The Heron

by Giorgio Bassani

  The nearer he got to Ferrara, the lighter and happier, even at times frivolous, his thoughts were. He kept on bursting out laughing.

  The fleeting vision of La Montina to the left of the road, on the other side of the Volano stretch of the Po, brought Nives to mind. Immediately, he began to wonder with amusement what would happen to La Montina in a month, or a month and a half, when Nives would establish contact for the first time in person with the property and its employees. He saw the whole scene in splendid detail: the ladylike frown of the widow and heiress, the pernickety pout of her lips in her effort to speak her most fluent Italian, the kowtowing of Benazzi, the overseer, hoping to keep his job, the caps in hand of the farm labourers and cowherds, disposed, at this stage, given the change of political climate, to wipe the slate of the recent past utterly clean, their faces a blend of the sly, the respectful and the contrite. As regards this – here he broke into a good-natured grin – would Nives come to La Montina alone or else accompanied by the faithful Prearo in the Aprilia? That the two were in cahoots, and had been for quite some time, he alone had been blithely able to ignore, thanks to his inveterate tendency to register nothing that might put his tranquillity at risk. So then, why not? Given the solemnity of the occasion, it was likely that the excellent accountant should now and then double up as chauffeur, remaining, for the entire duration of the managerial site inspection, discreetly apart yet respectfully à côté. Oh, that would really be a scene to enjoy from the beginning to the end. What a shame to miss it! On the other hand, wasn’t it already a satisfying enough prospect to imagine it all and, since, for good or ill, he was the husband, to arrange things so that it should actually take place?

  He was so detached from himself and from the world, so relaxed and serene, that just a little way down the road, at the entry to Tresigallo, the name of the town written in big letters on a house wall at the edge of the built-up area, struck him as though he had never set eyes on it before. Tresigallo. What on earth could be the source of such a name? That very evening he must remember to look it up in Frizzi or Treccani. They would surely furnish him with some information on the topic.

  All the while, he was slowly driving through the small town, which also looked dark and deserted. He could clearly recall, some fifteen years ago, sometime around 1930, the Fascist government had suddenly decided to transform this small farming centre, one of the least significant in the province, into the site of a propaganda exercise for Ferrarese agriculture. And right on cue, as it happened, the car’s headlights revealed: first a vast marble-fronted barrack-like hall similar to the Fascist ex-headquarters at Codigoro, then an endless square, at the centre of which stood, high above the black basalt plinth that formed its base, a statue in Lazio travertine, and beyond it a large building that resembled the new station in Florence, and constructed, as a still perfectly legible inscription above the entrance proclaimed, for the working of hemp and its derivatives. It was clear that none of this now served any purpose whatsoever. The grand hall with its imperial air, the statue of the gladiator with its naked and muscular buttocks, in all likelihood representing Fascism on the march; the building intended for the manufacture of autarchic fabrics: under the moon, they were all revealed as senseless, just pure and simple stage-settings, and the life of the town seemed, more than ever, as it once had been, limited to the small circle of peasant houses huddled on one side of the parish church. He left by the opposite side to the built-up area. ‘Farewell and safe travels’, he muttered, accelerating along the wide road bordered by trees which led straight to Ferrara. During the course of the day this was the second time he’d wished farewell to something. This morning to those poor ducks, and now to Tresigallo. Once again he broke into a laugh. But it was apt, in the end. In the end, Tresigallo would have a future before it. Even with a much narrower gauge, the small town would still keep going. He, by contrast – and he thought this without a shadow of sadness, no, rather, with calm good humour – where on earth was he going to in his car?

  The Prospettiva’s Arch appeared in front of the bonnet at exactly nine-twenty. Before leaving Codigoro he’d remembered to phone home. From that phone booth in Caffè Fetman he’d exchanged a few words with the cook, Elsa: just to say that he was leaving, and meant to arrive within just less than an hour and could she please tell Romeo on the entry-phone to open the gates in plenty of time. He himself had made perfect time. Had Elsa carried out his instructions? Given the hour, and the supper to prepare, perhaps not – she could well have forgotten. In a moment he’d find out. It was no big deal if the gates were shut. He’d just peep his horn twice.

