I realized that, for him, whether or not that new dawn ever came mattered less than one might think, because what counted for him was the line of his life, which was not to change.
“There’ll always be trouble, of course. . . . It won’t be an earthly paradise. . . . We’re not saints, after all. . . .”
Would the saints change their lives, if they knew heaven didn’t exist?
“They fired me last week,” Omar Basaluzzi said.
“And now what?”
“I’m doing union work. Maybe next autumn one of the bosses will retire.”
He was on his way to the Wafd, where there had been a violent demonstration that morning. “Want to come with me?”
“Eh! That’s the one place I mustn’t be seen. You understand why.”
“I mustn’t be seen there either. I’d get the comrades in trouble. We’ll watch from a café nearby.”
I went with him. Through the windows of a little café we saw the workers coming off their shift walk through the gates, wheeling their bicycles, or crowding toward the streetcars, their faces already prepared for sleep. Some of them, obviously forewarned, came into the café and went at once to Omar; and so a little group was formed, which went off to one side to talk.
I understood nothing of their grievances and I was trying to discover what was different between the faces of the countless men who swarmed through the gates surely thinking of nothing but their family and Sunday, and these others who had stopped with Omar, the stubborn ones, the tough ones. And I could find no mark that distinguished them: the same aged or prematurely old faces, product of the same life: the difference was inside.
And then I studied the faces and the words of the latter group, to see if I could distinguish the ones whose actions were based on the thought “The day will come . . .” and those for whom, as for Omar, whether the day really came or not didn’t matter. And I saw they couldn’t be distinguished, because perhaps they all belonged to the second category, even those few whose impatience or ready speech might make them seem to be in the first category.
And then I didn’t know what to look at so I looked at the sky. It was an early spring day and over the houses of the outskirts the sky was luminous, blue, clear; however, if I looked at it carefully, I could see a kind of shadow, a smudge, as if on an old, yellowed snapshot, like the marks you see through a spectroscope. Not even the fine season would cleanse the sky.
Omar Basaluzzi had put on a pair of dark glasses with thick frames and he continued talking in the midst of those men, precise, expert, proud, a bit nasal.
In Purification I published a news item I had found in a foreign paper concerning pollution of the air by atomic radiation. It was in small type and Commendatore Cordà didn’t notice it in the galleys, but he read it when the paper was printed and he then sent for me.
“My God, I have to keep an eye on every little thing; I ought to have a hundred eyes, not two!” he said. “What came over you? What made you publish that piece? This isn’t the sort of thing our Institute should bother with. Not by a long shot! And then, without a word to me! On such a delicate question! Now they’ll say we’ve started printing propaganda!”
I answered with a few words of defense: “Well, sir, since it was a question of air pollution . . . I’m sorry, I thought . . .”
I had already taken my leave when Cordà called me back. “See here, do you really believe in this danger of radioactivity? I mean, do you really think it’s so serious?”
I remembered certain data from a scientific congress, and I repeated the information to him. Cordà listened to me, nodding, but irked.
“Hmph, what awful times we have to live in, my friend!” he blurted out at one point, and he was again the Cordà I knew so well. “It’s the risk we have to run. There’s no turning back the clock, because big things are at stake, my boy, big things!”
He bowed his head for a few moments. “We, in our field,” he went on, “not wanting to overestimate the role we play, of course, still . . . we make our contribution, we’re equal to the situation.”
“That’s certain, sir. I’m absolutely convinced of that.” We looked at each other, a bit embarrassed, a bit hypocritical. The cloud of smog now seemed to have grown smaller, a tiny little puff, a cirrus, compared to the looming atomic mushroom.
I left Commendatore Cordà after a few more vague, affirmative words, and once again it wasn’t clear whether his real battle was fought for or against the cloud.
