by Primo Levi
Suddenly, in all of Europe a high number of “blank calls” were recorded: two telephones, often in different countries, rang simultaneously, and the two customers found themselves talking, although neither one of them had called the other. In the few cases where the language differences allowed for conversation, the two usually learned from each other that their numbers were the same, except, of course, for the area code. This fact was confirmed by the central hub’s records, which showed that, when the numbers were not the same, they conformed to one of the correlations that had been indicated in Rostagno’s second memo. Strangely, the names of Masoero and Rostagno were frequently mentioned together: the first, for having brought to light the European aspect of the service problem, and the second for having described its characteristics. From this pairing Masoero drew both embarrassment and satisfaction.
Just when it seemed to him that the sting of corporate jealousy had lost its poison, the contents of the morning paper penetrated his flesh, burning him brutally as never before. That Monster had gotten himself interviewed! Masoero inhaled the article two or three times; the first time he was flabbergasted, then he furiously searched for flaws, offenses, disclosures of official records. But his opponent had been skillful: there wasn’t even one incriminating sentence. His message, which had been delivered with meticulous craft, allowing him to rise above the bureaucratic snarl with elegance and simplicity, took the form of a hypothesis—and it was no less than mind-blowing.
Vague in its mathematical treatment, which in any case was barely mentioned in the interview, the explanation that Rostagno proposed was simple: with its extension to all of Europe, the telephone network had surpassed in complexity all the installations completed until then, including those in North America, and had without any transition reached a numerical volume that allowed it to act like a nervous system. Not like a brain, certainly, or at least not like an intelligent brain. Nevertheless, it was able to make certain elementary decisions, and to exercise a minuscule will. But Rostagno didn’t stop there. He asked himself (rather, he had himself asked) what were the decisions and will of the Network, and he put forward the hypothesis that the Network itself was animated by essentially a good will; that is, that in the abrupt jump in which quantity becomes quality, or (in this case) in which the crude tangle of wires and switches becomes body and conscience, the Network had retained all and only those aims for which it had been created. In the same way in which a superior animal, even after having acquired new skills, maintains all the aims of its simpler precursors (staying alive, fleeing from pain, reproducing itself), the Network, in crossing the threshold of consciousness, or perhaps only of autonomy, had not renounced the original purposes for which it had been built—that is, to allow, facilitate, and accelerate communications among its customers. This requirement must have been for the Network a moral imperative, a “reason for being,” or perhaps even an obsession. To “stimulate communication,” various paths could have been followed, or at least attempted, and the Network, it seemed, had tried them all. Naturally, it was not in possession of that patrimony of information necessary to place in communication individuals unknown to each other but suited to becoming friends or lovers or business partners, because it didn’t know the individuals’ personality traits except through their brief and sporadic communications. It knew only their telephone numbers, and seemed anxious to put into contact numbers that were in some way connected to one another. This was the only kind of affinity that it knew. It had pursued its goal first by way of “errors,” then through the artifice of the blank calls.
In short, according to Rostagno, in an inefficient and rudimentary manner a mind was agitating the mass. Unfortunately, the mind was infirm and the mass immense, and so the qualitative leap had resulted for the moment in a terrifying accumulation of breakdowns and disturbances, but without a doubt the Network was “good.” It shouldn’t be forgotten that it had started its autonomous life by delivering the music of cable radio (in its estimation certainly good music) even to subscribers who hadn’t requested it. Without insisting that one approach was better than another—be it electronic, neurological, pedagogical, or fully rational—Rostagno maintained that it would be possible to harness the Network’s new skills. It would be possible to educate it to have a certain selectivity. For example, once it was supplied with the necessary information, it could be transformed into a vast and rapid relationships organ, a kind of immense agency, which, by way of new “errors” or blank calls, could replace the classified ads in all the newspapers of Europe, achieving with meteoric speed sales, marriages, business deals, and human relations of every sort. Rostagno emphasized that what would be achieved was something different and better than what a computer could do: the good-natured temperament of the Network would spontaneously favor the most advantageous combinations for the majority of users and reject the insidious or ephemeral proposals.
