The Skin

by Curzio Malaparte

  "Very good, Excellency, then we keep them," said the citizens, and they left.

  A few days later the Governor had fresh notices affixed to the walls, in which he promised a thousand lire for each prisoner.

  The committee of citizens went back to the Governor and declared that more days had passed, that the prisoners had got hungry and were continuing to eat, that meanwhile the price of foodstuffs was increasing, and that a thousand lire a head was too little.

  "Try to understand, Excellency! With every day that passes the price of the prisoners increases. Today we can't let you have them for less than two thousand lire a head. We don't want to indulge in a speculation—we simply want 'to cover our expenses. For two thousand lire, Excellency, a prisoner is yours!"

  "I have said a thousand lire—not another cent!" he said. "And if you don't hand over the prisoners within twenty-four hours I'll send you all to gaol!"

  "All right, put us in prison, Excellency, have us shot if you like— but that's the price, and we can't sell you the prisoners for less than two thousand lire a head. If you don't want them we'll make soap out of them!"

  "What!" shouted the Governor.

  "We'll make soap out of them," said the citizens mildly, and they left.

  "And did they really boil the prisoners to make soap?" asked Jack, turning pale.

  "When they get to know in America, thought the Governor, that the Neapolitans are making soap out of German prisoners, and that it's my fault, the least that can happen to me is that I shall lose my job. And he paid two thousand lire for each prisoner."

  "Wonderful!" cried Jack. "Ha! ha! ha! Wonderful!" He was laughing so heartily that it made us all laugh just to look at him.

  "Why, he's crying!" exclaimed Consuelo.

  But Jack was not crying. The tears were rolling down his face, but he was not crying. This was the child-like and warm-hearted way he had of laughing.

  "It's a wonderful story," said Jack, wiping away his tears. "But do you think that if the Governor had refused to buy the prisoners at the price of two thousand lire a head the Neapolitans would really have boiled them to make soap?"

  "Soap is scarce in Naples," replied the Prince of Candia, "but the Neapolitans are nice people."

  "The Neapolitans are nice people, but for a piece of soap they will do anything," said Consuelo, stroking the rim of a Bohemian crystal chalice with her fingers. Consuelo Caracciolo is Spanish; she has the soft, honey-like beauty characteristic of blonde women, and the ironical smile, the cold smile in the languid face, that constitutes so much of the haughty charm of blonde Spanish women. This lingering, smooth, vibrant sound that Consuelo produced with her finger from the crystal chalice spread linto the hall and gradually became louder, acquiring a metallic tone. It seemed to penetrate the heavens, to vibrate far away in the green moonlight, like the whir of an aeroplane.

  "Listen," said Maria Teresa suddenly.

  "What is it?" asked Marcello Orilia, putting his hand to his ear. Marcello had for many years been Master of the Naples Hunt, and it was his custom nowadays when he was at home, in his beautiful Chaitamone house overlooking the sea, to wear his faded pink coat as a dressing-gown. The tragic end of his thoroughbreds, which had been commandeered by the Army at the beginning of the war and had died of hunger and cold in Russia, his nostalgic memories of the fox-hunts at Astroni, the slow, proud decline of Hélène of Orleans, Duchess of Aosta, to whom he had been devoted for forty years, and who was growing old in her Capodimonte palace, her long head poised on top of her long frame like an owl on its perch, had aged him and broken his spirit.

  "The Angel cometh," said Consuelo, pointing heavenwards.

  As the voices of the guests died away, and everyone listened intently to that desultory bee-like hum in the sky above Posillipo (an aquamarine sky, into which a pale moon was climbing like a jelly-fish from the liquid depths of the sea), I looked at Consuelo and thought of the women portrayed by the Spanish painters, the women of James Ferrer, of Alonso Berruguete, of James Huguet, with their diaphanous hair, the colour of a cricket's wings—the women who in the comedies of Fernando de Rojas and Gil Vicente stand up when they speak, making slow, leisurely gestures. I thought of the women of El Greco, Velazquez and Goya, whose hair is the colour of cold honey—the women who in the comedies of Lope de Vega, Calderón de la Barca and Ramon de la Cruz speak in shrill voices, walking on tip-toe. I thought of the women of Picasso— women with hair the colour of Cafarlati doux tobacco and dark, shining eyes like water-melon seeds, who peer obliquely out between the strips of newspaper pasted on their faces. Consuelo too looks at you obliquely, her cheek resting on her shoulder, her dark pupil peeping round the corner of her eye, as one peeps over a window-sill. Consuelo has los ojos graciosos described in the song of Melibea and Lucretia in La Celestina, eyes that make los dulces árboles sombrosos quail. Consuelo is tall and thin, with long, loose arms and long, transparent fingers, like some of El Greco's women—those vertes grenouilles mortes with open legs and splayed fingers.

