The Complete Works of Primo Levi

by Primo Levi

  Two days later, the telephone rang again: Gilberto’s voice was full of emotion, but it also had an unmistakable tone of pride.

  “I need to see you immediately.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “I’ve duplicated my wife,” he answered.

  He arrived two hours later, and told me about his foolish enterprise. After receiving the Mimete, he had, like all beginners, used it to perform the usual tricks (the egg, the pack of cigarettes, the book, et cetera); he then got bored with it, brought the Mimete into his workshop, and dismantled it down to the last screw. He contemplated it throughout the night, consulted the instruction manual, and concluded that to transform it from a one-liter model into a larger model would be neither impossible nor particularly difficult. He immediately had NATCA send him, under what pretext I don’t know, two hundred pounds of special pabulum, bought sheet metal, section bars, and gaskets, and after seven days the work was finished. He had built a kind of artificial lung, rigged the Mimete’s timer, accelerating it by around forty times, and had attached the two parts to each other and to the pabulum container. This is Gilberto, a dangerous man, a noxious little Prometheus—ingenious and irresponsible, brilliant and silly. As I said earlier, he is a child of the century. Actually, he is a symbol of our century. I always believed him capable, if circumstances permitted, of building an atomic bomb and letting it fall on Milan “to see what would happen.”

  • • •

  As far as I could understand it, Gilberto didn’t have anything specific in mind when he decided to increase the size of the duplicator, except perhaps his typical impulse to “do it himself” and make a larger duplicator with his own hands and at minimal cost, especially since he is very adept at making the available funds in his bank account magically disappear. The detestable idea of duplicating his wife, he told me, hadn’t come until later, when he saw Emma sleeping soundly. It doesn’t seem to have been particularly difficult: Gilberto, who is robust and patient, slid the mattress off the bed with Emma on top and into the duplicator’s compartment. Though it took him more than an hour, Emma did not wake up.

  It is not at all clear to me what motivated Gilberto to make himself a second wife, thereby violating a great number of laws, both divine and human. He told me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, that he was in love with Emma, that Emma was indispensable to him, and for that reason it seemed to him a good idea to have two of her. Perhaps he told me this in good faith (and Gilberto was always in good faith) and he certainly was and is in love with Emma, in his way, childishly, idolizing her, so to speak. But I am convinced that he was driven to duplicate her for another reason entirely, from a misguided spirit of adventure, a Herostratus-like taste for the insane—precisely, “to see what would happen.”

  I asked him if it hadn’t occurred to him to consult Emma, to ask for her consent before subjecting her to such an unusual process. He blushed to the roots of his hair: he had done worse. Emma’s deep sleep had been induced; he had given her a sleeping pill.

  “And now what are you going to do with your two wives?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. They’re both sleeping. We’ll see tomorrow.”

  The following day we didn’t see anything, or at least I didn’t. After a month of enforced inactivity, I had to leave on a long trip that kept me away from Milan for two weeks. I knew already what would await me upon my return: I would have to help Gilberto get out of trouble, like the time he built a steam-run vacuum cleaner and gave it to his boss’s wife.

  I had barely returned home when, in fact, I received an urgent request to join a family meeting: Gilberto, me, and the two Emmas. These last two had the good taste to visibly distinguish themselves: the second, the impostor, wore a simple white ribbon in her hair, which gave her something of a nun’s look. Aside from this, she was wearing Emma I’s clothes with complete confidence; obviously, she was identical to the owner of the clothes in every way—face, teeth, hair, voice, accent, a faint scar on her forehead, her permanent wave, her walk, her tan from a recent vacation. I noticed, however, that she had a rather nasty cold.

