by Tomato Cain
When the furry body had reached the end of the stocking, it hung curled upside down; and its tail twisted here and there, feeling the folds in the stocking. He started with the quickness of the Minkey’s jump. For all at once the stocking was tossing empty, and the Minkey crouched on the foot of the cot, watching him.
But when he looked back at the stocking there were three more Minkeys climbing down. swinging like the first one. Yet there was no noise at all.
The Minkeys jumped on to the edge of the cot, one by one; and others took their place at the top of the stocking. They climbed down quickly, and many more bodies bobbed along the beam above.
The first Minkey crouched, and jumped into the cot.
He could feel its weight gently pressing the bedclothes down, and at the same time there was a small, cold feeling inside his head. But he was not afraid of furry Minkeys.
He held out his hand gently towards the first one. It did not move.
Then suddenly there was a little sharp pain in his finger and he pulled it back.
The Minkey stared at him, with black, round eyes like the end of Ma's hat-pin.
There was a tiny red bead on his finger that was salt when he tasted it.
And everywhere was full of Minkeys and strange with the smell and warmth of them. All the whiskers and eyes and pointed faces moved together. They went “Now-now-now,” like the bumping of the heart inside his chest.
There was a gentle weight on him.
He looked down. The first Minkey sat on his chest, watching his eyes with its own.
His hands were as log-heavy as his legs.
He saw its mouth open, narrow and sharp and pale; it gave one shrill cry of Minkey talk.
And instantly the whole room turned to hot. leaping fur. Squealing and tearing and chattering and biting.
END
Chapter 24
Who - Me, Signor?
Signor, no more need be said! I shall tell everything - I insist! And the other gentleman shall take it down in writing, shall he not?
You understand my position, signor. When the collapse, I mean - when the day of liberation came, things were hard for all of us. I had not been without some small authority … under the Duce. But my minor position in the Party went for nothing, after so many years. And I had given so much money —
Yes, I should like to sit down - thank you, signor.
Alas! I was but a simple creature, God pity me, and in those days unable to recognise my folly. Now it is so clear….
Yes, I know - please, I know! That’s nothing to do with this inquiry. We must get on. Ah!
It began with my friend Giuseppe Cavallini - at least, strictly, of course, he is not my friend, only an acquaintance; a big, brutal fellow, and always fiercely for the Duce, even when I began to see the light - he suggested taking advantage of the …. unusual situation. I was misled into agreeing - but only to the extent of raising funds for the necessities of life.
There were several possibilities. Now, of course, I see how wrong they were, but at the time they seemed ingenious to a superficial mind. For instance: the municipal services go astray. So if one arranges the blocking of certain underground pipes, one causes a demand for antiseptics or unobtainable water, according to the contents of the pipe obstructed. You see? One simply buys up all the water-carts or disinfectant first, and states one’s terms. I was proud of this plan, but there was no time —
May I correct that, please? I have given a wrong impression. It was Giuseppe’s idea, not mine. How confused!
Not to the point? Signor, my humble apologies! Henceforward no word shall leave my lips that is not specifically directed to the subject-matter at present under discussion.
Yes. The matter of the paper notices. I must admit my fault. I understand several individuals are prepared to identify me as him who glued them upon the walls. Though I believed that at such an hour —
It was very wrong, I agree, that they should seem to be signed by the Allied Military Governor. But - oh, you have no idea how overbearing is this Cavallini - he threatened me when I protested at the deception. And stupid. “You cannot post up a notice to blind men,” I had to say, “because they will not be able to read it. Make it ‘To the Relatives of All Blind Male Persons.’”
Yes, it is true. We promised free food and clothing to the sightless.
But read, signor, what it says: “The benevolent policy of the Allied Military Government proposes special concessions to the disabled, and accordingly arrangements have been made…” And so on. Benevolent policy! Special concessions! Why, what result? Popularity of your administration, surely? With all the people seeing these notices? No? No.
