The Complete Works of Primo Levi

by Primo Levi

  “There are some that are intelligent and some stupid, some lazy and others quick-witted, and none of them, not even the cleverest, actually get that far. But this one, for example,” and she pointed at a juniper, “I’ve had my eye on for quite a while and I don’t trust him.” She told me that the juniper had moved at least a meter in four days. He had discovered a workable method: little by little he’d let all the roots on one side die while fortifying those on the other, and he wanted all the other trees to do the same. He was ambitious and patient. The power of all plants is their patience, but this fellow was also ambitious and one of the first to understand that a plant that moves can conquer a country and be free of humans.

  “They all want freedom, but they don’t know how to get it after so many years under our rule. Some trees, like olives, have been resigned to their fate for centuries, but they’re ashamed of it and you can see it by how they grow, all twisted and desperate. Others, like peaches and almonds, have surrendered and produce fruit but—and you’ve seen this, too—as soon as they get the opportunity they become wild again. There are others I don’t know about—it’s difficult to understand what chestnuts and oaks want. Perhaps they’re too old and too wooden and by now they don’t want anything else, which happens with the elderly. All they want is for winter to follow summer, and summer to follow winter.”

  A wild cherry then spoke. He didn’t, of course, speak perfect Italian—it was like having a conversation with the Dutch who come to the seaside in July and though you don’t understand every word, from gestures and intonations you end up understanding well enough what they want to say. That cherry spoke with the rustle of his leaves, which could be heard by pressing your ear against the trunk, and he said things that Clotilde disagreed with. He said flowers shouldn’t be produced, because they are an indulgence to man, and the same with fruit, which is a waste and an unearned gift. The trees should fight against man, and no longer purify the air for him, pull up their roots and leave, even if it meant risking death or becoming wild again. I also leaned my ear against the trunk, but all I caught was an indistinct murmur, though perhaps a bit more resonant than the sounds the other plants made.

  It was getting dark and there was no moon. The lights from the town and the beach gave us only a vague idea of the direction we should take to go back. We found ourselves badly entangled among the brambles and the crumbling terraces, and had to blindly jump down from one terrace to the next, trying to guess in the growing darkness whether we would land on rocks, or pine needles, or solid ground. An hour after we started down, both of us were tired, scratched, and worried. The lights below were as far away as before.

  Suddenly, we heard a dog barking. We stopped. It was coming toward us, galloping along one of the terraces. It could be a good thing or a bad thing. From the sound of it, the dog wasn’t very big, but he barked with anger and determination, until he was out of breath, and then we could hear him sucking in the air in short, convulsive gasps. He was soon only a few meters below us and it was clear that he wasn’t barking for the fun of it but out of duty: he wasn’t about to let anyone invade his territory. Clotilde begged his pardon for the intrusion and explained to him that we had lost our way and all we wanted was to get out of there. He was right to bark—it was his job—but if he could show us the path that led to his house, he would do even better because he wouldn’t waste any more of his time or ours. She spoke in a tone so calm and persuasive that the dog immediately quieted down. We caught a glimpse of him below us, a blurry patch of white and black. We continued on down a few steps and felt beneath our feet the hard elasticity of packed earth. The dog walked across to the right, yelping now and again, and stopping to see if we were following him. After a quarter of an hour, we were greeted by a tremulous chorus of bleating goats near the dog’s home. From there, despite the darkness, we easily found a well-marked path that led down to the village.

  1. Mario Rigoni Stern (1921–2008) was an Italian novelist and short story writer. He was interned in a Nazi prisoner-of-war camp and his experiences during the war were integrated into his fiction. Levi once wrote of him, “That Mario Rigoni Stern exists has something of the miraculous about it.”