After that, I avoided any mention of atomic explosions or radioactivity in the headlines, but in each number I tried to slip some information on the subject into the columns devoted to technical news, and even into certain articles; in the midst of the data on the percentages of coal or fuel oil in the urban atmosphere and their physiological consequences, I added analogous data and examples drawn from zones affected by atomic fallout. Neither Cordà nor anyone else mentioned these to me again, but this silence, rather than please me, confirmed my suspicion that absolutely nobody read Purification.
I had a file where I kept all the material concerning nuclear radiation, because as I read through the papers with an eye trained to select usable news items and articles, I always found something on that subject and I saved it. A clipping service, too, to which the Institute had subscribed, sent us more and more clippings about atomic bombs, while those about smog grew fewer all the time.
So every day my eye fell upon statistics of terrible diseases, stories about fishermen overtaken in the middle of the ocean by lethal clouds, guinea pigs born with two heads after some experiments with uranium. I raised my eyes to the window. It was late June, but summer hadn’t yet begun: the weather was oppressive, the days were smothered in a gloomy haze, during the afternoon hours the city was immersed in a light like the end of the world, and the passers-by seemed shadows photographed on the ground after the body had flown away.
The normal order of the seasons seemed changed, intense cyclones coursed over Europe, the beginning of summer was marked by days heavily charged with electricity, then by weeks of rain, by sudden heat waves and sudden resurgences of March-like cold. The papers denied that these atmospheric disorders could be in any way connected with the effects of the bombs; only a few solitary scientists seemed to sustain this notion (and, for that matter, it was hard to discover if they were trustworthy) and, with them, the anonymous voice of the man in the street, always ready, of course, to give credence to the most disparate ideas.
Even I became irritated when I heard Signorina Margariti talking foolishly about the atomic bomb, warning me to take my umbrella to the office that morning. But to be sure, when I opened the blinds, at the livid sight of the courtyard, which in that false luminosity seemed a network of stripes and spots, I was tempted to draw back, as if a discharge of invisible particles were being released from the sky at that very moment.
This burden of unsaid things transformed them into superstition, influenced the banal talk about the weather, once considered the most harmless subject of conversation. Now people avoided mentioning the weather, or if they had to say it was raining or it had cleared they were filled with a kind of shame, as if some obscure responsibility of ours were being kept quiet. Signor Avandero, who lived through the weekdays in preparation for his Sunday excursion, had assumed a false indifference toward the weather; it seemed totally hypocritical to me, and servile.
I put out a number of Purification in which there wasn’t one article that didn’t speak of radioactivity. Even this time I had no trouble. It wasn’t true, however, that nobody read the paper; people read it, all right, but by now they had become inured to such things, and even if you wrote that the end of the human race was at hand nobody paid any attention.
The big weeklies also published reports that should have made you shudder, but people now seemed to believe only in the colored photographs of smiling girls on the cover. One of these weeklies came out with a photograph of Claudia on its cover; she was wearing a bathing suit, and
was making a turn on water skis. With four thumbtacks, I pinned it on the wall of my furnished room.
Every morning and every afternoon I continued to go to that neighborhood of quiet avenues where my office was located, and sometimes I recalled the autumn day when I had gone there for the first time, when in everything I saw I had looked for a sign, and nothing had seemed sufficiently gray and squalid to suit the way I felt. Even now my gaze looked only for signs; I had never been able to see anything else. Signs of what? Signs that referred one to the other, into infinity.
At times I happened to encounter a mule-drawn cart: a two-wheeled cart going down an avenue, laden with sacks. Or else I found it waiting outside the door of a building, the mule between the shafts, his head low, and on top of the pile of sacks, a little girl.
Then I realized there wasn’t only one of these carts going around that section; there were several of them. I couldn’t say just when I began to notice this; you see so many things without paying attention to them; maybe these things you see have an effect on you but you aren’t aware of it; and then you begin to connect one thing with the other and suddenly it all takes on meaning. The sight of those carts, without my consciously thinking of them, had a soothing effect on me, because an unusual encounter, as with a rustic cart in the midst of a city that is all automobiles, is enough to remind you that the world is never all one thing.
