by Elsa Morante
Let’s then suppose that on that fateful birthday my only friend had instinctively felt from afar my despair; and so had hurried . . . Well, even that, according to reason and science, shouldn’t seem a miracle: when even the sparrows and their kind, simple migratory creatures, intuit by themselves the moment to depart, and find the path without any instructions!
But the arrival of that unexpected visitor, suddenly surprising me on the beach, had an effect so novelistic that at the moment, rather than a living presence, I believed in a hallucination. At the sight of that cameo, my famous gift to my nurse Silvestro, and a clear document of his person, I was dumbstruck. As if there on the beach, right before my eyes, a Valley of the Kings had been unearthed, or some similar underground wonder.
An instant later, though, recognizing the reality, I murmured, “Silvestro!” and quickly returned his two kisses on the cheeks. With the happy assurance that he, at least, being my legitimate nurse, wouldn’t accuse me of damning his soul to hell for that pair of kisses!
And at the very moment when I kissed him, I realized that, in truth, his presence here on Procida on the day of my birthday wasn’t—even if new—so strange. If anything, the strangeness (and also the ingratitude) was mine: in the present situation I had completely forgotten him, who never let my birthday pass without showing up in some way, maybe with a simple card bearing good wishes. But in recent times I had been thinking too much of other people to have even a single thought for this one!
He explained that, having been recalled back to the army, he had taken advantage of a leave, and also of the discount for soldiers on the steamships, to make this trip (which he had been promising himself for about ten years) and bring me birthday wishes in person . . . He told me that, crossing the square a little while before, having just got off the boat in Procida, he had heard repeated with great animation, in a group of girls and women, the name of Arturo. And on learning that one of those women was my stepmother, who was looking for me, he had introduced himself. Then he had proposed to return to search the beach himself, while she continued her search around the square. Those girls claimed, in fact, that I could have returned to the square by descending through certain impassable shortcuts above the rocks down there, where the storehouses were . . .
Here Silvestro advised me to let my stepmother know immediately that I had been found, since that poor woman was in a state of such extreme anxiety. She must have, he added, a very nervous character.
“No,” I said then, smiling, “she’s not naturally nervous. But of course she’s really worried. Well! She thinks I’m dead.”
“Dead!”
I shrugged one shoulder, judging it best not to explain too much. Anyway, I thought Silvestro’s advice was good, and I went with him right away toward the Lingua del Faro. There, seeing from a distance one of the girls from before, whom I knew by sight, and who had lingered to jump on the chalk squares by herself, we gave her a call. She ran over, and I said:
“Go to the square, and look for Signora Gerace. And tell her you saw me here with my friend, and that before, I was up at the top of the rocks, resting behind those bushes . . . Tell her that now my friend and I have some things to talk about; and so she should go back home calmly, we’ll join her later . . .”
I managed to get that speech out all in one breath; but once the girl had left on her errand, I collapsed and sat down on the ground. And I begged Silvestro, for pity’s sake, before anything else, to go to the store at the corner and buy me something to eat, because I was nearly fainting from hunger. And I added that I would reimburse him for whatever he spent, because I had plenty of money at home.
Right away that perfect nurse got from the store some fresh eggs, fresh cheese, and bread, which had the effect on me of an elixir of life. Then we returned together to my cave, which I had become attached to today as if it were my command tent or some other quarters of bravery and importance. And there we sat on the pile of ropes to talk in comfort.
He told me that he had to depart tomorrow at dawn, on the first boat, because unfortunately his leave was up. I asked him then why he had gone back to the army. “They’re starting to call up people,” he answered, “in view of the war.”
“What war?” I said.
“What? You don’t know anything about the war? You haven’t heard it on the radio? Read in the papers?”