  La media noche es pasada

  y no viene,

  sang Consuelo softly, stroking the crystal chalice with her finger.

  "He comes, Consuelo—your beloved comes," said Maria Teresa.

  "Ah, yes, my novio comes—my lover comes," said Counsuelo, laughing.

  We sat in silence round the table, motionless, craning our necks in the direction of the great windows. The whir of the propeller would come nearer, then fade away into the distance, drifting hither and thither on the long waves of the night wind. It was undoubtedly a German aeroplane that had come to drop its bombs on the hundreds of American ships crowded in the harbour. We were all rather white-faced as we listened to the prolonged vibration of the Bohemian crystal, to that desultory bee-like hum in the green moonlit sky.

  "Why don't the anti-aircraft guns fire?" said Antonino Nunziante in a low voice.

  "The Americans always wake up late," replied Baron Romano Avezzana in a low voice. During his long stay in America, where he had been Italian Ambassador, he had come to the conclusion that the Americans rise early in the morning but wake up late.

  Suddenly, in the distance, we heard a voice, a stupendous voice, and the earth shook.

  * * * *

  We rose from the table and threw open the windows. The palace of the Princes of Candia stands on the Monte di Dio; and we looked out over the deep chasm that yawns at the foot of the mountain's rugged and precipitous slopes, on the side facing Posillipo. Just as the watcher from the battlements of a castle that rises from a mountain-top surveys and explores the plain below, so did we take in the whole vast expanse of houses stretching down from the hill of Possillipo and along the shore right up to the great wall directly beneath the Monte di Dio. The moon shed its mild beams upon the houses and the gardens, gilding the window-sills and the edges of the balconies. The mellow light was distilled like honey from the trees that grew within the walls of the orchards; and the birds, nestling amid the branches, in the lavender hedges, and among the bright leaves of the laurels and magnolias, had awoken at the sound of that stupendous, distant voice, and were singing.

  Gradually the voice drew nearer. It filled the sky, like an immense cloud of sound, and became almost perceptible to the eye, making the faint moonlight misty and more substantial. It arose from the low-lying districts that fringe the sea, spreading from house to house, from street to street, until it became a clamour, a cry, a loud human lament.

  We moved away from the windows and went into the adjoining hall, which overlooked the garden on the other side of the Monte di Dio—the side facing the harbour. Through the wide-open casements we could make out the green, gilded abyss of the sea, the smoky harbour and, there in front of us, rising out of the golden lunar haze, the pale outline of Vesuvius. The brilliant moon was half-way up the sky, poised on the shoulder of Vesuvius like a terracotta jar on the shoulder of a water-carrier. In the distance, on the sky-line, floated the island of Capri, which was delicately suffused with
violet. The sea was a maze of currents—some white, some green, some purple; it filled the sad yet tender scene with a silvery resonance. In the tranquil night this sea, these mountains, these islands, this sky, and Vesuvius, whose deep brow was wreathed in flame, had the mellow, pathetic look of an old, faded print—the pale beauty that nature has when it has reached almost the limit of endurance. And the sight filled my heart with a lover's anguish.

  Consuelo was sitting in front of me on the arm of a chair, near one of the casements, which were open to the night. I could see her in profile. Her fair complexion, her golden hair and the dazzling snowy whiteness of her neck merged into the gilded radiance of the moon, so that to my eyes she was imbued with the immobile, melancholy grace of a headless statute. She was clad in an ivory-coloured silk gown, and in the light of the moon that flesh-like tint assumed the dull, pale aspect of old marble.

