Malacqua
Page 1
First published in English translation in 2017 by And Other Stories
Great Britain – United States of America
www.andotherstories.org
Copyright © Nicola Pugliese 1977
First published as Malacqua in 1977 by Giulio Einaudi; reprinted in 2013 by Casa Editrice Pironti
English-language translation copyright © Shaun Whiteside 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher. The right of Nicola Pugliese to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN: 978-1-911508-06-9
eBook ISBN: 978-1-911508-07-6
Editor: Tara Tobler; Proofreader: Sarah Terry; Typesetting and eBook: Tetragon, London; Cover Design: Edward Bettison.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This book has been translated thanks in part to a translation grant awarded by the Italian Ministry for Foreign Affairs. (Questo libro è stato tradotto grazie ad un contributo alla traduzione assegnato dal Ministero degli Affari Esteri Italiano.)
This book has also been selected to receive financial assistance towards the translation cost from English PEN’s PEN Translates programme, supported by Arts Council England. English PEN exists to promote literature and our understanding of it, to uphold writers’ freedoms around the world, to campaign against the persecution and imprisonment of writers for stating their views, and to promote the friendly co-operation of writers and the free exchange of ideas. www.englishpen.org
Contents
Introduction and Prologue
The First Day
The Second Day
The Third Day
The Fourth Day
‘Any other woman would have been disgusted at the idea of switching from swordfish fillet to head cheese, from a ferry-boat to a frail little yacht. Any other woman, not her: do you know her way of thinking? Running away is shameful, but it saves your life. That is her rule for life, great lady that she is.
Stefano D’Arrigo, Horcynus Orca
The characters and events in this book are purely imaginary. Even if reality is overabundant in narrative pretexts, in any case.
Introduction and Prologue
And through the windowpane steaming grey thoughts following the sea, with Santa Lucia huddled behind him, hands in his pockets, listening to the silence of his silence, the gusts of the coming wind, and those leaves twisting in the street, down into the asphalt. From the street loneliness falls gracefully away to the sea, with dilapidated wooden boats, fraying lights, and ships in the distance, Punta della Campanella, and Capri, the great mass of Capri outstretched and remembering, as alien to the city as an undeciphered tower, close, yes, so close, and far away, too, with faded tales of women and emperors, with glimmering cargoes from the East and Africa, and grain, shiploads of maize, iron, golden sand.
In the restaurant they’re talking about the paper: first thing they have to do first thing of all quite definitely is change the lot, everything from top to bottom. Drop Politics with a capital P and go back down into real life, the local news, the facts, the tiniest facts, of the people. Because the people go on living interminably, day after day, and they want to know the story of the monster on Via Caravaggio and the whole panorama of trades union agitation and whether or not the shops are going to be open: and the paper comes to rest cautiously among the spaghetti vongole, with that red tomato sauce, the wine from Lettere and Gragnano, the poached octopus, oh yes, please, fruit salad for me. Outside the window the water presses against the banks of the Borgo Marinari, patches of diesel floating in the iris of a disjointed rainbow, and the boats are tied up too, the sea is now a stinking motionless pond, with the surviving gulls crying and crying: white powerful swoops against the sky and then back down again, distraught, with the grief of the sea that they carry within them, with that morning fear that turns grey, heavy, and black, implacably black, while beyond the glass the difficulties of the paper fly away, rolled up in newsprint, the smell of ink, leaden fumes. On the walls of the Castel dell’Ovo, Carlo Andreoli makes out the signs of the sea, the soft tufa eroded by the ever-rising damp, spurts of froth appear, stars flicker, fireworks in the distance, white fires moving, renewing.
Sorry, do forgive me, I have to leave for a minute, I’m going to see the Castel dell’Ovo. Just two minutes, what hurry is there? None at all, really, in this life that is forever slipping away: and now, for only two minutes, we want to turn it into a tragedy? Interrupt the undecipherable ebb, create the break, the moment of uncertainty: you on the one hand with your spaghetti, your poached octopus, on the other that mad, motiveless spark: sorry, do forgive me. I’m going to see the Castel dell’Ovo.
So he rose from the table carefully folding his napkin, and was it a goodbye?, certainly a motion of the legs, and the legs, inside the chest between rib and rib the sudden inexplicable question. While up above the blue stripes grew, they multiplied, they swelled, all of them, and black, almost black, rain, maybe: beyond the glass the brackish air, the smell of diesel, and that strangeness, such sad, sweet isolation, the others inside surviving and resolving, yes, resolving.
