Last Comes the Raven

by Italo Calvino

  Baby, meanwhile, in order to have both hands free, had constructed a kind of lampshade from tray cloths and pieces of nougat. He then espied some large cakes with “Happy Birthday” written on them. He circled them, studying the plan of attack; first he reviewed them with a finger and licked off a bit of chocolate cream, then he buried his face inside and began biting them from the middle, one by one.

  But he still felt a kind of frenzy, which he did not know how to satisfy; he could not discover any way of enjoying everything completely. Now he was crouching on all fours over a table laden with tarts; he would have liked to lie down in those tarts, cover himself with them, never have to leave them. But five or ten minutes from now it would be all over; for the rest of his life pastry shops would be out of bounds to him again, forever, as when he was a child squashing his nose against the windowpane. If only, at least, he could stay there three or four hours . . .

  “Dritto,” he exclaimed, “suppose we hide here till dawn, who’ll see us?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Dritto, who had now succeeded in forcing the till and was searching around among the notes. ‘We’ve got to get out of here before the cops show up.”

  Just at that moment they heard a rap on the window. In the dim moonlight Uora-Uora could be seen knocking on the blind and making signs to them. The two in the shop gave a jump, but Uora-Uora motioned for them to keep calm and for Baby to come out and take his place, so that he could come in. The other two shook their fists and made faces at him and gestured for him to get away from the front of the shop if he didn’t want his brains blown out.

  Dritto, however, had found only a few thousand lire in the till, and was cursing and blaming Baby for not trying to help him. But Baby seemed beside himself; he was biting doughnuts, picking at raisins, licking syrups, plastering himself all over and leaving sticky marks on the showcases and counters. He found that he no longer had any desire for pastries—​in fact a feeling of nausea was beginning to creep up from the pit of his stomach—​but he refused to take it seriously, he simply could not give up yet. And the doughnuts began to turn into soggy pieces of sponge cake, the tarts to flypaper, the cakes to asphalt. Now he saw only the corpses of pastries lying putrefying on their marble slabs, or felt them disintegrating like turgid glue inside his stomach.

  Dritto, meanwhile, was cursing and swearing at the lock on another till, forgetful of pastries and hunger. Suddenly from the back of the shop appeared Uora-Uora, swearing in his Sicilian dialect, which was quite unintelligible to either of them.

  “The cops?” they asked, already pale.

  “Change of guard! Change of guard!” Uora-Uora was croaking in his dialect, trying hard to explain how unjust it was to leave him standing out in the cold while they gorged themselves with pastries inside.

  “Go back and keep watch, go and keep watch!” shouted Baby angrily, the nausea from having eaten too much making him feel savage and selfish.

  Dritto knew that it was only fair to Uora-Uora to make the change, but he also knew that Baby would not be convinced so easily, and without someone on guard they couldn’t stay. So he pulled out his revolver and pointed it at Uora-Uora.

  “Back to your post right now, Uora-Uora,” he said.

  Desperately, Uora-Uora thought of getting some supplies before leaving, and gathered in his big hands a small pile of little almond cakes with nuts.

  “And suppose they catch you with your hands full of pastries, you fool, what’ll you tell them?” Dritto swore at him. “Leave them all there and get out.”

  Uora-Uora burst into tears. Baby felt he hated him. He picked up a cake with “Happy Birthday” written on it and flung it in Uora-Uora’s face. Uora-Uora could easily have avoided it, but instead he extended his face to get the full force, then burst out laughing, for his face, hat, and tie were all covered in cream cake. Off he went, licking himself right up to his nose and cheeks.

  At last Dritto succeeded in forcing the till and was stuffing into his pocket all the notes he could find, cursing because they stuck to his jammy fingers.

  “Come on, Baby, time to go,” he said.

  But Baby could not leave just like that; this was a feast to be talked over for years to come with his cronies and with Tuscan Mary. Tuscan Mary was Baby’s girlfriend; she had long smooth legs and a face and body that were almost horselike. Baby liked her because he could curl himself up and wind around her like a cat.

