It was not yet 7:00 p.m. He was on his way home.
As he always did, he went by the tobacco shop on via della Scrofa where he had bought the envelope and stamp before posting the article. The mailbox stood outside. The shop had been crowded that morning and he’d joined the queue waiting to be served. He remembered every detail. He’d been excited, impatient; the prospect of a trip to Leningrad that seemed to him a recognition, a distinction, had made him euphoric. He’d tossed the envelope into the box, pleased to be free of an obligation. One thing less he had to do. A kid going on holiday. Then Formia. In Formia, Amoruso had asked, “Is the piece ready? What are you waiting for, send it.” Amoruso, always going on about something. All he had to say was: No, I’m not sending it.
No excuses, it was his fault. The relief he’d felt at the clarity following his meeting with Comrade Boatta was short-lived. The evening was long and terrible. He went to have a coffee after dinner in a place on via della Stelletta. He’d been going there for several nights now, certain he wouldn’t meet anyone he knew. He sat in a little passageway between the bar and the billiards room, from time to time glancing at the television on the wall in front of him. He sat there for an hour, maybe a little more, not moving, not opening his mouth.
But feeling observed: a guy making a phone call two steps away, cue in hand, was staring at him. It seemed to be—it was—a certain Bosi, an accountant and head of the Quarticciolo section where he had been for the usual inspection chores for a couple of days in October or November. Things at the section were in perfect order administratively, and Bosi had seemed a bit annoyed at the meticulous check “alla Ferranini.” “As you can see we’re honest folk, all in order; no need to come and nitpick.” And he had replied: But a good Communist is above all one who submits to discipline. Words that cost nothing to say when they concerned others.
Otherwise he and Comrade Bosi (Tuscan, from Pistoia) were practically colleagues: between ’49 and ’50 the man had worked in the Reggio Federation under Caprari, at a time when Caprari had taken it on himself to defend those party comrades “threatened” (in their personal interests) by the cooperative movement. Those tradesmen, shopkeepers, and farmers hostile to the constraints of being part of a collective. A category that saw Ferranini the cooperativist as a hardheaded fanatic and in any case a terrible job-buster. There had been daily clashes with Caprari, sometimes quite harsh.
Bosi put down the phone. He pointed a finger toward Ferranini, not very respectful, or anyway not friendly. His words confirmed it: “Oh look, it’s Ferranini, hiding.” And as he passed him on the way back to the billiards room, he added: “What’re you doing here? Don’t look so scared, there’s no Caprari around.”
He didn’t react, just let the other man go by, and then left. Head down, he walked for several minutes, quickly, as if he were being followed.
The following morning the chamber resumed session, but he had decided not to show up. He wrote a note to Nuccia, which he neither mailed nor delivered, and it remained among his papers, where she would find it months later. “I have no one but you to listen to me. I’ve lost my way and don’t know where I am headed, I only know this is an ugly moment for me. The party, when it wants to punish someone, has no need of sanctions.” As he wrote that line, Mazzola reappeared in his imagination as he had done so often in these days. “Nuccia, I’ve never written you love letters, and you wanted that, but I’m no longer able to write them. Forgive me if I speak of these other things that interest you less. In terms of love, I’m long past it. Maybe you’ll appreciate my sincerity, if nothing else.” And he ended with a literary phrase (where had he gotten it?): “It is a sad, and perhaps fatal hour for your Walter.”
He didn’t suspect that with those words he was bidding farewell, if not to Nuccia, to her hopes. Nor did it occur to him that his sincerity came a bit too late to be appreciated. From the same tablet of scratch paper he’d used for that message, he began to write another. At the top of the page he wrote: “Due Clarification to the PCI Direzione, Headquarters.” Below this, he wrote, “Today February 22, 1959, in full self-possession and serenity, I herewith supply the following justification for my recent behavior. Although I am honestly convinced my party loyalty has never faltered, I am nevertheless aware of the obligation that every party member. . . .” And here he stopped. In full self-possession, if not very serenely, he had no idea what offense he intended to provide justification for. Was it to endure what he was enduring?