In fact, I never saw newspapers: my father said they were disgusting, so full of cheap nonsense and idiotic gossip that one felt compelled to use them in the toilet. And as for the radio, it’s true that for a while there had been at least one in the town, owned by the same innkeeper who had once had the owl. And sometimes, passing by, I had heard talking and singing; but on those few occasions it was broadcasting pop songs or variety shows, nothing serious.
In substance, I knew history from the time of the ancient Egyptians, and the lives of the great leaders and the battles of all the past centuries. But of the contemporary era I knew nothing. I had barely glimpsed even those few signs of the present that reached the island, and paid them no attention. Current events had never interested me. As if they were all ordinary news from the papers, outside of fantastic history and the Absolute Certainties.
And now, hearing the world news that Silvestro brought, I seemed to have been asleep for sixteen years, like the girl in the fairy tale: in a courtyard overrun by weeds and spider webs, amid owls big and small, with an enchanted pin stuck in my forehead!
He was explaining to me that, in spite of a recent peace agreement signed with grandiose ceremony by the Powers (these, I now understood, must be the famous international events that Stella had alluded to, the origin of the amnesty and his freedom), the world war, in reality, was imminent, inevitable. It might erupt any month, maybe any day. And even those who were against it, like him, were in the middle, in that hellish entanglement.
At this news, I reflected for some instants, closed in my thoughts. And then I revealed to Silvestro my decisions.
I confided to him first of all that for certain very cruel, in fact tragic, secret reasons of my own, I couldn’t stay on the island, even just a single day more. So I intended to leave with him on the first boat tomorrow at dawn, possibly not to return to the island ever again! If, I continued, the war really was approaching, I was absolutely determined to volunteer from the first day of our national intervention. I wanted to take part at all costs, even if I had to get to the battlefield clandestinely (in the case that my application was rejected because of my age).
Silvestro listened with profound seriousness to this speech. Discreetly, he avoided asking any questions about the secret reasons that were taking me away from Procida; but, without needing to know them, he understood that the reasons were just and grave. And he welcomed favorably, even gladly, my decision to leave with him the next day. He didn’t, on the other hand, seem equally favorable to the second part of my program: and that is, my intention of enlisting as a volunteer in the coming war. Seeing that he was perplexed and skeptical on that point, I said to him then, fervently, that in my opinion a man wasn’t a man until he had proved himself in war. And to stay home without fighting, while others fought, for me would be tedium and dishonor.
He listened to me unconvinced, with a dubious expression. At the end he said that my idea might perhaps be valid for ancient wars, but modern wars, in his opinion, were another thing. As far as he understood, he said, modern war was a butchering machine, and a horrendous anthill of devastation, without the merit of authentic valor. Regarding the current war, in his opinion neither of the two sides that were fighting was, generally speaking (that is to say from the point of view of the true Cause), right. But between the two the one that was wrong was certainly our side! And to fight in that way, without right, and with wrong, was like singing gratis with a thorn in your throat. A disaster with no reward.
Those sensible words of his made me think a little, but also laugh. In any case, I replied resolutely that I, for now, didn’t care much about right
and wrong. What I wanted was to fight in order to learn to fight, like an Oriental samurai. The day I was a master sure of my valor, I would choose my cause. But to get to that mastery I had to pass a test. The test that offered itself was this war; and I didn’t want to miss it, I didn’t care about anything else.
“That,” he observed in a tone of bitter uncertainty, “is like saying that you’re looking to be killed for nothing.” Then he asked, studying me seriously: “Why the hell do you want to get killed for nothing?”
I blushed, as if he were exposing a mysterious, extraordinary scandal that should be kept quiet. But immediately I recovered, with my old ideas. And passionately I explained to him that, ever since I was a child, there had been an undecided challenge between me and death. The way some boys are distrustful of the dark, I was of death: and death alone! That disgust for death poisoned the certainty of life. And until I had learned to be heedless of death I couldn’t know if I was truly adult. Worse: if I was brave or a coward.
