Death in Sardinia

by Marco Vichi

  ‘Had it all collapsed?’ Ennio asked, looking worried.

  Dante took a big drag on his cigar and shook his head.

  ‘All around the pillar there were tables laid out for a feast, and all the workmen and foremen stood up and started applauding.’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell …’ Botta said for everyone.

  ‘I turned to look at the developer beside me and saw him beaming with satisfaction. He slapped me on the back and said: “Well done, engineer.” I looked them all in the eye, one by one. When they’d stopped applauding they told me to sit down and celebrate. But I didn’t move, I didn’t breathe. I felt like killing them all. Then I took a deep breath and found myself howling at the top of my lungs: “Fuuuck youuuu aaaall!” All the tension dissolved in those words, and everyone burst out laughing. A minute later we were all at table, and we ate and drank late into the night,’ Dante concluded, laughing and spewing smoke.

  ‘What a dirty trick,’ said Bordelli.

  ‘And where’s this building?’ Botta asked.

  ‘Down by the suspension bridge, at the corner of Piazza Gaddi and Via Bronzino … Every time I go past it I blow it a kiss,’ said Dante, rubbing his paunch.

  ‘It’s been called Ponte della Vittoria for quite a while now,’ Diotivede muttered.

  ‘Oh really?’ Dante and Bordelli said in unison.

  In the Piras household, Christmas Eve dinner had just ended. There were fourteen of them, not counting three little boys and two girls. As every year, they’d had to put two tables together to accommodate everyone, and as usual Maria had prepared so much food that there were enough leftovers to last three days. Now they were eating chestnuts, tangerines and dried figs while waiting for the midnight bells. A big log burned in the fireplace. The moment had come to exchange gifts. The kitchen sink was stacked with dirty dishes. On the table were sweets and several bottles of aged vernaccia, just opened, two of Gavino’s and the rest brought by guests.

  They unwrapped the gifts, and soon the room filled with a long murmur of thanks. The children ran at once into the entrance to try out their new toys. Maria stood up and kissed her son on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Nino.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. He had made a portrait of her in pen and put it in an old frame he’d found in the tool shed.

  ‘You made me too pretty,’ his mother said, moved. She set the small picture on the mantelpiece and looked at it. There was a knock at the door. It was Pina and Giovanni, and they’d brought a tray of pirichittus38 and a bottle of wine. A short while later Pina asked whether they could all say a prayer together for Benigno, and without waiting for a reply she started slowly reciting the paternoster. The others joined in with her in soft voices, setting their glasses down on the table one by one. Giovanni hid his cigar with his hand. Pietrino couldn’t remember all the words and simply moved his lips randomly. When the prayer was over, they all made the sign of the cross. Giovanni put his cigar back in his mouth and they all picked up their glasses. The children were getting louder and louder, but nobody paid any mind.

  Pietrino sat down in the armchair and started watching the fire. He let himself be lulled by the others’ voices, paying no attention to the words, and meanwhile thought back on Sonia’s phone call. He’d talked to her right before dinner, and the sound of her voice had touched him. He’d whispered sweet nothings to her the whole time, and she’d only laughed, telling him to stop …

  After a few minutes’ distraction he roused himself to the sound of Costante, his father’s cousin, telling a story. He started listening without taking his eyes off the fire. Costante was talking about a guy from Abbasanta, a certain Mario Zedda, who had a three-year-old daughter who fell ill one unlucky day.

  ‘She had a high fever and strange blisters on her face. All she did was cry. Zedda had called the doctor, who told him to give her six injections a day. But the little girl wasn’t getting any better – in fact, she was getting worse, and in the end she died. She was Zedda’s only child. That night he went into the barn and hanged himself. His wife found him the following morning. The poor thing ended up in a mental hospital.’

  Pina lowered her head and started crying.

  ‘Nice going,’ Gavino said to Costante.

  ‘Why? What did I do?’

  ‘Did you have to tell that story at Christmas?’

  ‘You’re such a blockhead,’ said Grazia, Costante’s wife.

  ‘I’m sorry. From now on I’ll keep quiet,’ said Costante, offended.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Pina, wiping her eyes with her fingers.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ She then reached out for her glass and took a sip. In the silence they heard only the fire crackling and the clock ticking. The bells of Santa Maria started ringing, and Pina stood up.