And so I began to pay attention to them: a little girl with pigtails sat on top of the white mountain of sacks reading a comic book, then a heavy man came from the door of the building with a couple of sacks and put those, too, on the cart, turned the handle of the brake and said “Gee” to the mule, and they went off, the little girl still up there, still reading. And then they stopped at another doorway; the man unloaded some sacks from the cart and carried them inside.
Farther ahead, in the opposite lane of the avenue, there was another cart, with an old man at the reins, and a woman who went up and down the front steps of the buildings with huge bundles on her head.
I began to notice that on the days when I saw the carts I was happier, more confident, and those days were always Mondays: so I learned that Monday is the day when the laundrymen go through the city with their carts, bringing back the clean laundry and taking away the dirty.
Now that I knew about it, the sight of the laundry carts no longer escaped me: all I had to do was see one as I went to work in the morning, and I would say to myself: “Why, of course, it’s Monday!” and immediately afterward another would appear, following a different route, with a dog barking after it, and then another going off in the distance so I could see only its load from behind, the sacks with yellow and white stripes.
Coming home from the office I took the streetcar, through other streets, noisier and more crowded, but even there the traffic had to stop at a crossing as the long-spoked wheels of a laundry cart rolled by. I glanced into a side street, and by the sidewalk I saw the mule with bundles of laundry that a man in a straw hat was unloading.
That day I took a much longer route than usual to come home, still encountering the laundrymen. I realized that for the city this was a kind of feast day, because everyone was happy to give away the clothes soiled by the smoke and to wear again the whiteness of fresh linen, even if only for a short while.
The following Monday I decided to follow the laundry carts to see where they went afterward, once they had made their deliveries and picked up their work. I walked for a while at random, because I first followed one cart, then another, until at a certain point I realized that they were all finally going in the same direction, there were certain streets where they all passed eventually, and when they met or lined up one after the other they hailed one another with calm greetings and jokes. And so I went on following them, losing them, over a long stretch, until I was tired, but before leaving them I had learned that there was a village of laundries: the men were all from an outlying town called Barca Bertulla.
One day, in the afternoon, I went there. I crossed a bridge over a river, and was virtually in the country, the highways were flanked still by a row of houses, but immediately behind them all was green. You couldn’t see the laundries. Shady pergolas surrounded the wineshops, along the canals interrupted by locks. I went on, casting my gaze beyond each farmyard gate and along each path. Little by little I left the built-up area behind, and now rows of poplars grew along the road, marking the banks of the frequent canals. And there in the background, beyond the poplars, I saw a meadow of white sails: laundry hung out to dry.
I turned into a path. Broad meadows were crisscrossed with lines, at eye level, and on these lines, piece after piece, was hung the laundry of the whole city, the linen still wet and shapeless, every item the same, with wrinkles the cloth made in the sun, and in each meadow this whiteness of long lines of washing was repeated. (Other meadows were bare, but they too were crossed by parallel lines, like vineyards without vines.)
I wandered through the fields white with hanging laundry, and I suddenly wheeled about at a burst of laughter. On the shore of a canal, above one of the locks, there was the ledge of a pool, and over it, high above me, their sleeves rolled up, in dresses of every color, were the red faces of the washerwomen, who laughed and chattered; the young ones’ breasts bobbing up and down inside their blouses, and the old, fat women with kerchiefs on their heads; and they moved their round arms back and forth in the suds and they wrung out the twisted sheets with an angular movement of the elbows. In their midst the men in straw hats were unloading baskets in separate piles, or were also working with the square coarse soap, or else beating the wet cloth with wooden paddles.
By now I had seen, and I had nothing to say, no reason to pry. I turned back. At the edge of the highway a little grass was growing and I was careful to walk there, so as not to get my shoes dusty and to keep clear of the passing trucks. Between the fields, the hedgerows, and the poplars, I continued to follow with my eyes the washing pools, the signs on certain low buildings: STEAM LAUNDRY, LAUNDRY CO-OPERATIVE OF BARCA BERTULLA, the fields where the women passed with baskets as if harvesting grapes, and picked the dry linen from the lines, and the countryside in the sun gave forth its greenness amid that white, and the water flowed away swollen with bluish bubbles, It wasn’t much, but for me, seeking only images to retain in my eyes, perhaps it was enough.
