Quidquid latet apparebit…’
The procession came to a sudden stop, the line of young priests broke up, while the officers and ladies on the right took a step back, frightened.
The singer took a single step forward on the stage and the General’s wife was filled with terror when she recognised Lieutenant Mazzei’s divergent eyes. She kept her lids forcefully open. There could no longer be any doubts: that young man was her death.
‘Do you want to leave, darling?’
Here was the warrior who had come from afar, the Guest calling out for her, for whom ‘the use of darling and excuses’ were worth nothing at all. The doors swung open, and the Fortress’ inhabitants held their breath.
Victory belonged to the other. The fatal duel – the General’s wife nursed no doubts as to the final outcome – thus boiled down to an attitude problem. When it came to duels between knights, reason and outcome had no bearing, but one’s attitude, which equaled one’s honour, did have bearing. One could move against the enemy with the kind of loving leap that Captain Sorrentino had described. Or one could oppose the cold light of self-awareness, and push the limits of life to the extreme.
The azure point, the supernatural, is merely death – a door which opens only to reveal nothing, a loss which doesn’t match up with any purchases. How does one enter through that door?
A lover’s tremour, a prisoner’s dignity…
A warrior clutching a sword stands by the door.
The General’s wife straightened her bust, kept her head level and her eyelids open. The procession of priests reassembled itself. Then it began to move.
The lifeless body of the General’s wife was carried out. The General dismissed those friends who had offered to accompany him.
Colonel Verri and Captain Sorrentino were sat on the last empty chairs. ‘Mazzei disappeared,’ the Captain said. The Colonel smiled. ‘I can’t think of anything more irritating than this music,’ the Captain remarked, irked. ‘I was in the other room when Mazzei started to sing. He took my breath away, and now we’re listening to this garbage again!’
‘Oh yes,’ the Colonel replied, ‘but did you notice the damage those musical notes inflicted? They cost The General’s wife her life!’
‘So let’s re-immerse ourselves in this garbage then,’ the Captain said, scanning his surroundings. ‘At least it won’t cost anyone their life.’
Vexed, the Captain stood up and left.
xi Excerpts from the Latin Christian hymn, Dies Irae, or Day of Wrath.
JUNE 1940
If war can bring one to suicide, it can also replace it, Lieutenant Cossa soberly commented, folding up the newspaper announcing the death of a great writer. The thought that war was a kind of solution in its own way had crossed his mind several times. Although he nursed a horror of war, he had nevertheless been surprised to have often desired it: in order to drown myself in it, like that great writer did in the river.
Stepping out, he happily breathed in the evening’s mild air. He felt in the highest of spirits. One could even say that he was on affectionate terms with the notion of suicide, he even called it his secret friend. This was why the thoughts which had crossed his mind in the wake of the writer’s death hadn’t unsettled him at all. He hardly ever betrayed the melancholy that guided his thoughts when it came to his public discourses. Even though he struck most as cordial, he was incredibly reserved, and despite his melancholy, he was perceived as cheerful.
The Fatherland, for which he had donned his army uniform, certainly animated him. Despite his ability to have himself recalled back to Rome, he had passively allowed himself to be assigned to the African Army: once the conflict finally erupted, he would be sent to the front lines, ready to sacrifice himself. Not that this future sacrifice warmed his heart, or rather, since he could not say he was truly indifferent, it warmed his heart but in completely the opposite manner: instead of rekindling his love for life, it had brought him a step closer to suicide. He was only capable of feeling certain emotions when his mind was on this particular track.
What a strange fellow that Pietro is, he thought to himself on entering Major Brivio’s house, sometimes he strikes me as stupid in such a way that I don’t know whether he amuses me or irritates me; other times I pity him intensely and he makes me feel uncomfortable, blackens my mood, so why do they keep him on in that house?
In the meanwhile, Pietro ushered him into the sitting room and then withdrew.
‘I don’t know if you realise this, Eugenio, but you always show up late. Do you think it makes you look more interesting or desirable? Or is it some other silly reason? Maybe you just don’t want to come here anymore… so why do you show up regardless? Come on, I want to introduce you to Colonel Boninsea’s wife, you’ll see what a cretin she is! My dear Colonel’s wife…’ he loudly called out, employing a formal tone, ‘May I present Eugenio Cossa, and if one is to believe all my female friends, the most brilliant officer in the entire army!’
