Although everyone looked at him, the man wasn’t looking at anyone. He strode forward with certain steps, which in itself made quite an impression. What was the Bishop waiting for, why wasn’t he ordering someone to do something? But who would he order – and to do what exactly? Could he call the police and ask them to intervene? If he placed his faith in the forces of law and order, what would become of his religious authority or the sacredness of the setting? Had anyone ever heard of the police arresting Beelzebub or one of his minions? Could the police manage to get all the way down there? And who would take them there, who would act as their guide? In fact, who would save them? And what about the organist! Why was he still playing as if nothing at all had happened? Yet while the entire scene had been turned on its head, the organist hadn’t stopped playing his devoted, strident notes – hadn’t he understood that tragedy had just stepped onto the scene? The organ was like a star, like the sun or the moon, which allowed its light to fall onto the earth, indifferent to the dramas of human affairs down below.
The first part of the tragedy had unfolded in public. One of the city’s wealthiest men (and one of its haughtiest too, even though he was also a philanthropist) – ‘who was arrogant with the arrogant and humble with the humble,’ as his friend the Bishop put it – had been the victim of an incident which had ridiculed him. His wife had betrayed him with their handsome doorman, a tall blonde man who kept to himself, ‘the kind of guy who looked like he should be a forest ranger,’ or at least that’s what someone had said – even though it wasn’t clear as to why forest guards had to be tall and blonde, and why if that was so, had he come all the way to Africa which was devoid of all forests and was nothing but dry and dusty? What would he protect these non-existent forests from anyway? The sky was devoid of clouds the whole year through.
An affair was both extraordinary and banal, and it never managed to slip out of that perverse entanglement. What stood out about this instance was that victim didn’t have a jealous nature: it had never even occurred to the man that someone might dare to challenge him, especially challenge his place in his wife’s heart (a buxom redhead, who was nevertheless rather dull). He was fond of his forest ranger, and even thought of the forest ranger’s son as his nephew. He could come into his rooms whenever he liked, and he’d been more indulgent towards that brat than he ever was towards his own children, his numerous dependents or his fawning friends.
His arrogance was served by his reputation. While he wasn’t afraid that his wife would cheat on him, everyone knew that he wasn’t a faithful husband, since the success he’d had with other men’s wives was well known. To put it briefly, he was an envied man, at least he was envied by many, and public curiosity, when news of the affair broke, was mixed with a certain schadenfreude: a rich man who takes a tumble ‘is as funny as a clown,’ the same man as earlier had said.
How had the lovers been discovered? The blonde, tall, solidly built forest ranger was a man of ‘stony discretion’ (we’ll continue to call upon the aforementioned reporter, whom for the purpose of briefness and according to tradition, we shall refer to as Anonymous). His wife had been the only one who’d revealed the affair. To her friends? Not at all! In a fit of folly – ‘amorous folly’ Anonymous pointed out – perhaps because she’d been neglected or rejected, or maybe just to shatter the silence of that man, her lover, who always seemed to be as silent as a mute (it seems he acted without ever expressing any desire or tenderness), she had gripped a pistol in her hand and had fired it. During the scuffle (the details were still vague, the incident having occurred only a few days earlier, and the interrogations were still ongoing), a shot had been fired and the woman had been wounded. Repudiating her fit of folly, the woman was now vilely claiming that it had been the forest ranger – a good for nothing who kept harassing her – who had fired the gun.
The young man had been arrested.
He remained silent, always: he never accused her and never defended himself. Yet he was also careful not to confess to anything. Perhaps he ‘had acted in legitimate self-defense’ (as Anonymous suggested). Even the arrogant man was staying silent: having been questioned by the police over the incident, he had behaved in an irritated manner, as if he’d been nothing more than a casual witness.