(1958)
A PLUNGE INTO REAL ESTATE
Translated by D. S. Carne-Ross
1
HE RAISED his eyes from the book (he always read in the train) and rediscovered the landscape piece by piece. The wall, the fig tree, the quarry with its chain of buckets, the reeds, the cliffs – he had seen them all his life but only now, because he was returning did he really become aware of them. Every time he came home to the Riviera, Quinto renewed contact in this fashion. But he had been away so much, come back so often, the thing had been going on for years; what was the fun of it when he already knew the scene by heart? All the same, he still hoped for some chance discovery as he sat there with one eye on the book and the other on the landscape. But now he was simply confirming familiar impressions.
Yet every time there was something that checked the pleasure he took in this exercise and made him look down at the page on his lap, something irritating that he couldn’t quite pin down. It was the houses, that was it, all these new houses that were going up, apartment buildings six or eight stories high, their massive white flanks standing out like barriers propping the crumbling slope of the coast and putting out as many windows and balconies as they could toward the sea. The Riviera was gripped by a fever of cement. An apartment building here, the identical window boxes of geraniums on every balcony; there a building that had just gone up, the windows still marked with white, waiting for the Milanese families who wanted a place by the sea; a little farther on, some scaffolding, and below, the cement mixer in action and a sign advertising the local real estate office.
In the little towns on the terraced hillsides the new buildings played
piggyback with one another, while in their midst the owners of the old houses added another story and craned their necks to see out. The town where Quinto lived had once been surrounded by shady gardens of eucalyptus trees and magnolias, where retired English colonels and elderly spinsters leaned over the hedges and exchanged Tauchnitz editions and watering cans. Now the bulldozers were churning up the soil with its rotting leaves and its gravel from the garden paths, picks were demolishing the two-story residences, the ax was at the broad-leaved palm trees, which fell with a papery scrunch from the sky so soon to be filled by the desirable, three-room, all-convenience, sunny homes of tomorrow.
When he came home, Quinto had once been able to look out over the roofs of the new town and the poorer quarters down by the sea front and the harbor. In between were the crowded houses of the old part of town, with their moldy, lichenous walls, lying between the hill to the west, where the olive groves clustered thickly above the gardens, and to the east, the green swarm of villas and hotels stretching beneath the bare flank of the carnation fields, glinting with greenhouses as far as the Point. But all he could see these days was a geometrical arrangement of parallelepipeds and polyhedrons ranked one above the other, corners and sides of houses, clustering roofs and windows and blank walls pierced only by the ground-glass bathroom windows, one above the other.
The first thing that always happened was that his mother took him up to the roof terrace. Left to himself, with that idle, vague nostalgia of his which faded almost as soon as it came, he would have gone away again without troubling to go up there. “I’ll show you what’s new since you were last here,” she said, and started pointing out the new buildings. “The Sampieris are adding another floor, that’s a new house built by some people from Novara, and the nuns, even the nuns . . . You remember the garden with the bamboos that we used to be able to see down there? Just look at all the digging that’s going on there now; heaven knows how many floors they’re going to have with foundations like that! And the giant Chilean pine in the garden of the villa Van Moen – the finest on the Riviera it used to be – well, the Baudino firm has bought up the whole area and the tree’s been chopped down for firewood. What a shame it is; the authorities ought to have stopped them. Of course, they could hardly have transplanted it; goodness knows how deep the roots went. Now come over to this side, dear. They couldn’t take away any more of our view to the west than they’ve done already, but just look at that roof that’s popped up over there. I tell you we have to wait half an hour longer every morning for the sun!”
Difficult Loves Page 17