As he passed by Giordano’s workshop on his way out, he looked so distraught that the carpenter nearly asked him what was wrong. He did not go to the trattoria. He’d eaten nothing since the night before, and when he arrived at Villa Borghese and sat down on a bench near two soldiers, he hadn’t the strength to walk another twenty paces. There, with a cold, hard wind blowing and the mountains of the Sabina in the distance white with snow, he sat all afternoon. He heard one of the soldiers say, “I was assistant paymaster, and they found me with Avanti! in hand, reading it, and they threw me in artillery.” The two of them were sitting close together, arm in arm like kids. The other one, who had said he was from Montelibretti outside Rome, observed: “Jackass, what got into your head to make you take up politics?”
But the premonition isolated him, left him senseless to the voices, even the cold. The premonition. The thought that throbbed in his temples, sharp and insistent, was: tonight. Now, when I return. He got up at about 5:00 p.m., the sun low in the sky, and seeking to keep control of himself, slowly walked down, step after step, to Piazza del Popolo, where he hailed a taxi. He thought of Nuccia, who said he was an obsessive. (I’d like to see how someone else acts in my place.)
Nothing. There was nothing at home yet. He went down to the street again, and walked to the printshop behind the restaurant where he used to eat. It was a pleasure to listen to his old friends talk, the fellow workers of poor Gennaro. They told him that the dead man’s younger brother had applied to work as an errand boy for the CGIL on Corso d’Italia. If he could put in a word, that would be good. He promised. And went back home again. Almost running.
This time the letter was there. On the floor, set on top of the newspaper at the end of the landing along with an ad inviting him to “Fly to New York (USA), fly TWA.”
•
He opened the letter, read it, folded it carefully, and put it in his wallet. Okay. Now he felt calm. But he had no wish to lock himself up in his room. Once again he took a long walk down the streets of the city center, aiming nowhere, in an utterly passive state. Almost insensible to his surroundings, he found himself in the middle of the street halfway up via del Tritone, hard between two buses, and got out of it alive only because one of the drivers stopped sharply as his bumper grazed him. I’m at the end of the line, he thought: the asphalt of Rome. He stopped to eat somewhere, and ate with transport and the starving man’s unwitting gratitude, and meanwhile he asked himself whatever was the name of that review that had printed his article. He had forgotten.
With two fingers in the pocket of his jacket, he felt the letter inside his wallet. It was a certainty and, therefore, a strength. During the film (he’d entered a movie house), he took it out and reread it by the light of a match. They “invited” him to appear “as soon as possible” at party headquarters “to supply information.” It was positive, then; within twenty-four hours he would know. That was fine. The wait was almost over; then there would be another, but that was something else, and it wouldn’t be worse. After midnight on his way out of the movie, instinct drew him toward the station. He realized he was at Termini when he found himself at the bar in front of a glass of white, and was astonished by his ingenuous attempt to escape. Now he was here, and here he stayed, loitering, comforted by all the life that circulated under the roof as if it were day. He ended up in a lounge, napping on a chair, around him the comings and goings of a company of women laden with parcels and rosaries getting ready to leave on a pilgrimage to the Virgin of Pompeii. But they didn’t distur
b him; he fell asleep just sitting there. The room was warm and in a drowsy state he saw and heard Roberto Mazzola, who spoke to him at length. Fanatical, insistent as he was in life, standing tall in front of him. Later there was a buzz of activity among the women; they changed places and moved their parcels and somewhat rudely jostled him, while he, only half awake, continued to reason with Mazzola. (Yes, resigned, chastened. It’s true, but dear man, I got thrashed. One has to go on living. A crisis, you say; and you were able to handle your crisis. You decided; I didn’t. But I couldn’t, I’m different; I’m a modest activist with a dilettante theorist inside. An autodidact. The truth is, I’m no politician. You say I was born for self-criticism, and you are right. Quote me four lines from some text and my revolt is good and quashed. Okay. I’m no politician; even Reparatore noticed that.)