  Contrary to my expectations, all three seemed to be in very good moods. Gilberto appeared ridiculously proud, not so much for what he had pulled off as for the fact (for which he was in no way responsible) that the two women were getting along splendidly. I sincerely admired them both. Emma I exhibited an almost maternal solicitude in regard to her new “sister”; Emma II responded with a dignified and affectionate filial obsequiousness. Gilberto’s experiment, abominable in many respects, nevertheless constituted a favorable affirmation of the Theory of Imitation: the new Emma, born at twenty-eight years old, had inherited not only the identical mortal skin of the prototype but also her entire mental patrimony. Emma II, with admirable simplicity, told me that only two or three days after her birth she’d arrived at the conclusion that she was the first, so to speak, synthetic woman in the history of the human race, or perhaps the second, if one were to consider the vaguely analogous case of Eve. She was born asleep, since the Mimete had also reproduced the soporific that ran through Emma I’s veins, and she awoke “knowing” that she was Emma Perosa Gatti, born in Mantua on March 7, 1936, the only wife of the accountant Gilberto Gatti. She remembered clearly everything Emma I remembered clearly, and badly everything Emma I remembered badly. She remembered “her” honeymoon perfectly, the names of “her” schoolmates, certain childish and intimate things from a religious crisis that Emma I had experienced when she was thirteen years old, and which she had never described to a living soul. But she also vividly remembered when the Mimete had come into the house, Gilberto’s enthusiasm for it, his stories about it and his trials with it, so she was not overly surprised when she was informed of the arbitrary creative act to which she owed her existence.

  The fact that Emma II had caught a cold made me think that their originally identical identities were not destined to last. Even if Gilberto proved to be the most equanimous of bigamists, instituted a rigorous rotation schedule, and abstained from any indication of preference for one woman over the other (and this was an absurd hypothesis, since Gilberto was a botcher and a bungler), even in this case, sooner or later some divergence would occur. It was enough to consider that the two Emmas did not materially occupy the same portion of space: they couldn’t have simultaneously passed through the same narrow doorway, or presented themselves at the same time in front of a ticket window, or sat in the same chair at the dinner table; they were therefore exposed to different events (the head cold), to different experiences. Inevitably, they would differentiate spiritually and then physically; and once they were differentiated, would Gilberto be able to remain equidistant from them? Certainly not: and confronted by a preference, no matter how minuscule, the threesome’s fragile equilibrium was doomed to fall apart.

  I explained my concerns to Gilberto and tried to make him understand that we were not dealing with my usual gratuitous and pessimistic theories, that my prediction was, in fact, based solidly on common sense and almost a theorem. Furthermore, I made clear to him that his legal position was at the very least dubious, and that I had gone to prison for much less: he was married to Emma Perosa, and Emma II was also Emma Perosa, but there were undeniably still two Emma Perosas.

  But Gilberto proved impervious. He was stupidly euphoric, his state of mind that of a bridegroom, and while I spoke he was visibly thinking of something else. Instead of looking at me, he was lost in contemplation of the two women, who right at the moment were fighting over a trifle, which of the two would sit in their favorite armchair. Instead of responding to my objections, he announced to me that he had a wonderful idea: the three of them would go on a trip to Spain.

  “I’ve thought it all through. Emma I will claim to have lost her passport, have another made, and use that one. No, wait, what an idiot! I’ll copy her passport myself with the Mimete, right here tonight.”

  He was very proud of his idea and I suspect t
hat he chose Spain precisely because its border controls are particularly onerous.

  When they returned, after two months, their sins were evidently catching up with them. Anyone would have noticed: relations among the three maintained a level of civility and formal politeness, but the tension was evident. Gilberto did not invite me to his house; he came to mine and was no longer even remotely euphoric.

  He recounted all that had happened, though rather awkwardly, since Gilberto, who possesses an undeniable talent for being able to scribble the schematic drawing of a differential gear on a pack of cigarettes, is desperately inept when it comes to expressing his emotions.

