by Primo Levi
He called upon all his forces, and got to work. He wrote for three years, without joy, but with diligence and tenacity. He portrayed himself as sometimes bold, sometimes cautious, as enterprising and as a dreamer, as witty and melancholy, magnanimous and shrewd; in short, he accumulated in his alter ego all the qualities that he didn’t know how to create in himself in his real life. He made a world more real than the real one, and he was at the center of that world, the subject of splendid adventures, often and intensely dreamed, never dared. Page after page, stone upon stone, he built around himself a harmonious and solid edifice, made up of journeys, loves, struggles, and discoveries—a full and varied life such as no man had ever lived. He polished, corrected, added, and sifted for another six months, until he felt profoundly satisfied, and sure of every page and every word.
Not two weeks had passed from the day he delivered the manuscript to the publisher, when two officials from the Park presented themselves at his door. They wore berets of an almost military style, and were dressed in elegant, simple gray uniforms. They were cordial but in a hurry. They gave Antonio only a few minutes to put his things in order, then took him away with them.
1. Pantagruel’s servant in Gargantua and Pantagruel, by François Rabelais (1494–1553).
2. Trimalchio is a character in Petronius’ Satyricon (late first century ad), Thersites is from the Iliad (eighth century bc), and the Unnamed is from The Betrothed (1842), by Alessandro Manzoni.
3. Bradamante and Ruggiero are from Tartarin de Tarascon (1872), by Alphonse Daudet; Paolo and Francesca are from Dante’s Inferno, and Ilia and Albert are from Ilia ed Alberto (1930), by Angelo Gatti.
4. Egidio is a character in Manzoni’s The Betrothed; Sandokan is the pirate protagonist of novels by Emilio Salgari (1862–1911). Hans Castorp and Madame Chauchat are characters in The Magic Mountain, by Thomas Mann; the Lady of the Camellias is from the novel of that name by Alexandre Dumas (1848); and Laura was the inspiration for the sonnets of Petrarch.
5. From the eponymous dialogue by Plato.
Our Fine Specifications
“I don’t see why you should feel humiliated,” Di Salvo said. “All of us in here began the same way. You could say it’s a tradition.”
“I’m not humiliated,” Renaudo responded. “I’m just fed up.”
“After only two weeks?”
“I was already fed up after three hours. But don’t worry, I’ll push on.”
“We’ll see. But how about me? I only stopped five months ago, right before the holidays. I’d reviewed five thousand of them—all the ones relating to ceramic materials, construction materials, molding powder, and even stationery. You can see for yourself, I’ve initialed them all. Yeah, it’s no joke, five thousand, averaging fifteen per working day, and I didn’t go crazy, or even have a nervous breakdown. Not to discourage you, but do you know what I’m doing now, six hours out of eight?”
“What?”
“I file production orders: true progress, don’t you think? All right, bye, good luck with your work. I’ll see you later in the cafeteria. I made sure there’s a place for you at my table.”
Renaudo got back to work. In front of him was a list of six-figure numbers, each one corresponding to a specification. Each specification dealt with one of the regularly supplied items, providing a brief definition, giving a concise explanation of its use, and describing its features; the method for measuring each feature was determined, as well as upper and lower limits of acceptability. Many of the numbers were ticked off in red because they had already been reviewed, and Renaudo was supposed to look only at the ones that hadn’t yet been marked. Of these, some were underlined: they dealt with new materials, for which a specification didn’t exist yet, and needed to be drawn up on the basis of the reports from the analysis laboratory and from the test room. Renaudo was young, and preferred the underlined numbers.
