by Primo Levi
After the death of the Arab, Al-Ludra, although provided with a name, did not attract much interest, because the variable stars are so many, and also because, starting in 1750, it was reduced to a speck, barely visible with the best telescopes of the time. But in 1950 (and the message has only now reached us) the illness that must have been gnawing at it from within reached a crisis, and here, for the second time, our story, too, enters a crisis. Now it is no longer the adjectives that fail but the facts themselves. We still don’t know much about the convulsive death-resurrection of stars: we know that, fairly often, something flares up in the atomic mechanism of a star’s nucleus and then the star explodes, on a scale not of millions or billions of years but of hours and minutes; we know that these events are among the most cataclysmic that the sky today holds; but we understand only—and approximately—the how, not the why. We’ll be satisfied with the how.
The observer who, to his misfortune, found himself on October 19 of that year, at ten o’clock our time, on one of the silent planets of Al-Ludra would have seen, “before his very eyes,” as they say, his gentle sun swell, not a little but “a lot,” and would not have been present at the spectacle for long. Within a quarter of an hour he would have been forced to seek useless shelter against the intolerable heat—and this we can affirm independently of any hypothesis concerning the size and shape of this observer, provided he was constructed, like us, of molecules and atoms—and in half an hour his testimony, and that of all his fellow beings, would end. Therefore, to conclude this account, we must base it on other testimony, that of our earthly instruments, for which the event, in its intrinsic horror, happened in a “very” diluted form, besides being slowed down by the long journey through the realm of light that brought us the news. After an hour, the seas and ice (if there were any) of the no longer silent planet boiled up; after three hours, all its rocks melted, and its mountains crumbled into valleys in the form of lava. After ten hours, the entire planet was reduced to vapor, along with all the delicate and subtle works that the combined labor of chance and necessity, through innumerable trials and errors, had perhaps created there, and along with all the poets and wise men who had perhaps examined that sky, and wondered what was the value of so many little lights, and had found no answer. That was the answer.
After one of our days, the surface of the star had reached the orbit of its most distant planets, invading their sky and, together with the remains of its tranquility, spreading in all directions—a billowing wave of energy bearing the modulated news of the catastrophe.
Ramón Escojido was thirty-four and had two charming children. With his wife he had a complex and tense relationship: he was Peruvian and she was of Austrian origin, he solitary, modest, and lazy, she ambitious and eager for social life. But what social life can you dream of if you live in an observatory at an altitude of 2900 meters, an hour’s flight from the nearest city and four kilometers from an Indian village, dusty in summer and icy in winter? Judith loved and hated her husband, on alternate days, sometimes even in the same instant. She hated his wisdom and his collection of shells; she loved the father of her children and the man who was under the covers in the morning.
They reached a fragile accord on weekend outings. It was Friday evening, and they were getting ready with noisy delight for the next day’s excursion. Judith and the children were busy with the provisions; Ramón went up to the observatory to arrange the photographic plates for the night. In the morning he struggled to free himself from the children, who overwhelmed him with lighthearted questions: How far was the lake? Would it still be frozen? Had he remembered the rubber raft? He went into the darkroom to develop the plate, he dried it and placed it beside the identical plate that he had made seven days earlier. He examined both under the microscope: good, they were identical; he could leave in tranquility. But then he had a scruple and looked more carefully, and realized that there was something new: not a big thing, a barely perceptible spot, but it wasn’t there on the old plate. When these things happen, ninety-nine times out of a hundred it’s a speck of dust (one can never be too clean while working) or a microscopic defect in the emulsion; but there is also the minuscule probability that it’s a nova, and one has to make a report, subject to confirmation. Farewell, outing: he would have to retake the photograph the following two nights. What would he tell Judith and the children?