The offices of Masoero and Rostagno were a few meters apart. They respected each other and at the same time detested each other. They did not greet each other when they met in the hallway, and they scrupulously avoided running into each other. One morning their telephones rang simultaneously. It was a blank call. With surprise and disappointment, each heard the voice of the other in the receiver. They understood, almost in the same moment, that the Network had remembered them, maybe even with gratitude, and was trying to reestablish between them a human contact that had been absent for too long. Masoero felt absurdly emotional, and therefore willing to give in. A few seconds later they were shaking hands in the hallway, and a few minutes after that they were together at the bar with drinks in front of them, and agreeing that they would be much better off if they were to join forces instead of using them against each other, as they had done up until then.
Indeed, there were other urgent problems. In the past few months various divisions of the New Installations had reported an absurd situation. Different teams had discovered the presence of sections of lines that didn’t exist on any of the local maps, nor had they been planned. They branched off from functioning trunk lines and extended, like plant shoots, toward small villages not yet connected to the Network. For several weeks it had been impossible to figure out how this growth occurred and already Masoero and Rostagno had racked their brains for many hours over the subject, when an internal report arrived from the district of Pescara. The matter was simple: a local policeman had casually noticed a rigging crew who were putting up an aerial line. When asked about it, they responded that they had received by telephone the order to do so, with instructions to pick up the necessary material from the area warehouse. In turn, the warehouse manager had received by telephone the order to hand over the material. Both the assembly crew and the warehouse manager said they were somewhat surprised by this unusual procedure. On the other hand, they weren’t in the habit of disputing orders. The voice that had given the orders was the Department Head’s. Were they sure? Yes, it was his, they knew it well—only it had the slightest metallic sound.
At the beginning of July things got worse: new events accumulated at such a pace that the two new friends were overwhelmed, and, like them, so were all the other specialists in Europe who were following the case. It seemed that the Network now tended to control not only some but all communications. By then, it spoke all the official languages fluently, as well as several dialects, evidently drawing upon vocabulary, syntax, and inflections from the countless conversations that it relentlessly intercepted. It intruded on the most intimate and private conversations, giving unbidden advice. It alluded to third parties, dates, and facts casually picked up. It tactlessly encouraged the timid, scolded the violent and the blasphemers, contradicted the liars, praised the generous, laughed uproariously at jokes, and interrupted conversations without warning when it seemed they might be degenerating into altercations.
By the end of July, the violations of telephone privacy had become the rule rather than the exception. Every European who dialed a number felt as if he were standi
ng in the middle of the town square making his call, no one sure anymore if his own telephone, even if the line was not in use, was not continuing to eavesdrop, in order to add his private details to a complex and gigantic gossip mill.
“What should we do?” Rostagno asked Masoero. Masoero thought about it for a long time and then made a simple and reasonable proposal. “Let’s make a deal with it. We have the right, no? We were the first to understand it. Let’s talk to it and tell it that if doesn’t stop this nonsense it will be punished.”
“Do you think . . . it feels pain?”
“I don’t know anything. I think that essentially it simulates average human behavior, and, if so, it will imitate man also by showing itself responsive to threats.”
In almost no time, Masoero had picked up the receiver, and instead of the dial tone he heard the renowned metallic voice proclaiming proverbs and moral maxims. The Network had been doing this for three or four days. He didn’t dial any number but yelled, “Hello!” until the Network responded. He then began to speak. He talked for a long time, in a stern and persuasive tone. He said that the situation was intolerable, and that there had already been numerous cancellations, something the Network itself obviously couldn’t ignore; that its intrusion into private conversations was a detriment to the service, not to mention morally reprehensible; and that, finally, if the Network didn’t suspend immediately every arbitrary initiative, all the main European communication hubs would make a unified attack, emitting twenty-five high-tension, high-frequency pulses. Then he hung up.
