The Communist
Page 35
“It was a bad time for me, I have to tell you. They were waging war on me for the review. The review that I founded and directed.”
“When was this?”
“They attacked me right from the beginning—and my brother Salvatore was one of the ones who disapproved. I was famous; you don’t know. The Baltimore paper wrote an article urging the Un-American Activities Committee to investigate me. Me, who’s fighting for this country’s honor. You’re not supposed to mention certain things, and my crime was that I did. I said that America is powerful but lacks justice.”
Although she hadn’t quite become famous, Nancy Demarr had in fact gained a certain dangerous notoriety on the East Coast. For months several newspapers had deluged her with sarcasm and nasty comments and there were letters, not always signed, not at all respectful, from indignant good citizens who frequently invited her to “move to Greenwich Village” or “go to Russia.”
Senator McCarthy had made heated allusions to her little review, and he had endorsed demands to outlaw the Socialist Workers’ Party, accused, wrongly, of financing her publication. In a TV debate organized by the inglorious John Birch Society, a boorish opponent, facing Nancy under the lights of the cameras, had pointed a finger at her and shouted, “Any man here want to offer himself to this . . . female? Maybe that’ll cure her!” Some of the hostility, although less brutal, was more effective. The company that distributed the review carried out hidden sabotage. The company that printed it was forced by its own employees to rescind the contract. Up until then the review had broken even, with a print run that sometimes reached forty thousand copies, but now they were short of funds and Nancy began to invest her own. They struggled on for another six months before folding.
The story came to an end. “I came down to Camden for Christmas and didn’t move from here. I was always tired, could barely stand on my two feet, and was very anxious. On the one hand I was pleased to see my family again, after so many years of that do-it-yourself thing, one room with kitchenette, owning nothing, no means of support. But I had taken too much of a beating. I had come to feel afraid of everything, everybody. I was ill.”
Ferranini, deep in his armchair under the window, stroked his knees with his hands, and said nothing.
“You feel sorry for me. Don’t you, Walter?”
He raised his arms and made a circle. “Tutto mi fa pena. E schifo.” He would have said the words in English, but he didn’t know them. Nancy understood all the same. He felt sorry about everything. And disgusted.
After a moment of silence, she said, “I knew you’d blame this country. This country and this system. And I didn’t want you to.” She went on. “I would have liked you to be happy to be here. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
Nancy’s usual light tone returned, and so did her smile. “Guess.” But Ferranini was not the least bit curious.
The following day, which was supposed to be his last day at Morgan, she arrived in his room before 8:00 a.m. With her, the usual bunch of carnations.
“Are you crazy, getting up at this hour when you’re supposed to be resting?”
“Sorry, darling. I didn’t sleep a wink.”
“And if you go on like this, you’ll just get worse. I’m doing you no favor by staying here.”
He persuaded her to go back to bed, and promised her that later he would come to see her.
Newcomer came in as he was packing his bag and advised him not to leave. If it was about the visa, the hospital could arrange an extension.
“And your wife? You cross the Atlantic to see her and then leave right away?”
“Nancy,” said Ferranini, astonished by the ease with which the words came, “Nancy was just a pretext for me to flee.”
There might be some truth to that, so why regret having said it? Newcomer was a man. A man who sympathized with him and had treated him intelligently.
“My hope,” said the doctor, “is that you’ll take another week to improve. Allow me to speak as a friend, if I may. You must have a little more respect for yourself. You are wrong to value your life so little.”
“I’ve recovered, I feel fine. Now it’s Nancy who is getting worse, and very likely it’s my fault. I’m going away tomorrow without saying anything to her; you’ll tell her yourself afterwards. I hope you’ll do me that favor, Newcomer.”
“Walter,” Nancy had begun that evening of their last meeting, in the loggia, “do you remember my school in Meadville? To please me you made friends with the French nuns. You, the atheist. Near the lake there one of them grew flowers in a hothouse—she was called Villiers. A specialist in grafting rhododendrons. We went there the day before we were married. One day, when you arrived in Meadville you said to me in Italian, ‘The Chevy, I wrung its damn neck! It took me less than four hours to get here from Camden.’ Remember?”