  The moon lit up the entire length of Via Montebello from the Giovecca crossing right down to the distant, massive, greyish granite arcade sited at the entrance to the Jewish Cemetery. Via Mentana, however, was almost in darkness. As soon as he’d turned the corner, he switched the headlights on full beam. The gates were wide open. In front of them, Romeo was standing, waiting calmly at the curb, with his beret, his grey woollen scarf wrapped round his neck and his hands sunk in his trouser pockets.

  He slowed down, taking a quick look in the rear-view mirror. He manoeuvred on to the left side of the road, and indicated. He turned right. Then, again accelerating, he confidently steered through the gates and stopped in his usual spot right in front of the porch.

  He left Romeo to shut the gates and waited for his old parchmenty face to appear framed in the car’s side window, on the other side of the glass. How come Signor Avvocato had decided not to get out of the car? Barely concealed, his bafflement was comic and, at the same time, moving.

  He lowered the window halfway down.

  ‘Would you open the inner gate for me, please?’ he asked quietly, gesturing to the space in front of him.

  The other looked at him wide-eyed.

  ‘Do you want to park the car in the yard?’ he asked in the slow Italian he used for important occasions.

  ‘I do,’ he said, smiling. ‘It doesn’t seem that cold now.’

  ‘Would you have stuff to take in?’ Romeo asked, reverting to dialect.

  He gathered he was alluding to the spoils of the hunt. Though it looked like he didn’t have much faith in that. His thin, violet lips had stretched into a furtive grin.

  ‘No, far from it. I didn’t shoot a thing.’

  Through the windscreen he saw him make his way towards the gate. It was obvious he disapproved. He could tell from the exaggerated curve of his back as he tried to open the gate. Of necessity, in a few hours’ time, what with one thing and another, he’d be making a fair bit of extra work for him. So he ought to treat him well, and keep him happy.

  He drove the car through to the yard.

  ‘And how is your daughter doing?’ he asked after he’d got out of the car. ‘Did she call round this afternoon?’

  Yes, she had come, Romeo confirmed. They’d both showed up, she and her husband.

  He added nothing more, and made a grimace. He’d probably had to shell out some more money, he thought. But in any case what could he do about it? It wouldn’t do to offer to reimburse him. Apart from the fact that he only had a few hundred lire on him, it would be too tricky a discussion to get embroiled in. And, as for having a talk with the son-in-law, that William, he didn’t think that was something he could promise. Making a promise he knew he couldn’t keep would have been distinctly dishonest on his part. Dishonest and stupid both.

  He climbed the stairs at a fair rate, with the Browning and the Krupp slung over each shoulder. But, having arrived upstairs, he stopped at the doorway. He had clearly heard the whining tones of Nives coming from the dining-room. Seeing as they were already seated at the table, perhaps it would be convenient all round to show his face at once. And later, if possible, he could go to his room for a moment to wash his hands and face.

  He walked across the polished, creaking parquet, half-opened the door in front of him, and peeked his head round the side.

  ‘I’m back,’ he announced, while
Lilla, his mother’s poodle, uttered its usual little stifled woof. ‘Good evening.’

  He had taken them by surprise.

  Nives and his mother were at either end of the table, Rory and Prearo, the accountant, in between, facing each other: all of them stared at him with startled looks, motionless as statues. Strange. Strange and comic. Was it possible that Elsa, who had indeed warned Romeo of his coming, had neglected to tell Nives, as well, about his phone call? No, that couldn’t be, he realized as he noticed that a fifth place had been set beside Rory.

  He came forwards a step.

  ‘My respects,’ murmured Prearo, half-rising from his seat and jerking back his sweaty face.

