The Heron

by Giorgio Bassani

  The bartender, a forty-year-old with a greasy, sweaty face, sporting a grizzled, three-day beard, stared at him coldly.

  ‘Who do you want to speak to?’

  ‘Cavaglieri, the engineer.’

  ‘Right away!’ the other exclaimed, suddenly obliging, extracting a telephone token from a drawer under the till and proffering him it. ‘The telephone booth’s over there.’

  He signalled towards a kind of tall, narrow wardrobe of dark wood and glass, sited against the furthest wall of the big room, beyond the chairs and small tables. And making his way towards the phone booth, he wondered with envy how the mere name of his cousin could prompt so much deference towards him. But he was wrong to be surprised, he reasoned with himself at once. Good heavens! Fifteen years of fixed residence in a small town of a few thousand inhabitants, with a wife who was local, a gaggle of kids and so on – anyone in like circumstances would end up becoming assimilated, even the least disposed to be so. And then, add in Ulderico with his odd but not unpleasant character, which made him sure of himself at every turn in his life, and always so calm and cordial! He was probably a regular at Caffè Fetman, as it was only a few metres from his house.

  Having made his way over, he was about to enter the booth.

  ‘Do you have his number?’ the barman called out.

  He turned round. Down there, Bellagamba was intent on lighting a cigarette, his face hidden in his cupped hands; several customers had looked up and were staring at him.

  Of course. The number. It doubtless consisted of just two digits. But which?

  He shook his head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dial twelve. One. Two.’

  He shut himself in and dialled the number. He heard it ringing for a long while at the other end of the line. Only then did he realize it had a different sound to the discreet, muffled tone of the Ferrara telephone network. Insistent, raw, gratingly metallic, and very hard on the ear.

  ‘Who’s calling?’ a rude voice finally interrupted, a voice that made him even more inclined to put down the receiver.

  ‘Limentani,’ he replied quite loudly, overcoming with difficulty that sort of surprise mixed with embarrassment he always felt in pronouncing his own surname.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Limentani,’ he repeated.

  He was most likely speaking to a housekeeper, an old woman without many teeth in her head, and perhaps a bit hard of hearing. Limentani, Edgardo Limentani. He had to repeat it several times, even breaking it down into syllables. To no avail. The old woman just couldn’t understand. Until, finally, she replied that the engineer was still in bed and that Signora Cesarina had just gone into the bathroom.

  He hesitated.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to disturb them,’ he said. ‘But all the same would you tell the Signora that it’s their cousin calling, the one from Ferrara?’

  ‘Wait a moment.’

  Their cousin from Ferrara – to drag even this out had cost him dearly. And yet he was in no doubt. When she, Ulderico’s wife, came to the telephone, keeping any kind of conversation going would be hard work. What sort of person was this Cesarina? The truth is he could hardly remember her. He’d only seen her a couple of times in all when she was a girl, without having any clear impression of her physically and without having exchanged a word. Tall, blonde. Maybe a redhead. After some twenty years – twenty years! – including a marriage of that kind and all the rest of it … And how should he address her – with the informal ‘tu’ or the polite ‘lei’?

  In the meantime, no one had picked up the phone, regardless of the fact that the apartment – as he could tell from the noise – was in a state of commotion.

  The apartment. It must be big, very big, some of the rooms like enormous drawing rooms. In the one with the telephone, for example, some children were playing right at that moment with a rubber ball. There were at least three of them and all were boys. And from the thuds, their jumps and sprints and falls made on the parquet it wasn’t hard to reach a reasonably exact idea of their surroundings and its dimensions. Far, far away a baby was crying, a baby only a few months old. But then, much closer, he heard the voice of a girl of around fifteen shouting ‘Clementina!’ And as Clementina, shut away who knows where, perhaps in her room or in the toilet, was slow to reply, the other told her to run to Tonino or Tanino. ‘Come on out!’ she said impatiently, but with a laugh. ‘Do come on out, it’s not as bad as that …’

  He was holding his breath, without making the slightest movement. It felt as though he too were in the Cavaglieri house, hidden behind some door to eavesdrop and spy on them.