It was Giuseppe who procured the premises. They are a disused hat shop that belongs to his uncle’s mistress.
“That is where the notices told the blind ones to report. Very early, one single morning.
“Be there the night before,” Giuseppe instructed me. “Bring a sweeping brush to clean the dust into the corners.” Ridiculous! For blind men! I took no brush.
When I got to the shop, Cavallini was already there. He wore a uniform of many kinds. Some of it was English, I may tell you: it bore the badge of a part of the liberation forces called Salvation Army; I saw the English lettering. He had also a postman’s trousers and a cap that was a souvenir from the Spanish war. When I entered, he was doing something to his moustache. Combing it out into two fluffy bars. Similar to your own, signor - pardon! Giuseppe’s was much inferior, dirty and stringy, you understand.
“l am the English Colonel Smit,” says Giuseppe, greasing his hair down flat and bulging his eyes. “You are my collaborat -”’ - that is, assistant - “and you must say little when the time comes, but do as I order.” So he rehearses me in his fraudulent scheme. Simple fool am I!
And then I try to sleep on some sacking. The night is filled with the crooning and gossip of cats in the back alley - horrible! I twist and turn! Plaster falls down the back of my neck! When I stand up with the early light I feel my face puffy and my hair dry.
We breakfast on a roll and a trifle of Parmesan, with some wine that Giuseppe has brought.
And as we eat, we hear outside a sort of mumbling and shuffling and taping of sticks.
“The sheep are falling in,” says Colonel Smit, and toasts the last of the cheese over his cigarette-lighter till it runs and splutters and fumes. The whole place fills with a rich aroma.
He tightens his black belt. He bulges his eyes. He opens the front door of the shop.
Waiting noisily is a crowd of people. They are mostly men, old and young, with walking-sticks. Some wear dark spectacles; others cloth patches; yet others have nothing over their eyes, and they stare at nothing. And with them are women and small infants and a number of dogs, who have led the blind men to this place.
Then Giuseppe talks to them.
What a mimic is this despicable Cavallini! Just the very English officer! - I beg your pardon. But you should have heard him, signor. Oh, you should have heard him!
“I am Colonel Smit of the Allied Military Government,” says he in his ludicrous accent. “We are going to give all you poor blind persons a completely new outfit of clothing and then portions of wholesome food. Such are my orders. My assistant will conduct you to the interior. Do not hurry, please.”
Then all the blind men start in a pitiable rush. What numbers! Have I seen so many staring blank faces anywhere? Never! As they stumble and clutch, I feel cynically that greed crowds out the pathos of their deficiency.
All the relatives press forward also. Giuseppe orders them back. “Only the unfortunate sufferers, please!”
But still there are the dogs. They occur in infinite variety, signor, fierce and persistent. We must of necessity admit these creatures with their masters. However, while the next-of-kin remain outside we are content. The windows are whitened so that no one can see in.
Giuseppe locks the door and places the sightless ones in a long double line. The fellows’ h
eads are turning this way and that.
“There is a fine savoury smell,” says one, and then all are licking their lips and grinning as they sniff Cavallini’s toasted cheese.
“Now,” says Giuseppe. “It is necessary that you be reclothed. As the first stage in the replacement, please to take off your hats. My assistant will collect them.”
That is the way it was done, signor. I put their hats into a sack, excepting those which were too worn or dirty to sell again.
Then I took their jackets. Groping, they held them out. The dogs kept growling and gnashing their teeth. Signor, it was a frightful task! And I was so sorry for the blind men!
The jackets filled three sacks, all those fit for the unofficial market. I dropped them through the back window into a waiting donkey-cart while Cavallini talked to his victims.
Signor, my cheeks burned! He lied about the mission of democracy; about the fall of tyranny; about the glorious future of free Italy - he who kept two uniforms of the late regime under his mattress.