No. 366410. Castor, oil of, crude. Obtained from the pressing of et cetera. Used as lubricant in the UTE, UTG, AIM, SDD departments. 1.1., color: method such and such, maximum 12, minimum 4. Acidity. . . . There were no problems or inconsistencies, and Renaudo went on to the next. No. 366411. Ammonium chloride. No. 366412. Corrugated cardboard boxes. No. 366413. Double-glazed panes for windows. No. 366414. Brooms. His mysterious predecessor, Renaudo thought, must have been either a weirdo or a humorist: the definition for “broom” took up fourteen lines, and the description of its use as many again. There were stipulations for the maximum and minimum total weight, for the length and diameter of the handle, and for the amount of broomcorn; a minimum breaking load for the handle itself; an abrasion resistance test for the entire device, to be executed “on a model chosen at random out of a hundred in supply conditions.” Renaudo read it again, hesitated, then picked up the paper and knocked on the door of the Honorable Peirani.
Peirani was firm. “I wouldn’t remove a syllable. Are there errors? Has it been superseded by some new item? Is it internally contradictory, or perhaps the tests can’t be carried out? Has the article in question fallen into disuse? No? Then what do you want to change?”
“I only thought . . . that time is limited in the Testing Department, and to waste two hours verifying that a broom is a broom, and can sweep—”
“And if it can’t sweep? Or if it’s not even a broom, but some other item—let’s say a block and tackle, or a ballpoint pen, or a truckload of Solvay washing powder? You have no idea what glitches can arise from shipment errors. Besides, do you think it’s easy to abolish a specification? Thank God it’s not so simple. They contain too much substance, too much experience to be able to be so easily removed with the dash of a pen or on the initiative of a newcomer. My dear man, here inside we have a solid defense against such judgments—a specification can be repealed only by committee decision. And then I would like to know: what do you care how time is spent in this or that department? Indeed, it seems to me that it’s none of your business. You would be better off minding your own, instead.”
Contrite, Renaudo kept silent. Peirani continued in a more affable tone. “You see, I am aware, young man, that these things are difficult to understand at the beginning of your career. All young people like shortcuts. But a specification is a serious thing, fundamental, in fact. If you look around, you’ll see that the world today rests upon specifications, and continues along happily if these are rigorous, but stumbles if they are not, or if, indeed, they are nonexistent. Have you ever considered that the conspicuous divorce between technical and moral doctrines, and the equally conspicuous atrophy of the latter, can be attributed to the fact that the moral universe has, up until now, been devoid of valid definitions and tolerances? The day in which not only all objects but all concepts, Justice, Honesty, or even only Profit, or Engineer, or Magistrate, will have their own specifications, with relative tolerances and very clear methods and tools for testing them—well, that will be a great day. And, of course, there should be a specification for the specifications. I’ve been thinking about it for some time. But show me that paper again a moment.”
Renaudo held it out to him with a certain reluctance.
“You see? I thought I remembered: V.A.P., those are my initials, Vittorio Amedeo Peirani, October 6, 1934. I’m not at all embarrassed, you know? In fact, I’m proud of it: with this work of mine from thirty years ago I made a contribution, small but definitive, to the benefit of the company and therefore to the benefit of the world. A specification is a sacred deed, and effort and devotion are required to compile it, along with humility, which you lack; but, once compiled, and approved by the appropriate offices, like a cornerstone it must remain. Go and continue your work; reflect upon the things I have said to you, and you’ll see that I am right.”
• • •
“You do understand,” said Di Salvo, putting down his glass. “If you go and ask his opinion, you can’t expect any other result. He also must have spoken to you about the moral world, am I right?”
“Yes, of the golden age, when hon
esty, the engineer, and the accountant will all have their fine specification.”
“‘Our fine Decretals,’” Di Salvo said. “Haven’t you ever read Rabelais?”
“No, as you well know, I studied science in school.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? It’s relevant to everyone. Read it: it’s never too late. ‘And here, too, you may see our fine Decretals, written by the hand of an Angel Cherubim . . .’ and then further on: ‘. . . on paper, on parchment, in manuscript or in print . . .’ Sorry, I’m quoting from memory; it comes from Book IV, I think. Well, you’ll find it all in there: our fine Specifications, Peirani, his fossilized exuberance, me, and yourself. If you don’t have it, I mean the Rabelais, I’ll lend it to you; but buy it—believe me, it’s an indispensable manual for every modern man.”