  ‘Please don’t get up.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’ Nives said in a complaining tone. ‘Go on, do, it’s late.’

  Just at that moment, Elsa came in through the other door that opened on to the kitchen and the office. She was balancing the oval dish of boiled turkey meatloaf, and she, too, on seeing him, came to a sudden halt.

  He took them all in with a single circular glance: Nives, Rory, his mother with the little black, curly-haired poodle curled up on a seat beside her, Prearo, Elsa. He felt incredibly rich, generous, disposed to be bountiful: overtaken by a kind of inebriation. Yet he knew, how well he knew it! All it would have needed was for him to decide to stay alive for one more day, for just a single day, and that happiness, which for an hour he had carried shut tight within him like a treasure, to suddenly dissolve and for him to experience once again, even towards his daughter, sitting there, staring up at him with her beautiful dark and wild blue eyes, the same old bitter sense of alienation, almost of repulsion, that had always stopped him feeling that she was his, that he loved her. That was it, he told himself, only by dying was he able to love her! And she? Would she remember him, her father, when she was grown up? What he looked like? Almost certainly not. He hoped for this on her behalf with all his heart. In his present state, this was the only gift he was able to give her.

  ‘I’m going to my room for a moment,’ he said.

  5

  He, more than any of them, believed he was going to return in a moment. But after he’d left the dining-room, and had begun to walk down the long L-shaped corridor which led from the entrance to his bedroom, he suddenly understood that he would not return, not even to announce that he’d decided to skip supper. To stay on his own, to undress, to think. To prepare himself. Nothing weighed on him; there was nothing else he desired.

  He entered his room. He switched on the central light. He undid the cartridge belt and draped it on a chair. He slid the two rifles from his shoulders, and leant them against the wall beside the glass cabinet. He took off his jacket, hanging it on the wheeled clothes-horse. He sat on the side of the bed. He bent down to unlace his boots. He straightened up. He switched on the small lamp on his bedside table. At last he stretched himself out, his hands entwined behind his neck. And he was lying thus, staring at the ill-lit ceiling, overcome by the feeling of extraordinary well-being which lying supine on the bed, on his own bed again, gave him, when he heard someone knocking at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  It was Elsa – he knew from her smell, a blend of cooking and soap.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked without moving, and closing his eyes.

  The riso in brodo is getting cold, the girl replied. If Signor Avvocato didn’t come down soon, then later, when it was reheated, it wouldn’t taste nearly as good.

  He knew where she was. Just beyond the threshold, her hand resting on the latch. He saw her hand: big, with swollen and grazed fingers, but appealing, not in the least unpleasant.

  ‘No. I won’t be coming down,’ he replied. ‘I’m not hungry. Would you tell the Signora that?’

  He lifted his body halfway up, leaned on his elbow and gave her a smile.

  ‘Also, I’m too tired to eat.’

  In the half-dark, in the lamplight that lit her healthy cheeks faintly from below, he saw her flush. Where was she from? Ah yes, from Chioggia, or rather Sottomarina di Chioggia. Blonde, rosy, sturdy, with blue eyes, just like Irma Manzoli, she was forever blushing, and he always found women who blushed easily attractive.

  ‘Is there nothing you need?’ she asked him.

  He was about to say no. But an idea occurred to him. What if, by chance, there wasn’t any string in the house? That would be a real disaster. To have the wherewithal to shoot himself, he absolutely needed some.

  ‘Do you happen to have any string in the kitchen?’

  ‘Any string?’

  Poor girl. It was understandable she should stare at him like that, caught between wonder and irony.

  ‘Before going off to sleep,’ he explained, ‘I’d like to give the rifles a bit of a clean.’

  ‘I think we might have. But how long should it be?’

  ‘A couple of metres would do.’

  ‘I’ll go and see straightaway.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He smiled again. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  Having heard the door shut, he got to his feet, took off his wristwatch, placed it on the bedside table and walked into the bathroom.

