A voice from behind caused him to start. Officer, the prisoner wants to see you.
4
The guard was a lanky fellow with a pimpled face and long arms sticking out below sleeves that were too short. He wore his uniform awkwardly and spoke the way he had been trained to. He didn’t say why, he added.
He told the guard to take his place on deck and went down the stairs leading to the cabins. As he crossed the saloon he saw the captain chatting with a passenger at the bar. For years he’d seen him there and now he waved his hand in a gesture that was less a greeting than a sign of agreement, that they’d see each other that night, on the return trip. He slowed his pace wanting to tell the captain that he wouldn’t see him that evening: it’s my last day of service and tonight I’ll stay on the mainland, where I have some things to attend to. Then it suddenly seemed ridiculous. He went down the next flight of stairs to the cabin deck, then along the bare, clean passageway, taking the master-key off his chain. The prisoner was standing near the porthole, staring out to sea. He wheeled around and looked at him out of those childlike blue eyes. I want to give you this letter, he said. He had an envelope in his hand and held it out with a timid but peremptory gesture. Take it, he said; I want you to mail it for me. He had buttoned up his shirt and combed his hair and his face was not as haggard as before. Do you realize what you’re asking? he answered. You know quite well I can’t do it.
The prisoner sat down on the bed and looked at him in a manner that seemed ironical, or perhaps it was just his childlike eyes. Of course you can do it, he said, if you want to. He had unpacked his canvas bag and lined up the contents on his bunk as if he were making an inventory. I know what’s wrong with me, he said. Look at my hospital admission card, have a look. Do you know what it means? It means I’ll never get out of that hospital. This is a last trip, do you follow me? He emphasized the word “last” with an odd intonation, as if it were a joke. He paused as if to catch his breath and once more pressed his hand against his stomach, nervously or as if in pain. This letter is for someone very dear to me and, for reasons I’m not going to bother explaining, I don’t want it to be censored. Just try to understand, I know you do. The ship’s siren sounded as it always did when the harbor was in sight. It was a happy sound, almost a snort.
He answered angrily, in a hard, perhaps too hard voice, but there was no other way to end the conversation. Repack your bag, he said hurriedly, trying not to look him in the eyes. In half an hour we’ll be there. I’ll come back when we land to put your handcuffs in place. That was the expression he used: put them in place.
5
In a matter of seconds the few passengers dispersed and the pier was empty. An enormous yellow crane moved across the sky toward buildings under construction, with blind windows. The construction yard siren whistled, signaling that work should stop, and a church bell in the town made a reply. It was noon. Who knows why the mooring operation had taken so long. The houses on the waterfront were red and yellow; he reflected that he’d never really noticed them and looked more closely. He sat down on an iron stanchion with a rope from a boat wound around it. It was hot, and he took off his cap. Then he started to walk along the pier in the direction of the crane. The usual old dog, with his head between his paws, lay in front of the combined bar and tobacco shop and wagged his tail feebly as he went by. Four boys in T-shirts, near the jukebox, were joking loudly. A hoarse, slightly masculine woman’s voice carried him back across the years. She was singing Ramona and he thought it was strange that this song should have come back into fashion. Summer was really here.
The restaurant at the far end of the harbor was not yet open. The owner, wearing a white apron, with a sponge in hand, was wiping the winter’s salt and sand from the shutters. The fellow looked at him and smiled in recognition, the way we smile at people we’ve known for most of our life but for whom we have no feelings. He smiled back and walked on, turning into a street with abandoned railway tracks, which he followed to the freight yard. At the end of one of the platforms there was a mailbox, red paint eaten away by rust. He read the hour of the next collection: five o’clock. He didn’t want to know where the letter was going but he was curious about the name of the person who would receive it, only the Christian name. He carefully covered the address with his hand and looked only at the name: Lisa. She was called Lisa. Strange, it occurred to him: he knew the name of the recipient without knowing her, and he knew the sender without knowing his name. He didn’t remember it because there’s no reason to remember the name of a prisoner. He slipped the letter into the box and turned around to look back at the sea. The sunlight was strong and the gleam on the horizon hid the points of the islands. He felt perspiration on his face and took off his cap in order to wipe his forehead. My name’s Nicola, he said aloud. There was no one anywhere near.
Translated by Frances Frenaye
The Translation
It’s a splendid day, you can be sure of that, indeed I’d say it was a summer’s day, you can’t mistake summer, I’m telling you, and I’m an expert. You want to know how I knew? Oh, well, it’s easy, really, how can I put it? All you have to do is look at that yellow. What do I mean by that? Okay, now listen carefully, you know what yellow is? Yes, yellow, and when I say yellow I really do mean yellow, not red or white, but real yellow, precisely, yellow. That yellow over there on the right, that star-shaped patch of yellow opening across the countryside as if it were a leaf, a glow, something like that, of grass dried out by the heat, am I making myself clear?