Gladiators
Nicola would happily have stayed home, and even in bed until ten, but Stefania wouldn’t hear of it. At eight, she was already on the phone: she reminded him that he had been making excuses for far too long. Sometimes it was the rain, sometimes it was the contestants, who were mediocre, sometimes he had to go to a meeting, and sometimes there were his silly humanitarian excuses. Noticing in his voice a shadow of reluctance, or, perhaps, only of a bad mood, she ended by telling him outright that promises are made to be kept. She was a girl with many virtues, but when she got an idea in her head there was no way around it. Nicola didn’t recall having made her an actual promise. He had said, vaguely, that yes, someday they would go to the stadium—all his colleagues went, and also (alas!) all her colleagues. Every Friday they filled in betting forms for the gladiator contest, and he had agreed with her that one shouldn’t set oneself apart, give oneself the airs of an intellectual; and then it was an experience, a curiosity that, once in your life, you needed to satisfy, otherwise you don’t know the world you’re living in. Yet now that it had come to the point, he realized that he had made all those speeches with some mental reservation—he had no desire to actually see the gladiators and never would. On the other hand, how to say no to Stefania? He would pay dearly, he knew, with insults, sulks, rebuffs. Maybe even worse—there was that fair-haired cousin of his . . .
• • •
He shaved, washed, dressed, went out. The streets were deserted, but there was already a line at the store on Via San Secondo. He hated lines, but he got on the end of it just the same. The advertisement was hanging on the wall, in the usual garish colors. There were six entrants; the names of the gladiators meant nothing to him, except that of Turi Lorusso. Not that he knew much about Lorusso’s technique; he knew that he was good, that he was paid an enormous sum, that he slept with a countess, and perhaps also with the relevant count, that he gave a lot to charity and paid no taxes. While Nicola waited his turn, he listened in on the conversations of his neighbors.
“If you ask me, after thirty years they shouldn’t allow it anymore . . .”
“Of course, the acceleration and the eye aren’t what they used to be, but, on the other hand, he has experience of the arena that . . .”
“But did you see him, in ’91, against that madman who drove the Mercedes? When he threw the hammer from twenty meters and hit him straight on? And remember the time they ejected him for . . . ?”
He bought two tickets for the grandstand: it wasn’t the moment to worry about cost. He went home and telephoned Stefania; he would pick her up at two.
By three, the stadium was full. The first entry was scheduled for three, but still at three thirty nothing had happened. Near them sat a white-haired old man with a deep tan. Nicola asked him if the delay was normal.
“They always make you wait. It’s incredible—they act like prima donnas. In my time it was different. Instead of foam-rubber bumpers there were beaks—no nonsense. It was hard to escape without injury. Only the top players managed it, the ones who were born with combat in their blood. You’re young, you don’t remember the champions who came out of Pinerolo’s stable and, even better, Alpignano’s. Now, can you believe it?, they’re all from reformatories or from the New Prisons, or even from the prison for the criminally insane; if they accept, their sentence is commuted. It’s laughable now, they have insurance, disability, paid holidays, and after fifty fights they even get a pension. Oh, yes, there are some who retire at forty.”
A murmur rose from the bleachers, and the first man entered. He was very young; he appeared confident but you could see he was af
raid. Immediately afterward a flame red Fiat 127 came into the ring; the three ritual honks of the horn sounded, and Nicola felt the nervous grip of Stefania’s hand on his biceps. The car aimed straight at the boy, who waited in a slight crouch, tense, legs wide, gripping the hammer convulsively in his fist. Suddenly the auto accelerated, its tractor wheels spewing two jets of sand in its wake. The boy dodged and struck a blow, but too late: the hammer just grazed the side, denting it slightly. The driver couldn’t have had much imagination; there were several more such charges, extremely monotonous, then the gong sounded and the round concluded with no decision.
The second gladiator (Nicola glanced at the program) was called Blitz, and he was stocky and smooth-skinned. There were several skirmishes with the Alfasud compact car that he had drawn as an adversary; the man was skillful enough and managed to keep wide of it for two or three minutes, then the car hit him, in first gear but hard, and he was thrown a dozen meters. His head was bleeding; the doctor came, declared him incapacitated, and the stretcher bearers carried him off amid the catcalls of the spectators. Nicola’s neighbor was outraged. He said that Blitz, whose real name, by the way, was Craveri, was an impostor, that he got himself injured on purpose, that he should change careers—in fact, the Federation should change careers for him, take away his license and put him back in the ranks of the unemployed.
