“She never came,” Ghita repeated.
Cass rose abruptly from his place by the pallet. He stalked toward the doorway and looked in, returned, squatted again by the pallet and looked up into Ghita’s flat impassive face. “Well, where could she be then?” he said. “It doesn’t make sense for her—And something happened tonight which—” He paused. “Suffering God,” he whispered in English. “That miserable snake! If he—” He rose again abruptly, as if to leave the place, when Michele croaked from the pallet.
“Cass.” He had risen up and thrown off part of the blanket, revealing, through the shirt of his dingy pajamas, striped like those of a prisoner, an intolerably thin chest. “Cass,” he said, “don’t worry about Francesca. Often you know she stays with Lucia, you know, the daughter of the gardener at the Albergo Eden. All the time. Don’t worry, amico. She’s there tonight. Don’t worry. Come here and sit beside me. The medicine has made me feel better already.”
Cass hesitated. “Well—” he said, pausing. “Well, don’t you think she’d have told me, Michele? I’ve got to go.”
Michele forced a dreadful gurgle of a laugh. “Why tell you, my friend, when she has never in her life told her own papa? Come, sit down. Francesca is all right. You know Francesca! Sit down here, Cass. I feel I can almost walk.”
“I don’t know,” Cass said glumly. But the anxiety and concern had begun to fade from his face. Saying, “I had forgotten about Lucia,” he gave a sigh and bent his attention once more upon Michele. “You must lie down on your back, Michele,” he said in a determined voice. “Like this. And you must not talk so much. Those are the rules.”
“Ah Dio! Slowly!” Michele cried out. And his wife rocked back and forth again, moaning.
I sat there across the room, hearing in my brain the fanciful ticking of a clock, that imaginary tick-tock which, even in the absence of a clock, seems to accompany all wakes and nighttime sufferings and watches of the dead. And, as the woman rocked back and forth, softly moaning, and the children jerked and stirred, whimpering, in restless sleep, and the cow gazed at me in sweet brown incomprehension through the fly-swollen air, I finally understood that this Italian was actually dying. Dying—aware of it, too, in spite of all—he seemed only wishful now of wresting from Cass a last testimonial to that impossible vision which he had harbored in his mind, how long the Lord only knew, but I suppose all the years of his miserable life. So that now, between sounds of anguish, which Cass would soothe with a word and with a touch of his hand, I could hear his voice struggle up buoyantly in hope and wonder, as he asked about America: Was it true that even the poorest laborer had a car, Cass, and a stove, and a house with windows? Would it be possible, Cass, when he got well, and they all went to America together, to get Alessandro and Carla, and even the littlest one, a fine pair of shoes? He had asked Cass these things before, but persisted in being told the glory of their truth anew, like a small boy with visions of elephants and tigers, and of far exotic shores.
“Yes, amico,” I heard Cass’ patient tired voice. “Yes, it’s all true like I have told you.”
“I should like to live in Provvidenza, where my brother lived long ago. It is a fine city, is it not, Cass?”
“Yes, Michele.” But to me, in English, turning: “Providence, can you imagine?”
Michele was tired. He stretched himself; a soft whistle escaped his lips and he closed his eyes, clenching them tight for a moment, then shuddering all over as if with a chill, as without a sound now he mounted rapt guard over the dominion of his pain. Save for the woman moaning and rocking, and the flies in their incessant pestilential drowse and drone, no one stirred or made a sound. Cass, hulking over the man in an attitude of frozen genuflection, wore upon his face a desolation so complete that it drained his skin of all color, and his eyes of all vestiges of light. Then after a while Michele roused himself a bit and opened his eyes. “It should not be so,” he said in his choked faltering voice and now, for the first time, with a look of desperation. “It should not be so, Cass.”
“What is that?”
“That a man should hurt so. That a man should work hard all of his life and make ninety thousand lire a year. And then end up like this, hurting so.”
Cass said nothing for a moment; his lips trembled, as if searching for words. Then he said: “I truly agree, my friend. But you must not fret about that. Animo. Courage.”