  Uora-Uora’s second entrance interrupted the course of these thoughts. Dritto quickly pulled out his revolver, but Uora-Uora shouted, “The cops!” and rushed off, flapping the ends of his raincoat. Dritto gathered up the last few notes and was at the door in a couple of leaps, with Baby behind.

  Baby was still thinking of Tuscan Mary, and it was then that he remembered he might have taken some pastries for her; he never gave her presents, and she might make a scene about it. He went back, snatched up some cream rolls, thrust them under his shirt, then, quickly realizing that he had chosen the most fragile ones, looked around for some more solid things and stuffed those into his bosom, too. At that moment he saw the shadows of policemen moving on the window, waving their arms and pointing at something at the end of the street; one of them aimed a revolver in that direction and fired.

  Baby squatted down behind a counter. The shot did not seem to have hit its target; now they were making angry gestures and peering inside the shop. Shortly afterward he heard them finding the little door open and then coming in. Now the shop was teeming with armed policemen. Baby remained crouching there, but meanwhile he found some candied fruit within arm’s reach and chewed at slivers of citron and bergamot to calm his nerves.

  The police had now discovered the theft and also found the remains of half-eaten pastries on the shelves. And so, distractedly, they, too, began to nibble little pastries that were lying about—​taking care, though, to leave the traces of the thieves. After a few moments, becoming more enthusiastic in their search for evidence, they were all eating away heartily.

  Baby was chewing, but the others were chewing even more loudly and drowned out the sound. All of a sudden he felt a thick liquid oozing up from between his skin and his shirt, and a mounting nausea from his stomach. He was so dizzy with candied fruit that it was some time before he realized that the way to the door was free. Later the police described how they had seen a monkey, its nose plastered with cream, swing across the shop, overturning trays and tarts; and how, by the time that they had recovered from their amazement and cleared the tarts from under their feet, he had escaped.

  When Baby got to Tuscan Mary’s and opened his shirt, he found his whole chest covered with a strange sticky paste. And they stayed till morning, he and she, lying on the bed, licking and picking at each other till they had finished the last crumb of pastry and blob of cream.

  Dollars and Old Whores

  It was after supper and Emanuele was flicking a flyswatter against the windowpane. He was thirty-two years old and plump. His wife, Jolanda, was changing her stockings to go out.

  Through the window could be seen the rubble patch where the old warehouse used to be; across it opened a view of the sea, between houses sloping downhill; the sea was darkening, and a slow wind was surging up through the streets. Six sailors from the Shenandoah, an American torpedo boat anchored outside the port, entered a tavern called The Tub of Diogenes.

  “There are six Americans at Felice’s,” said Emanuele.

  “Officers?” asked Jolanda.

  “Sailors. Better. Hurry up.” He pushed back his hat and twisted around, groping for the sleeve of his jacket.

  Jolanda had fastened her garter and was now tucking in the straps of her brassiere, which were sticking out in front.

  “Ready? Let’s go.”

  Because they trafficked in dollars, Emanuele and Jolanda wanted to ask the sailors if they had any to sell; they were a respectable pair, though, for all their trafficking.

  On the deserted rubble patch an odd palm tree or two planted to im
prove the area were rustling in the wind, as if desolate and disconsolate. And in the middle of the patch stood the brightly lit construction called The Tub of Diog­enes, put up by an ex-serviceman called Felice, with the town council’s permission and in spite of protests that it spoiled the neighborhood. It was shaped like a barrel; inside were a bar and tables.

  Emanuele turned to Jolanda. “Now, you go in first and start talking to them, and ask them if they’d like to change any dollars. They’re more likely to say yes to you at once. Then I’ll come in and clinch the deal.”

  A strategist, Emanuele. Off Jolanda went.

  At Felice’s the six sailors were lined along the bar from end to end, and all those white trousers and elbows leaning on the marble made it seem as if there were twelve of them. Jolanda approached and saw twelve eyes fixed on her, rotating in rhythm with closed, chewing, grunting mouths. Most of them, in loose white tunics and with those caps perched on their heads, looked overgrown yet badly developed, but there was one near her, over six feet tall, with apple cheeks and a neck like a pyramid, whose uniform molded him as if he were naked; he had round eyes with pupils that turned all around without ever touching the rims. Jolanda hid a strap on her brassiere that kept popping out.