Here I revealed to him in brief my ideas about life, and also the Absolute Certainties. I had almost forgotten about these in recent months, and it seemed to me that, reviving them with him, I was making up for a betrayal. I became passionate about them again as I talked, and he, listening, became as passionate as I was. Suddenly, with a confused, ingenuous smile, he confided that my ideas agreed wonderfully with his—that is, with the revolution of the people. For he was, he said, a revolutionary; and now he was charmed by hearing that I, by myself, here on Procida, without ever talking to anyone, had invented the same thoughts of the best masters! In making these declarations, Silvestro revealed, in his face and his tone, his great admiration for Arturo Gerace. On the other hand, then, it was evident from his behavior that his admiration for A.G. had not begun just now but must have preexisted, one might say, forever, and had merely been waiting for new occasions to be confirmed. It was devoted to me, unlimited and almost magical! Similar in a certain sense—just to be clear—to what I felt for W.G.
Finally, with my outburst, I convinced Silvestro of everything I liked: even of the moral necessity of fighting, trusting to luck, in the first available war. Who knows, we fantasized, full of hope, whether we might even end up together in the same regiment! (That hope was not fulfilled. I was assigned to a company of youths around my age; and he elsewhere, with the older recalled reservists.)
Last, he took from his pocket the birthday present he had brought me and had forgotten about until that moment, distracted by too many emotions: a red wool scarf, the work of his wife. Right away I put it around my neck, with pleasure. Thus he let me know that he had recently married the woman who had been his girlfriend for years. Now that he was in the army, his wife had moved to her mother’s house, in a small town near Naples; and if I wanted, he said, I could be their guest. From that town one could get to Naples in a few minutes on the tram.
During this conversation, night had fallen; and Silvestro reminded me that it was time, now, to go home, according to the promise I’d made to my stepmother. At that I felt a blush rise to my face; but luckily it was dark now, and Silvestro didn’t notice. I felt that my voice would tremble in the speech I was about to make; but still I made it, resolutely.
“Now,” I said, “for reasons that I can’t confide to anyone, I’d better not go back home. You go alone, and talk to her, and make her believe the following lie: that I already left on the four-thirty steamer, which goes to Ischia. And that tomorrow morning you’ll join me on Ischia, and we’ll go together to Naples, and from there I’ll immediately go abroad. Tell her goodbye from me, because she and I won’t meet again for a long time, if we ever do meet again. And she should remember me, and forgive the trouble I caused her. And say goodbye also to my brother Carminiello for me.
“Ask her to give you a suitcase. (Tell her you’ll bring it to me tomorrow on Ischia.) And go to my room and get: all the written pages you can find, and all my money—there’s a lot, in my room, scattered among the books and in the drawers. Please, get all the written pages, don’t leave any, they’re important, because I’m a writer.
“If you want, tonight, you can sleep at the house, because your room is the same, with the cot and the rest. But before you go to sleep, please bring me some blankets and something for dinner. In fact, until I leave tomorrow, I don’t want to go even briefly to the square, because I have too many memories there. And tonight I’ll sleep in this cave, where I’ll be comfortable enough. Luckily it’s not cold. There’s the scirocco.”
Silvestro promised he would carry out all my requests perfectly: but, he said, since I was sleeping down in the cave, he, too, wanted to sleep in the cave with me, rather than in the house, in order not to leave me alone. After all, for most of his life, as a guard at construction sites, he had slept in huts, and now, as a soldier, he had to prepare to sleep in the trenches. Caves were nothing! A cave like ours was a Vatican palace, compared with the trench.
So I should wait for him, because he would return as quickly as possible, with everything needed.
Contrary Dreams
Not even two hours later, I saw the wavering glow of a candle lantern advancing from the shadowy end of the beach; and I hurried toward Silvestro as he returned, holding the lantern in front of him, more loaded down than the Befana.* Besides the suitcase full of manuscripts and provisions, and several heavy wool blankets, he also carried a quilted coverlet, and even a bucket of coal to warm the damp air of the cave! Some of these supplies that provident man had procured at the Casa dei Guaglioni; but some he had preferred to get in the town, in order not to make my stepmother suspicious, since she was not to know that I was spending the night on the island.
