Sparrow (and other stories)

by Giovanni Verga

  In the orchard, under the old tree where the olive thief is buried, grow cabbages as big as the heads of children.

  COMRADES

  ’Malerba?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘There’s a button missing here, where is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, corporal.’

  ‘Confined to barracks!’

  The same as ever: coat like a sack, gloves that he felt uncomfortable wearing, not knowing what to do with his hands when he had them on, bone-headed in training and on the parade ground. And unsociable! No matter in which beautiful town he was garrisoned, he never went to see the main streets, or palaces, or fairs, not even the amusement stalls or merry-go-rounds. He spent the time they were allowed out wandering the streets outside the city walls, swinging his arms, or he would watch the women hunkered down weeding the ground in Piazza Castello; or else plant himself in front of the chestnut stall, without ever spending any money. The lads made fun of him behind his back. Gallorini drew a charcoal sketch of him on the wall, with his name below. He didn’t let it bother him. But when as a joke they stole the cigarette butts he kept hidden in his gun-barrel, he flew into a rage, and once he went to prison for a punch that half-blinded Il Lucchese – the bruise was still visible – and stubborn as a mule, he kept saying, ‘I didn’t do it.’ ‘Well then, who was it that did thump Il Lucchese?’ ‘I don’t know.’ And he would sit on his bunk with his chin in his hands. ‘When I get back home!’ It was his constant refrain.

  ‘Well, tell us about it. Have you got a lover at home?’ asked Gallorini.

  He stared at Gallorini, with suspicion, and jerked his head. Neither a yes nor a no. Then he took to staring off into the distance. Every day, he would use a pencil stub to tick off a little calendar he carried in his pocket.

  Gallorini, though, had a lover right there. A big fat woman with a moustache whom they had seen him with at a cafe one Sunday, sitting together with a glass of beer in front of them, which she insisted on paying for. Il Lucchese found out, while hanging about there with Gegia, who never cost him anything. With his sweet talk, Il Lucchese would find himself Gegias everywhere, and so that they should not take offence at all being lumped together even to sharing a name, he said that where he came from it was a customary term of endearment for your beloved, whether she was called Teresa, Assunta or Bersabea.

  That was when it began to be rumoured that there was going to be war with the Germans. Soldiers coming and going, crowds in the street, and people turning up to watch the military drill in Piazza d’Armi. When the regiment paraded, with bands playing and onlookers applauding, Il Lucchese marched with a swagger, as though he were the star of the show, and Gallorini was constantly saluting friends and acquaintances, with his arm up in the air the whole time, saying that he intended to come back either a dead man or an officer.

  ‘Aren’t you happy to be going to war?’ he asked Malerba when they piled up their weapons at the station.

  Malerba shrugged his shoulders and continued to observe the people shouting and cheering, ‘Hurrah!’

  Il Lucchese even saw Gegia in the crowd, watching with curiosity from a distance, clinging to some young lout in workman’s clothes who was smoking a pipe. ‘That’s called hedging your bets!’ muttered Il Lucchese, who could not break ranks, and he asked Gallorini if his girlfriend had joined the grenadiers so as not to be parted from him.

  It was like a carnival, wherever they arrived. Flags, lanterns, and peasants who would run up the embankment, to watch the train cram-full of forage-caps and guns go by. But then sometimes in the evenings, when the trumpets sounded lights-out, they felt seized with longing, for Gegia, their friends, everything left behind. The minute the post arrived at the camp, they would go running en masse to reach out their hands for it. Malerba would be left by himself, bemused, evidently not expecting anything. He still marked off his calendar every day. Then he would listen to the band, from a distance, thinking of who knows what.

  One evening at last there was great activity in the camp. Officers hurrying to and fro, baggage waggons heading towards the river. Reveille was sounded two hours after midnight; but even so, there was a distribution of rations and camp was struck. After that, the regiment set off.

  It was going to be a hot day. Malerba, who knew about such things, could smell it in the gusts of wind that raised thick clouds of dust. Then the rain came down in big sparse drops. Whenever the showers stopped, at sporadic intervals, and the corn ceased rustling, the crickets began to sing loudly, in the fields, on either side of the road. Il Lucchese, who was marching behind Malerba, amused himself behind his back. ‘Move it, comrade! What’s keeping you so quiet? Thinking of your last will and testament, maybe?’

