The Skin

by Curzio Malaparte

  "What is it?" asked Churchill.

  "A fish," replied General Cork.

  "A fish?" said Churchill, looking closely at the extraordinary fish.

  "What is the name of this fish?" General Cork asked the major-domo.

  "It's a torpedo," replied the major-domo.

  "What?" said Churchill.

  "A torpedo," said General Cork.

  "A torpedo?" said Churchill.

  "Yes, of course—a torpedo," said General Cork, and turning to the major-domo he asked him what a torpedo was.

  "An electric fish," replied the major-domo.

  "Ah, yes, of course—an electric fish!" said General Cork, turning to Churchill. And the two men smiled at each other, their fish knives and forks suspended in mid-air.

  General Cork turned to the major-domo. "Do you think it's dangerous to touch it?" he said. "It's charged with electricity."

  "Electricity," replied the major-domo in English, which he pronounced with a Neapolitan accent, "is dangerous when it is raw. When it is cooked it is harmless."

  "Ah!" exclaimed Churchill and General Cork with one voice; and heaving sighs of relief they touched the electric fish with the end of their forks.

  But one fine day the supply of fish in the Aquarium ran out. There only remained the famous Siren (a very rare example of the species of "sirenoids" which, because of their almost human form, gave rise to the ancient legend about the Sirens) and a few wonderful stems of coral.

  General Cork, who had the praiseworthy habit of concerning himself personally with the smallest details, had asked the major-domo what kind of fish it would be possible to catch in the Aquarium for the dinner he was giving in honour of Mrs. Flat.

  "There's very little left," the major-domo had replied. "Only a Siren and a few stems of coral."

  "Is it a good fish, the Siren?"

  "Excellent!" the major-domo had replied, without batting an eyelid.

  "And coral?" General Cork had asked. (When he concerned himself with his dinners he was especially meticulous.) "Is it good to eat?"

  "No—not coral. It's a little indigestible."

  "Very well, then—no coral."

  "We can use it as border," the major-domo had suggested imperturbably.

  "That's fine!"

  And the major-domo had written on the menu: "Siren mayonnaise with a border of coral."

  And now, pale-faced and dumb with surprise and horror, we were all looking at that poor dead child as she lay open-eyed in the silver tray, on a bed of green lettuce-leaves, encircled by a wreath of pink coral-stems.

  Walking along the miserable alleys of Naples one often catches a glimpse, through the open door of some basso, of a dead man lying on a bed, encircled by a wreath of flowers. And it is not unusual to see the corpse of a little girl. But I had never seen the corpse of a little girl encircled by a wreath of coral. How many poor Neapolitan mothers would have coveted such a wonderful wreath of coral for their own dead babes! Coral-stems are like the branches of a flowering peach-tree. They are a joy to behold; they lend a gay, spring-like air to the dead bodies of little children. I looked at that poor boiled child, and I trembled inwardly with pity and pride. A wonderful country, Italy! I thought. What other people in the world can permit itself the luxury of offering Siren mayonnaise with a border of coral to a foreign army that has destroyed and invaded its country? Ah! It was worth losing the war just to see those American officers and that proud American woman sitting pale and horror-stricken round the table of an American general, on which, in a silver tray, reposed the body of a Siren, a sea-goddess!

  "Disgusting!" exclaimed Mrs. Flat, covering her eyes with her hands.

  "Yes . . . I mean ... yes . . ." stammered General Cork, pale and trembling.

  "Take it away—take this horrible thing away!" cried Mrs. Flat.

  "Why?" I said. "It's an excellent fish."

  "But there must be some mistake! Please forgive me . . . but . . . there must be some mistake . . . Please forgive me . . ." stammered poor General Cork, with a wail of distress.

  "I assure you that it's an excellent fish," I said.

  "But we can't eat that . . . that girl . . . that poor girl!" said Colonel Eliot.

  "It isn't a girl," I said. "It's a fish."

  "General," said Mrs. Flat in a stern voice, "I hope you won't force me to eat that . . . this . . . that poor girl!"

  "But it's a fish!" said General Cork. "It's a first-rate fish! Mala-parte says it's excellent. He knows . . ."