  Written on the Forehead

  When Enrico arrived, at nine in the morning, seven others were already waiting. He sat down and selected the least crumpled magazine he could find from a pile on the table. Even so, it was one of those offensively useless and boring publications that are even more vapid, mercenary, and vulgar than the newsreels and which no reasonable person would consider reading—and which, inexplicably, tend to accumulate out of nowhere precisely in places where people are forced to wait. Produced under the auspices of an unknown Agency, the one he had picked up featured regional handicrafts, and on every page some undersecretary was cutting a ribbon. Enrico put down the magazine and looked around.

  Two of the others had big, gnarled hands and the aura of retirees. There was a tired-looking woman, modestly dressed, about fifty. The other four appeared to be students. A quarter of an hour passed, the door at the back opened, and a sophisticated young woman in a yellow smock asked: “Who’s first?”

  The young woman appeared again after only three or four minutes. Enrico turned to the person nearest, one of the students, and said: “Looks like this won’t take long.”

  The other responded morosely and with the air of an expert: “Don’t count on it.”

  How willingly, easily, and quickly one assumes the role of the old expert, even if only in a waiting room! But the expert of the moment had been right: before the third person was called a good half hour had expired, and in the meantime two more “newcomers” had arrived. Enrico considered himself to be unequivocally old and expert with respect to them, and they, furthermore, were looking around in the same disoriented manner as Enrico had half an hour earlier.

  The time passed slowly. Enrico felt the rhythm of his heart accelerate unpleasantly and his hands became cold and sweaty. He felt as if he were waiting for the dentist or to take an exam, and he decided that all waiting was disagreeable—who knows why—perhaps because happy events occur less frequently than sad ones. But even awaiting happy events is disagreeable, because it makes you anxious, and you never know for sure who’s going to turn up, what he’ll look like, and what you will be required to say; in any case, it’s still time that is not yours, time stolen from you by the unknown person on the other side of the wall. In short, there was no way to determine an average time for the interview. The young woman appeared at varying intervals from two minutes (for one of the retirees) to forty-five minutes (for one of the students who was very good-looking, with a blond beard and wire-rimmed glasses). When Enrico went in, it was almost eleven o’clock.

  He was led into a cold and pretentious office; abstract paintings and photographic portraits hung on the walls, but Enrico didn’t have time to examine them closely because an executive asked him to take a seat in front of the desk. He was a young man with a crew cut, tanned, tall, and athletic; a name tag on his lapel read “Carlo Rovati,” and inscribed on his forehead in neat blue block letters were the words “Vacation in Savoy.”

  “You answered our ad in the Corriere,” the young man informed him genially. “I don’t believe you know who we are, but you will know soon, whether we come to an agreement or not. We are aggressive, people who go right to the heart of the matter without standing on ceremony. In our ad we spoke of an easy job that was well paid; here I can add that the job is so easy that it can’t even be called work—it’s more of a service or a concession. As for the pay, you can decide for yourself.”

  Rovati paused a minute, scrutinizing Enrico in a professional manner, closing one eye and leaning his head first to the left, then to the right, and finally adding: “You’ll do very well. You have an open, positive face, not ugly and overall not too regular: a face that one doesn’t easily forget. We could offer . . .” and here he mentioned a figure that made Enrico jump out of his chair. It should be said that
Enrico, who was about to get married, earned very little, had saved little, and was one of those types who didn’t like to push the envelope.

  Rovati, meanwhile, continued: “As you’ll already have gathered, we are dealing with a new promotional technique” (and here, with elegant nonchalance, he indicated his forehead). “If you accept, you won’t be required to do anything as far as your behavior, your choices, or your opinions. I, for example, have never been to Savoy, on vacation or otherwise, nor do I imagine I’ll ever go. If people say things to you, respond as you like. You can even declare your slogan untrue or not respond at all. In other words, you sell or rent us your forehead, not your soul.”

  “I sell or rent it?”

  “It’s your choice: we offer you two types of contract. The figure I mentioned is for a three-year commitment. All you have to do is go to our graphics center, here on the ground floor, get your inscription, go to the cashier, and get your check. Or, if you prefer a shorter commitment, let’s say three months, the process is the same, but the ink is different: it disappears by itself, in around three months, leaving no trace. It goes without saying that the compensation is a good deal less if you choose this option.”