  From behind the bar, Felice, a chef’s hat perched above swollen, sleepy eyes, was busy refilling glasses and seeing that all went well. From his cobbler’s face, its chin perpetually dark in spite of shaving, came a grin of greeting. He spoke English, Felice did, and Jolanda whispered, “Felice, will you just ask them if they want to change any dollars?”

  Felice, forever grinning and evasive, replied, “Ask ’em yourself,” and told a young waiter with tar-black hair and an onion-shaped face to bring out more trays of pizza and fried potatoes.

  Jolanda was now surrounded by those long white chewing figures, exchanging inhuman grunts as they watched her.

  “Please,” she said in English, gesticulating. “Me to you lire, you to me dollars?”

  They went on chewing. The big one with the bull neck smiled; he had the whitest teeth, so white that no gaps showed between.

  A broad, short sailor, with a face as dark as a Spaniard’s, now came toward her. “Me to you dollars,” he said in Italian, also gesticulating. “You to me bed.”

  Then he repeated it all in English, and the others gave long muffled laughs, still chewing and keeping their eyes fixed upon her.

  Jolanda turned toward Felice. “Felice,” she said, “explain to them.”

  “Whisky and soda,” said Felice in his peculiar English, rolling some glasses on the marble top of the bar. His grin would have been nasty if he had not sounded so sleepy.

  The giant sailor spoke; his voice rang out like an iron ring on a buoy buffeted by waves. He ordered Jolanda a drink, then took the glass from Felice’s hand and held it out to her; it seemed incredible that the fragile stem of the glass didn’t break in those huge fingers.

  Jolanda did not know what to do. “Me lire, you dollars,” she repeated.

  But the others had already learned Italian. “You bed,” they cried. “Bed, dollars.”

  At this moment in came the husband, to see the circle of restless backs and hear his wife’s voice coming from somewhere in the midst of them. He went up to the bar. “Hey, Felice, tell me, will you . . .” he began.

  “What can I get you?” asked Felice with his tired grin. His chin, shaved only two hours earlier, was already getting stubbly.

  Emanuele tipped his hat back from his sweating forehead and began making little jumps to try to see over the wall of backs.

  “My wife—​what’s she doing?”

  Felice climbed on a bench, stuck out his chin, then jumped down.

  “She’s still in there,” he replied.

  Emanuele loosened the knot of his tie a little to breathe more freely.

  “Tell her to come out,” he said.

  But Felice was busy scolding the onion-faced boy for leaving dishes without fried potatoes on them.

  “Jolanda?” called her husband, and tried to push in between two Americans; he got a dig on the chin and another in the stomach, and was soon out, jumping up and down around the group again. From the thick of it all a rather tremulous little voice replied, “Emanuele?”

  He shouted back, “How’s it going? . . .”

  “It looks,” said her voice, as if she were talking on the telephone, “it looks as if they don’t want lire . . .”

  He kept his calm, but started drumming on the counter. “They don’t?” he cried. “Then come on out.”

  “Coming,” she replied, and tried to make a little dive through that hedge of men. But there was something holding her back; she glanced down and saw a big hand placed against her, a big, strong, gentle hand. Before her was standing the giant with the apple cheeks, his teeth gleaming like the whites of his eyes.

  “Please . . .” she begged softly, trying to loosen his hand, and called out to Emanuele, “Just coming . . .” Instead she stayed there in the middle of them.

  “Please,” she kept on repeating. “Please.”

  Felice put a glass under Emanuele’s nose.

  “What can I get you?” he asked, lowering his head in its chef’s hat and leaning on the bar, his ten fingers splayed out.

  Emanuele was staring into space. “Wait . . . I’ve got an idea . . . Wait,” he said, and left.