  ‘Goal!’ yelled a boy from very close by.

  ‘It doesn’t count!’ protested another younger one. ‘I saw you. Get lost. You sneaked it in with your hand!’

  ‘No – it was a goal!’ the first boy insisted.

  What a din – he said to himself – what utter chaos. If only they’d just go and play somewhere else …

  And yet, although, of their own accord, his lips had twisted into a grimace of disapproval and intolerance – see what happens, he thought, when you load yourself down with kids: however spacious and comfortable it is, no house will be big enough, life will turn into a living hell – he felt compelled to remain there, the receiver glued to his ear, listening to the voices and noises with a tense and defeated sort of hunger.

  ‘Who’s there?’ suddenly, along the wire, a child’s slightly hoarse voice asked.

  As a general rule, he didn’t like small children. Even with Rory herself – it had happened early this morning when he had entered her room for a moment – his throat closed up and he could feel himself choking. On the telephone, though, it seemed to be different. One could always find something to say.

  ‘Edgardo,’ he replied. ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Andrea.’

  He heard him breathing heavily. It was obvious what had happened: the boy had seen the receiver dangling down the wall. And since his older brothers weren’t including him in the argument as to whether it was a goal or not, at a certain point it had occurred to him to make the most of the break in the game and have a go on the telephone. Usually he couldn’t reach it by any other means than standing on a chair.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘And are you already at school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which class are you in? The first form?’

  ‘No. The preparatory first.’

  Rory, at seven, he recalled, was already in the third form.

  ‘We’re a little behind,’ he attempted to joke. ‘But you’re a good boy, at least?’

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘What d’you mean, so-so? You have to be a good boy. Surely you know that?’

  The child did not reply. His silence coincided with the resumption of the game of football. So, more screams, more running, jumping, thudding. And Andrea stayed there, at the other end of the wire, with the heavy, determined breathing of a little peasant.

  Rain or no rain, whatever it cost, he felt a a sudden violent overwhelming desire to be in the midst of the valleys, alone.

  He could of course hang up, he thought. Without waiting any longer for the maid who, he could have bet on it, hadn’t managed to convey anything at all clear, neither his first name, nor his surname, nor anything else – who knows what she was still saying to the Signora through the shut bathroom door – he could have easily hung up and made himself scarce. Besides, as soon as he woke up, Ulderico would immediately work out who had called …

  And wasn’t this, if anything, the only thing that mattered to him?

  He gently put down the receiver.

  II

  * * *

  1

  Just as he was leaving the telephone booth it occurred to him that out in the valleys he would find everything he needed – serenity, health in body and mind, the joy of being alive. He should waste no time. He walked towards Bellagamba, who, se
eing him approach, cast away his cigarette. He paid for the telephone token at the till. Then, finally, with the old Fascist dogging his heels, he strode out.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said as soon as they were outside on the pavement in front of the door.

  ‘This morning,’ the other said in dialect, ‘they’ll be fetching me a fine turbot from Gorino. Would you like me to keep it for you?’

  ‘Please do,’ he quickly agreed, only to be free of him.

  He stretched out his hand.

  ‘And thanks,’ he added, ‘thanks for everything.’

  He waited for Bellagamba to finish pressing his hand between his two big hairy paws, then turned his back and began to cross the square.

  He walked hurriedly, lifting his face every now and then to sniff the air. No rain at all, not a drop. As for the air, likewise, dry: now he could sense it was laden with that characteristic lagoon smell: salty and at the same time sweetish, which stuck so stubbornly and ineradicably to clothes and which, after a short time, always made him hungry. Excellent, he said to himself, in a good mood. During the last quarter of an hour the wind had not only begun to blow, but had also changed direction. It came from the opposite direction, from the sea. If it kept blowing from there for a while, the whole sky would become clear.

  To take the road for Pomposa, he had to drive past the Caffè Fetman once again.