Then I came back and took their boots and shoes. Some of those weren’t so bad, either. We had agreed, Giuseppe and I, to keep on with the process down to their underclothes, or until they became suspicious. You see the idea? Not so stupid, was it?
“In the new era,” cries Cavallini, while I collect their socks - that was not pleasant - “there shall be abundance for all nations, a place for all in every country! Freedom from fear, freedom from want, freed —“
“Please,” says one of the sightless, “I shall have sciatica from standing here in the cold, please. I take twenty-five centimetre socks …”
“Silence!” orders Giuseppe like thunder; but he winks at me. “You will all be fitted in a few minutes! I am obeying orders.”
The time has come to get out. He crosses to where I am stuffing the sack, and jerks his thumb.
Then there is a most horrible thing, signor.
I see two of the blind men look at each other!
As I at you, signor, straight in the eye! And they break the line. Shouting.
And then there is no line anywhere. Only running men. And yowling dogs. What rascals! Revolting! They were no more blind than I am a …. They were not blind!
Signor, there was exactly one who was genuinely afflicted! He clung to the neck of his dog on the floor as the others trampled over him with their bare feet.
My nerves, signor, will never recover! Never! How my heart beat - cattuck-cattuck-cattuck! Oh!
To the window we fly. I hurl out the sack.
And - believe it? - this ten-million-cursed Cavallini thrusts me violently aside with his leprous paw! He springs out.
The last thing I am properly conscious of is seeing him whipping the donkey away down the alley like the abominable Fiend. May his marrow fester!
And I? Those ravening pantaloons have me fast by the toe- hanging half out of the window!
They are tearing at me fit to kill! They gouge. They spit. They scratch. Their eyes flash behind the dark spectacles. My nose bleeds. Limb from limb - ah! My teeth scatter. My clothes are in strips - fabric flies like bats! I lose hair. I am bitten and gnawed by the dogs in twenty places. See? And kicked.
Signor, I am a humble, simple man. I do not make wild accusations. But these foul, dissembling monstrosities should be your victims at this inquiry!
I have suffered much. I have touched the depths of shame.
To escape with my life - how did I do it? - was to begin a plunge through lanes and alleys dressed in half a shirt and one sock.
Signor, think of it and take pity. I have hidden in a fishmonger’s bin!
Hidden! Ah, not from my pursuers, but from my decent fellow-citizens! I am hunted down streets by the wholly proper; crowds cry for my blood. Finally I am arrested. “Insufficiently clothed.”
Signor - I am thankful I was taken into custody. It has been a great privilege to speak to at least one intelligent and understanding person, and to explain my sufferings and perplexities.
Life is difficult, signor.
So often for the innocent it is a thorny maze without an exit. Delusion, deception leer on every side.
I have told - everything. I admit all, I confess, I am a wiped slate. My soul is purged. I am as a child who looks upon the world for the first time, with dewy eyes.
Signor, where must I sign? To be let out?
END
Chapter 25
The Pond
It was deeply scooped from a corner of the field, a green stagnant hollow with thorn bushes on its banks.
From time to time something moved cautiously beneath the prickly branches that were laden with red autumn berries. It whistled and murmured coaxingly.
“Come, come, come, come,” it whispered. An old man. squatting frog-like on the bank. His words were no louder than the rustling of the dry leaves above his head. "Come now. Sssst-ssst! Little dear - here’s a bit of meat for thee." He tossed a tiny scrap of something into the pool. The weed rippled sluggishly.
The old man sighed and shifted his position. He was crouching on his haunches because the bank was damp.
He froze.
The green slime had parted on the far side of the pool. The disturbance travelled to the bank opposite, and a large frog drew itself half out of the water. It staved quite still, watching; then with a swift crawl it was clear of the water. Its yellow throat throbbed.
“Oh! - little dear," breathed the old man. He did not move.
