If a lover is wretched who invokes kisses of which he knows not the flavor, a thousand times more wretched is he who has had a taste of the flavor and then had it denied him. Raimbaut continued his intrepid warrior’s life. Wherever the fight was thickest, there his lance cleft. If in the turmoil of swords he spied a glint of periwinkle blue, he would rush towards it. “Bradamante!” he would shout, but always in vain.
The only person to whom he wanted to confess his troubles had vanished. Sometimes, in his wandering around the bivouacs, the way some armor stood erect on its side pieces made him quiver, for it reminded him of Agilulf. Suppose the Knight had not dissolved but found some other armor? Raimbaut would go up and say, “Don’t think me offensive, colleague, but would you mind raising the visor of your helmet?”
Every time he hoped to find himself facing an emptiness, instead of which there was always a nose above a pair of twisted moustaches. “I’m sorry,” he would murmur, and turn away.
Another was also searching for Agilulf: Gurduloo, who every time he saw an empty pot; cauldron or tub would stop and exclaim, “Oh sor master! At your orders, sor master.”
Sitting in a field on the verge of a road, he was making a long speech into the mouth of a wine flask when a voice interrupted him, “What are you seeking inside there, Gurduloo?”
It was Torrismund, who, having celebrated his solemn nuptials with Sophronia in the presence of Charlemagne, was riding off with his bride and a rich suite to Koowalden, of which the emperor had named him Count.
“It’s my master I’m looking for,” says Gurduloo.
“In that flask?”
“My master is a person who doesn’t exist, so he can not exist as much in a flask as in a suit of armor.”
“But your master has dissolved into thin air!”
“Then am I squire to the air?”
“You will be my squire, if you follow me.”
They reached Koowalden. The country was unrecognizable. Instead of villages now rose towns and houses of stone, and mills, and canals.
“I have returned, good folk, to stay among you...”
“Hurrah! Fine! Hurrah! Long live the bride!”
“Wait and show your joy at the news I bring you. The Emperor Charlemagne—bow to his sacred name—has invested me with the title of Count of Koowalden.”
“Ah ... But ... Charlemagne?...Well...”
“Don’t you understand? You have a Count now! I will defend you against the incursions of the Knights of the Grail.”
“Oh we’ve thrust all those out of the whole of Koowalden some time ago! You see, we've always obeyed for so long ... But now we’ve seen one can live quite well without having truck with either knights or counts ... We cultivate the land, have put up artisan shops and mills, and try to get our laws respected by ourselves, to defend our borders, in fact we’re moving ahead and not complaining. You’re a generous young man and we’ll not forget what you’ve done for us ... Stay here if you wish ... but as equals...”
“As equals? You don’t want me as Count? But don’t you understand it’s the emperor’s order? It’s impossible for you to refuse!”
“Oh, people are always saying that! Impossible!...To get rid of those Grail people seemed impossible ... and then we only had pitchforks and billhooks ... We wish no ill to anyone, young sir, and to you least of all ... You’re a fine young man, and know many things which we don’t ... If you stay here as equals with us and do no bullying, maybe you will become the first among us just the same...”
“Torrismund, I am weary of so many mishaps,” said Sophronia, raising her veil. “These good people seem reasonable and courteous and the town pleasanter and in better state than many ... Why should we not try to come to an arrangement?”
“What about our suite?”
“They can all become citizens of Koowalden,” replied the inhabitants, “and to each will be given according to his worth.”
“Am I to consider myself an equal to this squire of mine, Gurduloo, who doesn’t even know if he exists or not?”
“He will leam too ... We ourselves did not know we existed ... One can also learn to be...”
12
BOOK, now you have reached your end. These last pages I found myself writing away at breakneck speed. From one line to another I have leapt about among nations and seas and continents. What is this frenzy which has seized me, this impatience? It’s as if I were waiting for something. But what can nuns await, withdrawn here so as to be outside the ever-changing happenings of the world? What else can I await except new pages to cover and the routine ringing of the convent bells?
There, I hear a horse come up the narrow track. Now it stops right at the convent gates. The rider knocks. I can’t stretch far enough out of my little window to see him, but I can hear his voice. “Hey, good sisters, listen!”
But is that his voice, or am I mistaken? Yes, 'tis Raimbaut's voice which I have so long made resound over these pages! What can Raimbaut want here?
“Hey, good sisters, can you please tell me if an Amazon has found refuge in this convent, the famous Bradamante?”
Yes, searching for Bradamante throughout the world, Raimbaut was bound to reach here one day.
I hear the Sister Guardian’s voice reply, “No, soldier, there are no Amazons here, only poor holy women praying for your sins.”
But now I run to the window and cry, “Yes, Raimbaut, I’m here, wait for me, I knew you’d come, I’ll be down, I’ll leave with you.”
And hurriedly I tear off my cloistral bands, my nun’s skirt, pull out of a drawer my little topaz-colored tunic, my cuirass, my helmet, my spurs, my periwinkle blue robe. “Wait for me, Raimbaut, I’m here, I’m here, I, Bradamante!”
Yes, my book. Sister Theodora who tells this tale and the Amazon Bradamante are one and the same. Sometimes I gallop over battlefields after adventures of duels and loves, sometimes I shut myself in convents, meditating and jotting down the adventures that have happened to me, so as to try and understand them. When I came to shut myself in here I was desperate with love for Agilulf, now I burn for the young and passionate Raimbaut.
That is why my pen at a certain point began running on so. I rush to meet him. I knew he would not be long in coming. A page is good only when we turn it and find life urging along, confusing every page in the book. The pen rushes on, urged by the same joy that makes me course the open road. A chapter started when one doesn’t know which tale to tell is like a comer turned on leaving a convent, when one might come face to face with a dragon, a Saracen gang, an enchanted isle or a new love.
I’m hurrying to you, Raimbaut I’m not even bidding the abbess good-bye. They know me already and know that after affrays and affairs and blighted hopes I always return to this cloister. But it will be different now ... It will be...
From describing the past, from the present which seized my hand in its excited grasp, here I am, O future, now mounting the crupper of your horse. What new pennants wilt thou unfurl before me from towers of cities not yet founded? What rivers of devastation set flowing over castles and gardens I have loved? What unforeseeable golden ages art thou preparing—ill-mastered, indomitable harbinger of treasures dearly paid for, my kingdom to be conquered, the future...
THE END
BOOKS BY ITALO CALVINO
Visit www.hmhbooks.com to find more books by Calvino, including:
The Baron in the Trees
The Castle of Crossed Destinies
Cosmicomics
Difficult Loves
If on a winter's night a traveler
Invisible Cities
Italian Folktales
Marcovaldo, or The seasons in the city
Mr. Palomar
The Nonexistent Knight and The Cloven Viscount
t zero
Under the Jaguar Sun
The Uses of Literature
The Watcher and Other Stories
Knight
The Nonexistent Knight Page 11