  I felt the presence of danger as an extraneous presence, as something outside myself, something intensely remote from me, as a thing that I could touch and see. I like to remain detached from danger—to be able to stretch out my arm blindly and lightly touch it, as one touches something cold with one's hand in the dark. And I was already on the point of stretching out my arm and touching Consuelo's hand lightly with my own, with no other thought in my mind than that of touching something extraneous to myself, something that was outside of me, as if to transform the danger that threatened us, and my own alarm, into something tangible, when the tranquility of the night was shattered by a fearful explosion.

  The bomb had fallen in the Vicolo del Pallonetto, just beyond the wall that flanked the garden. For a few seconds only the dull roar of the collapsing walls was audible; then we heard a stifled groaning, a sound, vague and intermittent as yet, of voices calling to one another, a single yell, a single wail, the footsteps of panic-stricken men and women in headlong flight, a furious knocking at the main door of the palace, and the voices of the servants as they tried to make themselves heard above a confused clamour which gradually swelled and came nearer, until all of a sudden an ear-splitting shout penetrated into the adjacent library. We threw open the door and halted in the entrance.

  In the middle of the hall, which a candelabrum, carried by a frightened and indignant servant, filled with a reddish light, stood a crowd of dishevelled women, many of them almost naked. They clung to one another, yelling and groaning, giving vent at one moment to shrill animal screams, at the next to hoarse, ferocious whines. They were all looking in the direction of the door by which they had entered, as if afraid that Death were pursuing them and that he would enter by the door. Nor did they look round even when, raising our voices, we tried to reassure them and to allay their terror.

  When at last they turned, we drew back in horror. They had the faces of wild beasts—thin, bloodless, covered with incrustations and smears which at first I took to be clotted blood, but which I afterwards realized were mud-stains. They had bleary, staring eyes, and their mouths were running with saliva. Their tousled hair stood up on end above their sweaty brows, and hung down over their shoulders and breasts in coarse, untidy shocks. Many, whose sleep had been rudely disturbed, were almost naked, and with a crude show of modesty were trying to cover their emaciated bosoms and powerful shoulders with the edge of a counterpane or with their folded arms. Lurking in the midst of that bestial crowd of women were a number of children, who, looking pale and frightened, watched us from between their mothers' skirts, with strangely turbulent expressions in their staring eyes.

  Lying on a table was a pile of newspapers, and the Prince of Candia ordered the servants who had hastened to the scene to distribute these among the unhappy women, so that they might cover their naked bodies. These women were neighbours, if the expression is permissible, of our host, who addressed them by name as being old acquaintances of his. Reassured perhaps by the warm light of the candelabra, which the servants had in the meantime dotted about the library on the socle and the table, or by our presence, and still more by that of the Prince of Candia—" 'o signore," as they called him—or else by the fact of finding themselves in' that magnificent hall, whose walls were mellowed by the golden reflection of the book-bindings and by the softly-gleaming marble busts ranged along the library shelves, they had gradually calmed down and were no longer shouting so wildly. Instead they groaned, or prayed half-aloud, calling upon the Virgin to have mercy on them. At last they were silent; and only occasionally, if a child suddenly started crying or if a shout arose far away in the night, did they break into a muffled whine—no longer the whine of a wild beast, but that of a wounded dog.

  In a loud, curt voice our host bade them be seated. He had chairs of all kinds and cushions brought in, and all those unhappy women quietly curled up and were silent. Our host had wine passed round, saying apologetically that he could not give them bread because he had none, so difficult were those times even for the aristocracy; and he ordered coffee to be prepared for the children.

  But when the servants, having poured the wine into the glasses and placed the jugs on the table, had retired to the end of the hall to await their master's bidding, we were surprised to see a little crooked man suddenly emerge from a corner of the library. Going up to the table, he seized with both hands one of the jugs that were still full, and passing from one woman to another went on filling their glasses until the jug was empty. He then went up to our host, and bowing awkwardly said in a hoarse voice, "By your leave, Excellency," whereupon he poured himself out a glass of wine from another jug and drained it at a single draught.