  ‘The mass is beginning,’ she said. They all stood up to leave. Maria looked at Pietrino to see what he intended to do. He smiled at her but did not move. He waited for them all to leave, then went and got the grappa from the liquor cabinet and poured himself a small glass. He sat back down by the fire. A small flame was slowly devouring the big log of olive wood that Gavino had put on the fire for Christmas Eve night. It would burn until morning.

  One after another, the church bells in town started ringing. Bordelli and Diotivede looked at each other to see who should go next. The doctor was biting his lips like a child. To all appearances he wanted to go last. Bordelli got the message and gave in. He lit another cigarette. It must have been already his sixth.

  ‘In April of ’44 I was encamped with a few men in a little town a few miles from the front. The weather was nasty, and we were tense. While awaiting our orders we played silly games, such as priming a percussion bomb and passing it back and forth like a ball, trying to catch it as delicately as possible so it wouldn’t go off … I shudder when I think about it now, but we were in a war, and we measured fear differently. At night we slept in an old primary school. We’d taken up residence in the gym. One evening I was very tired and went to bed before the others. I fell asleep with the feeling that I had forgotten something. When I woke up the following morning, I found all my men standing before me. I scarcely had time to rub my eyes before they started singing “Happy birthday to you” and clapping. Who the hell had told those jailbirds that the second of April was my birthday? When I stood up to thank them, they stepped aside and I saw a drawing in coloured chalk on the wall in front of me, a war scene with life-sized figures and Commander Bordelli in the foreground. For a few seconds it was a little like being at home. I thanked them and embraced them, and right after that began one of the worst bombardments we’d ever seen. Of those six men, three died in the bombing, another one a few days later, while de-mining a bridge, and the other two just one month before the end. I can still see them now as if they were right here. And I remember that drawing well.’

  They all remained silent for a spell, exchanging glances. Bordelli downed his glass and refilled it.

  ‘You’re the only one left, Diotivede,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you’re all going to have to be patient, because if I tell my story, I’m going to tell all of it,’ said Diotivede. He ran a hand over his head and asked for a cigarette. Bordelli lit one for himself and passed him the packet.

  ‘I didn’t think you smoked,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed I don’t. Would you give me a light?’ The doctor lit his cigarette and blew the smoke across the table.

  ‘In 1919 I wasn’t yet thirty years old, and I was working at a hospital in Turin. The Spanish flu was making a shambles of Europe, and you could smell the insignificance of life in the air. One morning I saw a woman, a very beautiful woman, at the hospital. She was sleeping in a bed with her fists clenched. I asked a nurse who she was and whether she was sick. She told me the woman was South American and had been hospitalised after fainting, probably from hunger. I kept on looking at her. What was a South American doing there? I wondered. Even with her eyes closed, she looked like the most beautiful woman I�
��d ever seen. Nobody knew her name, as she’d had no identification papers on her. I told the nurse I would attend to her myself. But the following morning she was gone. We thought she’d run away to avoid having to give explanations, and soon afterwards nobody gave her another thought. Nobody except me, that is.’

  Diotivede stopped for a moment to smoke. The others watched in silence, waiting for him to resume.

  ‘Five days later, as I was going home on the omnibus, I saw her get on. It was her, I was sure of it. My heart started racing. Even though the omnibus was empty, I gave her my seat. She smiled at my rather blatant courtesy and accepted my offer. We started talking and almost immediately used the informal tu. Her vitality almost frightened me. She said she was Colombian and had come to Italy for work. When she stood up to get off, I summoned my courage and asked if I could see her again. She smiled and said only, “We’ll meet again, don’t worry.” As of that moment I could think of nothing but her. Every time I took the omnibus I hoped to see her. A week went by, and at last I saw her get on. She was more beautiful than ever. She came up to me with a strange look and asked me to get off with her at the next stop and follow her from a distance. And so we got off, and I followed behind her for a few city blocks at a distance of about twenty yards. She walked fast, without ever turning round to see if I was still there. We turned down a narrow, dirty street. She opened a door and disappeared inside. I went in too and followed her up a dark staircase. We entered a squalid room with a mattress tucked into a corner. She took my hands and pulled me close to her. She said we had to hurry. As she was pushing me down on to the mattress, she said she wanted to get down to business at once. Later, in retrospect, it would all seem like a trick to me. I didn’t understand what she meant, but didn’t say anything. I only wanted to live that moment and think of nothing else, and I saw it through to the end. Afterwards, we lay there in silence for a while, in each other’s arms. That dirty, empty room seemed beautiful to me. At a certain point she sat up on the mattress and said, “My name is Maria Conchita Veleza, and I am Nicaraguan. A year after the American invasion I joined a clandestine movement for the liberation of my country, to get rid of that blowhard Diaz. We carried out many guerrilla actions, but after a few years Diaz’s men, with the help of the Americans, were able to track us down, and my comrades started to disappear. The survivors managed to escape the country two years ago. I’m not alone here. There are many of us, and we’re planning an armed revolt to topple the government and throw the Americans out. If Diaz’s butchers find us, there will be nothing left of us. Not even our names on tombstones. You have to help us,” she said in the end. She looked at me with fire in her eyes. She was a passionate woman, in love with liberty … Are you sure this isn’t too boring?’ asked Diotivede. Everyone said no by shaking his head. The doctor took off his glasses and started cleaning them with his napkin.