  "I haven't come to Europe to be forced to eat human flesh by your friend Malaparte, or by you," said Mrs. Flat, her voice trembling with indignation. "Let's leave it to those barbarous Italians to eat children at dinner. I refuse. I am an honest American woman. I don't eat children!"

  "I'm sorry—I'm terribly sorry," said General Cork, mopping his brow which was dripping with perspiration.

  "But in Naples every one eats this species of child . . . yes . . . I mean ... no ... I mean . . . that species of fish . . . ! Isn't it true, Malaparte, that that species of child ... of fish ... is excellent?"

  "It's an excellent fish," I replied, "and what does it matter if it looks like a child? It's a fish. In Europe a fish doesn't have to look like a fish . . ."

  "Nor in America!" said General Cork, glad to find at last someone who would stick up for him.

  "What?" cried Mrs. Flat.

  "In Europe," I said, "fish at least are free! No one says that a fish mustn't look like—what shall I say?—a man, a child, or a woman. And this is a fish, even if . . . Anyhow," I added, "what did you expect to eat when you came to Italy? The corpse of Mussolini?"

  "Ha! ha! ha! That's funny!" roared General Cork, but his laughter was too shrill to be genuine. "Ha! ha! ha!" And all the others joined in, their laughter a strangely conflicting blend of dismay, doubt and merriment. I have never loved the Americans, I shall never love them, in the way I did that evening, as I sat at that table, confronted by that horrible fish.

  "You don't intend, I hope," said Mrs. Flat, pale with anger and horror, "you don't intend to make me eat that horrible thing! You forget that I am an American! What would they say in Washington, General, what would they say at the War Department, if they knew that the guests at your dinner ate boiled girls?"

  "I mean ... yes ... of course . . .", stammered General Cork, giving me a look of supplication.

  "Boiled girls with mayonnaise!" added Mrs. Flat in an icy voice.

  "You are forgetting the border of coral," I said, as if I thought thereby to absolve General Cork.

  "I am not forgetting the coral!" said Mrs. Flat, giving me a devastating look.

  "Take it away!" shouted General Cork suddenly to the major-domo, pointing to the Siren. "Take that thing away!"

  "General, wait a moment, please," said Colonel Brown, the chaplain attached to G.H.Q. "We must bury that . . . poor kid."

  "What?" exclaimed Mrs. Flat.

  "We must bury this . . . this ... I mean . . .", said the chaplain.

  "Do you mean . . .?" said General Cork.

  "Yes, I mean bury," said the chaplain.

  "But . . . it's a fish . . .", said General Cork.

  "It may be a fish," said the chaplain, "but it looks more like a little girl . . . Allow me to insist: it is our duty to bury this little girl . . . I mean this fish. We are Christians. Are we not Christians?"

  "I have my doubts!" said Mrs. Flat, gazing at General Cork with an expression of cold contempt.

  "Yes, I suppose . . .", replied General Cork.

  "We must bury it," said Colonel Brand.

  "All right," said General Cork. "But where should we bury it? I would say, throw it on the ash-heap. That seems the simplest thing to me."

  "No," said the chaplain. "One never knows. It's not at all certain that it is a real fish. We must give it a more decent burial."

  "But there are no cemeteries for fish in Naples!" said General Cork, turning to me.

  "I don't think there are any," I s
aid. "The Neapolitans don't bury fish—they eat them."

  "We could bury it in the garden," said the chaplain.

  "That's a good idea," said General Cork, his face clearing. "We can bury it in the garden." And turning to the major-domo he added: "Please go and bury this thing . . . this poor fish in the garden."

  "Yes, General," said the major-domo, bowing, and meanwhile the footmen lifted the gleaming solid silver bier on which the poor dead Siren lay and put it on the stretcher.

  "I said bury it," said General Cork. "I forbid you to eat it in the kitchen!"

  "Yes, General," said the major-domo. "But it's a pity! Such a lovely fish!"

  "We don't know for certain that it is a fish," said General Cork, "and I forbid you to eat it."

  The major-domo bowed, the footmen set off in the direction of the door, carrying the gleaming silver bier on the stretcher, and we all followed that strange funeral procession with sad eyes.

  "It will be as well," said the chaplain, rising, "if I go and supervise the burial. I don't want to have anything on my conscience."