  We saw then that he was a hunchback. He was a man of about fifty, bald, with a long, thin face, a moustache, and dark eyes surmounted by bushy brows. A few titters arose from parts of the hall and a voice called him by name: "Gennariello!" At the sound of the voice, which he must have known, the hunchback turned round and smiled at a woman—a woman past her prime, with a flat, flabby body but a very thin face—who was coming towards him with outstretched arms. In a twinkling they had all gathered round him. One held out her glass, another tried to snatch the jug from his hand, and finally a third, as if in the grip of some divine frenzy, kept rubbing her flabby bosom against his hump, laughing obscenely and shouting: "Look! Look! What luck! Look! I'm in for a bit of luck!"

  Our host had made a sign to the servants not to interfere. He was surveying the scene in amazement and disgust, though at any other time it might have made him smile or would perhaps even have amused him. I found myself standing next to Jack, and I watched him. He too was surveying the scene, but with a stern expression, in which amazement and scorn strove to prevail. Consuelo and Maria Teresa had concealed themselves behind our backs, prompted more by a sense of modesty than by fear. And meanwhile the hunchback, who knew everybody, and was, as we afterwards learned, an itinerant vendor of ribbons, combs and false hair who made a daily tour of the hovels of Pallonetto, had become inflamed, whether by the wine or with desire I cannot say, and had begun to act a private pantomime, based apparently on some episode from mythology— the earthly adventures of some god, or the metamorphosis of some handsome youth. I held my breath and gripped Jack tightly by the arm as a sign to him to pay attention, and in order to communicate to him something of the rare delight with which that unusual spectacle filled me.

  First of all the hunckback turned to our host and bowed, murmuring "By your leave"; then he cut a few capers, accompanied by grimaces and little guttural cries. Gradually he became excited, and started running about the hall, waving his arms and beating his breast with his clasped hands, while from his filthy mouth there issued a series of obscene sounds, whines and broken words. He extended his arms, opening and closing his hands as if he were attempting to catch something that was flying through the air—a bird, or a cloud, or an angel, or a flower thrown from a window, or the fringe of some elusive garment; and first one woman, then another, then yet another, with clenched teeth, white faces and staring eyes, panting as though in the grip of some uncontrollable emotion, rose and pressed
around him. And one kept bumping against him, another tried to caress his face, a third attempted to seize his enormous hump with both hands, while the other women, the children and even the servants laughed and goaded the actors on, applauding, gesticulating and uttering comments in clipped, raucous tones, as if they were witnessing a delightful and innocent comedy, of which they knew the story and understood the hidden meaning.

  Meanwhile other women had followed the ringleaders, and now the hunchback was hemmed in by a pack of frenzied females, all speaking at once. At first they talked in hushed tones; then their voices grew steadily louder and more rapid, rising at length to a frantic pitch as, foaming at the mouth, they poured forth a torrent of confused shouts. Pressing round the hunchback in a menacing circle, they kept striking him, treating him as a crowd of infuriated women would treat a satyr who had attempted to ravish a little girl.

  The hunchback defended himself, shielded his face with both his arms, threw himself with lowered head against the circle that was steadily closing in on him, and butted one woman in the stomach, another in the bosom, all the time shouting his obscenities in a voice that was at once frenzied, terrified and exultant, until finally he broke into a long-drawn-out, deafening, despairing cry. Still howling, he suddenly threw himself to the ground, turning over on his deformed back as though to protect his hump from the fury of his persecutors, who hurled themselves upon him, tearing his garments, forcibly stripping him, biting his naked flesh, and trying to turn him over on his back, as a fisherman endeavours to do when he has landed a turtle. All of a sudden we heard a frightful roar, a cloud of dust came in through the windows, and the blast from the explosion blew out the candles.

  In the abrupt silence nothing was audible save a hoarse panting and the din of collapsing walls. Then the hall was filled with confused yells groans, heavy sighs, and loud, shrill wails, and with the aid of the candles which the servants had hastened to re-light, we saw a jumbled heap of women lying on the floor, motionless, panting, wide-eyed. In their midst was the hunchback, blue in the face, his clothes torn to shreds. As soon as the light was restored he got up, climbed over the jumbled heap of women who lay around him and ran out through the door.