  The trip to Spain was both fun and exhausting. In Seville, after a day with an overambitious schedule, an argument arose amid a climate of irritation and fatigue. The argument had arisen between the two women, the topic being the only one over which their opinions could differ and, in fact, they differed. Was Gilberto’s enterprise appropriate? Was it legal? Emma II said yes; Emma I said nothing. Her silence alone was enough to tip the balance: from that moment, Gilberto’s choice was made. With regard to Emma I, he felt a growing shame, a sense of guilt that increased daily; at the same time, his affection for his new wife grew, and consumed in equal measure his affection for his legitimate wife. A falling-out had not yet happened, but Gilberto could sense its imminence.

  Even the moods and personalities of the women were differentiating. Emma II was becoming ever younger, attentive, responsive, and open; Emma I was retreating into a negative attitude of offended renunciation, of rejection. What to do? I advised Gilberto not to do anything rash, and promised him, as usual, that I would devote myself to his case; but, in my heart, I had already decided that I would stay far away from that melancholy mess, and could not repress a sense of sad and malicious satisfaction that my facile prophecy had indeed come to pass.

  • • •

  I would never have predicted that a radiant Gilberto would turn up in my office a month later. He was in top form, loquacious, loud, and had visibly gained weight. With his usual egocentricity, he came to the point straightaway. When everything was going well for Gilberto, everything was going well for the entire world. He was organically incapable of caring about his neighbor and would become, instead, offended and surprised when his neighbor did not care about Gilberto.

  “Gilberto is an ace,” he said. “He straightened everything out in the blink of an eye.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it, and I must praise you for your modesty. On the other hand, it was about time you took care of the problem.”

  “No, see here: you don’t understand. I’m not talking about myself. I’m talking about Gilberto I. He’s the ace. I must admit I do resemble him quite closely, but in this particular case I can’t take much credit. I have existed only since last Sunday. Now everything has been put right again; all that’s left to do is settle the status of Emma II and my Emma with the registry office. We might just have to come up with some little trick—for example, I might have to marry Emma II, and then we’ll mix ourselves up again so that we are each with the spouse of our choice. And then, naturally, I’ll need to find a job. But I’m convinced that NATCA would gladly hire me to promote the Mimete, along with the other office machines.”

  Versamine

  There are professions that destroy and professions that preserve. Among the professions that preserve best are those which, by their very nature, actually preserve something—documents, books, works of art, institutes, institutions, traditions. A common trait among librarians, museum guards, sextons, caretakers, archivists is not only that they are long-lived but that they preserve themselves for decades without noticeable change.

  Jakob Dessauer, limping slightly, climbed the eight wide steps and, after a twelve-year absence, entered the lobby of the Institute. He asked for Haarhaus, Kleber, and Wincke, none of whom were still there, having either died or been transferred; the only familiar face was old Dybowski. Dybowski, no, he hadn’t changed: he had the same bald head, the same deep, dense wrinkles, his chin badly shaved, his bony hands covered in multicolored spots. Even his shrunken and patched gray lab coat was the same.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “When a hurricane passes through, the tallest plants fall. I’m still here. I clearly didn’t bother anyone, not the Russians, not the Americans, not the others, before . . .”

  Dessauer looked around him: many windowpanes were still missing, many books were gone from the shelves, the heating was poor, but the Institute was alive; students, both male and female, filled the corridors, their clothing old and threadbare, the air they breathed full of sour and singular odors very familiar to him. He asked Dybowski if he had any news of those absent; almost all of them had died in the war, at the front or in the bombardments. Even Kleber, his friend, had died, but not because of the war: Kleber, Wunderkleber, as they had called him, the miraculous Kleber.

  “Yes, him. You haven’t heard what happened to him? It’s truly a strange story.”

  “I’ve been away many years,” Dessauer replied.

  “Of course, I wasn’t thinking,” Dybowski said, without asking questions. “Have you got half an hour? Come with me and I’ll tell you the story.”

  He led Dessauer into his tiny office. The gray light of a foggy afternoon came through the window. Gusts of rain fell on the flower beds, once so well cared for, now invaded by weeds. They sat on two stools in front of a rusty and corroded laboratory scale. The air was heavy with the smell of phenol and bromine; the old man lit his pipe and from under his desk produced a brown bottle.

