by Dino Buzzati
But deep in the bosom of Mother Church, little by little and without haste, the process went ahead. Bishops and Popes died one after the other and new ones were created: nevertheless the dossier of Gancillo passed almost of its own volition from one office to another, each time a little nearer the top of the pile. A breath of grace remained mysteriously attached to those now discolored files and there wasn’t a prelate who would have noticed it while riffling through the papers. This explains why the matter was never dropped, until one morning the image of the peasant framed in golden rays was hoisted up in St. Peter’s to a great height, while down below the Holy Father himself intoned the psalm of glory, elevating Gancillo to the majesty of the altar.
In his hometown they held high festival and one student of local history claimed to identify the house where Gancillo was born and where he lived and died, and it was converted into a kind of rural museum. But since nobody remembered him anymore and all his relatives had disappeared, the popularity of the new saint only lasted a few days. From time immemorial in that part of the world they had venerated another saint, Marcolino, as their patron and pilgrims came even from distant countries to kiss his statue, famous for its miracles. Right beside the ornate chapel of St. Marcolino hung with votive offerings and candles they built the new altar to St. Gancillo. But who noticed it? Who kneeled before it to pray? He was such a faded figure after two hundred years. He had nothing that could capture the imagination.
However, Gancillo, who had never imagined so much honor for himself, settled into his little home and, sitting in the sun on his balcony, blissfully contemplated the ocean that pulsed peacefully and powerfully below.
But next morning, having gotten up early, he noticed a uniformed messenger dismount from his bicycle and walk up to the next-door house with a large parcel, then pass on to the next house with another parcel, and so to all the other houses until Gancillo lost sight of him: but for himself there was nothing.
This continued on the following days: Gancillo, his curiosity roused, beckoned to the messenger and asked, “Excuse me, what is it that you are bringing every morning to all my neighbors, but never bring to me?”
“It is the mail,” replied the messenger, politely taking off his cap, “And I am the postman.”
“What mail? Who sends it?”
At this the postman smiled and made a gesture indicating, “Those on the other side—those over there—the people in the old world.”
“Petitions?” asked St. Gancillo, beginning to understand.
“Petitions, yes, prayers, requests of all kinds,” said the messenger in an indifferent tone as if they were trifles, so as not to mortify the new saint.
“And do as many as this arrive every day?”
The messenger would have liked to tell him that this was the slack season and that on high days there were ten, twenty times more. But thinking that Gancillo would be hurt, he got out of it with a “Well, accordingly, it depends,” and then found an excuse to slip away.
The fact is that no one ever applied to St. Gancillo, it was as though he had never existed. Not a letter, not a note, not even a postcard—and he, seeing all these packets every morning addressed to his colleagues, wasn’t envious, because he was incapable of wrong feelings; but he was ill at ease, almost remorseful at doing nothing while the others got through a great deal of work: in short, he almost felt that he was eating the bread of the saints under false pretenses (it was special bread of slightly better quality than that of the mere Blessed Ones).
This trouble caused him one day to reconnoiter in the neighborhood of one of the houses nearest to him, from which came a curious clicking.
“But of course, old man, come in: this armchair is quite comfortable. Excuse me while I just finish off a little job, then I’ll be with you,” said his colleague heartily. He then went into the next room and with amazing speed dictated to a shorthand typist a dozen letters and several orders of service, which the secretary hurriedly typed out.
After this he returned to Gancillo.
“Well, old man, without a little organization it would be a serious matter, all this mail that keeps arriving. If you’ll come here I’ll show you my new electronic card index with perforated slips.” It was indeed very ingenious.
Certainly Gancillo had no need of perforated slips. He returned to his little house rather crestfallen and thought: “Perhaps nobody needs me? So if only I could make myself useful. If, for example, I could perform a small miracle to attract attention.”
No sooner said than done, and he decided to move the eyes in his portrait that hung in his local church. There was never anyone in front of the altar of St. Gancillo, but it so happened that Memo Tancia, the village half-wit, happened to be passing when he saw the portrait’s eyes roll, and he began to cry out that he had seen a miracle.
At once, with lightning speed, conscious of their social position, two or three saints called on Gancillo and very politely gave him to understand that he had better desist—there was nothing wrong in it, but that kind of miracle, on account of its frivolity, was not approved of in high places. They told him this without a trace of malice, but it is possible that they were disconcerted by this latest arrival who could perform with the greatest ease miracles that cost them a lot of cursed hard work.
St. Gancillo naturally desisted, and down below, the people, attracted by the half-wit’s cries, examined the portrait for a long time without noticing anything out of the ordinary. Whereupon they went away disillusioned and Memo Tancia escaped a beating by the skin of his teeth.