Now (as the drama continues to unfold) faced with her husband’s silence, the wife, who found silence ‘nothing short of upsetting’ (again, Anonymous’s words), and this despite the fact her husband hadn’t thrown her out of the house or slapped her around, experienced yet another fit of folly – human events always follow the old plots of plays in puppet theatres, it’s always the same old song – and thrown herself out of the window. Everyone asked himself whether her husband had been the one to push her. Nevertheless, his alibi turned out to be unassailable: he had been taking care of business at the Banco di Roma when the fatal hour had struck, and had been sitting in the bank manager’s office, where two secretaries were also present, although one of them (the elder of the two) had pointed out during her deposition that the man (and this had left a sinister impression on her) ‘was already dressed in black.’
Nobody had paid any attention to the fact that during the ceremony in the cathedral, among the many assembled children waiting to be confirmed was none other than the forest ranger’s son, who was a chip off his father’s block – also blonde, tall for his age, like the rough sketches a sculptor produces before the monument is actually commissioned.
The cathedral was teeming with the faithful and the curious, and the ceremony was solemn. Of a slight build, the ancient bishop’s vestments were white and azure.
Maybe no one had taken any notice of the boy because people were interested in the drama involving the family in question (Anonymous again here) rather than the forest ranger’s actual family, which merely plays an ancillary purpose in the drama. As for the boy’s mother, she had concealed herself in the crowd: How could she present herself publicly at that ceremony only a few short days after the tragic incident which had shunted her to one side, as if her husband had been the doorman of the building across the street?
According to the liturgical canon, the boy had a godfather, just like all the other boys. A friend of the jailed forest ranger, the simple man now experienced a great deal of pity for the boy, who seemed like an orphan now, having been humiliated by an incident that he understood even less than the baffled police investigator, who was standing there now with his hands in his pocket, and it seemed that nobody was able to impress upon him the fact that one couldn’t stand in church with one’s hands in one’s pockets. Nevertheless, he didn’t seem to be understanding anything at that moment. He felt hurt ‘and contaminated by his father’s silence, which made them look even more similar to one another’ (Anonymous, as ever).
The place of the father figure in the boy’s mind was actually taken up by two people, and this felt so natural that he had no idea of what an anomaly this was: could he have ever imagined that they would come into conflict, that one of the two adults would wind up in prison, having been thrown into it by the other – who was nevertheless still the victim? Whose accomplice was he then? How could he forgive one for having offended the other, and how could he forgive the other, who’d been indefatigably indulgent towards him, but had nevertheless punished the offending party, who was nevertheless his father? The world had been broken, just like when a ball is punctured and you can’t play with it anymore. Needless to say, no one asked him anything – but there was nothing left to ask.
The priest who was preparing him to receive his holy sacrament had told him that he needed to believe in God, who was his real father. But the boy now seemed to fear even that distant – in fact, invisible – father. Employing a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but which was chiefly inspired by pity and indulgence, the priest was explaining that God… was the summation of both his fathers. The boy stood there glassy-eyed, as though he hadn’t been listening at all, or was instead hearing terrifying voices.
The thre
shold of the master’s house, which lay on the other side of the courtyard a threshold that existed for others, but not for him (‘like a kind of wind-up carillon that keeps going forever, playfully and magically,’ Anonymous pointed out, ‘the boy crossed the threshold in whichever direction he liked, whenever he liked, since elves laugh in the face of rules!’) – had now been barred to him, just like it had always been to all postulants and the multitude of pestering salesmen: the house in front of his no longer existed, and neither did his father’s, while he was in prison waiting on the pending the investigation. Pending the investigation: that mysterious formula had shattered the world he had lived in up to that point, and while still very young (or so Anonymous said), the boy already had a past which had fallen into irretrievable depths, ‘just like the old,’ Anonymous had added. The curve of his life had already reached its peak and was descending towards its inevitable precipice. Yet where was that supposed to be, exactly?