The way out on the right is by those little stone steps, then on to the little bridge, towards those unknown houses and the Castel dell’Ovo, with the cold, tense air, the parked cars, restaurant signs, and cars, and grey windows in the grey morning. Behind the Castello the sea, in front of it the huddled houses, disdained and held at a distance, not to be mistaken for it, oh no, not to be mistaken; no voices in the street, no children’s games, only from the windows and the closed doors a slow whisper, a dark, mysterious susurration like that of people plotting, scheming in the darkness. A sudden scream would knock everything into the sea, everything apart from the Castello, perhaps, and perhaps this too: a labyrinthine, disconnected scream, a hiss desperate to interrupt, to cut through. That long hiss that arises from within Carlo Andreoli along with his thoughts, and he thinks yes, but in the glimmer the grey is softened, the dust particles fly briefly, and from the windows and the closed doors there still issues the sound of voices, an alert, suspicious whisper: streaks of blue falling to press down on the asphalt, fists clenched in pockets, waiting to wave, to grip. Until the eyes purr in the silence, that silence, with the thought that has fled, the straight road, with only the Castello, alone and deserted: the sweetest enchantment, as fixed as if it were dead. You looked inside: might it be waiting, still, waiting for death?
Carlo Andreoli turned back into the restaurant to resume the interrupted discussion and the affable conversation, and the red wine from Lettere and Gragnano, and the sated postprandial jollity. His gaze is confused by the sound of the glasses, the newspaper too, of my beloved newspaper gently moving elsewhere: I will come and follow you for this one day, I will consolidate my affection loudly down the corridors, and shouts, smiles, shouts, for the printers. And so he gets up with all the others, and they all go outside, the editor at the front, and before going back up Via Partenope, there, before going back, his head turns, his heart turns towards the Castel dell’Ovo. But it can’t be seen any more, it can’t be seen from here.
And for all that afternoon and for all that evening Carlo Andreoli stayed at the newspaper to work, and how slowly the time passed, waiting for the sound of the teleprinter, with deeply hostile friendly voices, suddenly unknown, and alone again he was, looking at the stripes of the teleprinter and he didn’t read and he didn’t understand, and away everything went, really everything: trip by President Ford, growth at Fiat, concert at the Auditorium an
d lock-out at Innocenti, actors and actresses trades unionists and politicians slid to the ground, an imperceptible sound. With that deep silence of the desk and that light, the printing arm paused expectantly, and something like a buzz came from within, a run-down diesel engine running calmly, peacefully, and then rose into his temples to press and knock: the undeciphered waiting? It was being born to rancour, to sordid thought, it bound his face, his features: the idea wide open within the unlikely idea: what?, the keys of the typewriter?, the blue lamp?, the fluorescent lights in the corridors?, what, for God’s sake?, what?
And after the afternoon and after the first hours of evening, night arrived for him, with inky streaks and sudden gusts, the wind blowing up Via Marittima on the corner of Piazza del Municipio, and beyond, and beyond, all the way inside the port and up the hill. That cold wind that carries up the fire of the braziers, which embroiders in the shade of the street. The moment came for him, which turned out to be nothing, nothing definite, but it was something: from the Castello, the message had come imperceptibly but clearly, yes, very clearly, it had come down through the throat and into the middle of the chest just in the middle it had stopped pausing to remember. And Carlo Andreoli buttoned up his Loden jacket, turning up the collar, and looked around, and breathed in the street, saw the tram ahead with its lights flickering, the receding hiss of iron on iron, and then looked to the sky, suspiciously, to check the presence of blackish streaks, faraway gusts, and that opaque glimmer that gave off no light, not even a little light, on an evening like this. Ah, yes, alone in the middle of the street, with that faraway, faraway thought, however close. And in the end he got into the car, turned the ignition key, switched on the lights, yes, switched on the lights. He felt uneasy.
