The Complete Works of Primo Levi

by Primo Levi

  “There,” said Mrs. B., “I’d say that makes things clear enough. It’s the same individual at one month, one year, six, fourteen, eighteen, and thirty.”

  “Interesting,” S. admitted. “I imagine it’s the same for the women?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. B. responded. “Would you like to see a sequence?”

  “No, don’t bother. If it’s the same, it’s unnecessary. Instead, I would like to know what happens before and after. Do they continue to grow?”

  “To actually grow, no, but other changes occur, which are difficult to render in pictures. There’s a kind of physical decline . . .”

  At this point another mishap occurred: while Mrs. B. uttered the words “physical decline,” the image S. had in his hands was replaced by one of a middle-aged bald man, then by one of a pale, obese old man, and finally by one of a doddering geezer. Mrs. B. quickly put the photograph back in the briefcase and continued confidently, “. . . which is, however, compensated by a greater wisdom and life experience, and often by a supreme serenity. But it is the ‘before’ that is exceedingly interesting.”

  She turned to G. and asked: “Do we have any births with us?”

  “No, ma’am, you know we’re not allowed to show births and copulation.” He then turned to S. and went on, “Not that there’s anything illicit, but it’s a peculiar process, involving a unique technology, so striking that in a non-native such as you it might provoke a certain agitation, even perhaps only on a subconscious level. You’ll forgive me, but these are our instructions—”

  “But we can show him the couples brochure, right?” Mrs. B. interrupted enthusiastically.

  “Sure,” replied G. “It’s exciting, you’ll see. As you know, the male and female—in this case the man and woman—are highly complementary, and not only morphologically. The marital state, or, in any case, the life of the couple, is therefore the basic requirement for peace of mind. Have a look at this—the documentation is self-explanatory. See this couple . . . and this other one on the boat . . . and these two: those pink prisms in the background are the Dolomites, a beautiful place, I went there last year on vacation; but going there alone is dull. This Congolese couple is engaged to be married . . . aren’t they adorable? This is an old married couple—”

  The warm, slightly hoarse voice of Mrs. B. interrupted: “Believe me, by now we’ve had a great deal of experience, and we can guarantee you that the truly great earthly adventure is just this, finding yourself a partner of the opposite sex and living together with him or her, at least for a few years, but if possible for your whole life. Don’t miss this opportunity. And if you happen to be born female, don’t hesitate to become pregnant as soon as a reasonable opportunity presents itself. Breast-feeding, then (here it is, look), creates an emotional tie that’s so sweet and profound, so . . . how to put it? . . . so encompassing that it’s difficult to describe if you haven’t experienced it.”

  “And . . . you’ve experienced it?” S. asked, feeling in fact somewhat disturbed.

  “Of course. They will grant licenses to us officials only if we can demonstrate a complete earthly curriculum—”

  Mr. G. broke in: “There are, naturally, advantages to being born a man. Indeed, the advantages and disadvantages are so compensatory that the choices over time have always been distributed between the two sexes with singular equilibrium. You see this table, and this T for time, with T on the x axis? Fifty-fifty, disregarding decimals.”

  G. pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered them around; then he leaned against the back of his chair and said: “What would you say to a little break?”

  He must have been suffering terribly, however, from an irresistible need for activity, since instead of relaxing he started rummaging through his briefcase and soon dug out some objects that he placed on the table in front of S. “This is not part of the service: it’s my own private initiative, a collection that I’m in the habit of carrying with me. These objects, it seems to me, say a lot. They can help you get an idea of what you’ll encounter. This, for example, is a ballpoint pen. It costs only fifty lire, and it can write a hundred thousand words without any trouble or mess. These are nylon stockings—see how light they are! They can be worn for years and washed in a minute. This . . . no, it’s not an artifact, it’s a skull: see how thin and strong it is? I don’t carry any other anatomical specimens with me because they’re rather perishable. But look at this, it’s a plastic mitral valve—yes, a heart valve. A gem, right? And really very reassuring. And this is a detergent—you can do the laundry with it in no time—”

  “Forgive me for interrupting,” S. said, “but would you show me again briefly one of those last . . . yes, that one of the Congolese engaged couple, and these others. . . . Am I right that they don’t all have the same skin color? I thought humans were all the same.”

  Mr. R., who had until that moment remained silent, answered: “Basically, they are. It’s a matter of negligible differences without any biological significance. We didn’t bring with us any examples of mixed couples, but there are plenty, and they are as productive as the others, if not more so. It’s really only a question of . . . skin, actually, of pigmentation. Black skin better protects tissues from the sun’s ultraviolet rays, and is therefore more suitable for individuals who live in the tropics. There are also, here and there, some with skin of a yellowish color.”

  “Ah, I understand. So there are varieties, but they’re interchangeable, right? Like two bolts with the same thread?”