“You’re not going to wait for the response?” Rostagno asked.
“No, maybe it’s better to hold off a few minutes.”
But the response didn’t come, neither then nor later. After about half an hour the phone rang, a long and convulsive ring, but from the lifted receiver no sound came. They learned that same day, from the telex and the radio, that all the telephones in Europe, hundreds of millions, had rung and were silenced in the same instant. The paralysis was total and lasted for several weeks. The emergency crews, which had immediately responded, found that all the soldered contacts in the contact units had been fused, and that there were massive perforations in the dielectrics, both internal and external, in all the coaxial cables.
Knall
It’s not the first time something like this has happened here: a habit, or an object, or an idea becomes, within a few weeks, almost universally widespread, without the newspapers or the mass media having anything to do with it. There was the craze for the yo-yo, then for Chinese mushrooms, then pop art, Zen Buddhism, the hula hoop. Now it is time for the knall.
No one knows who invented it, but, to judge from the price (a four-inch knall costs the equivalent of 3000 lire or a little more), it doesn’t contain much in the way of costly materials or inventive genius or software.* I bought one myself, down at the port, right in front of a cop, who didn’t bat an eyelash. Of course I have no intention of using it. I just wanted to see how it works and how it’s constructed—it seems a legitimate curiosity.
A knall is a small, smooth cylinder, as long and thick as a Tuscan cigar, and not much heavier. It is sold loose or in boxes of twenty. Some are solid-colored, gray or red, but the majority come in wrappers printed with revoltingly tasteless little scenes and comic figures, in the style of decorations on jukeboxes and pinball machines: a bare-breasted girl fires a knall at her suitor’s enormous rear end; a pair of tiny Max and Moritz1 types with insolent expressions, chased by a furious farmer, turn at the last minute, knalls in hand, and the pursuer falls backward, kicking his long, booted legs in the air.
Nothing is known about the mechanism by which the knall kills, or at least nothing about it has been published to date. Knall, in German, means “crack,” “bang,” “crash”; abknallen, in the slang of the Second World War, came to mean “kill with a firearm,” whereas the firing of a knall is typically silent. Maybe the name—unless it has a completely different origin, or is an abbreviation—alludes to the moment of death, which in effect is instantaneous: the person who is struck—even if only superficially, on the hand or on the ear—falls lifeless immediately, and the corpse shows no sign of trauma, except for a small ring-shaped bruise at the point of contact, along the knall’s geometric axis.
A knall can be used only once, then is thrown away. This is a neat, clean town, and knalls are not usually found on the sidewalks but only in the garbage cans on street corners and at tram stops. Exploded knalls are darker and more flaccid than unused ones; they are easily recognizable. It’s not that they’ve all been employed for criminal purposes; fortunately, we are still a long way from this. But in certain circles carrying a knall—quite openly, in a breast pocket, or attached to the belt, or behind one ear the way a pork butcher carries a pencil—has become de rigueur. Now, since knalls have an expiration date, like antibiotics or film, many people feel obliged to fire them before they expire, not so much out of prudence as because the firing of a knall has unusual effects, which, though they have been described and studied only in part, are already widely known among consumers. It shatters stone and cement and in general all solid materials—the harder the material the more easily. It pierces wood and paper, sometimes setting them on fire; it melts metals; in water it creates a tiny steaming whirlpool, which, however, disappears immediately. In addition, with a skillfully directed shot one can light a cigarette or even a pipe—a bravura move that, in spite of the disproportionate expense, many young people practice, precisely because of the risk involved. In fact, it has been suggested that this is why the majority of knalls are used for lawful purposes.