  “We’ve never lacked for alcohol,” he said, pouring the bottle’s contents into two small-necked beakers. They drank, and then Dybowski began his story.

  “You know, these are not things one can tell the first person who comes along. I’m telling you because I remember that the two of you were friends, and so you’ll understand better. After you left us, Kleber didn’t change much: he was stubborn, serious, devoted to his work, well trained, and very skilled. And he still had that thread of madness which doesn’t hurt in our line of work. He was also very shy; after you left he didn’t make other friends, but instead began to develop several small, peculiar manias, which can happen to people who live by themselves. You remember that for years he pursued a certain line of research on benzoyl derivatives; he had been excused from military service because of his eyes, as you well know. Not even later, when everyone was called up, was he asked to serve. No one ever knew why; maybe he had connections. So he continued to study his benzoyl derivatives. I don’t know, maybe they were of interest to those others, for the war. He discovered the versamines by chance.”

  “What are versamines?”

  “Wait, I’ll get to that later. He tried out his chemical compounds on rabbits; after trials on about forty of them, he realized that one of the rabbits was acting strangely. It refused to eat, and instead chewed on wood and bit the wires of its cage until its mouth bled. It died a few days later of an infection. Now, someone else might have paid no attention, but not Kleber: he was old school and he believed more in facts than in statistics. He administered B/41 (it was 41 percent benzoyl derivative) to three other rabbits and obtained very similar results. And this is where I briefly enter the story.”

  He paused: he was waiting to be asked a question, and Dessauer obliged.

  “You? How?”

  Dybowski lowered his voice a little. “As you know, meat was scarce, and my wife thought it a shame to throw all the test animals into the incinerator. So every once in a while we would have a taste of one or another: several guinea pigs, a few rabbits; dogs and monkeys no, never. We chose the ones that seemed least dangerous and we happened upon precisely one of those three rabbits I told you about. But we only realized it later. You see, I like my drink. I have never been excessive, but I can’t do without it. Thanks to my drinking, I realized that something was not right. I remember it as if it were yesterday: I was here with a friend of mine, called Hagen, and we had fou
nd, I don’t know where, a bottle of brandy and we drank it. It was the evening after we had eaten the rabbit; the brandy had an excellent label, and yet I didn’t like it, not at all. Hagen, on the other hand, found it to be excellent, so we argued about it, each of us trying to convince the other, and after one glass and then another we got a bit heated. The more I drank, the less I liked it; he kept on pushing the matter and we ended up fighting, I told him he was stubborn and stupid, and then Hagen broke the bottle over my head. You see here? I still have the scar. Even so, the blow didn’t hurt me; in fact it gave me a strange, very pleasant sensation that I had never felt before. I’ve tried many times to describe it, but I’ve never found the right words: it was a bit like stretching in bed just after you’ve woken up, but much stronger, more intense, as if concentrated all in one place.

  “I don’t know how the evening ended; the next day the wound was no longer bleeding. I put a Band-Aid on it, but when I touched it I felt that same sensation again, like a tickle, but believe me, it was so pleasant that I spent the day touching the Band-Aid whenever I could without anyone seeing. Then gradually everything returned to normal. I began to like alcohol again, the wound healed, I made peace with Hagen, and I didn’t think any more about it. But I thought about it again a few months later.”

  “What was this B/41?” Dessauer interrupted.

  “I already told you, it was a benzoyl derivative. But it contained a spiro nucleus.”

  Dessauer lifted his eyes in amazement. “A spiro nucleus? How do you know about such things?”

  Dybowski smiled a beleaguered smile.

  “Forty years,” he responded patiently, “I’ve worked in this place for forty years, and you think I’ve learned absolutely nothing? Working without learning isn’t very satisfying. And then, with all the talk that went on afterward. . . . It even made it into the newspapers, didn’t you read them?”