  With a shrug of his shoulders, Malerba adjusted the pack on his back, and muttered, ‘Get lost!’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Gallorini. ‘He’s thinking of his girlfriend, how, if the Germans get him, she’ll find herself some other guy.’

  ‘You take a walk, too!’ replied Malerba.

  Suddenly out of the darkness came the clink of a sabre and the sound of a horse trotting by, passing between the two columns of the regiment marching on either side of the road.

  ‘Good luck on your journey!’ said Il Lucchese, who was the comedian of the group. ‘And regards to the Germans, if you happen to run into them.’

  A group of houses showed up pale against a large patch of darkness on the right. And a guard dog barked furiously, running alongside the hedge.

  ‘That’s a German dog,’ said Gallorini, trying to crack jokes like Il Lucchese. ‘Can’t you tell from the way it barks?’

  It was still very dark. On the left, above what looked like a big black cloud, which must have been a hill, shone a bright star.

  ‘I wonder what time it is?’ said Gallorini.

  Malerba sniffed the air and said at once, ‘It’ll be at least an hour before the sun rises!’

  ‘What a joke!’ grumbled Il Lucchese. ‘Getting us up at an ungodly hour for nothing!’

  ‘Halt!’ ordered a curt voice.

  The regiment continue to shuffle about, like a flock of sheep herding together.

  ‘Oh, what are we waiting for?’ mumbled Il Lucchese after a while. Another group of horsemen passed by. This time, as day broke they could see the lancers’ pennants flying, and a general ahead, with braiding all the way up to the top of his cap, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. The road was beginning to grow paler, running in a straight line through the still-dark countryside. The hills seemed to emerge one by one into the uncertain half-light; and a burning fire was visible in the distance, perhaps belonging to some woodcutter, or peasants who had fled before the oncoming tide of soldiers. The birds wakened by the disturbance twittered on the branches of the mulberry trees that materialized in the dawn.

  Shortly afterwards, as it grew lighter, a deep rumble, like thunder, was heard from the left, where the horizon broadened in a glimmering of pink and gold, an unnerving sound in that cloudless sky. It might have been the burbling of the river, or the rumbling of the artillery on the march. Suddenly the word went round: ‘A cannon!’ And they all turned to look towards the golden horizon.

  ‘I’m tired,’ Gallorini grumbled.

  ‘They should call a halt,’ Il Lucchese agreed.

  The talking died out as the soldiers advanced in the heat of the day, amid strips of brown earth and green sown land, vines flowering on the hillsides, rows of mulberry trees as far as the eye could reach. Lonely cottages and abandoned farmhouses were to be seen, here and there. Approaching a well to drink some water, they saw tools lying on the ground at the entrance to a hut, and a cat peering out from the broken doors, miauling.

  ‘Look!’ said Malerba. ‘Their corn’s ripe, poor folk!’

  ‘Want to bet that you don’t get to eat that bread?’ said Il Lucchese.

  ‘Shut up!’ replied Malerba. ‘I’m wearing the Madonna’s scapular.’ And he made a gesture with his fingers t
o ward off the evil eye.

  At that moment a booming came again from the left, towards the plain. At first, isolated bursts that echoed from the hills. Then what sounded like the crackle of rockets, almost as if the village were celebrating. Above the green-capped summit they could see the tranquil belltower in the azure sky.

  ‘No, it’s not the river,’ said Gallorini.

  ‘Nor the waggons passing.’

  ‘Do you hear that!’ shouted Gallorini. ‘The party’s begun, over there.’

  ‘Halt!’ came the order once again. Il Lucchese listened, with raised eyebrows, and said no more. Malerba was standing beside a milestone, and he sat down on it, with his gun between his legs

  The bombardment must have been taking place on the plain. Smoke appeared at every explosion, like small dense clouds, that barely rose above the rows of mulberry trees and slowly disintegrated. Peaceful meadows descended to the plain, with the song of quail rising from the turf.