  “In the first case, however, the ink lasts for three years?”

  “No, not exactly. Our chemists haven’t yet been able to formulate a dermatological ink that will last a full three years, then disappear without fading beforehand. The three-year ink is indelible: at the end of the third year you come back here for a short visit and undergo an entirely painless and brief operation that will restore your face to the way it was previously. Unless, of course, you and our client agree to renew the contract.”

  Enrico was worried, not on his own account but with regard to Laura. Four million lire are four million lire, but what would Laura say?

  “You don’t have to decide right away, here and now,” Rovati interrupted, as if he had read Enrico’s mind. “Go home, think about it, consult whomever you want, then come back here and sign. But please do so before the week is out. You understand, we must complete our strategic planning.”

  Enrico felt relieved. He asked, “Can I choose the inscription?”

  “Within certain limits, yes. We will give you a list of five or six alternatives and you may choose. But, in any case, it’s a matter of a few words, accompanied by a logo.”

  “And . . . I’d like to know: would I be the first?”

  “You mean the second.” Rovati smiled, pointing to his own forehead. “But you wouldn’t even be the second. In this city alone we have agreements for . . . wait: here, eighty-eight contracts. So don’t be afraid, you won’t be alone, nor will you have to explain yourself too often. According to our predictions, within a year forehead advertising will become a feature in all urban centers, perhaps even a sign of originality and personal prestige, like having a badge from a club. Just think, this summer we signed twenty-two seasonal contracts in Cortina and fifteen in Courmayeur, in exchange merely for room and board for the month of August!”

  To Enrico’s great surprise, and consternation, Laura didn’t hesitate even for a second. She was a practical girl, and pointed out to him that with four million lire their housing problem would be taken care of; not only that, but the sum, instead of being four million, could become eight, or even ten, and would then resolve the question of furniture, telephone, refrigerator, washing machine, and the Fiat 850 as well. And why ten? It was obvious! She, too, would sign up; a young, charming couple, with complementary advertisements on their foreheads, was certainly worth more than the sum of two unmatching foreheads. Those people would easily recognize the value of it.

  Enrico did not display a great deal of enthusiasm: first, because the idea wasn’t his; second, because even if it had been, he would never have dared to propose it to Laura; third, because, well, three years is a long time, and it seemed to him that Laura inscribed, branded like a calf, and right on her clean, pure forehead, would not be the same Laura as before. Nevertheless, he let himself be convinced, and two days later they showed up together at the agency and asked for Rovati. There was some haggling, but not too fierce; Laura expounded upon her arguments with grace and conviction, Rovati evidently found her forehead all too pleasing, and the end result was nine million lire. As for what would be inscribed, there was not much of a choice: the only business that intended to advertise a product suitable for a bipartite presentation was a cosmetics company. Enrico and Laura signed the contract, picked up their check, were given a receipt, and headed down to the graphics center. A girl in a white coat painted a pungent-smelling liquid onto their foreheads, exposed them for a few minutes to a flashing blue light from a lamp, and stamped a stylized lily directly above their noses. On Laura’s forehead, she then inscribed in an elegant cursive, “Lilywhite, for Her,” and on Enrico’s forehead, “Lilybrown, for Him.”

  Two months later they were married, though those two months were rather difficult for Enrico. At the office, he had been obliged to make quite a few explanations, and could find nothing better to say than the plain truth—actually, almost the plain truth, because he didn’t mention Laura, and claimed the nine million was earned by his forehead alone. He chose to reveal the amount, because he was afraid of being criticized for having sold himself for too little. Some approved, others disapproved; he didn’t think he became any more popular, nor did he think anyone much noticed the scent emanating from his forehead. He struggled with two conflicting impulses: to blurt out the address of the agency to everyone so as not to be alone; or, instead, to keep it secret so as not to depreciate his value. His embarrassment increased a good deal some weeks later, when he saw Molinari, serious and intent as he always was, sitting at his drafting table, with the slogan “Healthy Teeth with Alnovol” blazed across his forehead.