‘Enio,’ he hurriedly added in that curt, almost irked tone with which he had greeted him, ‘I’ll leave you here on your own as I have to tend to the others, I’ll see you again later.’
He seemed to want to embarrass me, Cossa thought as he took a seat next to the Colonel’s wife, but I felt he quickly lost interest in it. He’s running away from an explanation – he too! – because soon we’ll be moving into such a void that it’ll make our hearts skip a beat, the emptiness of our feelings, of our actions, fake jealousy and an insincere explanation. This was why he cut his speech short and dropped in this ‘cretin’s’ lap. As for the Colonel’s wife, employing the calm of one who is about to enter a long conversation, she began asking him a series of questions.
‘So, do you like Africa?’
How I love those questions! Cossa energetically wondered, how they let us sleep so comfortably at night, now we can sail for a couple of hours down this conventional canal of conversation, without needing to give it neither sense nor direction, since they are dead-end conversations. Nor do we have to worry about making any effort since the tide will carry us along.
The Colonel’s wife talked about the city, which she didn’t like very much.
Yet the bare landscape surrounding that city exerted a great fascination on her, the Greek and Roman ruins were simply superb, while the Libyan littoral was far more unspoiled than the Riviera. Nevertheless, much was missing, there wasn’t much entertainment to be had, and since this conversation had provided her with the perfect platform from which to voice an invitation she had prepared herself to make since they had been introduced, she asked: ‘Would you be free to dine with us next Saturday?’
‘Ursula and the Major will also be joining us,’ she quickly added, acting like someone who had fired a first shot, but being unaware of its effect, then fired another for good measure.
See? Cossa thought to himself as energetically as before, she too wants to host a young officer at her house, and since Ursula told her that I was the most brilliant officer in the whole of Africa, she picked me.
However, isn’t it probably our fault? We shut all the windows and then moan about suffocating to death. We throw our interlocutors in the conventional canal of conversation and then weep when we see him drown. The poor Colonel’s wife had just arrived in that city, and she would have had a tough time finding somebody ready to hazard even a few words of conversation in that living room. We all want to live, with a finger firmly planted in risk, and one’s feet firmly rooted on the mainland, with those formidable roots we call habit, wariness and laziness! But what should I do about it? What should I have done? Even before he had set foot in the Major’s house, he had known that Ursula’s unenthusiastic reception probably awaited him – at which point, after this, that and the other, he would embark on a conversation that would sail along the coast of Africa, and all the Greek and Roman ruins, and the city’s surrounding countryside, before sailing into the bay of boredom and other distractions. Did I show up late precisely because I knew exactly wh
at lay in store for me? And isn’t this exactly what I’m going to get today, tomorrow and forever after? Once again, adopting conventions seemed to him the only way out: I must go back to being the brilliant officer they say I am. In fact, I need to be brilliant within the confines of this conversation’s prison, I should make up some fact about the Greek and Roman ruins that nobody has ever heard before, something new, but it nonetheless should be something that doesn’t try to exceed the limits of that prison, it’s important that I play the game and show off some wit. There’s no other alternative: there is only suicide and conversation. I reproach myself for all this sentimentality, and yet I find the Colonel’s wife is braver and more coherent. For her part, the Colonel’s wife was now asking him to tell her more about ancient Greek civilization (‘Only the Greeks,’ she said, ‘because despite all my respect for the Romans and for Fascists, I think Greek art is simply superior to Roman art.’), expressing her surprise at having found such enormous and well-kept Greek ruins in Africa, where she had instead believed the Greeks had never been.
Cossa replied to her question in an offhand manner and reverted the talk back to the city, the Officers’ Club and the various entertainments on hand.
The Colonel’s wife had been waiting for exactly this kind of encouragement, and like the navigators who once circumnavigated the Cape of Good Hope in order to reach the Red Sea, she loosened up in order to speak of trite things, she unfurled the sails of a long conversation, using Africa as a metaphor to talk about herself, her life and her principles.