  Bellagamba was still there, standing on the pavement.

  He took the small, lateral road, the entry to which was overshadowed by the I.N.A. building. He quickly reached the river port, crowded as it was every Sunday, by the brown shapes of the boats, one beside another below the dock. Then, after a few hundred metres, he took a right turn. Beyond the bend, because of the cobbles, he had to slow down and drive at a walking pace. But down there, just after the intersection with the ring-road, he hoped the surface would again be nice and smooth. As indeed it was. He saw the bluish edge of the asphalt drawing nearer and enjoyed the imminent prospect of being able to put his foot down.

  He passed the intersection and, just after, the junction of the short road to the cemetery, crowded, especially towards the far end beside the pinkish surrounding wall, with the usual group of Sunday visitors. He pretended not to notice the gesture with which a good-looking blonde girl, standing on the corner dressed all in black and with a veil over her face, was asking for a lift. He put the car into third, then into fourth gear. Soon enough, without his going slower than seventy kilometres per hour, the Pomposa abbey came into view.

  How long it had been since he last visited this part of town! – he couldn’t stop himself sighing as the Aprilia sped along the final straight stretch of road.

  He was glad, however. Glad that the abbey, apart from the undergrowth that now clung more thickly to it – this, a sign that the pumps of the Land Reclamation Company had been able to keep on working undisturbed even in the last few years – had survived the war, preserving its original aspect intact, which was that of a large-scale agricultural enterprise like La Montina. Ah well, he said to himself, staring at the old red stones of the monastery. With that belltower, from one side spacious as a silo of grain; with that church in the midst of it all, which, rather than a church made one think of a hay barn; with those other unadorned buildings on the right like big farmhouses disposed around the barnyard: to all intents and purposes, even if on a bigger scale, every element of Pomposa closely resembled La Montina. And meanwhile he was also glad that, remembering La Montina, repeating its name in his mind, his heart wasn’t crushed within the usual grip of bitter regret, anxiety and fear.

  Having got as far as Pomposa, he took a right turn towards Romea, then, after a few hundred metres, turned left, all the bends to left and right leading at a slant into the valleys. He breathed deep. Towards the south, as far as the eye could see, he noted the vast, almost marine expanse of the Valle Nuova; towards the north, the stark, reclaimed lands in the distance bordered by the black, uninterrupted line of the Mesola woods. He felt so calm now, so full of energy and faith – it was cold and he’d turned on the heating – and yet it seemed to him, all the same, that the air of the lagoon had seeped into the closed car to expand his lungs. In short, he felt so well that a little later, becoming aware of a sudden acidic taste in his mouth, he considered this detail hardly impinged on his state of well-being. He shook his head and smiled. It was only natural. Having taken in nothing but two coffees since he woke up – how stupid of him not to have got Imelda to give him a piece of bread, at least, before leaving, and then a quarter of an hour ago at Codigoro not to have remembered to buy a packet of Saiwa biscuits or some cake – all things considered it was perfectly normal that he should now be reduced to this condition. It was clear that he’d have to have something to eat before settling into the hide. Were there any eating places at Volano? Good heavens, surely there must be, even nowadays. At the worst, in any case, he’d be able to scrape together half a loaf of home-made bread or a slice of ciambella cake, the rustic kind with big sugar crystals sprinkled all over it, by knocking at one of the doors in the village. What would it cost him to ask? No one at Volano would ever have recognized him. And of course he could pay …

  He passed the isolated fish traps at Canaviè, where they used to sell food, but which now seemed utterly decrepit and out-of-commission. He passed Porticino, a place name which, as ever, corresponded to nothing, nor even showed the slightest sign of human habitation. And finally, after the umpteenth twist and turn, there was Volano, with its little low houses lining both sides of the street that crossed the whole village, and far down there the massive parallelepiped of the big Tuffanelli house, against which the street seemed to come to a halt. There were only some hundreds of metres to go – he thought, accelerating – and then he’d find out if Ulderico’s man had indeed waited for him. It was unlikely. But now he should take a look. Then, if he was, he could decide what to do.