Rising on his elbow, Michele gave another groan, fixing Cass with his despairing hot eyes. “No, it should not be so, Cass!” he croaked. “He is evil, is He not, to put us down in this place where we work and slave for fifty years, making ninety thousand lire a year, which is not even enough to buy pasta. Ninety thousand lire! Then all the time He sends the tax collector from Rome. Then after draining us dry—of everything—at last He throws us away, as if we had cost Him nothing, and for a joke He punishes us with this pain. He loves only the rich men in Rome. He is evil, I tell you! I shit on Him! I shit on Him because I do not believe!”
Like a shot, as if waiting hawklike for just these words, the woman sprang erect from her trance. “Blasphemer!” she cried. “Listen to him, Cass! Like this he’s been all day, ranting and raving. In his state! He will go straight to perdition!” She turned and looked down at the prostrate man. “And what he did, Cass, I perish to say. But in his wrath he got up from there this morning, right where he is lying now, and on his one good leg went to the wall, swearing like a Turk, where he tore the crucifix down and hurled it out of doors! Blasphemer, Michele! In your state! It is no wonder that you have begun to piss blood. It’s a sign from heaven! You will drag us all down to perdition with your blasphemy!” One of the children began to bawl.
“No worse—!” Michele commenced howling from the floor, his voice throttled and choked and awful. “No worse than the charms and amulets and potions you get from that sorceress! How can you talk about blasphemy! When Cass has warned you against this magic! A hi—!”
“Silenzio!” Between the two impassioned, embattled theologies Cass’ voice rose like a wall, silencing the pair. But as he shouted at them I fled the accursed place, unable to take any more. And somewhere outside, in the newborn and ancient dawn looming like a great limitless pearl over the sea, amidst the twittering and chattering of birds and the soughing of pine trees that was like a noise of rain, I found myself thinking, unaccountably, of other dewy, radiant dawns I had known in years past, in Rome, and the morning’s plunging view from the balcony of the smooth young benefactor, with his Ginevra and his Anna Maria and his girl from Smith College, and then I found myself foolishly—albeit discreetly and out of a deep sense of failure and loss—blubbering against a tree.
But there was none of this about Cass. He emerged shortly from the hut, raging at the top of his voice, wobbling, and for an instant I thought he had again in some mysterious fashion managed to get drunk. But he was not drunk, only wild and inflamed; he was ranting about the Communists and the Christian-Democrats and Mrs. Clare Boothe Luce, and he said something which to me seemed at that moment curiously apt.
“You can take politics, see,” he said, “and you can stuff them up your ass.”
I slept that night—or that day, I should say—in a spare bedroom in Cass’ part of the palace. In the light of dawn, as we tramped back up through the valley to Sambuco, he seemed subdued and spent, and he said hardly anything to me at all. I, too, felt drained of everything, and for the most part I kept my mouth shut. When at last we paused to say good night at the gate of the Bella Vista, when I ventured some final word about Mason (saying that he would doubtless no longer feel obliged to pay my expensive bill), Cass looked at me and smiled his tired smile, and said: “Come stay with us.” It was as simple as that; he was merely being generous. It sleepily occurred to me that it would be a kind of retaliation—a mild one, perhaps, but retaliation nonetheless—to flaunt myself for a few days under Mason’s nose as the guest of Cass, and so, after the standard grateful show of refusal, I accepted the invitation. I checked
out of the hotel, paying my bill to a dormant and pottering night clerk. Then Cass helped carry my bags down the still-sleeping street to the palace. His amiability and kindness were almost too much; he began to seem a bit unreal as he jockeyed my luggage down the stairs and into a bedroom—a fairly clean and well-kept place, in contrast to the “studio” upstairs—and joined with me in making the bed, and fetched me a couple of worn but freshly laundered towels. But for the most part he was tight-lipped, and his face wore a distant look of worry and concern: I thought nothing of it at the time—although it had all the bearing in the world on the events which followed soon—when he downed a great tumbler of red wine and, bidding me to sleep well, left me to myself, saying in a remote and abstracted voice that he had “to go check up about this friend I know.”