Then Gancillo thought to draw attention to himself by a smaller, more poetical miracle. So he caused a beautiful rose to blossom from the stone of his ancient tomb, which had been restored for the beatification, but which was now once more in a state of neglect. However, fate decreed that he was not to make himself understood. The chaplain of the cemetery, as soon as he noticed it, hurried off to the sexton and gave him a good scolding. “Couldn’t you even tend the grave of St. Gancillo? It’s scandalous, you good-for-nothing, for that’s what you are. I have just walked past and found it covered with weeds.” And the sexton hurried off to dig up the little rosebush.
To make sure, Gancillo then had recourse to one of the more traditional miracles and restored the sight of the first blind man to pass his altar—just like that!
But it didn’t come off, even now. Because no one suspected that this wonder was the work of Gancillo—everyone attributed it to St. Marcolino, whose altar was next to his. Such was their enthusiasm that they took the statue of Marcolino (which weighed at least two hundredweight) and as the church bells rang out bore it in triumphal procession through the streets of their town. And the altar of St. Gancillo remained more neglected and forgotten than ever.
At this point Gancillo said to himself, “I had better resign myself to the fact that no one wants to remember me.” And he sat down at his balcony and looked out at the sea, in which he found great solace.
It was while he was contemplating the waves that he heard someone knocking at his door, ratatat! He went to open it. There stood none other than Marcolino himself, who had come to apologize.
Marcolino was a magnificent specimen of manhood, exuberant and full of high spirits.
“What can one do, my dear Gancillo? It really isn’t my fault. I’ve called, you know, because I wouldn’t like you to think . . .”
“Really?” said Gancillo, greatly comforted by this visit and smiling back.
“You see,” continued Marcolino. “I’m a pretty poor type, yet they pester me from morning to night. You are much more saintly than me, yet everyone ignores you. You must be patient, my brother, with the dogs of this wicked world,” and he gave Gancillo a friendly clap on the shoulder.
“Why don’t you come in? It will soon be dark and it’s beginning to grow cold, we can light the fire and then you shall stay to supper.”
“With pleasure, with the greatest of pleasure,” replied Marcolino.
They went in, cut a little wood and lit the fire with some difficulty because the wood was still damp, but by blowing and blowing a bright flame sprang up at last. Then Gancillo put a pot of water over the fire for the soup, and while waiting for it to boil they both sat on the bench warming their knees and chatting away happily. Then from the chimney there issued a thin column of smoke, and that smoke too was God.
About the Author
DINO BUZZATI was an internationally known Italian novelist, short story writer, and journalist for Corriere della Sera. He is the author of novels including The Tartar Steppe, Larger Than Life and A Love Affair, as well as short story collections including Sixty Tales and The Seven Messengers. Buzzati died in Milan in 1972.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Dino Buzzati
The Tartar Steppe
The Bears’ Famous Invasion of Sicily
Poem Strip
Copyright
All the stories in this volume translated by Judith Landry and first published in Catastrophe and Other Stories (London: Calder & Boyars Ltd, 1965), except for: “The Scala Scare,” translated by Cynthia Jolly and first published in New Writers 1 (London: John Calder Publishers UK Ltd, 1961); “The Egg,” “The Enchanted Coat” and “The Saints,” translated by E. R. Low and first published in New Writing and Writers 14 (London: John Calder Publishers UK Ltd, 1978).
CATASTROPHE. Copyright © 2018 by Zelda Buffoni. English translation © 1965 by Calder and Boyars Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
English translation © Calder Publications, an imprint of Alma Books Ltd, 1965, 2018.
Cover design by Allison Saltzman
Cover art © Nicole Natri
Originally published in Great Britain in 1965 by Calder and Boyars Ltd.
FIRST ECCO PAPERBACK EDITION
Digital Edition MARCH 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-274274-2
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-274273-5
Version 02232018
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON M4W 1A8, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida
Uttar Pradesh 201 301
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
*Many of Buzzati’s stories, essays, letters and poems remain to be translated, along with a stage play, an autobiography and five librettos, plus at least three of what would seem to be his major works: his second novel, an allegorical fantasy called The Secret of the Old Forest; his meditation on mortality and the mysteries of the grave, written following the death of his dog, Diabolik, In That Precise Moment; and The Miracles of Val Morel, a book of illustrations and commentaries about thirty-nine votive offerings honoring the miracles of a fictitious nun. (This one is worth buying in an Italian edition for the artwork alone, even if, like me, you can’t read the text.).
*The most famous concert society in Milan. (Translator’s note.)
*Large stage boxes, at stage level. (Translator’s note.)