  First of all he turned on the bath taps, leaning over the bath to gauge the temperature of the water accurately. And as he gradually undressed – he knew that what he wanted was to be undressed, to wash himself completely clean, to shave, and later he might even try to empty his bowels – as he gradually took off his pullover, his flannel shirt, his string vest and then, in order, the thick wool stockings, his short socks, the corduroy trousers, the long woollen underpants, the short cotton briefs – he didn’t stop thinking about how he would shoot himself, forcing himself to plot out every smallest detail of the operation.

  In the countryside, he’d often been told, farm-workers generally did it in this way: they propped the gun’s butt on the ground and then, holding the barrel tightly in their hands, pushed the trigger down with their toe extended. He, however, intended to do it differently. He would take the string, knot one end to the trigger and the other to something solid and fixed, perhaps a bath tap. Then, having made himself quite comfortable, in a seated position, he would position the barrel. No, the string would be a decidedly clever device. Being seated, he could shoot himself in the chest, the throat, his mouth or in the middle of his forehead – wherever he chose. And in the bathroom, it hardly mattered if he made a mess of the floor.

  He climbed over the edge of the bath, turned off both taps, and stretched out full-length in the lukewarm water.

  All that remained to be decided – he returned to his thoughts, assisted by the sudden silence – if anything did, was the question of which weapon to use. The Browning or the Krupp? But while he was posing the question, he already knew that the Browning would not be appropriate. He wouldn’t be using that. Better the Krupp. The double barrel was far more reliable. With that gun, the risk of being left half-alive, of slowly bleeding out, was minimal. If he managed to calculate exactly the right lengths of string, one for each trigger, he would be blasted by both shots together, in the same instant. He’d not be aware of a thing.

  He soaped himself from head to toe. He rinsed himself. He got out of the bath. He dried himself. He shaved. He sterilized his face with a dab of cologne. He carefully tidied his hair, using brilliantine, brush and comb. Finally, having put on his pyjamas and his beige-coloured dressing-gown and slippers, he went back into his bedroom.

  Elsa had brought the string. A whole ball of it. She had left it in plain sight on the middle of the bed. He took the ball in his hand and examined it. Excellent. The string wasn’t too thick. Thin but sturdy, the best for the job. For tying a knot with, it would be perfect.

  He leaned his elbow on the bedside table beside the Vacheron-Constantin and the Jaegar, and then once more lay down in the bed, under the covers, his hands laced behind his head as before. He wouldn’t leave any note. Not a single line. What would be the point? There were no debts left to pay or to collect. As fo
r the cemetery, even there, everything was in order. Prearo had always taken care of his annual contribution to the Jewish Community, with regular payments on behalf of himself and his mother. So no one could raise any objections. The President of the Community, that Cohen fellow, who, ever since his marriage, had stopped greeting him, never to resume, would find himself with his hands tied.

  He remained there, thinking.

  Towards midnight he got out of bed, went to the door, opened it and walked into the corridor.

  Not every night, it was true, but quite often, he would go to visit his mother at more or less this time, especially if he’d come home just before or shortly after supper, and had gone to his room to read the papers in peace, or to check some accounts. It was a very long-established habit. For that reason, it wasn’t impossible that his mother, troubled not to see him come in, might take it into her head to burst in on him at two or three o’clock when he’d be most in need of being alone, of not being disturbed.

  He walked down the corridor, past the entrance, the dining-room, the two adjoining drawing-rooms which had been left unheated for a couple of years and had now effectively been re-assigned as a storage room and a larder. He moved, then, from one side of the apartment to the other, opening and shutting doors, switching lights on and off, and without worrying whether the parquet creaked. If Nives, from her bedroom, or Elsa, in her little room next to the kitchen, should hear him pass, all the better. All the better that tonight everything should seem perfectly normal to them as well, no different in any respect to every other night.