The First Day
At seven in the morning on the 23rd of October, which was the following day, the news came first to Annunziata Osvaldo, 27, of Boscotrecase, telephone operator on the emergency service at police headquarters. After she had heard it Annunziata Osvaldo looked instinctively upwards, at the window with the iron bars, and outside it was raining, definitely, it was raining: the rain had started falling in violent spates at about three in the morning, at various points in the city the lights had blown, completely useless, the emergency teams of the Enel had also realised that they couldn’t fix a thing if it went on raining as it was raining right now, and as it had continued throughout the night until the first light of a greyish dawn, sometimes violet in tone, resolutely pallid and funereal. With all that water coming down and coming down, and when you were about to say: there, it’s stopping now, you didn’t have time to open your mouth before the water violently returned, a harsh and predetermined rancour, an irreversible obstinacy. And at seven in the morning on the 23rd of October, which was the following day, Annunziata Osvaldo as ever couldn’t understand very much; at the other end of the line the person speaking was saying nothing, he was speaking excitedly, literally eating his words and thus he expressed only a breathless residue: it has collapsed, the road has collapsed, completely submerged, there are people inside, the cars have been swallowed up. Before doing anything else Annunziata Osvaldo realised that the fire service had to be alerted, with the collapsing roads there was nothing to be done at police headquarters, to each his own jurisdiction, and in the register she wrote ‘7am, 23 October, notification of a collapse in Via Aniello Falcone, fire service to be informed’, and then called the fire service. From the station on Via del Sole her operator colleague told her he was already aware, that a squad had been sent out, and perhaps it wasn’t a hoax this time, and other alarms had come in from San Martino, not to mention the surrounding province, then Sant’Antimo, Afragola, Frattaminore, all spreading out in all directions, and Christ the city’s really made of cardboard, is it possible that only a few hours of rain could do this?, eh, possible, it’s possible, what are you going to do?, the airport weathermen should put signs up: rain tomorrow. Neapolitans, move to Rome.
And at 7.30 on 23 October the fire brigade reached Via Aniello Falcone along Via Tasso, where works were under way to rebuild the sewerage system, and going along Via Tasso the firemen looked up towards those fading lights. The water was already crashing down on the asphalt, filling the uncovered channels, penetrating the earth and softening it, turning it into a shamefully inert mess, a slurry of mud around the new structures of reinforced concrete, and they would resist, definitely, they would resist. When they reached the tight bend of Via Aniello Falcone, the driver was taken unawares: the chasm was right in front of him, four or five metres away let’s say, and he braked in a hurry, and what the fuck!, the others said, what a way to stop!, and what the fuck!, what a way to stop!, said the crew commander in the vehicle behind. The firemen all got out with their feet on the ground and the commander got out and they went and looked and it was immediately clear that this wasn’t a small matter, far from it, because the chasm occupied the whole of the road, on the right all the way to the overhanging wall – with dozens and dozens of buildings below it – and on the left that dark chasm engulfed even the pavement, six or seven metres away let’s say, from the foundation of an old building immediately post-war, perhaps, its facade painted grey and its windows all wrought iron and fuck!, said the commander, this is seriously dangerous, come on, let’s get going, clear the lot.
And the firemen passed through the hallway and there right in the middle of the courtyard was the porter talking to a woman who had appeared on the first floor. They were both saying things, but when they saw the firemen they fell suddenly silent, and the porter now only listened: but how: clear it?, what?, all at once?, but then it’s dangerous, seriously dangerous. And a woman appeared on the second floor with grey hair, about 55, and said that she wasn’t going to clear anything at all, she wasn’t leaving her house, even if there was an air raid. She hadn’t fled during the Allied bombs in 1943, so come off it, not for a slightly more violent rainstorm or a big hole in the road she wouldn’t, and still from the second floor, two windows to the right, a distinguished gentleman in pyjamas and dressing gown hastily wrapped around him shook his head disconsolately and said you see, madam, if the firemen tell you to leave the building there’s a reason, probably a serious one, they wouldn’t say such a thing lightly, isn’t it true that they wouldn’t say such a thing lightly? The firemen said no, they would never say such a thing lightly, they were saying it because it was dangerous, yes sir, they were doing only their duty and nothing else, they realised, yes, of course, they realised. But the lady said and where am I going to sleep tonight?, in a hotel?, and at whose expense?, the City of Naples? But you see madam I’m trying to explain the situation right now. But there was really little to explain, because in the meantime in the middle of the road the crew commander was collecting witness statements and there were a few people who had seen and who swore: in that chasm there are now two cars, definitely, they were parked right there, you see?, three metres away on the right, and they aren’t there any more, and when the road collapsed I heard a dull sound, a strange sound, and a woman’s voice, definitely, a terrible scream, sir, a heartrending thing. Staring at the rope on the truck, down in the chasm which was pouring down, a fireman had gone down, Giovanni Esposito, 24, from Roccarainola, who said play out the rope gently, play out the rope gently, and the others played out the rope. But then he disappeared, and his voice fell silent, and two firemen appeared on the edge of the chasm to see and could barely make him out: he asked for rope, more, but gently, gently, very slowly, and those two firemen passed his words on and the men on the truck played out still more rope, ten metres already, no joke in those conditions, not by any means, and then the crew commander said all right, pull him up now, I don’t want to risk anything until we know. The other firemen in charge of the case pulled up Giovanni Esposito from Roccarainola, who set foot back on the cobbles, and the cobbles came apart at once, and he lost his balance and slipped, but the rope was there to hold him, the rope was there, and he merely slipped, his