Cossa slept, his cheek resting against the warm, soft pillow of the Colonel’s wife’s conversation. He dreamed of a third kind of life, one situated between suicide and conventional life, between the river where the great writer had drowned herself and the conventional canal of the Colonel’s wife’s conversation. He dreamed of finding a free country there, where man could be himself, allowing him to actually live his freedom rather than be forced to suppress it with suicide or stifle it in conversation; a country where one is capable of putting up with risks and adventure because risk and adventure are no longer a one-way road to either resignation or convention. A place where I won’t sleep and dream as I do now, but where I can talk, risk and maybe even die, but where I won’t kill myself, or think about killing myself, or think about all there is left to do while I await the moment to become the most brilliant conformist in the whole of Africa. In the meanwhile, the Colonel’s wife stagnated in a conversation woven by personal reflections, a few sighs, a little nostalgia, some pride, regrets, a great deal of severity and the unstoppable desire to give up – all that baggage, all the contradictions that result in the shipwreck that occurs when people turn fifty. Yet the Lieutenant was the one who was truly shipwrecked, even his lover looked at him amused. My poor Enio, maybe I was a tad too cruel in offering him up to the Colonel’s wife as a snack. But she’s my guest of honour and isn’t Enio the most beautiful gift to offer a woman who is anxiously searching for the ultimate adventure? She’ll even go as far as to lick the shadows and footprints Enio will leave behind on her carpets. At that age, one easily becomes as demoralised as that.
‘And you won’t forget to come by on Saturday?’ the Colonel’s wife insisted.
Why is she asking me that again, Cossa asked himself, didn’t I already show great pleasure when telling her that I would go to her house? Does she desire my presence so much that she is willing to compromise herself over it? Can someone conquer their freedom at fifty?
His eyes widened with surprise and he looked like he had just woken up. Yet in doing so his eyes appeared even warmer, and the Colonel’s wife passionately dove into them. Oh life, Cossa thought, how marvellous it must be at fifty! Oh youth, the Colonel’s wife thought, how beautiful it is!
They danced a single waltz, at the end of which, Cossa bowed and took his leave.
The Colonel’s wife saw him step out onto the balcony, lean against the railing, and stare into the distance. How romantic he looks! she thought, Speaking with him was the first time I’ve had any love for this land where they stranded us. I hadn’t talked so passionately in a long time, and though much of it was wasted on futile, banal things, it still made my heart sing. And he listened, I’m sure he didn’t miss a single word, but while he listens and dreams, he nevertheless grasps what someone is trying to tell him. The next couple of days will seem so unbearably long … will he really show up on Saturday or will he forget?
The Colonel’s wife saw Pietro, the Major’s handsome adjutant, draw near to Cossa carrying a tray topped by some trembling glasses: the Colonel’s wife kept her eyes peeled. Cossa selected a cognac. On Saturday he’ll come to my house and drink the finest cognac there is to have in Africa; despite Mussolini’s righteous campaign against importing foreign goods, I’ll be able to offer him some Courvoisier, even if I have to put up with the entirety of the army criticizing me. While she thought all this, she scanned her surroundings with a fiery glare.