The priest had told him that if the master’s house was now off-limits to him, the house of God had now opened its doors to him, and that’s what the holy sacrament truly meant, that he had been welcomed into the house of the master of the whole universe: after all, why would they have called the ceremony a confirmation? There was nothing in the boy’s eyes, as if he was cut off from everyone else, from himself too. Not even in the house of the Celestial Father was there room enough for both his earthly fathers, who had fought a mortal duel: nothing now would contain them, no space would be big enough, an irretrievable ‘organic duality’xc(Anonymous).
For what reason had they fought that duel?
The object of the drama, the mistress who was always a little distracted – who had welcomed him with a smile, who had played with him, chattering endlessly, but in whose heart lay two different men – the object of the drama had vanished into a hole and the entire city, eager for a spectacle, had turned out for the funerals. He had run out of the house in time to follow the funeral procession, although he lingered on its fringes, out of fear that he would be recognised. The master was leading the way, ahead of everyone else, even both his sons were in the second row, that place rightfully belonged to him and he had taken it up publicly, neither bowing his head nor looking anyone in the eye. After all, the forest ranger currently in irons (or so Anonymous said) was actually standing right there alongside the master, ‘which explained why they couldn’t look at each other, even the ranger forsook all masks and challenged his rival openly. That woman was his; and he’s as invisible now,’ he added, ‘as he was mute in life.’
The boy understood that the rivals had fought over the remains of that woman, which were now cold and lifeless. Who would win that struggle no longer mattered, because in his mind the lines between them could no longer blur, and they would never be smoothly interchangeable again.
The road to the cemetery was long and dusty. The boy would have wanted it to be longer still. In fact, he wished it would stretch out into the infinite: to a point from which there would be no return – because going back to the past was impossible. Instead, it grows cold and is buried forever. Even if his father had been released by the police and had come back, the threshold of the master’s house would no longer be open to him, in fact it was barred forever. In fact, they would all have to leave their own house. And go where?
For the first time in his life, the boy felt that his father’s mutism, which had hitherto been dear to him, as though they’d always been able to communicate without words, suddenly struck him as tragic. But maybe his father himself had once experienced a ceremony of the kind he was witnessing now: when you throw away what’s left, the remains (‘which are nothing but disconnected fragments by then,’ Anonymous pedantically pointed out, who often weaves his own reflections into the boy’s narrative), because the game is over.
Let us return now to the ceremony taking place in the cathedral, having been called back there by the sweet sound of the bells that melts in the air (ein sanftes Glockenspiel tönt in Elis’ Brust Am Abend,xci as the poet said, or so Anonymous claims).
The unexpected apparition of that eminent man had shocked everyone. Why had he come? His sons were all grown up, they’d been confirmed ten years earlier. They had grown up to be rather different than him, they only resembled him physically in a vague, dull manner. They dressed meticulously well, as if attempting to balance out their father’s unkempt appearance: there was a scruffiness to him that was the unintended fruit of his arrogance. ‘And who do they resemble then?’ a lady had once maliciously asked him. ‘The future,’ he had gloomily replied.
Was it really his intention to draw all that attention to himself? Had he decided to avenge himself?
The cathedral was bathed in light, as if it was an open space, and the white marble intensified the light as it bounced off it. It seems that this sacred rite also followed the seasons, and from the gothic winter of the North’s cathedrals, where the ceilings vanish into darkness, it had now come down to the sun-drenched coasts of Africa for its prolonged summer.
While the man continued to walk ahead in his solemn gait, carrying with him his secret will, and the mass of faithful undulated, the Bishop remained perfectly still; he was a little pale, perhaps, but his white and azure vestments, which were sumptuously embroidered, hadn’t lost any of the light they were reflecting. He had intuited that the man had not come to avenge himself. But what had he come to do then? Maybe it was the people’s fault, since they had parted to make way for him, as though he’d been holding a gun, attributing so much importance to such a banal event, namely the arrival of that notorious and wounded man in his church at that late hour, on his own. But was this reason enough to interrupt that sacred ceremony?