I heard his feet tramping back and forth on the floor above me as I tried to sleep. Unconsciousness seemed a long time coming; I was stiff and sore and nagged by fugitive sorrows and regrets. First I wondered about Cass: who was this tormented, sad, extraordinary character? I worried about Cass for a long time. Soon I began to wonder if di Lie to was still among the living; then try as I might I could not force from my mind the vision of that hut, doomed in its lovely glade. With the muddled irrationality that goes with complete exhaustion, I remembered the pornographic pictures that Mason had asked me to bring him, and I kept trying to decide whether I should somehow see that he got them, or, as a last gesture of my defection, throw them away. I began to scratch and fidget and I yearned for a cigarette, for I had smoked my last. Then I began to think of a girl I once had made love to in Rome, which made me sweaty and earnest with desire, and I got up and drank a glass of cold water. The feet above me finally ceased their pacing. Cass Kinsolving! Who was he? At last, with the sunlight streaming down upon me through the rustling blinds, I slipped off fretfully into sleep, listening to the shrill cheery chorale of birds among the vines, and the clip-clop of a horsecart, and a girl’s velvety sweet voice, somewhere far off, singing “Caro nome” I woke up sopping with perspiration how many hours later I could not tell; in the room it was almost completely dark, and my watch read a few minutes past noon, but it had stopped. I thought it must be night again. For a while I lay there still, thankful that I was alive and breathing, for the dream-landscape I had visited seemed now more grim and malignant than any I had ever known: a nightmare at the beginning so fearful that I could not recall it, which was in itself an abomination—a curtain, dropping straight down like a shutter in my mind, which seemed to be made of the interlocking black wings of ravens crawling and loathsome with parasites, and which shivered and rustled as it sealed off the nightmare from recollection. Then all the rest, for all the hours I had slept, was nothing but a huge and barren place where I stood and witnessed a country in cataclysm and upheaval—a land of insurrection and barbarous acts and slaughter, where across the naked countryside wild hairy men ran with torches, and women gathered shrieking children to their breasts, and strange-looking dwellings flickered and burned, sending fetid clouds of smoke into a boiling, overcast sky. And throughout it all, through the unnumbered hours I stirred and tossed and groaned, I seemed to hear remote screams and yells, and wails of terror, and the anguish of the flayed and the crucified, until finally, without respite or calm, I woke up drenched, and with an outcry of supplication half-spoken on my lips. And as I lay there on the bed collecting my senses, watching the last pale glimmerings of light fade from the room, I was assured that it was not all a dream. Sambuco seemed windlessly, intolerably still. Not a sound came from outside, where there should have been that chuckle and buzz and tintinnabulation of Italian towns: it was as silent as a churchyard. Yet as I lay there listening to the slow leakage of water somewhere in the depths of the palace, I heard something in the distance which echoed from and explained my nightmare: a woman’s single cry—a high-pitched, caterwauling sound of grief which wavered on the still hot air, soared higher and higher, then ceased, abruptly, as if shut off by a bullet through the head. Then all became as it had been—deathly still. After a time, puzzled and depressed, I got up, feeling a sharp pain in my neck where I had twisted it. I wiped the sweat off me with the bedclothes. And all the while, as I got dressed in the shadows in a troubled, dopey fashion, I heard other separate and isolated cries of lamentation, some close by, some indistinct, which like the cries in my dream sounded like those of souls in immortal torment. I expected to walk outdoors and find the town in siege or ablaze; no, I didn’t know what to expect—least of all, as I left the room, to find that it was not night but late afternoon. There was daylight now, and a clock ticking in the hallway told me it was five o’clock, which meant I must have slept nearly twelve hours.
There was not a sound in the house; the upstairs living room lay as depraved and messy as it had the night before, and abandoned. It occurred to me then that the disturbance outside might be only a contribution on the part of Alonzo Cripps and his crew of moviemakers, but when I stepped out into the courtyard I saw that all the movie equipment had been dismantled and taken away. In its place there was a huge stack of suitcases, golf clubs, and other luggage, prepared as if for evacuation. Standing guard over the pile was a tacky-looking old townsman who tipped his cap and mumbled something mournful and unintelligible as I passed. There was no other sign of life here save for the trapped swallow I had seen the night before, which swooped down among the fluted columns, then upward, and still beat its wings against the skylight in flight toward the inaccessible sun. At the top of the stairs I had climbed—it seemed so many days before—Mason’s door stood ajar beneath its frieze of dingy nymphs. No one came or left: the silence was appalling.