Renaudo gave a start and rubbed his eyes; he immediately laughed at himself for rubbing them. Did he think that by doing so he could wipe out or alter the lines that were in front of him?
He had come to Specification 366478. Man. Just like that, simply: man. It included the customary introduction, a bit less concise than usual, with a definition of what it meant to be human. In an appendix, it was noted that the item in question was supplied by Human Resources, not by acquisition but by employment; nevertheless, since it regarded incoming material, the Standardization Department would most certainly be capable of determining its use and establishing the acceptance criteria. Renaudo skipped to the last page and wasn’t surprised to find the initials V.A.P. He returned to the beginning, and became immersed in reading it, but after a few minutes he couldn’t resist any longer and called Di Salvo on his internal telephone: “Come here right away. You’ve got to come see what I’ve found.”
Di Salvo leaned over his shoulder. “‘Dimensional tolerances’: that’s just how they would describe it. But this is incendiary stuff! And who knows how long it’s been buried in the archives.”
“‘2.1, dimensional tolerances,’” Renaudo read, “‘height, from 1500 to 2050 mm. . . . weight in a vacuum, from 48 to 140 kg.; . . . extra thicknesses . . .’ Who knows what those might be?”
“Well? Maybe it’s alluding to clothing. Give it here a second.” Without hesitation, Di Salvo grabbed the file out of Renaudo’s hands and, with the sensual joy of a gourmand, began to read it aloud.
“‘Minimum and maximum sections’ . . . I’m going to take this home, even if it costs me my job. Look, there are two schematic figures with reference points for the forehead, the chest, the pelvis, and the calves. Better yet, I’ll have a photocopy made. ‘3.2.04, bending and torsion tests—’”
Renaudo leaped up and tried in vain to snatch the papers back, but Di Salvo had no trouble holding on to them.
“. . . It’s a good thing there’s a note that stipulates: ‘Whenever possible, non-destructive acceptance tests are recommended.’ Whenever possible, do you understand? Let’s see, let’s see here: ‘5.1.05, resistance to heat and cold.’”
“I sure hope that test is also non-destructive.”
“Yes, it seems so. Here’s what it says: ‘Resistance to heat and to cold is determined by introducing the subject into a thermostat-controlled environment with natural ventilation and a volume of m³ 10±2, at the respective temperatures of 45°C and of −10°C, for a duration of four hours. Within 20' of extraction, repeat the general acceptability tests specified in 1.1.08.’ ”
“Human enough, after all. I expected worse.”
“Right, it’s not badly conceived. Under 1.1.08 are the medical examinations, along with a good number of psychological tests. And this one? ‘5.2.01, flame resistance’!”
“Stop exaggerating. That’s prescribed only for those who are involved in firefighting. Look here, it’s stipulated in a note.”
“This one, instead, is prescribed for everyone: ‘4.3.03, resistance test for ethyl alcohol.’”
“That’s fair, don’t you think? Can you believe I’m even beginning to respect this Honorable Peirani of yours?”
“I’m not going back to see Peirani,” Renaudo said, decisively.
“Naturally, prudence dictates that things should be left as they are. I, however, want to make myself a photocopy, even if it means risking getting fired for the crime of stealing office secrets. Then we’ll see.”
“Hold on a minute,” Renaudo said. “You go ahead and look at whatever you want, but I don’t want to be involved. Right now, I’m the one responsible for this bundle of paper and I don’t want any part of it.”
“Well done,” said Di Salvo. “Not bad for a recruit. You’ve quickly learned the First Rule of the game, the one that says get someone else to take the chestnuts out of the fire. But first, in my opinion, we should make sure there is actually a fire under the chestnuts. What I mean is: it should be determined whether or not this is only some harmless exercise by the old guy, or if the file is, in fact, on its way, or already downstairs.”
Renaudo looked at him uncertainly. “You mean, to the Testing Department?”
“Yes. Surely it hasn’t been approved yet, since neither you, nor I, nor the others, as far as we’re aware, have been subjected to a bending and torsion test. It would, however, be interesting to know at what point it was halted and why.”