  Outside, the streetlamps were already lit. Emanuele ran across the street, went into the Café Lamarmora, and looked all around. Only the regulars were there, playing cards. “Come and join us, Manuele,” they called out. “What’s up, Manuele?” But he had already hurried out; he ran on without stopping till he reached the Paris Bar. There he made a round of the tables, beating a fist against the palm of his hand. Finally he whispered in the bartender’s ear. The man said, “Not here yet—​later tonight, maybe.” Emanuele hurried out. The bartender burst out laughing and went over to tell the cashier.

  At Giglio’s La Bolognese, the old tart from Bologna had hardly stretched out her legs under the table—​her varicose veins were beginning to hurt—​when Emanuele arrived, with his cap on the hack of his head, panting so hard she could not understand what he wanted.

  “Come on,” he cried, pulling her by the hand. “Come on, quick, it’s urgent.”

  “Manuelino, kid, what’s up with you?” asked La Bolognese, opening wide eyes surrounded by latticed wrinkles under a black fringe. “After all these years . . . What is up with you, sweetie?”

  But he was already pulling her along by the hand, and she was hobbling behind, her swollen legs hampered by the tight petticoat halfway up her thighs.

  In front of the movie theater they ran into Mad Maria accosting a corporal.

  “Hey, you come along, too. I’ll take you to some Americans.”

  Mad Maria did not need telling twice; she left the corporal with the flick of a finger and started running along beside Emanuele, her red hair flying in the wind and her eyes piercing the darkness with anticipation.

  The situation had not changed much in The Tub of Diog­enes. There were several empty bottles on Felice’s shelf, the gin had all gone, and the pizzas just being finished. The two women bustled in, Emanuele urging them along from behind; when the sailors found them suddenly pushed into their midst, they shouted cries of greeting. Exhausted, Emanuele slumped onto a stool. Felice poured him a stiff drink. One of the sailors broke away from the group and came and slapped Emanuele on the back, while the others gave friendly glances in his direction. Felice began telling them something about Emanuele.

  “Well,” asked Emanuele. “How am I doing?”

  Felice gave his eternally sleepy grin. “Oh, you’ll need at least six . . .”

  Things were not improving, in fact; Mad Maria was hanging around the neck of a lanky sailor with a face like a fetus and squirming in her green dress like a snake trying to change its skin; La Bolognese had the short Spaniard buried in her bosom and was cosseting him in a motherly way.

&nb
sp; But Jolanda did not appear. That enormous back, always in front, prevented anyone from seeing her. Emanuele made nervous signs to Mad Maria and La Bolognese to keep moving around, but they seemed oblivious of every­thing.

  “Oooh . . .” said Felice, glancing over Emanuele’s shoulders.

  “What’s that for?” Emanuele asked, but the bartender was busy scolding the boy for not drying the glasses quickly enough. Emanuele turned around and saw more sailors arriving. There must have been fifteen of them. The Tub of Diogenes was soon full of drunken soldiers. Mad Maria and La Bolognese flung themselves into the middle of the melee, Maria jumping from one sailor’s neck to the other, swirling her monkey legs in the air, and the other, with a constant smile painted in lipstick, gathering the lost ones to her breast like a broody hen.

  Once Emanuele caught a sudden glimpse of Jolanda milling about in the midst of it all; then she vanished again. Every now and then Jolanda felt she was going to be trampled underfoot by the crowd around her, but each time she found beside her the giant sailor with the flashing white teeth and eyes, and each time she felt safe without knowing why. Moving gently, the man always kept beside her; his big body in its tight white uniform must have had muscles as smooth as a cat’s; his chest rose and fell slowly, as if full of the great air of the sea. Suddenly that voice of his, booming like a buoy, began producing words one by one in a peculiar rhythm; he burst out into song, and they all began swaying and turning as if to a dance band.

  Meanwhile, Mad Maria, who knew every corner of the place, was pushing and kicking her way toward a small door at the back of the bar, arm in arm with a sailor who had a mustache. At first Felice did not want this door to be opened; but the whole mass of them were pushing behind and finally rammed it in.

  Emanuele, crouching on top of his stool, was following the scene with misty eyes.

  ‘What’s in there, Felice? What’s in there?” But Felice did not reply; he was worrying because there was nothing more to eat or drink.