In the case of the third, who was also up against an economy car, a Renault 4, he pointed out that these cars were more dangerous than the big heavy cars. “If it was up to me, I would make them all Morris Minis. They have acceleration, and they handle well. With those monsters of 1600 and up, nothing ever happens. They’re fine for newcomers—just smoke in their eyes.” At the third charge, the gladiator waited for the auto without moving: at the last instant he threw himself flat on the ground and the car drove over him without touching him. The spectators shouted with enthusiasm; many of the women threw flowers and purses into the arena, and even a shoe, but Nicola learned that that move, though it looked impressive, wasn’t really dangerous. It was called “the Rudolf,” because a gladiator named Rudolf had invented it; he had later become famous, had had a political career, and was now a big shot on the Olympic Committee.
Next, there was the usual comic interlude: a duel between two forklifts. They were the same model and color but one had a red stripe painted on it and the other a green stripe. Because they were so heavy, they were difficult to maneuver, sinking into the sand almost up to their hubs. In vain they tried to push each other back, with their forks entwined like battling stags; then the green stripe disentangled itself, backed up rapidly, and, making a tight turn, butted the side of red with its rear. Red yielded but quickly went into reverse and managed to lodge its fork under the belly of green. The fork rose, and green swayed and fell on one side, indecently exposing its differential and muffler. The audience laughed and applauded.
The fourth gladiator had to go against a banged-up Peugeot. The crowd immediately began to shout: “Rigged!” The driver even had the audacity to switch on his turn signal before swerving.
The fifth entry was a real spectacle. The gladiator was gutsy and obviously aiming not just at the windshield but at the head of the driver, and he missed by a hair. He dodged three charges, with precision and lazy grace, not even raising the hammer; at the fourth, he bounced up in front of the car like a spring, came down on the hood, and with two brutal hammer blows shattered the windshield. Nicola heard a brief, strangled cry that stood out from the roar of the crowd: it was Stefania, who was pressed tight against him. The driver seemed to be blinded. Instead of braking, he accelerated and hit the wooden barrier sideways; the car rebounded and came to rest on its side, trapping one of the gladiator’s feet in the sand. He was mad with rage and continued, through the empty frame of the windshield, to pound the head of the driver, who was trying to get out of the car by the door facing up. Finally he emerged, his face bleeding; he tore the hammer away from the gladiator, and began wringing his neck. The crowd yelled a word that Nicola couldn’t understand, but his neighbor calmly explained to him that they were asking the director of the competition to spare his life, which in fact was what happened.
A tow truck from the automobile club entered the arena, and in a flash the car was turned right side up and towed away. The driver and the gladiator shook hands amid the applause, and then walked toward the locker rooms waving, but after a few steps the gladiator staggered and fell. It wasn’t clear if he was dead or had only fainted. They loaded him, too, onto the tow truck.
As the great Lorusso entered the arena, Nicola realized that Stefania had turned very pale. He felt a vague rancor toward her, and he would have liked to stay longer, if only to make her pay—he couldn’t care less about Lorusso. On principle he would have preferred Stefania to ask him if they could leave, but he knew her, and knew that she would never stoop to that, so he told her that he had had enough, and they left. Stefania didn’t feel well, she felt like throwing up, but when he questioned her she said curtly that it was the sausage she had eaten at dinner. She refused to have a glass of bitters at the bar, refused to spend the evening with him, rebuffed every topic of conversation that he suggested. She really must be ill. Nicola took her home, and realized that he, too, had little appetite, and didn’t even feel like playing the usual game of pool with Renato. He drank two cognacs and went to bed.