right hip only crashed hard on the ridge, he had a brief raw pain from it, but once he was definitely up it had all passed, all of it, and he felt no pain at all, and said to the commander: Commander, there must be people down there because I heard something like wailing, perhaps a woman, but I might be mistaken. Then the commander went to the radio in his flame-red vehicle and told them to send out another squad, with planks, tackle, winches and various tools they needed to go down further, about twenty metres, maybe more, then he said to the driver inform the Municipal Technical Office and tell them to send someone and explain carefully how things are, then right away call the assessor of Public Works, alert the Prefecture, and while he was saying those things in the pouring rain a cluster of people with black umbrellas had formed, and they were watching in silence, and at the windows of the building were men and women watching. But what the hell are these people waiting for?, the commander yelled, I told you to clear everything!, straight away!, and he looked up towards the upper floors, but a violent spate of rain made him lower his head again and fuck!, he said, and from below the hood of his raincoat he managed to light a cigarette, and call an ambulance, he yelled at the driver, or two, and he added under his breath because we have no idea how things will go here. And as he said that talking to himself, what the hell, today of all days, my wife’s birthday, he thought of Via Tasso, oh Christ!, Via Tasso.
At 7.45 on 23 October the uncovered sewers on Via Tasso had completely filled with that shitty rain!, when will it stop?, and now the water was sliding along the asphalt, on the planks of the roadworks, on to the pavement, and quickly escaping downhill, carrying soil and waste and newsprint. At the intersection with Corso Vittorio Emanuele it was really a raging torrent that was coming now, while from above, level with the Italnapoli cinema, Via Tasso gritted its teeth, and also gritting his teeth and muttering fuck off was Biagio Di Sepe, 45, from Avellino, who was determined not to give a toss and had put on his rubber boots, on that morning of 23 October. And he couldn’t even feel that water that was now passing between his feet, but he certainly saw it, he saw it very clearly, and above all he saw a few metres higher, where the uncovered sewer had filled up: the water swelled and gurgled, it almost breathed. Biagio Di Sepe suddenly said: Under these conditions I’m not bringing anything into the shop from outside, let alone the oranges with the rain, no, no, I’m leaving everything right where it is, it will have to stop sooner or later, and right above him in the sky there was a long blackish streak, and it had been like that at the market too, at four in the morning, but he had thought it would stop sooner or later, it would certainly stop. Except that it wasn’t stopping, it showed no sign of stopping, and what a shitty day, he said, and he stood there with his arms folded in the shop doorway, and then he lit a cigarette and stood and watched. But when he checked that dull sound he saw nothing whatsoever, he heard only that crash, and those stones on the ground in the middle of the road. Then he looked carefully upwards and there it was, there it was, he saw it, the eaves were coming away, leaning towards the street, as if in slow motion, then the building began collapsing from below, thundering down to the cobbles, with those stones jumping, jumping, with the dust rising before being caught by the rain and thrust down once more against the asphalt. And fuck, he said, this is going badly. And he no longer felt so confident now, the fruit and vegetables would be fucked, who cares, something major is happening here. And the van moved strangely, just a hint, perhaps he was mistaken, in any case it’s a good idea to check, it’s a good idea to check, losing the van is the last thing we need right now, with this shitty day presenting itself. Biagio di Sepe with his rubber boots went to his parked van, climbed into the driver’s seat and checked the gear, and it was in first, but for some reason he put it in reverse, and checked the handbrake which was full on, but that handbrake had never worked very well, for how many years had he been saying: I’ll get it seen to, I’ll get it seen to, and now with all that rain there was no time to get anything seen to, he had to do something, now. And he surprised himself by turning on the engine. And the engine for the sake of turning on turned on, but he said fuck what did I turn it on for?, what am I doing?, not the foggiest, and then he turned everything off, everything again, I’ve just got to put blocks behind the wheels, that’s it, blocks, and he took two big stones from the street and put them very tightly against the back wheels reinforcing them with a few kicks, and now, now it was sorted, right?, certainly, it was sorted, and he was about to deliver another kick, with that river coming down you can’t be sure of anything, and I’m certainly not putting the oranges outside this morning, and he was about to return to his shelter. At that moment house number 234 twisted and leaned. And fuck he said, is the whole thing about to come down?