He fell back asleep, and then the women unwrapped their food supplies and began to eat. He woke again and felt very cold. (It’s true, there’s nothing I like better than letting myself be persuaded. I’d rather be in the wrong, it’s true. I’m a member, a joiner. I’m no politician, I’m just a poor guy. I got thrashed! I read the classics, I study them, take notes; I can do no more. What do you want?) Once again he fell asleep and heard nothing more. He was now alone, lying down, his head resting on a paper bag full of scamorza rinds. Dawn had already come when a guard woke him by rapping a broom handle against his seat.
In all, he’d slept maybe six hours. He thought he might have regained his balance a bit. He had a shave at the barber there in the station. Drank two caffè ristretti, one after the other. But he couldn’t shake off the chill inside him, although he forced himself to walk all the way. His teeth chattered unless he paid attention. He had to stop twice to urinate.
When he got to via delle Botteghe Oscure he raised his eyes to the window with the green blinds: still dark in that gray morning. A simple soul, he went in repeating to himself a phrase he’d heard the night before at the movies: Okay, the moment of decision has arrived.
“Historical Department and Archive,” said the porter to whom he showed the letter. “Dottor D’Aiuto is already here.”
D’Aiuto? He was just a functionary.
He went upstairs. D’Aiuto rose to receive him.
“Thanks, you’re good to come. You can help me out of a fix.”
Ferranini collapsed into a chair. He couldn’t take any more of this.
“Let me explain. On November 1 and 2 you carried out an inspection at the Tor Pignattara section. The rules say you then sent a report. The other day they were asking me for it, and it just couldn’t be found. Therefore, either we lost it, or you never sent it.”
Ferranini could only stammer, “How strange, so strange.”
From the other side of his desk D’Aiuto, Calabrian, intent, smoothing his red hair with his left hand, studied him.
“What’s the matter, Ferranini? No cause for concern. Just take a look at home among your papers.”
“Yes.”
“You know, things are in a shambles here, files, documents. As for the summons you got, I didn’t compile it myself, it may have been a bit peremptory. You’ll forgive me.”
“I forgive you.”
“Oh, and be a good fellow, pop by with that report tonight or tomorrow morning. Or anyway send it to me quickly.”
“Yes.”
He was still ashen-faced that afternoon when he went by the bookstore to see Nuccia. But he didn’t tell her. He couldn’t face ironic comments.
“You haven’t been well.”
“It’s the cold; I’m feeling the cold. Nothing special.”
She, however, had something special to report. “Guess who came in here this morning?”
“Your husband.”
“No, thank heavens. Someone far more important. Dear to your heart. Comrade Togliatti.”
“Doing what?”
“Oh, he was looking for Stendhal’s Lucien Leuwen in French. I wasn’t in yet; he spoke to Holzener. The clerk. Holzener told him, ‘We don’t have it, try at Rizzoli or Hoepli.’ He replied, ‘I’ll try, but I’m not hopeful. Rome is no city of bouquineurs.’ ”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, book-lovers. But he was extremely nice. Now, supposing you met him coming in, what would you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on. If I saw him, I’d talk about us two. You can be sure of it.”
Ferranini didn’t move or say a word.
“Walter, you’re strange, you know. Your chief, your hero. You’d be indifferent?”
“No.”
He left soon after. He thought he might go see Reparatore and began to walk. He hadn’t considered the distance. Reparatore was at least three kilometers from the bookstore. He was totally worn out when he got there, then realized he couldn’t see his friend without repeating the usual explanations, hearing the usual arguments. He stood staring at the huge yellowish building, the window on the fifth floor where in summer he’d often come for a breath of air, and then he walked back toward the bus stop.
“What’s more I’ve become apathetic, a neurotic,” he said aloud. And turned to see if anyone had noticed.
A few steps behind him, a pretty young woman waved to him. Nina Reparatore, with a satchel of books in hand, like a schoolgirl.
She joined him.
“What were you doing? Looking at my window?” She was vivacious.
