by Elsa Morante
I woke with a start in the middle of the night, surprised by a big thunderous sound that echoed through the walls of rock around me. At first I remembered nothing: neither the events of the day before nor why I was in this room of stone. But I quickly gathered my thoughts; and I realized that the noise I was astonished at was simply Silvestro’s snoring: which, seriously, was enough for an entire platoon, not just for a single soldier! The discovery exhilarated me. I tried to remember the thousands of times that I must have heard that same symphony, in the times when I slept with Silvestro, as a little child; and I laughed to myself, imagining the thoughts I might have had then, hearing my nurse produce such odd music. I promised myself then, anticipating some fun, to tease him about this skill of his, as soon as we were awake, in the morning.
That grand snoring, which a little earlier, in my dream, had been transformed into fantastic sounds of death, now filled me, on the contrary, in the short period of wakefulness, with a sense of repose and trust. And, as if rocked by its kind and friendly rhythm, I fell asleep again, this time in tranquility.
The Steamship
I awakened naturally, however, very early. It was still pitch-dark, and by the light of a match I could read on the alarm clock (borrowed by Silvestro in the town) that there was more than half an hour before we had to get up. Still, I had no more desire to sleep; and, taking care not to disturb Silvestro’s sleep (he continued to snore, although more modestly), I slipped out of the cave.
I kept the blanket on my shoulders in the Sicilian manner, like a cloak; but in fact it wasn’t cold, not even now that the scirocco had died down. It was evident, from the shiny reflection of the rocks, that it had rained during the night. Here and there in the ragged sky the small December stars were visible, and a last crescent of moon spread a pale twilight glow. The sea, flat in the rain without wind, rocked lightly, sleepy and monotonous. And, advancing beside it in that large cloak, I already felt like a kind of pirate, without home or country, a skull embroidered on my uniform.
The roosters could be heard crowing in the countryside. And suddenly a melancholy regret weighed on my heart, at the thought of the morning that would awaken on the island, as it did every day: the shops opening, the goats coming out of the sheds, my stepmother and Carminiello heading down to the kitchen . . . If only, at least, this sickly, faded winter would last forever on the island! But no, summer would return inevitably, as usual. It can’t be killed, it’s an invulnerable dragon that, with its marvelous youth, is always reborn. And it was a horrible jealousy that pained me, that: to think of the island again inflamed by summer, without me! The sand will be warm again, the colors will be rekindled in the caves, the migratory birds, returning from Africa, will fly through the sky again . . . And in that adored celebration no one, not even some sparrow, or the smallest ant, or the lowest minnow in the sea, will lament this injustice: that summer has returned to the island, without Arturo! In all the immensity of nature around here, not a thought will remain for A.G., as if an Arturo Gerace had never passed through here.
I lay down in my blanket on those livid wet rocks and closed my eyes, pretending for a moment that I had gone back to some lovely past season; and that I was lying on the sand of my little beach; and that that nearby rustling was the cool serene sea below, ready to welcome the Torpedo Boat of the Antilles. The fire of that infinite boyhood season rose in my blood, with a terrible passion that almost made me faint. And the only love of those years returned to say goodbye. Aloud, as if he really were near, I said, “Bye, Pa.”
Immediately, the memory of him rushed to my mind: not as a precise figure but as a kind of cloud that advanced charged with gold, murky blue; or like a bitter taste, or a sound as of a crowd, but instead it was the countless echoes of his calls and words, which returned from every point of my life. And certain almost negligible features: a shrug of his shoulders, a distracted laugh, or the large, untidy shape of his nails; the joints of his fingers; or a knee scratched on the cliffs . . . They returned in isolation, making my heart pound, almost unique perfect symbols of a many-sided, mysterious, infinite grace . . . And of a suffering that became more bitter to me for this reason: that I felt it was a childish thing; like a convergence of swirling currents, it rushed everything into this present, brief passage of farewell. And afterward I would forget, naturally, betray it. From here I would go on to another age, and I would regard him as a fable.
Now I forgave him everything. Even his departure with another man. And even that hard final speech, in which, in Stella’s presence, he had called me, besides everything else, heartbreaker and Don Juan: and which at the moment had offended me not a little.
(Thinking back later, I wondered if, basically, that speech of his wasn’t just, at least in part . . . Truthfully, maybe, though I thought I was in love with this or that person, or two or three people together, in reality I loved none of them. The fact is that in general I was too in love with being in love: that was always my true passion!
(It may be, in conscience, that I never seriously loved W.G. And as for N., who was, after all, that most famous woman? A poor little Neapolitan with nothing special about her, of the type that Naples is full of!
(Yes, I had the well-founded suspicion that that speech wasn’t completely wrong. The suspicion, not really the certainty . . . Thus life has remained a mystery. And I myself am, for me, still the first mystery!
(Now, from this infinite distance, I think again of W.G. I imagine him, perhaps, more aged than ever, disfigured by wrinkles, gray-haired. He leaves and returns, alone, confused, adoring the one who says to him parody. Not loved by anyone—since even N., who though she wasn’t beautiful loved another . . . And I would like to let him know: It doesn’t matter, even if you’re old. For me you’ll always be the most beautiful.
( . . . Of her, in due time, I had some news, in Naples, through travelers who came from Procida. She was well, healthy, although very much thinner. And she continued her usual life in the Casa dei Guaglioni with Carmine, who every day became more charming. But she no longer called him Carmine, she preferred to call him by his second name, Arturo. As for me, I’m glad that there’s another Arturo Gerace on the island, a fair-haired boy, who right now, perhaps, runs free and happy on the beaches . . .)