In the meanwhile, Cossa was agonizing over the dinner invitation on Saturday night. Do I really have to go? He detested extravagant attitudes, although he liked being sociable and fulfilling his obligations, thus ensuring that people wouldn’t become overly curious towards him and he could therefore preserve his freedom. In fact, those very people tended to envy him: because they found him too easygoing, too happy, and too fortunate. I am who they would like to be, and thus if their envy sharpens, their curiosity becomes dormant. Nobody suspects that affectionate friend who accompanies me to the club, or around the barracks, who even makes me yearn for war. Nevertheless, the misunderstanding must persist. To find this sort of courage, instead of trying to slip out of the shell of one’s solitude like the Colonel’s wife did tonight. While he thought about how he had to keep up appearances at all costs, Pietro came to tell him that the lady of the house was looking for him. Cossa smiled. He knew all about Ursula’s overindulgences. Ursula also obliged her husband’s adjutant to attend the tea parties she held for her friends, not only so he could help her serve said tea, but also so as to then leave him standing in a corner, even when he wasn’t needed. Ursula would offer her friends tea and biscuits alongside Pietro’s beauty, which the assembled ladies were free to admire while they nibbled on their biscuits and sipped from their cups. Pietro was exceptionally handsome, and one would have had to have eyes made of stone not to see that. Nevertheless, it had taken Ursula’s genius and penchant for overindulging herself in order to remove all obstacles to adoring his beauty, and they had now all run off to go see him. Pietro noticed Cossa smiling at him without betraying any embarrassment or annoyance. Having noticed that the Lieutenant was observing him, Pietro stopped. Is he a complete idiot? And yet he immediately intuited that at this very moment I have ensnared him in my gaze, while all the other times he drew close to me he walked by discreetly. Even now there’s no vanity at all in the way he’s standing there stock-still in front of me. As if he were beauty himself, or rather as if he and his beauty were two separate things, meaning he could leave his beauty right here in front of me while his thoughts fly far away without betraying themselves, without his face expressing any emotion at all. And yet this cheekily insolent Pietro is now the very same man who sometimes comes to open the door for me with a sad air about him that makes everything awkward and makes my heart ache. Yet all one has to do is notice his beauty for him to then hide behind it, the Pietro that makes one’s heart ache then hides behind Pietro’s beauty: the one I’m looking at right now.
‘Careful you don’t make the Major jealous,’ Lieutenant Marchi told him ambiguously.
Cossa calmly looked at him. Was he alluding to his relationship with Ursula?
‘What do you mean?’
‘Pietro is very special in this house.’
Cossa shrugged. What could he possibly mean by that? he asked himself, completely disinterestedly.
‘You seem pensive, my dear Lieutenant,’ the Colonel’s wife told him, given that he’d almost involuntarily headed in
her direction. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘Pensive? Let’s not exaggerate! I was only asking myself what role beauty has to play in our lives, if it’s right for one to admire it without feeling awkward about it, or if one should instead distrust it, if the person who displays said beauty really thinks of it as a mark of distinction, and what such a soul could feel in relation to that beauty in which its body is imprisoned.’
Meanwhile, he thought to himself: When that silly Colonel’s wife asked me whether I was pensive I felt as if someone had been spying on me, and had peered through the cracks. Thanks to that lyrical sentence I fed her, I can now disappear, the rhetorical exercise has been picked up again, and now there’s nothing for me to do except to let her ramble on: after all, who among us has nothing to say about beauty or the soul?
What a sensitive, intelligent man, he’s brave enough to talk about beauty and the soul, the Colonel’s wife thought to herself at that very moment: I used to have these conversations with my first fling thirty-five years ago. Yet while on the verge of replying, she suddenly felt hindered, and blushed a deep crimson, just like that first time, she thought, and then the commotion made her heart melt.
Sensible and clever, Cossa behaved generously at that point and feigned not to notice her increasing unease and carried on talking:
‘I wonder whether if our admiration of beauty, in the restlessness for the role that admiration plays in our soul, we don’t actually wind up making the mistake of forgetting that this very beauty is connected to a soul, and whether we don’t end up demeaning that soul and treading all over it while wrapped up in adoring that beauty: meaning that a person can be both adored and demeaned, and maybe that person carries a secret sadness or secret shame within the locked treasure chest of their beauty.’
At that very moment, he suddenly noticed – was it really a surprise? – that his thoughts had turned to Pietro, the Major’s handsome adjutant, the same man Ursula offered up to her friends in the warm and cosy setting of her tea parties, putting him on display like her tray of biscuits, the very same man whom he’d admired earlier, and whose soul wasn’t looked after by anybody. It suddenly seemed to dawn on him why meeting that young man had prompted both admiration and discomfort in him, because Pietro often burdened him with his inexpressible sadness. We’ve all wronged him, and Pietro probably hates his beauty due to how his soul is constantly demeaned as a result: yet he doesn’t react, he doesn’t even seem to realise that he could react, instead he obliges people as much as he can, offering himself up to my gaze like he did a few moments ago, resigning himself to satisfying the appetites of anyone who desires him, demeaning his soul by making a gift of his beauty. Maybe Marchi meant to imply that Pietro’s even been sleeping with the Major!
The Fourth Shore Page 9