  "Thank you, Father," said General Cork, mopping his brow, and with a sigh of relief he glanced at Mrs. Flat.

  "Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Mrs. Flat, raising her eyes to heaven.

  She was pale, and the tears glistened in her eyes. I was glad that she was moved; I was deeply grateful to her for her tears. I had misjudged her; Mrs. Flat was a woman with a heart. If she wept for a fish, it was certain that in the end, some day or other, she would also feel compassion for the people of Italy, that she would also be moved to tears by the sorrows and sufferings of my own unhappy people.

  CHAPTER VII - THE TRIUMPH OF CLORINDA

  "THE American Army," said the Prince of Candia, "has the sweet, warm smell of a blonde woman."

  "You're very kind," said Colonel Jack Hamilton.

  "It's a splendid Army. So far as we are concerned it is an honour and a pleasure to have been conquered by such an army."

  "You are really very kind," said Jack with a smile.

  "You were very polite when you landed in Italy," said Marchese Antonino Nunziante. "Before entering our house you knocked at the door, as all well-bred people do. If you hadn't knocked we shouldn't have let you in."

  "To tell you the truth, we knocked a little too hard," said Jack, "so hard that the whole house collapsed."

  "That's merely an insignificant detail," said the Prince of Candia. "The important thing is that you knocked. I hope you won't complain of the reception we gave you."

  "We couldn't have wished for more courteous hosts," said Jack. "It only remains for us to ask you to forgive us for having won the war."

  "I am certain you will ask our forgiveness in the end," said the Prince of Candia with his innocent and ironical air—the air of an old Neapolitan nobleman.

  "We are not the only ones who should ask your forgiveness," said Jack. "The British have won the war, too—but they will never ask your forgiveness."

  "If the British," said Baron Romano Avezzana, who had been Ambassador in Paris and Washington and had remained loyal to the great traditions of European diplomacy, "expect us to ask their forgiveness for having lost the war, they are deluding themselves. Italian policy is based on the cardinal principle that there is always someone else who loses wars on Italy's behalf."

  "I am curious to know," said Jack, laughing, "who has lost this war on your behalf."

  "The Russians, of course," replied the Prince of Candia.

  "The Russians?" exclaimed Jack. "And why?"

  "A few days ago," replied the Prince of Candia, "I was dining with Count Sforza. Also present was the Soviet Vice-Commissar for Foreign Affairs, Vishinsky. At a certain point in the proceedings Vishinsky related how he had asked a Neapolitan boy if he knew who would win the war. 'The British and the Italians,' the boy had replied. 'And why?' 'Because the British are cousins of the Americans, and the Italians are cousins of the French.' 'And what is your opinion about the Russians? Do you think they will win the war too?' Vishinsky had asked the boy. 'Oh, no, the Russians will lose it,' the boy had replied. 'And why?' 'Because the Russians, poor chaps, are cousins of the Germans.' "

  "Wonderful!" exclaimed Jack, while all the guests laughed.

  Tall, lean, his face bronzed by sun and sea-winds, the Prince of Candia exemplified to perfection a Neapolitan noblesse—among the oldest and most illustrious of its kind in Europe—that combines with its splendid manners a spirit of freedom in which the pride of Spanish blood is tempered with the irony of the great French seigneurs of the eighteenth century. He had white hair, lustrous eyes and thin lips. His small, statuesque head and his delicate hands, with their long, slim fingers, contrasted with his broad, athletic shoulders and the virile elegance of a strong man accustomed to violent sports.

  His mother was English; and to his English blood he owed the coldness of his expression and the sober and assured deliberation of his gestures. Having in his youth vied with Prince Jean Gerace not, to be sure, in bringing the modes of Paris and London to Naples, but in introducing the modes of Naples to London and Paris, he had long since renounced the pleasures of the world so as to avoid having dealings with that "nobility" of nouveaux riches which Mussolini had brought into the forefront of political and social life. For a long time he had shunned all publicity. His name had suddenly been heard once more on everybody's lips when, in 1938, on the occasion of Hitler's visit to Naples, he had refused to attend the official banquet given in honour of the Führer. After being arrested and imprisoned for some weeks in Poggioreale Gaol he had been banished by Mussolini to his estates in Calabria. This had earned for him the reputation of being a man of honour and a free Italian —titles which, though dangerous, were in those days not to be despised.