The organ’s notes were coming from behind him (having emerged from a modest mechanical organ), but they nevertheless climbed high towards the ceiling. Yes, it’s true: while he had indeed stopped playing, the music had carried on performing its sacred function of its own accord, heeding the word of different priests.
There was nothing to fear. In fact, his taut expression betrayed what appeared to be light. The priest is meant to guide his flock, and when that beloved flock is confused, he alone should not quiver.
It was only at that point that all the assembled faithful noticed that the prisoner’s son was among the semicircle of children waiting to be confirmed.
As though he’d just suddenly appeared at that very moment.
Given that the police couldn’t be called on to intervene in a church, should the bishop therefore order the officers – who were present in their shiny uniforms, standing alongside the right side of the aisle, as though they too were performing a sacred ritual – to step in? Yet had those officers entered the church fully armed? To top everything off, there was the problem of how to keep public order – ‘of course,’ Anonymous said, ‘that was only the tip of the iceberg’ – there were other, more complex problems.
Somebody later said that the forest ranger’s wife, who’d been living on the outer confines of this particular drama, had raised her hands to her face when she had seen that eminent man step inside the cathedral. The boy had remained mute ever since the drama had started, as if his voice had been kidnapped. Amidst tears that morning, the boy’s mother had told the wounded man much the same. ‘He’s mute, mute… ever since that terrible day!’ it was if someone had ravaged his soul.
Now, she had invoked the All-Mighty to give her boy his speech back; just like the priest had explained, those wanting to be confirmed needed to find their strength in faith…
‘Yet how could he have expected,’ or so Anonymous said (it should be noted that from hereon in, his narrative avoids many malicious or cynical little details) ‘how could he have possibly expected that God would work his mysterious ways through the victim?’ Because that eminent man, who was wealthy, yet nonetheless a cuckold (an aside which for once doesn’t belong to Anonymous, but which is reported here to give a little flavour of what others said), crossed the length of the en
tire cathedral, as though he were officiating the ceremony himself, and before the assembled citizens of that colonial town and the devoted faithful, he placed his hand on his favourite nephew’s shoulder, as dictated by liturgical law.
The corridor in the middle of the crowd had closed up again, and the music resumed its narrative, and the Bishop’s face was serene once again: the friend he’d always esteemed had followed his orders, since one goes to church not only to be forgiven for one’s own sins, but also to forgive those who have sinned against us, especially if an innocent soul is involved in the situation.
He made a wide, definitively sweeping gesture with his arm.
He had once seen a sculpture where Christ, looking modest, is sat down, wearing his threadbare tunic, and has placed his hand on John’s shoulder, who is sheltering a small boy against his chest.
Imitation is the highest form of elevation, he thought.
Then, having thanked God for having illuminated another soul, he picked up the thread of the ceremony where it had been left off, aided by the exalting music which overwhelmed and erased, before the eyes of the assembled crowd of waiting little devils and little angels – all those miserable human vicissitudes from the air.
lxxxix Translator’s Note: Spina’s choice of names for his characters throughout his stories, particularly in this middle section of The Confines of the Shadow, borders on the mocking. Candido, the Bishop’s first name, can be interpreted as either ‘candid’ or ‘white,’ meaning that when coupled with his surname, Moro, can mean ‘White Moor’. There are a few other notable instances throughout, for instance General Occhipinti whose name literally means General ‘Painted-Eyes,’ which is appropriate given his theatrical inclinations.
xc Most likely a reference to Goethe’s ‘dualism in nature,’ whereby nature was a manifestation of the divine, ‘Gott-Natur’.
xci The poet in question is Georg Trakl and the line translates to: ‘A gentle chiming of bells rings in Elis’s breast’. Alexander Stillmark, Poems and Prose by Georg Trakl: A Bilingual Edition (Northwestern University Press, 2005), p.45.
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