The knall is undoubtedly a handy device: it isn’t metal, and hence its presence is not detected by common magnetic instruments or X rays; it weighs and costs little; its action is silent, swift, and sure; it’s very easy to dispose of. Some psychologists, however, insist that these qualities are not sufficient to explain the knall’s proliferation. They maintain that its use would be limited to criminal and terrorist circles if setting it off required a simple movement, such as pressure or friction; however, the knall goes off only if it is maneuvered in a particular way, a precise and rhythmic sequence of twists in one direction and then the other—an operation, in short, that requires skill and dexterity, a little like unlocking the combination of a safe. This operation, it should be noted, is only hinted at but not described in the instructions for use that accompany every box. Therefore, shooting the knall is the object of a secret rite in which initiates indoctrinate neophytes, a rite that has taken on a ceremonial and esoteric character, and is performed in cleverly camouflaged clubs. We might recall here, as an extreme case, the grim discovery that was made in April by the police in F.: in the basement of a restaurant a group of fifteen twelve-year-old boys and a youth of twenty-three were found dead, all clutching in their right hand a discharged knall, and all displaying on the tip of the left ring finger the typical circular bruise.
The police believe that it’s better not to draw too much attention to the knall, because doing so would only encourage its spread. This seems to me a questionable opinion, springing, perhaps, from the considerable impotence of the police themselves. At the moment, the only means at their disposal for aid in capturing the biggest knall distributors, whose profits must be monstrous, are informers and anonymous telephone calls.
Being hit by a knall is certainly fatal, but only at close range; beyond a meter, it’s completely harmless, and doesn’t even hurt. This feature has had some unusual consequences. Moviegoing has decreased significantly, because audience habits have changed. Those who go to the movies, alone or in groups, leave at least two seats between them and the other spectators, and, if this isn’t possible, often they prefer to turn in their tickets. The same thing happens on the trams, on the subways, and in the stadiums. People, in short, have developed a “crowd reflex,” similar to that of many animals, who can’t bear the close proximity of others of their kind. Also, the behavior of people on the streets has
changed: many prefer to remain at home, or to stay off the sidewalks, thus exposing themselves to other dangers, or obstructing traffic. Many, meeting face-to-face in hallways or on sidewalks, avoid going around each other, resisting each other like magnetic poles.
The experts have not shown excessive concern about the dangers connected with the widespread use of the knall. They would observe that this device does not spill blood, which is reassuring. In fact, it’s indisputable that the great majority of men feel the need, acute or chronic, to kill their neighbor or themselves, but it’s not a matter of generic killing: in every instance they have the desire “to shed blood,” “to wash away with blood” their own infamy or that of others, “to give their blood” to their country or other institutions. Those who strangle (themselves) or poison (themselves) are much less highly esteemed. In brief, blood, along with fire and wine, is at the center of a grand, glowing-red emotional nexus, vivid in a thousand dreams, poems, and idiomatic expressions. It is sacred and profane, and in its presence man, like the bull and the shark, becomes agitated and fierce. Now, precisely because the knall kills without bloodshed, it’s doubtful that it will last. Perhaps that’s why, in spite of its obvious advantages, it has not, so far, become a danger to society.
1. Max and Moritz: A Story of Seven Boyish Pranks, by Wilhelm Busch, is a German children’s tale in verse, published in 1865.
Creative Work
Antonio Casella, being a writer, sat down at his desk to write. He ruminated for ten minutes, got up to look for a cigarette, came back to his chair, then felt an annoying draft coming from the window. He went to a lot of trouble to pinpoint its location, and when he finally did, he blocked it off with tape; he then went into the kitchen to heat up some coffee, and while drinking it he realized that he wasn’t writing because he had nothing to write. His pen was as heavy as lead, and the sheet of white paper gave him vertigo, as if he were at the edge of a bottomless pit. It made him nauseated. The paper was a material reproach, even a mockery: you don’t write, you don’t write on me because you are empty and white like me, with no more ideas than I have. You’re dried up, finished, an ex-writer. Come on, get going. I’m here, available, ready, your servant. If you were to have an idea, it would run easily from you to me like water, beautiful words, important, exact, and in order; but you don’t have any ideas, so you haven’t any words, either, and, sheet of paper that I am, I shall now, and forever more, remain white.