  R. and Mrs. B. turned toward G. hesitantly. G., somewhat less cheerfully than before, said: “It’s not our custom to paint everything rosy, nor is it our job. So, no, everything doesn’t always go smoothly. There have been some issues and there still are. It’s not a terribly serious matter. Mostly, each race lives separately, or whites and blacks interbreed and the problem ceases to exist. But, yes, there are cases of tension, with some broken glass, maybe even some broken bones. Ultimately, not everything on Earth is programmed; a margin of freedom (and therefore of unpredictability) exists. There are a few wrinkles, we don’t deny it. All considered, I would say that today it’s perhaps better to be born white, but it’s a temporary issue. I believe that in a century or two no one will even mention it.”

  “But as you well know, it’s now that I’m supposed to be born, right?”

  G. was about to respond, but R. cut in: “Certainly. Tomorrow, even, if it’s all right with you—in the time needed to prepare the papers. We’re not bureaucrats. We like to get things done fast.”

  “No, I’d like to think about it a while. I’m not too convinced. I don’t like this business about being born different—it can only bring trouble.”

  R. responded a little stiffly: “I understand what you mean. But, first of all, there aren’t many black people, so the possibility of being born black is small; then, not every black person is born into one of the high-tension zones, making this group a minority of a minority. Finally, without risk, there’s no reward, and here the risk is very small.”

  S. seemed to be particularly sensitive about the subject, or perhaps someone had informed him about it previously. Politely, but firmly, he expressed a desire to see more, perhaps some images of typical situations.

  “Gladly,” said G. “Here’s everything, the beautiful and the not so beautiful. We wouldn’t be honest if our documentation weren’t complete, don’t you think? Look here: this is a peaceful demonstration . . . ; this is an experimental integrated school . . . ; this is the crew of a merchant ship, you see? They work together. . . .”

  While G. was speaking, S. moved cagily toward the briefcase; suddenly, surprising the three officials, he grabbed hold of a photograph showing a conflict between blacks and the police. In the foreground a policeman was pointing a gun. He asked: “And this? What does this show?”

  Mildly irritated, G. responded: “Listen, you really shouldn’t behave like this. We’re only doing our job, and you should let us do it the way we
think best. We value equally objectivity and success, but you must try to understand that we also keep private things in there, documents that serve an entirely different purpose. Therefore, I’m sorry, but the choice of what we show you is ours. . . . Fine, since you’ve seen it, yes, it’s a street scuffle. It happens sometimes. I told you that we’re not here to plant illusions. These things occur for territorial reasons or to establish who’s boss or out of pure aggression, as they do throughout the animal kingdom. It happens less and less, this . . .”

  Briefly, the image in S.’s hand was transformed into another, showing a scaffold, a gallows, a hooded man, and a black man hanging from a gallows.

  “. . . this, for example, hasn’t been seen for quite a while, but, yes, it happens.”

  S., carefully scrutinizing the image, pointed to a detail and asked: “And this, what is it?”

  “It’s a gun, that’s what it is,” G. responded moodily. “Look, he’s shooting it. Are you happy now?”

  Still in S.’s hands, the image became animated for an instant—the policeman fired and the black man fled staggering out of the frame—then everything stopped again.

  “What happened to him?” S. asked anxiously.

  “To whom?”

  “To the guy who was here before. The one who was shot, the black man.”

  “Good lord! How would I know? I don’t know them all by heart. In any case, you saw, he left the frame.”

  “But is he . . . is he dead?”

  Embarrassed and frowning, G. pulled the image out of S.’s hands and put it away without responding. R. spoke instead: “You shouldn’t be swayed by a single case, which, moreover, you learned about in a most irregular manner. The episode you saw is something marginal. These things don’t occur every day or it would be a real mess. You must admit that, in order to make a decision, it’s much more useful to focus on general, typical situations. A moment, please.”

  He looked in the briefcase and then showed S. three images. In the first, against the backdrop of a serene evening sky, a group of young peasant women could be seen singing as they returned home along a path. In the second, a procession of skiers descended a steep slope in the moonlight, each of them holding a lighted torch. The third showed a large room in a library where an array of young people were absorbed in their studies. S. stopped to examine it carefully.

  “Just a minute. Let me look at this one a little longer. This one is interesting, almost like here. They’re studying, right?”

  “Yes, it would seem so,” G. responded.

  “What are they studying?”

  “I don’t know, but we can find out. Hold on.”

  One by one various students were centered in the frame and then enlarged, so that the books they had before them could be identified. Although it was redundant, G. commented:

  “This guy, for example, is studying architecture. This girl is preparing for an exam in theoretical physics. This one . . . wait, let’s look a little closer: it’s not too clear . . . you know, without illustrations it’s more difficult. Right—he’s studying philosophy, that is, the history of philosophy.”

  “Ah. And what happens to him after?”

  “After what?

  “After he’s finished his studies, or does he study for his whole life?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that, either. I told you, it’s already an accomplishment if we remember all the images that we bring with us. How can you expect that, at the drop of a hat, we can tell you the why and the wherefore, the before and the after, the causes and effects of everything on our list?”

  S. revealed himself for what he was—a well-mannered but stubborn youth. He politely insisted: “Why don’t you make him move? As you did before?”

  “If it will make you happy, we can try,” responded G.