  Prestige of a more popular kind had accrued to him during the days of the liberation by virtue of his refusal to be included in the group of Neapolitan noblemen chosen to offer General Clark the keys of the city. He had justified his refusal without arrogance, simply and politely, saying that it was not the custom of his family to offer the keys of the city to those who invaded Naples, and that he was merely following the example of his ancestor, Berardo of Candia, who had refused to pay homage to King Charles VIII of France, the conquerer of Naples, even though in his day Charles VIII also had the reputation of being a liberator. "But General Clark is our liberator!" His excellency the Prefect had exclaimed —he to whom the strange idea had first occurred of offering the keys of the city to General Clark. "I don't doubt it," the Prince of Candia had replied simply and courteously, "but I am a free man, and only slaves need to be liberated." Everyone expected that in order to humble the Prince of Candia's pride General Clark would have him arrested, as was the usual practice during the days of the liberation. But General Clark had invited him to dinner and had received him with perfect courtesy, saying that he was glad to make the acquaintance of an Italian who had a sense of dignity.

  "The Russians too are extremely well-bred," said Princess Consuelo Caracciolo. "The other day, in Via Toledo, Vishinsky's car ran over the old Duchess of Amalfi’s pekinese and crushed it to death. Vishinsky got out of his car, picked up the poor pekinese himself and, after telling the Duchess how deeply distressed he was, asked her to let him take her in his car to the Palace of Amalfi. "Thank you, I prefer to walk home," replied the old Duchess haughtily, throwing a contemptuous glance at the little red flag, bearing the sign of the hammer and sickle, which flew from the bonnet. Vishinsky bowed silently, re-entered his car and drove swiftly away. Only then did the Duchess realize that her poor dead dog was still in Vishinsky's car. The following day Vishinsky sent her a present of a jar of marmalade. The Duchess tried it, and uttering a shriek of horror fell to the floor in a faint: the marmalade tasted like dead dog. I tried it too, and I assure you that it tasted exactly like dog-marmalade."

  "Well-bred Russians are capable of anything," said Maria Teresa Orilia.

  "Are you sure it was dog-marmalade?" asked Jack in great
astonishment. "Perhaps it was caviare."

  "Probably," said the Prince of Candia, "Vishinsky wanted to pay homage to the Neapolitan nobility, which is among the oldest of its kind in Europe. Don't we deserve to be given dog-marmalade?"

  "You certainly deserve something better," said Jack naively.

  "Anyhow," said Consuelo, "I would rather have dog-marmalade than your spam."

  "Our spam," said Jack, "is only pig-marmalade."

  "The other day," said Antonino Nunziante, "when I got back home, I found a negro sitting down to a meal with my caretaker's family. He was a handsome negro, and very polite. He told me that if the American soldiers didn't eat spam they would have conquered Berlin by now."

  "I am very fond of negroes," said Consuelo. "They at least reflect the colour of their opinions."

  "Leurs opinions sont tres blanches," said Jack. "Ce sont de veritables enfants."

  "Are there many negroes in the American Army?" asked Maria Teresa.

  Il y a des nègres partout," replied Jack, "même dans l'armée américaine."

  "A British officer, Captain Harari," said Consuelo, "told me there are a lot of American negro soldiers in England. One evening, during a dinner at the United States Embassy in London, the Ambassador asked Lady Wintermere what she thought of the American soldiers. 'They are very likeable,' replied Lady Wintermere, 'but I don't see why they've brought all those poor white soldiers along with them.' "

  "I don't see why, either," said Jack, laughing.

  "If they weren't black," said Consuelo, "it would be very hard to tell them from the whites. American soldiers all wear the same uniform."

  "Oui, naturellement," said Jack, "mais il faut quand même un oeil très exercé pour les distinguer des autres."

  "The other day," said Baron Romano Avezzana, "I was standing in the Piazza San Ferdinando, close to a boy who was busily engaged in polishing the shoes of a negro soldier. At a certain point the negro asked the boy: 'Are you Italian?' The little Neapolitan replied, 'Me? No, I'm a negro.' "