peasant and he said that he’d found the dog down on the river bank . . .”
She was suddenly silent, thinking that the rain had stopped. But in the silence they could hear its deep, unwavering hiss (depressing too, though no one had really noticed).
“Why ‘the dog’?” inquired Fedri, without even turning his head. “Didn’t you say you saw them both?”
“Goodness, what a pedant,” retorted Giorgina, laughing. “I only saw one, but probably they were both there.”
Fedri said, “I don’t see the logic of that.” Martora laughed too.
“Tell me, Giorgina,” said Signora Gron, promptly taking advantage of the pause. “What book are you reading? Is it that last novel by Massin you were telling me about? I’d like to read it when you’ve finished it. If I don’t mention it right away you’d immediately lend it to your friends, and then we’d never see it again. I’m very fond of Massin, he’s so different, so strange. . . . Today Frida promised me . . .”
But her husband broke in: �
��Giorgina,” he said, “what did you do then? Presumably you asked the man’s name at least? I’m sorry, Maria,” he added, referring to the interruption.
“You didn’t expect me to start arguing then and there in the middle of the road, I trust?” she replied. “It was one of the Dall’Ocas. He said he knew nothing about it, he’d found the statue by the river.”
“And are you certain it was one of our dogs?”
“Rather too certain. Don’t you remember how Fedri and I once painted their ears green?”
“And this one had green ears too?” pursued her father, who was sometimes rather slow-thinking.
“Yes, green ears,” replied Giorgina. “Of course the color’s faded a bit by now.”
Once more her mother interrupted. “But listen,” she said with exaggerated politeness, “do you really find these stone dogs so interesting? Excuse me for saying so, Stefano, but I really can’t see that there’s any need to make such a fuss about it . . .”
From outside—just behind the curtain, it almost seemed—there sounded a prolonged and muffled roar, mingling with the sound of the rain.
“Did you hear that?” exclaimed Signor Gron promptly. “Did you hear it?”
“Thunder, what else? Just thunder. It’s no good, Stefano, you’re always so jumpy on rainy days,” his wife hastened to explain.
They were all quiet, but the silence could not last long. Some unfamiliar thought, foreign to that aristocratic household, seemed to have crept into the dimly lit room and settled there.
“Found it down by the river,” commented the father, returning to the subject of the dogs. “How could it have got there? It couldn’t have flown.”
“And why not?” inquired Martora jovially.
“Why not what, doctor?” asked Signora Maria, nervously, since she did not usually like the pleasantries their old friend tended to make.
“I meant: why should the statue not have flown? The river flows about twenty yards below it, that’s all.”
“What a world we live in,” sighed Maria Gron, trying once again to change the subject, as though the dogs were a cover for something more unpalatable. “First we have flying statues, and then do you know what the paper says here: ‘a new breed of talking fish discovered off the island of Java.’”