From the cave, which I had left half open, the trill of the alarm clock reached me. I hurried in, afraid that it was not enough to disturb the sleep of my nurse; but I found him already sitting up amid the blankets, rubbing his eyes in a daze and muttering curses against that irritating trill. Immediately, going over to him, I announced, with triumphant impatience:
“Hey! You know you snore?”
“What?” he said without comprehending, still sleepy. I then shouted in his ear, in a thundering voice, and with a desire to laugh that burst out between my words:
“YOU KNOW THAT YOU SNORE WHEN YOU SLEEP?”
“Eh! You’re tickling me with your breath!” he protested, rubbing his ear. “Snore . . . oh, and what of it? Of course,” he continued, just starting to wake up, “what, should I not snore? We all snore, when we sleep.”
“Yes!” I exclaimed, rolling on the ground with laughter. “But there’s snoring and snoring! You beat the world champion! You’re like a radio orchestra at its loudest!”
“Oh, yes? I get great pleasure from it!” he replied, now completely awake and rather put out. “But why would you, kid, believe that you snore softly? Last night, at a certain hour, I had to go out on the beach to pee, and there, at a distance of ten meters, I could still hear a snoring from the cave like a squadron of planes passing at low altitude!”
That made me happy. In fact, if I snored like that, it was a clear sign that I could now consider myself grown up, mature, and truly a man, in all regards.
We loaded ourselves with bags, blankets, and so on, and headed toward the town, along the shore that was beginning to whiten in the dawn. Along the eastern horizon, a red color, under dark stripes of clouds, announced a day of changeable weathe
r. When we reached the square, Silvestro headed toward the harbor office, which was already open, to deliver to an acquaintance of his the various objects he had borrowed yesterday, to return to their different owners. He also took charge of buying the tickets for our crossing, while I went ahead to the dock.
The first rays of sun, fractured and glittering, lengthened over the almost smooth sea. I thought that soon I would see Naples, the mainland, the cities, unknown multitudes! And a sudden yearning to leave seized me, to be gone from that square and from that dock.
The steamer was already there, waiting. And, looking at it, I felt all the strangeness of my waning childhood. I had seen that boat dock and lift anchor so many times, and had never embarked on the journey! As if, for me, that were not an ordinary scheduled ferry, a kind of tramcar, but an aloof and inaccessible ghost, destined for who knows what desolate glaciers!
Silvestro returned with the tickets; and the sailors prepared the gangplank for boarding. While my nurse talked to them, I, unseen, took from my pocket that circle of gold that N. had sent me the night before. And secretly I kissed it.
As I looked at it, suddenly an intoxicating weakness dimmed my sight. At that moment, the sending of the earring was translated into all its meanings: of farewell, of trust; and of bitter and marvelous coquetry! So now I had learned that she was also a flirt, my dear little love! Unaware of it, certainly, but she was. In fact, what other woman’s farewell could ever express a coquettishness more beautiful than hers, in her ignorance? To send me in remembrance not the sign of a caress or a kiss; but of a vile abuse. As if to say: “Even your violence is a thing of love for me.”
I felt a furious temptation to race back to the Casa dei Guaglioni. And to get in bed next to her, to say to her: “Let me sleep for a little with you. I’ll leave tomorrow. I don’t say that we have to make love, if you don’t want. But at least let me kiss you here on that ear, where I wounded you.”
Already, however, the sailor at the foot of the gangplank was tearing our tickets; already Silvestro was, with me, going up the gangplank. The siren sounded the signal for departure.
When I was on the seat next to Silvestro, I hid my face on my arm, against the seat back. And I said to him: “You know, I don’t feel like seeing Procida grow distant and indistinct, become a sort of gray shape . . . I’d rather pretend it didn’t exist. So until the moment you can’t see it anymore, it’ll be better if I don’t look. You tell me, at that moment.”
And I remained with my face against my arm, as if ill, and without any thought, until Silvestro shook me gently and said: “Arturo, come, you can wake up.”
Around our ship the sea was uniform, endless as an ocean. The island could no longer be seen.
* The Befana is an ugly old woman who brings gifts to good children—somewhat in the manner of Santa Claus—on the eve of Epiphany, January 6.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elsa Morante was born in Rome in 1912. She began publishing stories in her twenties, and in 1948 published her first novel, Lies and Sorcery, which was a critical success and won a prestigious award. In 1941, she married the novelist Alberto Moravia; they separated in 1962. Arturo’s Island, her second novel, came out in 1957, also to critical acclaim; it won Italy’s most important prize, the Strega. Her third novel, History (1974), although not well received critically, is perhaps her most famous: at her insistence it was published as a paperback so that it would reach as many readers as possible. Morante’s final novel, Aracoeli, was published in 1982. Over the years, she continued to publish stories and poems as well. She lived most of her life in Rome but traveled widely, to India, China, the Soviet Union, and the United States, among other places. She died in 1985.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Ann Goldstein is a former editor at The New Yorker. She has translated works by, among others, Primo Levi, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Elena Ferrante, Italo Calvino, and Alessandro Baricco, and is the editor of The Complete Works of Primo Levi in English. She has been the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and awards from the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
Copyright © Elsa Morante Estate
Published by arrangement with The Italian Literary Agency
Translation copyright © 2019 by Ann Goldstein
Originally published in Italian as L’isola di Arturo
All rights reserved
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Names: Morante, Elsa, approximately 1912–1985, author. | Goldstein, Ann, translator.
Title: Arturo’s island : a novel / Elsa Morante ; translated by Ann Goldstein.
Other titles: Isola di Arturo. English
Description: New York : Liveright Publishing Corporation, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018046181 | ISBN 9781631493294 (hardcover)
Classification: LCC PQ4829.O615 I813 2019 | DDC 853/.912—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018046181
ISBN: 9781631493300 (ebook)
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