  He passed the semi-deserted village, and slowly, as a sign advised, crossed the bridge over the Volano stretch of the Po, then stopped beside the Tuffanelli house, sheltered from the wind, on the side which looked towards the Valle Nuova, and immediately got out of the car. There wasn’t the faintest sign of Ulderico’s man. He looked at his watch: a quarter past nine. Who knows how long the poor fellow must have had to wait.

  He pricked up his ears. Silence. Only the far cries of unseen birds, high in the sky. Closer, perhaps chained up, a dog howled.

  He scanned the huge landscape that surrounded him.

  He saw, there, at the edge of the flat terrain of water and small islets through which he had come and which were brightened by patches of sunlight, the belltowers of Pomposa and Codigoro, the former rough, dark, fat and heavy, the latter slender, white and very far off, of an almost metallic sheen, like a needle. To the right, towards the Greater Po and its estuary, the compact dark mass of the Mesola woods. To the left, the empty stretch of the Valle Nuova, and the other valleys beyond. Finally, Volano, in front of him, and after the bridge, the two parallel rows of shabby houses, some still bearing roofs thatched with straw and cane. He looked. And once again heard the insinuating voice of Bellagamba, the words in dialect with which, an hour before, he’d tried to dissuade him from going on. ‘It’s not worth the bother, mark my words,’ he’d said. He’d seemed all sympathy, commiserating with him.

  And yet, no. He mustn’t give in, resign himself. This time, without any kind of hesitation, he was ready to ward off the idea of going home immediately, which had once again returned to tempt him. To travel back the other way along the route full of bends which he had recently taken, to pass below Pomposa once again, and through Codigoro, or, even less appealingly, to take a turn around the town, and finally, towards eleven, to see the four towers of the Estense Castle loom up before him in the distance: all of this, he hadn’t the least doubt, would effectively plunge him into the depths of that same dark well of acidic sadness from which, at a certain point, he thought he’d safely emerged. And what if he went ahead on h
is own, without the guide? He would be quite able to get as far as Lungari di Rottagrande on his own. As for shooting, well, agreed, there’d be nothing to shoot at. But he shouldn’t despair.

  He could even have stayed at Volano. If not for the whole day, at least for some hours. Who knows, perhaps Ulderico’s man, that Gavino, actually lived there. And, let’s say he did, if for no other reason than to give him the five hundred lire owing to him in person, it would be worth seeking him out. His surname was Menegatti – Menegatti, Felisatti, Borgatti, something of the sort. But apart from that, a private house or an inn, a place to hole up in with a modicum of peace and safety, somewhere far away, it didn’t matter for how long, from every perspective equivalent to a hide lost in the middle of the valleys – where on earth better than Volano could he find something of the kind? Again, that acidic taste in his mouth. He had to get some food. And soon.

  His attention was suddenly drawn to something. On the far bank of the canal, ten or so metres to the right of the bridge and the road, he’d noticed a long, narrow, wooden shack, painted green all over and with a metal roof. It had a brand-new look to it, confirmed by the almost reflective sheen of the paint and by the roof’s corrugated-iron sheet that looked fresh from the builders’ merchants. What was it? He tried in vain to read a small sign mounted above the entrance. From a thin tube of Eternit cement, held up on top of the roof by four converging steel cables, billowed forth thick curls of black smoke. As soon as it appeared, the wind dispersed it. Perhaps that was the very refuge for him, he thought, as he observed the smoke closely, studying its composition. It might well be.

  He locked the car door, and made his way against the wind towards the shack.

  Having got halfway across the bridge, he had only to read above the door SALSAMENTARIA to start salivating profusely. He’d been lucky. He’d be able to find something to eat there without having to go on any long search. Meanwhile, a tall, thin, dark-haired young man appeared at the door, and didn’t move off. After he’d closed the door behind him, he simply watched him approach.