  In the frame the image dissolved into a swarm of little colored dots and lines that soon coagulated into a new shape: the ex-student was sitting behind the counter at a post office. “One year later,” said G. Another brief swarm followed, and G. said, “Two years later,” and the same image could be seen, from a slightly different angle. After ten years, the ex-student wore eyeglasses, but the scene essentially hadn’t changed. After thirty years, it still showed the post office, and the ex-student had white hair.

  “You can see the guy had little initiative,” G. commented. “But, and I say this as a friend, you’re a bit too suspicious. God help us if everyone were like you!” Perhaps he was joking, however, because his tone of voice expressed more admiration than reproach.

  “But you must understand,” S. replied, “it’s up to me to choose and I want to be sure. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d like to see what happened to another . . . here, this one.” Again he had picked up the photograph of the library, and pointed to another reader.

  “Let’s see,” G. said.

  “Here he is after two years.” The reader was sitting in a comfortable armchair under a lamp, reading.

  “Here he is after four years . . . no, sorry, after five.” The reader, hardly changed, was sitting at a table across from a young woman; between the two sat a baby in a high chair holding a spoon. “A nice family, right?” G. observed with satisfaction.

  “Here he is after seven years,” he announced. As if G. had lost control of the mechanism, various scenes appeared in the frame in rapid succession:

  –The reader, in military uniform, saying goodbye to his wife, who is crying.

  –The reader boarding a military airplane.

  –A circle of parachutists jumping from the plane.

  –The reader, with his submachine gun pointing downward, landing on the ground.

  –The reader, having landed in a dark field, waiting in ambush behind a rock.

  –The reader shot, a black stain expanding beneath him.

  –A crude wooden cross on a mound of earth.

  “This . . . this is war, right?” S. asked, after a moment of silence.

  G., very embarrassed, was quiet.

  R. responded: “Yes, we know, it’s talked about a lot, but I would like to caution you against certain assumptions. First of all, keep in mind that it hasn’t been proved that war is inherent to the human species, that it’s written into the destiny of all countries, eras, and individuals. Recently, we have been experimenting with a well-thought-out peace plan based on balancing fears and potentially aggressive behaviors. And, well, it’s been working now for twenty-five years in a generally satisfactory manner, as we’ve had only half a dozen small, peripheral wars. The like of it hasn’t been seen for many centuries: the images you saw by now have only a . . . let’s say, retrospective value, and a second golden age may already have begun, silently, stealthily. And then I would like to remind you that war isn’t always a bad thing—that is, a bad thing for everyone. We have learned about various of our clients who survived the last conflict not only in good health and without injury but having made quite a lot of money . . .”

  At this point G. cleared his throat, as if he wanted to interrupt, but R. didn’t notice and continued: “. . . Others became famous and esteemed, and still others, in fact the majority of humanity, weren’t even aware of it.”

  “Well, now,” G. interjected, “there’s no need to overdramatize. If you think about it a minute, what are fifty million deaths in a population of three billion? Life, you understand, is a unique fabric, even if it has two sides; it has clear days and dark days, it’s a web of victories and defeats, but it pays for itself, which is an inestimable good. I know that you people up here have the tendency to frame all your questions on a cosmic scale. But once on Earth you are individuals with only one mind, different from everyone else’s, and only one skin. You will find a great disparity between what is inside your skin and what is outside of it. You see, I have no arguments that will show which of the two—the non-born or the born—is right, but one thing I can confirm through direct experience: he who has tasted the fruits of life can no longer do without them. Those who are
born, all of them, with very few exceptions, hold on to life with a tenacity that astonishes even us, the propagandists, and is the best praise of life itself. They cling to it as long as they have breath in their body. It’s a unique spectacle. Look.”

  He showed S. an image of a ragged, wounded miner, who was using his pick to dig his way out of a collapsed tunnel. “This man was alone, wounded, hungry, cut off from the world, immersed in shadow. It would have been easy for him to die. It would have been simply a matter of crossing over from one darkness to another. He didn’t even know in what direction help lay, but he dug at random, for twelve days, until he saw the light once more. And this other one, what do you see here? It’s a renowned case, sure, but how many others, young or old, male or female, wouldn’t have done as he did if they’d had the technical capability? His name was Robinson Crusoe: he lived alone for twenty-eight years without ever losing hope or his joy in life; then he was saved, and, being a sailor, went back to sea. This one here is a less dramatic case, but much more common.”

  The image was subdivided into four frames. One could see, respectively, a man in a dusty, dim office surrounded by stacks of identical forms; the same man sitting at a table, a newspaper leaning against a bottle, while in the background his wife was on the phone with her back to him; the man standing in front of the door to his house, heading to work on foot, while his son was leaving on a motorbike with a provocative-looking girl; the same man at night, alone and with a bored expression in front of the television. Unlike the others, these figures were static: they didn’t even quiver.

  “The man you see,” G. continued, “is forty years old here. His job is a stagnant pool of boredom; his wife disdains him, and probably loves someone else. His kids are grown and look at him without seeing him. Still he endures and, like a rock, will persist for a long time to come. Every day he’ll wait for the next, every day he’ll hear a voice that promises him the next day will bring something wonderful, grand, and new. Here, take them,” he added, turning to R., “put these back, please.”