  The colonel, on horseback, was talking to a group of officers standing by the side of the road, looking down on the plain every now and again with his spy-glass. He no sooner began to trot than the regiment trumpets all blared together: ‘Forward!’

  To left and right were bare fields. Then the occasional patch of maize again. Then vines, and water courses, and finally some dwarf saplings. The first houses of a village came into view; the road was choked with waggons and horses. A bewildering din, such chaos.

  A cavalryman came galloping up, white with dust. His mount, a stocky long-haired black horse, had red steaming nostrils. Then a staff officer went by, yelling like a maniac to clear the road, striking out with his sabre to left and right at those poor noncombatant mules. Through the elm trees lining the road the infantry could be seen running forward, their black plumes streaming in the wind.

  Now they were following a track that bore right. The soldiers trampled over the seeded ground, which made Malerba feel like weeping. On the top of a rise they saw a group of mounted officers wearing the tricorne hats of carabinieri, with a rear escort of lancers. Three or four paces ahead of them, on horseback, with his hand on his hip, was some bigwig, to whom the generals responded with their hands to their peaked caps, and as the officers passed by, they saluted him with their sabres.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Malerba.

  ‘Vittorio,’ replied Il Lucchese. ‘Haven’t you ever seen him on coins, stupid.’

  The soldiers looked back, for as long as they could. Then Malerba said to himself, ‘That’s the King!’

  Further on, there was a dried-up riverbed. The opposite bank, covered with scrub, rose into the mountainside, dotted with pollarded elms. There was no sound of bombardment. In that quietness, a blackbird began to whistle in the bright morning.

  Suddenly it was like a storm breaking. The summit, the belltower, everything was wreathed in smoke. With every cannonball, branches of trees cracked, here and there dust rose from the ground. A shell wiped out a group of soldiers. From the top of the hill they heard great cries every now and again, like cheering. ‘Holy Mother!’ stammered Il Lucchese. The sergeants ordered them repeatedly to drop their packs. Malerba obeyed reluctantly, because he had two new shirts in his, and all his belongings.

  ‘Hurry! Hurry!’ the sergeants kept saying. With the rumbling of an earthquake, a few pieces of artillery came thundering up a stony path at a gallop; officers to the fore, soldiers bowed over the bristling manes of steaming horses, whipping them on for all they were worth, and gunners with their hands to the hubs and wheels, pushing them up the slope.

  In the midst of the furious roar of cannonfire a wounded horse could be seen bolting across the hillside, with its traces hanging loose, whinnying, breaking off the tops of the vines, kicking out desperately. Further below, stood swarms of ragged and bloodied soldiers, without their caps, waving their arms about. Finally, entire squads of soldiers, were slowly retreating, stopping to release scattered fire from among the trees. Trumpets and drums sounded the charge. The regiment rushed up the slope like a torrent of men.

  Il Lucchese’s heart quaked – why this frantic hurry for whatever was awaiting them up there! Gallorini shouted, ‘Savoy!’ And to Malerba who was dragging his feet, he said, ‘Move it, comrade!’

  ‘Get lost!’ Malerba replied.

  As soon as they got to the top, in a small area of rock-strewn meadow, they came face to face with the Germans, advancing in close formation. A flash of light streaked across those thronging masses; gunfire rang out from one side to the other. A young officer, just out of college, fell at that moment, with his sabre in his hand. Il Lucchese reeled about a little, with his arms outstretched, as if he were stumbling, then he too fell. But after that, it was impossible to see anything. The men fought hand to hand, with blood in their eyes.

  ‘Savoy! Savoy!’

  At last the Germans had had enough, and began to fall back slowly. The grey coats went storming after them. In the headlong rush, Malerba felt as if he had been hit by a stone, which made him limp. Then he realized there was blood seeping through his trousers. Like a maddened bull, he charged, head down, with thrusts of his bayonet. He saw a big blond devil coming towards him with his sabre above his head and Gallorini pointing the muzzle of his rifle at his back.