  Laura had, or met with, fewer problems. At home, no one found anything to ridicule; in fact, her mother was quick to get herself over to the agency, but they sent her away telling her plainly that her forehead had too many wrinkles to be usable. Since Laura was no longer a student and didn’t yet work, she had few friends, so didn’t have much trouble falling out of touch for a while. She went around to the shops in order to complete her trousseau, and buy furniture, and she could feel that she was being stared at, but no one asked her any questions.

  They decided to go on their honeymoon by car, and take a tent, but they avoided organized campgrounds, and even after they came home they agreed to go out in public as little as possible: something not too difficult for two young newlyweds, and even less so since they had a house to set up. In any case, within a few months their discomfort was almost gone. The agency must have done a good job, or maybe other agencies had imitated them, because by then it was no longer rare to see on the street or on the tram individuals with inscriptions across their foreheads. For the most part they were young men or attractive girls, many of them obviously immigrants. In their same apartment block a young couple, the Massafras, had inscribed on their foreheads, in twin versions, an exhortation to enroll in a correspondence school for professionals. The two couples soon became friends, and got into the habit of going together to the cinema and out to dinner in a restaurant on Sunday night; a table was reserved for the four of them, always the same one, to the far right of the entrance. They soon realized that a table next to theirs was habitually frequented by other inscribed people, and, naturally, they began to engage in conversation and to exchange confidences regarding their respective contracts, their previous experiences, their relationship with the public, and their future plans. Even at the cinema, whenever possible, they chose the seats that were to the right of the entrance because they noticed that several others who were inscribed, men and women, preferred to sit in those seats.

  Toward November, Enrico calculated that one citizen in thirty had something inscribed on his forehead. For the most part, they were advertisements similar to theirs, but every once in a while they came across solicitations or declarations that were different. At th
e shopping center, they saw an elegant young woman who bore on her face “Johnson the Jerkoff”; on Via Larga a boy with a pug nose like a prizefighter’s announced “Order = Civilization”; behind the steering wheel of a Mini Morris stopped at a red light, a thirty-something man with sideburns bore “Empty Ballot!”; on the No. 20 tram two charming twins, barely adolescent, wore respectively on their foreheads, “Long Live Milan”1 and “Go Zilioli”;2 an entire class of teenagers coming out of a high school bore the slogan “Sullo So Home.”* One evening, in a dense fog, they encountered an indescribable character, dressed in a garish getup, who seemed drunk or drugged, and the light of the street lamp revealed the words “Internal Anguish.” It soon became very common to see children on the streets with insults, dirty words, “Long Live . . . ,” and “Down with . . .” scribbled across their foreheads in ballpoint pen.

  And so Enrico and Laura felt less alone. They even began to feel proud, because they considered themselves to be, in some measure, pioneers and progenitors. They also learned that offers from the agencies had plummeted. Among those who had been inscribed for some time, word had it that for a normal slogan, of a single line, lasting three years, they no longer offered more than 300,000 lire, and double that for a text up to thirty words with a company logo. In February, they received a complimentary copy of the first issue of The Foreheads’ Gazette. It wasn’t clear who had published it; three-quarters of the magazine was predictably crammed full of advertising, and the remaining quarter was suspicious. A restaurant, a campground, and various shops offered small discounts to the Foreheads; it was alleged that a Foreheads’ club existed in an alley on the outskirts of town; the Foreheads were invited to come to a church dedicated to St. Sebastian. Out of curiosity, Enrico and Laura went one Sunday morning: behind the altar there was a large plastic crucifix, and the letters “INRI” were inscribed on Christ’s forehead rather than on the scroll above his head.