Outdoors I stood blinking at the deserted street. It was still a bright clear day, hot but tempered by a breeze from the sea. The shops across the way were barred up and shuttered; not a soul was in sight. For long moments I stood there. Then I heard a woman’s cry, doleful, high-pitched, and piteous. Turning, I saw her rushing toward me down the street, a white-haired old woman in billowing black, keening grief at the top of her voice: all in a slant she came past me, tears running in rivulets down her ancient face—’Disonorata! A sangue freddo!” I heard her gabble—her black tempestuous skirts held up around her ankles, still keening and in miraculous slant as like a witch on a broomstick she sailed around the corner and vanished, leaving behind her an eddying whirlpool of dust. Suddenly I realized that I had been holding my stiff neck at an angle, causing woman, street, and sky to slant, and I painfully untilted it. I gazed after the woman, stupidly expecting some kind of explanation, but the street remained deserted and silent as before, calcimine-white in the Tyrrhenian sun and looking as shuttered and withdrawn as if once again the town were being beleaguered by the Saracens. Violated, as the woman had said, in cold blood.
In bewilderment I strolled up the street toward the hotel: there was a sort of terrace restaurant there, where I knew I could get an orange and a sandwich and a pot of coffee. But in the gardens at the entrance to the hotel no one was about—only a big bobtailed tomcat, a mouse trapped between his jaws, who eyed me discreetly and edged out of sight beneath a camellia bush. The terrace, too, was devoid of life; feeling footless and now creepily abandoned, I wandered through a sea of tenantless chairs and white tablecloths to a place near the edge of the terrace where I could watch the well-advertised panorama. It was a spectacular day: the sea, cellophane-clear, seemed to allow the eye to plumb the very limits of its blue cool depths; the green humpbacked mountains all around had the sunny, three-dimensional quality of stereopticon slides. With only a small straining of the vision, I felt I could see all the way to Africa. Yet why, I kept asking myself, was everything so totally, absurdly quiet? Far down the slope on the coast I watched a truck, no bigger than a pea, begin its winding ascent up the mountains: although I should have been able to hear the coughing of its engine, I heard no noise at all. Sound seemed drained from the whole visible world around me, as from a vessel. For what must have been ten minutes I s
at there waiting for service, but no one came. At last belatedly, thick-headedly aware that something somewhere was seriously wrong, I made a motion to get up and leave, when I saw approaching me from the gardens an agitated figure, pitched between a fast walk and a trot. ’Non c’è thervizio oggi!” he cried, and then I saw that it was my erstwhile padrone Fausto Windgasser. “There’s no thervice today!” he lisped in English, recognizing me; he came on at a gallop, halted, beckoning me with frantic gestures out of his preserve. And I arose and sauntered toward him, touched already by the contagion of his hysteria and feeling an abysmal premonition. “What’s wrong?” I said as I neared him.
The dapper little man was all but frothing at the mouth: his eyes seemed glazed, and the silky strands of hair on his balding pate had sprung erect, like those of a terrified and cornered animal, and fluttered in the breeze. “Yes, it’s you, Mr. Leverett! Fortunate you checked out. Fortunate you are leaving!” All suavity abandoned, he clutched me by the arm. “Quelle horreur,” he gasped, in a lapse of tongue, “quelle tragédie, oh my God, have you ever heard of such a thing!” As if aware of what must have been a strange prickling at his scalp, he took out a silver comb and, releasing my arm, began to run it through his hair. His eyes were swimming with tears, his lower lip drooped and quivered; I thought at any moment he might collapse in my arms.
“What in God’s name has happened!” I demanded. I began to jabber too: his aspect of horror was so consuming that I felt my own strength fail, and the blood draining away; for a second I had the insane notion that another world war had begun. “I’ve been asleep all day!” I cried. “Tell me what’s happened! I don’t know!”
William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice Page 75