That house looks as if it’s right on top of the yellow, as if it were held up by yellow. It’s strange one can see only a bit of it, just a part, I’d like to know more, I wonder who lives there, maybe that woman crossing the little bridge. It would be interesting to know where she’s going, maybe she’s following the gig, or perhaps it’s a barouche, you can see it there near the two poplars in the background, on the left-hand side. She could be a widow, she’s wearing black. And then she has a black umbrella too. Though she’s using that to keep off the sun, because as I said, it’s summer, no doubt about it. But now I’d like to talk about that bridge – that delicate little bridge – it’s so graceful, all made of bricks, the supports go as far as the middle of the canal. You know what I think? Its grace has to do with that clever contrivance of wood and ropes that covers it, like the scaffolding of a cantilever. It looks like a toy for an intelligent child, you know those children who look like little grown-ups and are always playing with Meccano and things like that, you used to see them in respectable families, maybe not so much now, but you’ve got the idea. But it’s all an illusion, because the way I see it that graceful little bridge, apparently meant to open considerately to let the boats on the canal go through, is really a very nasty trap. The old woman doesn’t know, poor thing, she’s got no idea at all, but now she’s going to take another step and it’ll be a fatal one, believe me, she’s sure to put her foot on the treacherous mechanism, there’ll be a soundless click, the ropes will tighten, the beams suspended cantilever fashion will close like jaws and she’ll be caught inside like a mouse – if things go well, that is, because in a worst-case scenario all the bars that connect the beams, those poles there, rather sinister if you think about it, will snap together, one right against the other with not a millimeter between and, wham, she’ll be crushed flat as a pancake. The man driving the gig doesn’t even realize, maybe he’s deaf into the bargain, and then the woman’s nothing to him, believe me, he’s got other things to think about, if he’s a farmer he’ll be thinking of his vineyards, farmers never think about anything but the soil, they’re pretty self-centered, for them the world ends along with their patch of ground; or if he’s a vet, because he could be a vet too, he’ll be thinking about some sick cow on the farm, that must be back there somewhere, even if you can’t see it, cows are more important than people for vets, everybody has his work in this world, what do you expect, and the others had better look out for t
hemselves.
I’m sorry you still haven’t understood, but if you make an effort I’m sure you’ll get there, you’re a smart person and it doesn’t take much to work it out, or rather, maybe it does take a bit, but I think I’ve given you details enough; I’ll repeat, probably all you have to do is connect together the pieces I’ve given you, in any event, look, the museum is about to close, see the custodian making signs to us, I can’t bear these custodians, they give themselves such airs, really, but if you want let’s come back tomorrow, in the end you don’t have that much to do either, do you? and then Impressionism is charming, ah these Impressionists, so full of light, of color, you almost get a smell of lavender from their paintings, oh yes, Provence…I’ve always had a soft spot for these landscapes, don’t forget your stick, otherwise you’ll get run over by some car or other, you put it down there, to the right, a bit farther, to the right, you’re nearly there, remember, three paces to our left there’s a step.
Translated by Tim Parks
Wanderlust
for Sergio Vecchio, vecchio amico
It sometimes began like that, with an imperceptible sound, like a faint music; and with a color as well, a fleck that started in the eyes and swept over the landscape, then flooded the eyes again and from there went on to the soul: indigo, for example. Indigo conveyed the sound of an oboe, sometimes of a clarinet, on better days. Yellow instead summoned the sound of an organ.
He watched the rows of poplars emerge from the blanket of fog like pipes of an organ, and on them he saw the yellow music of sunset, with a few golden notes. The train streaked through the countryside, the horizon an uncertain filament that appeared and disappeared among the waves of mist. He pressed his nose against the window, then with his finger wrote on the vapor condensed on the glass: indigo, in the violet of the night. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he started.
“Did I scare you?” a man asked. He was an elderly, corpulent gentleman, with a gold chain on his vest. He looked surprised and annoyed at the same time. “Sorry, I didn’t think…” “Oh, not at all,” he said, hurriedly erasing the words on the pane with his hand.
The man introduced himself, stating his last name first. He was a livestock broker from Borgo Panigale. “I’m on my way to the cattle fair in Modena,” he said. “And you, are you traveling far?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, “I have no idea where this train is going.”
“Then why did you take it,” the man asked logically, “if you don’t even know where it’s going?”