With two prudent telephone calls, the circumstances were clarified: the specification, which had sailed swiftly out of Peirani’s office, had lain for several years in an archive in the basement, waiting to be reviewed by the Department Head.
“To me, it appears ridiculous and cowardly,” Renaudo said. “Either you do something or you don’t. If it was wrong, or stupid, or abominable, as it seems to me to be, they should have canceled or destroyed it, and not let it lie dormant.”
“It’s a typical case of the practical application of the aforementioned First Rule. Extremely understandable that no one wanted to take it on. Much better to shelve it, simpler and safer—in fact, this is actually the Second Rule. You see, a file is a strange bird. In some ways it’s like a seed, in others like a bison. It’s dangerous and useless to try to provoke it or to stand in front of it when it charges. It will run you over and continue on its way. But it can also be risky to fail to pay attention to it. When you don’t, it will often insinuate itself into some drawer, and give no sign of life for months or years. Then, when you least expect it, it sprouts roots and a stem, it grows, breaking through the ground above it, and in a week it has become a tropical tree with a trunk as hard as iron and laden with poisonous fruit. In other words, it can be violent or devious. Luckily for us, however, the institution of burying documents in the sand, or shelving them, exists, which works to counteract both the aspects that I have described to you. In fact, I invite you to observe the elegance and the propriety of the concept. It is an all-purpose defense: sandbags against the bison, a bed of sterile sand around the seed.”
“Thanks for the lesson. I’m sure to find it useful. But right now what should we do? Which rule should we apply, the first or the second, or yet another that you want to spell out for me? I already told you, I don’t want any trouble. They can go ahead and test the men coming in—they can even test them every ten years, just as they do with the steam boilers—but I don’t want to be involved. I have no idea what to do. I don’t dare destroy the file because then there will be a void. I could let it lie buried in the sand, but then it might crack through the earth, as you said earlier. If I initial it, it’s an endorsement, and I’ll be disgusted with myself because it’s an inhuman idiocy. If I don’t initial it, it’s negligence. . . .”
“I wouldn’t make such a tragedy out of it. Listen, leave it with me for a quarter of an hour—enough time to make a photocopy. Yes, I’ll do it personally; don’t worry, after the factory whistle, when everyone’s gone. No one has to know a thing about it, at least not for now.”
Renaudo liked to analyze his contemporaries: not reducing them to types but reflecting upon their similarities and differences as an amateur might, predicting their behavior, exami
ning the motives that instigated their words and actions. Now, Di Salvo was troubling him: he considered him to be sharp and flexible, but also exhausted, worn out, and a little tainted, with something bruised and battered inside, which had then been bandaged as well as possible to obscure the damage. In the face of Di Salvo, he was torn. Renaudo had a strong wish to become his close friend, but also a reticence that always made him shut his mouth at the last minute before confiding or confessing something that would have made them intimates yet would, at the same time, have delivered him naked into Di Salvo’s hands, like a fly into the clutches of a praying mantis.
The next morning, Di Salvo came into his office in a great mood and, with theatrical confidence, threw the file down onto his desk.
“Here it is. It would be better if you looked it over closely and carefully; but it seems to me that we are indeed out of it.”
“What do you mean, out of it?”
“I mean we’re within the tolerance limits. Granted, I don’t know you that well, but still I’ve heard you talk and you look like a healthy, strong guy. You’re not involved in politics (or at least not visibly, and that’s essential), I know that you play tennis, that Sunday you go to Mass and then to the stadium, that you have a girlfriend and a Fiat 500. In other words, you fit in, and have nothing to fear. Neither do I, actually. Of course, having read the thing is an advantage. All you have to do is think of the coat test, or the wallet test, here: resistance to temptation, 8.5.03—it’s child’s play, judge for yourself.”
“So, you would like to . . .”
“Let loose the bison, yes. It will be a sacred act of justice, and also a great party; something that’s never been seen before inside here. Quidquid latet apparebit, that’s how it goes, right?”