First of all, as soon as I was near him, I asked: “Did you tell her . . . what I told you?” “Yes,” he answered. “And . . . did she believe you?” “Yes,” he said, “she believed me.” And for the moment I asked nothing else.
We placed the lantern on a rock sticking out in a corner of the cave; we spread the quilt on the pile of ropes, carefully dispersed on the ground; and we sat on this improvised but fairly comfortable bed, preparing for dinner. Among the various foods that Silvestro got out of the suitcase was a large pizza dolce, wrapped in thick paper. And he told me that my stepmother had asked him to bring it to me on Ischia, saying that she had made it for my birthday and had no wish now to eat it.
Besides the pizza dolce, she sent me as a gift, in case I should find myself in need, all her savings, which Silvestro gave me: around four hundred and fifty lire, knotted in a rather dirty handkerchief. Finally, she entrusted to Silvestro one of a pair of earrings, gold, begging him to tell me that I should keep it in memory of her.
In receiving from Silvestro’s hands that little circle of gold, I blushed. Then I threw myself onto the quilt, and, with my face down, in shadow, I asked him to describe to me precisely how the scene with my stepmother had unfolded.
So I learned that, seeing him arrive alone at the Casa dei Guaglioni, she had looked at him uncertainly, but didn’t ask about me. Then, as he spoke, “Arturo sends word . . .” she had begun to turn white in the face; but still she had found the strength to murmur, “Why are you standing? Sit down,” and had sat down herself on a chair in front of the kitchen table. After which he had quickly finished telling her what he had to. And on hearing that I was already on the sea, and had left Procida, she had looked at him with large, serious, cold eyes, which seemed not to see anymore. Suddenly her pallor became unnatural, green, as of a dead woman; and without having spoken a single word or given an exclamation or a sigh she had fainted, hitting her forehead on the table.
In a few instants, though, she had stood up; in fact, to tell the truth she had urged him not to let me know about that fainting fit, which she spoke of stammering, confusedly, as of something shameful. And she had helped him pack the suitcase to bring me on Ischia, moving here and there like a bloodless shadow.
At that point, still lying down with my face in the dark, I interrupted Sil
vestro, imploring him, please, not to talk about her, starting now, ever again. I preferred not even to hear her named by anyone, from now on.
When we finished dinner, Silvestro and I stayed awake talking until late. Luckily, he had thought to provide a couple of spare candles for our lantern. We talked about a thousand things, about the past but above all about the future; and about the Absolute Certainties, and revolution, and so on. Silvestro also asked me to read him some of my poems; I naturally chose the best and most effective, and saw that as he listened he had tears running down his face!
The lighted brazier, between us, gave off a pleasant warmth; and in the mysterious light of the glass lantern, sitting there in the cave on a grand orange quilt, we could really imagine that we were in an Arab or Persian tent, and that the distant barking of dogs was the roar of exotic beasts. The wind and the sea had calmed, promising us a tranquil crossing for the next day. Around ten, we put the brazier outside the door, so as not to risk poisoning ourselves with its fumes. We closed the door, extinguished the lantern. And, wrapped in our blankets, we went to sleep.
In contrast with that wonderful evening, I had troubled dreams. N., Carminiello, my father were rushing in confusion. And then the chaos and din of tanks, black flags emblazoned with skulls, fighters in black uniforms, mixed with dark-skinned kings and Indian philosophers and pale, bleeding women. That whole crowd passed with an enormous rumble over a walled trench where I was lying. And I would have liked to get out to go to the battle but there was no exit. I felt around my body a weight of sand that was swallowing me, producing, in the sucking, a kind of horrible human sigh. And I called to all those people who were passing over me, but no one heard me.