  The trumpets sounded the rally. Now all that was left of the regiment, banding together, in groups, ran towards the village, lying resplendent in the sunshine, immersed in greenery. However, at the very first houses there was evidence of the carnage which had taken place. Cannons, horses, wounded infantry, in great disorder. Smashed doors, shutters hanging from windows like rags in the sun. Inside a courtyard there was a heap of wounded men lying on the ground, and a waggon with its shafts up in the air, still loaded with wood.

  ‘What about Il Lucchese?’ asked Gallorini, breathlessly.

  Malerba had seen him fall. Nevertheless he instinctively looked back at the hill that was swarming with men and horses. Weapons glistened in the sun. In the middle of the open ground, officers on foot could be seen looking into the distance with a spy-glass. Companies of men came down the hill, one by one, with flashes of light along their lines.

  It must have been about ten – ten o’clock, in June, with the sun overhead. Falling on it as though completely parched, an officer drank the water in which they were washing the brushes for cleaning the cannon-barrels. Gallorini lay prone on the ground, by the cemetery wall, his face in the grass; there at least, in the thick grass, a little coolness came from the graves. Malerba, sitting on the ground, bound his leg with a handkerchief, as best he could. He was thinking of Il Lucchese, poor fellow, who had fallen by the wayside, belly up.

  ‘They’re back, they’re back!’ a voice shouted. The trumpet gave the call to arms. Ah! This was too much for Gallorini! Not even a moment’s rest! He got up like a wild beast, in complete tatters, and grabbed his gun. The company hurriedly took up positions, among the first houses of the village, behind the walls, at the windows. Two cannons stood in the middle of the road, with their black necks outstretched. They could see the Germans coming in serried ranks, one battalion after another, endless numbers of them.

  That was when Gallorini was hit. A bullet got him in the arm. Malerba tried to help him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing, leave me alone.’

  Even the lieutenant was firing like an ordinary soldier, so he had to rush off to lend a hand. At every shot Malerba kept saying, ‘Let me do it, it’s my job!’ The Germans disappeared again. Then the order to retreat was given. The regiment was exhausted. Gallorini and Il Lucchese were lucky to be getting some rest. Gallorini had sat on the ground, against the wall, and would not budge. It was about four – over eight hours they had been in that heat, their mouths dry with dust. However, Malerba had got a taste for it, and he asked, ‘What shall we do now?’ But no one paid any attention to him. They were descending towards the river, accompanied all the time by the music of the bombardment on the hill. Then from a distance they saw
the village swarming with uniforms. Nothing made sense any more, they did not know where they were going, or what was happening. At a curve in the embankment they came across the hedge behind which Il Lucchese had fallen. Nor was Gallorini with them any more. They were returning in disarray, new faces unfamiliar to each other, grenadiers and regular infantry, following ragged officers who limped along, dragging their feet, with their rifles loaded on their shoulders.

  Calming darkness fell, in great silence, everywhere.

  They kept passing waggons, cannons and soldiers, making their way in the dark, without trumpets and without drums. When they got to the other side of the river, they discovered they had lost the battle.

  ‘What?’ said Malerba. ‘What?’ And he could not believe it.

  Then when his term of service was over, he went back to his village, and found Marta already married, having got tired of waiting for him. He did not have time to waste either, and he married a widow of substance. Some time afterwards, Gallorini turned up, with a wife and children too, working on the nearby railway.

  ‘Hey, Malerba! What are you doing here? I’m a jobber. I learned my trade abroad, in Hungary, when I was taken prisoner, do you remember? My wife brought me a bit of capital … Hard world, eh? You thought I’d got rich? However we did our duty. But we’re not the ones that ride in a carriage. What’s required is a good turning over of the soil, so we can start again from scratch.’ He would repeat the same sermon to his workers, on Sundays at the tavern. They would listen, poor souls, and nod their heads, sipping their sour wine, enjoying the sun on their backs, like animals, just the same as Malerba, who was capable of nothing else but sowing, harvesting and producing offspring. He would nod his head diplomatically, whenever his comrade was talking, but he never opened his mouth. Gallorini on the other hand had seen the world, he had an opinion about the rights and the wrongs of everything; especially the wrong that was being done to him, having to go all over the place to find work, with a bevy of kids and a wife to support, while so many others went riding about in a carriage.