“I wanted to see your father.”
“At this time, Walter?” she said, incredulous, stepping up to get him under her umbrella. “My dad’s never here at this hour. He was looking for you at the chamber. Concerned not to see you.”
“What does he think of my situation, your father?”
“Because of the article, you mean? He sees a distinction. Politics and theory are two different things. Politically, discipline is required. As for theory, one can also have ideas. My advice, on the other hand, Walter, is: Careful with the ideas. Don’t get too involved, don’t squander yourself. Hey, why are you walking so fast? Are you in a hurry?”
“I’m in a hurry.”
13
HE SAID goodbye. In a hurry. To go where? No one was expecting him, he had nothing to do.
He was jobless among the many, he could certainly permit himself to be apathetic. And he hadn’t stopped to chat with the girl. Why.
The report on his inspection at Tor Pignattara had turned up at home, or rather he had found the notes he had forgotten to transcribe (he hadn’t been there with his head for a while, he thought). He had them in his pocket now, he only had to type them up.
The following morning he went back to the bookstore, and Nuccia sat down in her office and typed them up, just two pages.
“I’m leaving tonight,” she said when she was done.
“For where.”
“I have my troubles too. Business here at the store is still not thriving, and they’ve called me to Milan again. I hate leaving you in a moment like this.”
“Don’t worry about me!”
“I do worry. On the other hand, though, I’m happy to get out of here. My husband’s bugging me. Things are going well for him, he’s bought into a real estate company here in Rome; he’s going to find a way to make money in the building trade too. He writes to me, sends me flowers. See the roses?”
“Ah.”
“There was a note, where he said he’d been to visit my parents and Giulia in Monticello.”
“You’ll get back together.”
“Are you crazy? However, I bet my mother received him with honors. She would.”
“It makes sense.”
“No. My father could never stand him. And anyway there’s me. They’ll have to deal with me too.”
He was putting on his raincoat, the lining coming unstitched and already soaked with rain.
“Anyway, I’m ready. Nothing means anything to me. Let the world do what it will.”
The bookstore opened directly onto via delle Botteghe Oscure. It was noon and he didn�
��t want to be late for D’Aiuto. Who in turn was grateful for his consideration.
“If you need anything. For what little I can do, count on me.” Mere words, but a relief all the same.
Going down the stairs he made way for three personages, comrades Magrò, Cagnotta, and Guglielmo Schiassi, who were coming up. All of them in the Direzione. As he passed, Cagnotta recognized him and stopped.
“Comrade Ferranini. Why haven’t you been coming to the chamber? Are you ill? You must let the group know.”
He couldn’t bring himself to lie and was silent. Meanwhile Cagnotta called the other two, who were up ahead.
“Here’s our man. Do we want him to come in now?” He turned to Ferranini. “You’ve got some time now, right?” He signaled him to follow. His signal gave the lie to that superficial tone, admitting only one reply. Ferranini followed without opening his mouth.
The room they entered was new to him, a small room with a few chairs, a table, and a telephone. On one side of the table sat the three authorities, who hadn’t even taken off their overcoats; they pointed to a chair on the other side, and he sat down. Of the three, Cagnotta, the chief of the party’s Central Economic Committee, was the highest ranking. It was he who spoke first.
“Well then, comrade, we haven’t seen you at the chamber. But you’re not avoiding people, as we can see from the fact you are here. A sign your conscience is untroubled. Am I right?” Abruptly he said to Schiassi, “Let them know upstairs, please.”
Schiassi called an inside line and said to someone, “We’re here with Comrade Ferranini,” then sat down again.
The panel of judges had been assembled. For that was what it was, and he knew it. He unbuckled the belt of his raincoat to get some air. He must try to remain calm. He raised his eyes toward his judges, who didn’t look at him. Schiassi was loudly tapping himself on the forehead with a rolled-up copy of l’Unità. Walter was surprised to find he was not anxious. He was only sorry he didn’t have his little edition of the Communist Manifesto. His codex, his magic charm.
The Communist Page 28