  ‘Maria Conchita’s eyes were full of anger. She said the United States had to be stopped, otherwise, using the excuse that they were bringing democracy to backward peoples, they would end up conquering all of Latin America and turn it into their rubbish dump. In recent years they’d staged armed interventions in Honduras, Cuba, Panama, Haiti and Costa Rica. They had to be stopped at all costs. The organisation she belonged to was one of many ant colonies working towards this great dream, and in Nicaragua a man called Sandino was paving the way for victory. If I understood the importance of freedom, I should help them, she said. Then she explained how. She said I had to take a very important envelope to Managua, give it to a certain man, and then return. She and her fellow group members couldn’t do it because they were sought by the authorities, and they considered the postal service unsafe. I, on the other hand, was an Italian doctor who could travel there as a tourist, since I had no connection to Nicaraguan politics. I could do it quite easily, without being searched at customs upon entering. I didn’t ask her what would be in that envelope, and I swear I felt great admiration for her, for doing what she did. But I obviously also felt that she’d gone to bed with me just to use me as a courrier. I didn’t like feeling like a puppet, and a short while later I left without saying anything. Two days later I saw her again on the omnibus. “It’s on for Friday,” she said. And she told me the time and place. She got off at the next stop without turning round. And, as she had asked, I did not follow her. That Friday, I showed up on time for the appointment. I didn’t even know why. There was a guy there waiting for me. He signalled to me to follow him at a distance, and a few blocks farther on he went through a door and disappeared. I followed him inside, and he led me into a dark room. I realised there were other people there, because I could hear them breathing. A hooded man then came forward in the darkness. He handed me two envelopes, one to be delivered, the other containing my instructions, which I was to memorise and then burn. A minute later I was back outside. I didn’t understand why they had chosen me, of all people, but I didn’t care. What I really wanted to know was whether or not she had taken me for a ride. There was only one way to find out: do what they asked of me and then return. I arranged matters at the hospital and departed. I’ll sum up my journey to Nicaragua very briefly for you, since it has little to do with the story. At any rate, everything went smoothly. I didn’t talk to anybody on the ship, stayed the whole time holed up in my cabin, crushing cockroaches and thinking of Maria Conchita. I sailed through customs without a hitch and reached Managua by train. It was night, and very hot. The railway station was garrisoned by US Marines; one saw them all over the place in town as well, on foot and in their lorries. There was a palpable tension in the air. My first night in the hotel I didn’t sleep a wink. It seemed absurd for me to be in that city. In accordance with my instructions, I waited two days, and then on the third day went to the address I’d been given. I got there exactly on time. A short bloke in glasses opened the door for me and let me in. After an exchange of passwords I handed him the envelope and left without saying another word. Then I waited another week, as I’d been asked to do. I was supposed to act like a tourist, and so all I did was wander about the city and sweat like a hog. Every so often I would hear gunshots in the distance, but most people seemed not to notice. Then at last I returned to Italy. Some twenty days in all had passed. I went back to my job at the hospital. I didn’t seek out the rebels because I knew it was useless. I just lived my life and waited. Weeks went by, but nobody came forward. I began to think I’d been tricked like a child. All I had left of her was that half-hour on a dirty mattress.’

  Diotivede stopped and, without asking, took another cigarette from Bordelli, who lit it for him. The doctor took a sip and continued.