“To travel,” he said, “because trains travel.”
The broker laughed and pulled out a cigar. He lit it and puffed out the smoke. “Of course trains travel, and we travel in them. What’s your name?”
“Dino.”
“A fine name. And?”
“And what?”
“And what’s your last name?”
“Artista.”
“That’s your last name?”
“Yes, it’s Artista. Mr. Dino Artista.”
“It’s a curious name. I’d never heard of it before.”
“I made it up, it’s a nom de plume.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s a pen name. And since it’s a pen name, I chose Artista.”
“So you’re an artist?”
“That’s exactly right,” he said. And he wrote on the steamed up window glass: Dino Artista.
“And what type of artist, a variety artist?”
“Anything and everything. A juggler, mainly, and also an acrobat. Just now I’ve thought of an acrobatic feat that someday I’ll perform. Sooner or later, I’ll go to America.”
“To perform as an acrobat?”
“No, I’ll go there by tram, and that’s the acrobatic feat.”
“By tram?! You can’t go to America by tram, there’s an ocean.”
“You can, you can,” he said, “it’s tricky but it’s possible.”
“Oh, really,” the cattle broker said, “and how is it done?”
“Magic,” he said, “the magic of art.” Then he abruptly changed the subject and looked around warily. “The conductor hasn’t come by yet, has he?”
The broker shook his head no and immediately understood. “You don’t have a ticket, young man, do you?”
He nodded in admission, and lowered his eyes as if he were ashamed. “I’ll have to lock myself in the lavatory, at least until he’s passed by.”
The broker laughed. “We’re approaching Modena,” he said, “if you want to get off with me I’ll treat you to lunch at Molinari Brothers.”
2
The cattleman did not stop talking. He was a jovial man, and he liked sitting in the carriage, giving orders to the driver, assuming the hospitable tone of a generous person. You could see it gave him satisfaction. He told the coachman to go through the old center, because he wanted to show his guest the Ghirlandina: you can’t come to Modena without seeing the cathedral and the bell tower. And with a gloved hand he pointed out the city’s splendors through the window, illustrating them with the plain words of a man who is not very cultured but whose warmth displays a love for people and things to see.
“This is Piazza Reale,” he said, “and now we’re going around Piazza Grande. Look up, lean out the window.”
Then the carriage turned onto a very long street flanked by buildings. “This is the Corso of the Via Emilia,” the broker said. “It’s called that because it follows the route outside the walls, on one side toward Bologna and on the other toward Reggio. Our restaurant is over there, on the corner of Strada San Carlo.”
Molinari Brothers was a big, crowded brasserie, with marble tables and large coat stands on which the diners’ cloaks were hung. The cattle broker was well-known, and many people greeted him. There was a flurry of commotion, because of the following day’s fair. They chose a corner table, and the host arrived with a carafe of wine on the house. It was customary in that establishment. The young man looked around wide-eyed. All that bustle cheered him. The place was warm and smoke-filled, and through the windows you could see a wall with sprigs of capers in the cracks between the stones. The fog had lowered even further, making outlines seem unreal.
With the food and wine, the broker’s cheeks had turned red and his eyes shone. “My son was a young man like you, his name was Pietro,” he said, clearly moved. “He died of a fever in 1902, it’s been four years now.” Then he blew his nose with his napkin and said, “He too had a mustache.”
By the time they left, evening was falling and the lamp-lighters were lighting the first street lamps. Some shops had lit torches near their signs and there were laurel branches on the doorposts of some of the taverns. A little boy with a cardboard mask passed under the arcades holding a woman’s hand. It was February.
“It’s the last day of Mardi Gras,” the broker said, “stay and keep me company. I have a room at the Hotel Italy and you can be my guest. Let’s go have some fun together.”
The young man followed him silently through the already deserted streets. Their steps resounded on the pavement and neither one spoke. They walked through some porticos and came to a gray stone building with an imposing entrance. The broker pulled a bell handle and a smaller door opened within the bigger one. They went up a long flight of stairs and entered a vestibule with a colorful stained glass window. An improbably blond lady wearing a flowered dress received them, and led them to a seat in a small parlor. There were pictures of beautiful girls on the walls and the young man began studying them with interest.
“Now it’s not like it used to be,” the broker whispered, “when Anna Ferrarina was the madam. She was a true connoisseur, she always had top-quality girls. But she married an old fool from Rome, a professor, and she’s become a respectable lady. Now we have to settle for whatever is available.” He laughed briefly and began looking at the picture of a b
runette photographed with her hands over her heart. “I choose this one,” he said, “I like her eyes. Which one do you choose?”
Message from the Shadows Page 9