The Beast in the Temple
Perhaps the tip I had given him the night before was excessive: we hadn’t yet had time to get a clear idea of the exchange rate or of the buying power of the local money. It was barely seven when Agustín knocked at the straw mats that served as the door to our room; we opened to him, because we instinctively trusted him. Among all the strangers who upon our arrival had crowded around us with bothersome offers or requests, Agustín stood out for his efficiency, his discretion, and the clarity, or rather the elegance, of the Spanish he spoke. He had come to make us a proposal: to leave the group, quietly and without drawing attention, and follow him, us and another couple, to the temple of the Trece Mártires, near Magaán. Had we never heard of it? He gave us a timid, quick smile; trust him, we would not regret the detour.
We consulted with the Torreses, young newlyweds from our city, and within a few minutes had decided to accept the proposal. Our other traveling companions were loud and vulgar; a morning of silence and relative solitude would do us good. Agustín explained to us that the temple was not very far: half an hour by taxi (the taxi drivers were all friends of his), ten minutes in a rowboat to reach the small island, almost in the middle of the lagoon of Gorontalo, then a half hour’s climb.
The lagoon was flat as a mirror, and covered by a thick layer of luminous fog that veiled the sun without diminishing the heat. The air was damp and heavy, permeated by swamp odors. We disembarked at a small wooden wharf, slick with algae, and followed Agustín up a steep, winding path. The hills around us were rocky and deserted, and pierced by caves; some of these were not far from the path, and had been barricaded by boards and bundles of sticks, perhaps to be used as stalls or sheep pens, but they seemed abandoned. The opposite slope of the valley was covered with vegetation, and no trace of a path could be seen; at intervals the thin, short bleat of a goat reached us.
The temple rose at the top of the hill, elusive as a mirage; it appeared vast and formless, and we had difficulty measuring the distance. We struggled to reach it, harassed by the insects and enervated by the utter lack of wind. It was a tall structure made of square blocks of pale stone; the shape was an irregular hexagon, the walls broken by a few small openings at different levels. These walls were not straight: some were noticeably concave, others convex, and the component blocks were only approximately aligned, as if the ancient builders had not known the use of plumb line and string. In the shadow of the walls, fearful of the sun, were some horses, motionless and dark with sweat, panting in the heat.
We entered the temple through a narrow aperture, which seemed to have been crudely chiseled out
of the rock, or breached as if with a battering ram; no real doors could be seen. While from the outside the structure appeared simply massive, the inside was, in contrast, highly articulated and serpentine: succeeding one another were courtyards large and small, terraces, hothouses, hanging gardens, dry fountains, and pools; these elements were connected (when they were connected) by wide or narrow flights of stairs, broad steps, steep spiral staircases. Everything was in a state of extreme abandonment. Many of the structures had collapsed, some a long time ago, to judge from the angle of the plants that had grown up everywhere among the ruins; soil had accumulated in all the cracks, and wild grasses and brambles with a penetrating odor had taken root, along with mosses and small fragile mushrooms. Certainly ten days would not have been enough to explore all the twists and turns of the building. Agustín insisted on leading us to the Passage of the Dead, and through this to the innermost courtyard, which he called the Courtyard of the Beast. The Passage of the Dead was a long strip of beaten earth, perhaps eighty meters by ten: strangely, not a blade of grass grew there. Agustín ordered us to proceed single file along the edge, without crossing a line of demarcation that was indicated by a row of small stakes. He pointed out a hundred or so sharp, rusty metal objects protruding from the ground, vertically or at oblique angles. Some stuck up a few inches, others were barely visible; and he told us that they were the tips of swords and lances. His country, he said, had been invaded often; some centuries before the arrival of the Europeans, a horde of horsemen had descended from the north, from where, exactly, no one knew. They were violent and cruel, but few in number. His forebears (“They were braver than we are,” he said, with one of his modest smiles) had tried in vain to drive them back to their ships, but they had barricaded themselves in the temple; from here they had controlled the land for some years, with sudden raids, fires, and massacres, and a disease they brought with them. The horsemen who died of disease or in battle were buried by their companions according to their barbaric custom—each one mounted on his horse, and with his weapon raised to challenge heaven.