  ‘One day, as I was going out, I found her right in front of me. Her eyes were puffy and had dark circles around them, as if she hadn’t slept for days. Even so, she still seemed very beautiful to me. We stood there looking at each other. My heart was pounding in my ears. “I’m leaving early tomorrow morning, and I wanted to tell you,” she said. “Don’t leave,” I said. She shook her head. “I must,” she said. “But let me in for now.” We went into my place and spent the night together, without saying a word. We fell asleep at dawn, exhausted. Later that morning I reached out across the bed, but she wasn’t there. I called out her name, but she didn’t reply. I remember thinking: I’ll never see Maria Conchita again. I got out of bed and started rummaging about the flat. In the bathroom I found a note attached to the mirror. We are not alone on this earth. MC. I crumpled the paper and hurled it across the room.’

  The doctor stopped and gestured for Bordelli to refill his glass again.

  ‘A year later I received a letter from Maria Conchita, posted in Peru. The plan to overthrow Diaz had gone to the dogs. Her brothers and many of her comrades had been killed. She’d managed to escape from Nicaragua again and gone into hiding in Colombia, and then Peru. Things were going very badly, in short. Maria Conchita was disgusted with the world and weary of life. She’d wept with rage when the Marines intervened in Guatemala just a few weeks bef
ore. Nothing had changed, she said, and nothing would ever change. Money and power were the only law on earth. She ended by saying she would like to see me again. That’s exactly how she put it: “I would like to see you again.” It seemed almost like a pat phrase, but it still got me excited. Then, right below it, Maria Conchita suggested we meet the following month in Lima. She even gave the date and time of day, and the name of the square. She would wait for me for half an hour, after which she would leave. She laid it all out in precise detail, like some sort of meeting between two revolutionaries. “If you don’t come,” she concluded, “at least think of me now and then.” The whole thing still seemed so absurd to me, I felt like laughing. Nothing about it made any sense. A letter, an appointment on the other side of the globe. It was just too silly.’

  Diotivede allowed himself another pause to take a sip. Ennio couldn’t hold himself back.

  ‘So what did you do? Did you go to Peru?’ he said, staring at him. Diotivede turned towards Botta and kept looking at him for quite some time, as if telling the story only to him.

  ‘Yes, I went to Peru. I took ship a week later and was in Lima on the appointed day. The rendezvous was at noon in a plaza in the centre of town. I got there an hour early. The plaza was huge and had a garden in the middle, and there were a great many people walking about.We would have to look hard to find each other. As I was quite early, I started walking around without straying too far. At ten minutes to twelve, I was back in the square. I started walking back and forth, looking for Maria Conchita. I must have gone round the plaza ten times, sweating and cursing all the women who looked like her from a distance. I took my watch out of my breast pocket and looked at the time: a quarter past twelve. I felt like a fool. I’d crossed the ocean to see a woman I barely knew. She wasn’t going to come. By this point I was convinced of it. Still I kept searching the crowd for her face. But by one o’clock she still hadn’t shown up. I was feeling worse and worse, and after searching for another half an hour I realised there was no longer any point in waiting. I would return home, she would never write to me again, and I would never again have any news of her. I wouldn’t even know if she was alive or dead. I dropped down on to a bench, thinking that it had already been almost two months since I’d received her letter. Maybe she hadn’t come because something had happened to her … Maybe she’d been arrested and was being tortured, or perhaps she was already dead. Or maybe she’d simply changed her mind. I would never know. I needed a strong drink. I slipped into a sort of bar and ordered a tequila. When I looked up, above the bottles behind the bar there was a clock that said two forty-five. I looked at my watch, and it said one forty-five. I called the barman over and gestured at his clock. “It’s broken,” I said, tapping my watch with one finger. “It’s an hour fast.” I said it all in Italian, but he understood anyway. And he smiled at me. “No, señor,” he said, “ese reloj funciona perfectamente, es el suyo que anda mal.” I almost got angry; it was his that didn’t work. The man repeated what he’d just said to me, this time without a smile. But by then I no longer needed convincing; I’d understood everything. When getting off the boat I’d adjusted my watch to the local time, but I’d made a mistake. I’d been thinking of Nicaragua, whereas I was in Lima, Peru. In a different time zone, one hour ahead. Maybe she actually had come at noon, waited half an hour, and left. Maybe.’ Ennio was holding his glass tightly in his fist, as if wanting to break it.