He waited, letting the frog grow accustomed to the air and slippery earth. When he judged the moment to be right, he made a low grating noise in his throat.
He saw the frog listen.
The sound was subtly like the call of its own kind. The old man paused, then made it again.
This time the frog answered. It sprang into the pool, sending the green weed slopping, and swam strongly. Only its eyes showed above the water. It crawled out a few feet distant from the old man and looked up the bank, as if eager to find the frog it had heard.
The old man waited patiently. The frog hopped twice, up the bank.
His hand was moving, so slowly that it did not seem to move, towards the handle of the light net at his side. He gripped it, watching the still frog.
Suddenly he struck.
A sweep of the net, and its wire frame whacked the ground about the frog. It leaped frantically, but was helpless in the green mesh.
“Dear! Oh, my dear!” said the old man delightedly.
He stood with much difficulty and pain, his foot on the thin rod. His joints had stiffened and it was some minutes before he could go to the net. The frog was still struggling desperately. He closed the net round its body and picked both up together.
“Ah, big beauty!” he said. “Pretty. Handsome fellow, you!”
He took a darning needle from his coat lapel and carefully killed the creature through the mouth, so that its skin would not be damaged; then put it in his pocket.
It was the last frog in the pond.
He lashed the water with the net rod, and the weed swirled and bobbed: there was no sign of life now but the little flies that flitted on the surface.
He went across the empty field with the net across his shoulder, shivering a little, feeling that the warmth had gone out of his body during the long wait. He climbed a stile, throwing the net over in front of him to leave his hands free. In the next field, by the road, was his cottage.
Hobbling through the grass with the sun striking a long shadow from him, he felt the weight of the dead frog in his pocket. and was glad.
“Big beauty!” he murmured again.
The cottage was small and dry, and ugly and very old. Its windows gave little light, and they had coloured panels, dark-blue and green, that gave the rooms the appearance of being under the sea.
The old man lit a lamp, for the sun had set; and the light became more cheerful. He put the frog on a plate, and poked the fire, and when he was warm again, took off his coat.
He settled down close b
eside the lamp and took a sharp knife from the drawer of the table. With great care and patience, he began to skin the frog.
From time to time he took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. The work was tiring; also the heat from the lamp made them sore. He would speak aloud to the dead creature, coaxing and cajoling it when he found his task difficult. But in time he had the skin neatly removed, a little heap of tumbled. slippery film. He dropped the stiff, stripped body into a pan of boiling water on the fire, and sat again, humming and fingering the limp skin.
“Pretty,” he said. “You’ll be so handsome.”
There was a stump of black soap in the drawer and he took it out to rub the skin, with the slow, overcareful motion that showed the age in his hand. The little mottled thing began to stiffen under the curing action. He left it at last, and brewed himself a pot of tea, lifting the lid of the simmering pan occasionally to make sure that the tiny skull and bones were being boiled clean without damage.
Sipping his tea, he crossed the narrow living-room. Well away from the fire stood a high table, its top covered by a square of dark cloth supported on a frame. There was a faint smell of decay.
“How are you, little dears?” said the old man.
He lifted the covering with shaky scrupulousness. Beneath the wire support were dozens of stuffed frogs.
All had been posed in human attitudes; dressed in tiny coats and breeches to the fashion of an earlier time. There were ladies and gentlemen and bowing flunkeys. One, with lace at his yellow, waxen throat, held a wooden wine-cup. To the dried forepaw of its neighbour was stitched a tiny glassless monocle, raised to a black button eye. A third had a midget pipe pressed into its jaws, with a wisp of wool for smoke. The same coarse wool, cleaned and shaved, served the ladies for their miniature wigs; they wore long skirts and carried fans.
The old man looked proudly over the stiff little figures.
“You, my lord - what are you doing, with your mouth so glum?” His fingers prized open the jaws of a round-bellied frog dressed in satins; shrinkage must have closed them. “Now you can sing again, and drink up!”