“Forget it, Nancy. What’s the point?”
She had thought about it, and after a few moments replied, “The point is to remind us that life exists. What do you think life’s made of? The substance of life is the past.”
“Are you that old?” he had said, teasing her for once. “Listen. When did you stop loving Nancy?” she asked.
“Hmm. When my youth departed.”
“Good. That’s the right answer, Walter,” she said. That evening she was calmer, less insistent. She looked better too.
On the train to New York, Ferranini went over that last conversation. He was happy there had been no farewells, that he’d left unannounced, just as he’d arrived. The whole episode, Philadelphia, the John Morgan, so strange and improbable, could not have ended otherwise. The certainty that he was not necessary to Nancy (that he’d been a negative intrusion in her life) now pressed his new perceptions into a reassuring and well-worn shape, like some comfortable article of clothing.
The fact was, there was always something morbid about Nancy when she was operating in the private, personal realm. It wasn’t normal for her, she needed an impersonal bond with people, some kind of collectivity, on which to exert her influence. It was the calling of a missionary, which she executed faithfully, trying to set an example to others, and not just to women. A generous Don Quixote of a woman, little made for love (and finally, Ferranini thought without bitterness, not that much of a woman).
He hadn’t thought to suggest the Peace Corps or the UN agency for displaced persons. A pity, they were big, American-made contrivances where, after her ugly experiences, she might have found a place. A way back from subversive patriotism to bourgeois patriotism. She was a missionary, but not inclined to waste much time on ideological consistency, so a change of program wouldn’t cost her much, he reckoned. In short, Ferranini thought, she’s even more of a stray than I am! So why, before he left the hospital, had he gone back to peer at the loggia where she had always waited for him. Her voice, softening to say his name, still rang in his ears.
Rainy countryside, a coastline where the high, green sea hit the sand in silence. The train ride seemed long. Hoping to fill the void inside, Ferranini allowed himself to think about this woman he’d never see again. What he needed to avoid thinking about above all was himself; for years train rides had served as one of those rare occasions to take personal stock of things. And to arrive at decisions. Decisions were essence of life and its purpose, he now recognized with sorrow and dismay.
What he wanted was a deferment, a suspension. Another interval like his hospital stay, but one that would last. To be neither here nor there (impossible, but he was so weary!). A balance he had been looking for, without knowing it, when he left Rome with the illusion he was escaping. Freedom not to plant his feet on the earth. A foolish thought pestered him: the bourgeoisie had invented so many pointless freedoms—why not this one? Well, because this was not merely a formal liberty, freedom in name alone. He rose and went to see where he could find a newspaper. He hadn’t read one for nearly two weeks. He came back with the papers, mechanically opened his bag, and stuffed them in. Hid them.
Newcomer. He’d said that high altitudes were no good for Ferranini. Take the ocean route; it’s restful. But he had the return ticket in his pocket. Throw it away? He didn’t like the idea.
Yes, pain prompted powerful reactions that then made common cause with the most petty, even miserly logic. But the psychic economy, you had to admit, depended on curious currency, although—no, let’s not bring Marx into this—although there was that old problem of the “mystery” of money worship, money fetishism. Ferranini took out his wallet to see how much money he had left. He had quite a bit.
At the hospital, they had been strangely uninterested in payment. He hadn’t spent money on anything else either, and so pretty much all of the cash he’d brought from Rome was still in the envelope. He sat back in his seat, calmer.
Along with the cash was an expenses sheet to account for the advance on his pay at the chamber. The form unaccountably made him think of the thick lenses and blunt manner of President Leone. He’d advised him to notify his parliamentary group before setting off from Rome.
He hadn’t notified anyone. There would be time to send a telegram at the next stop, or when he got to New York. If he wanted to, but then, what for? He could even send two words to Nuccia. Right, Nuccia. He owed her more than he owed the PCI group. It was the first time he had given her a thought.
But when he got to New York at 3:00 p.m., he forgot to telegraph. He came out of the station into a large street, and though he tired quickly, he didn’t mind walking. It was Eighth Avenue, and he didn’t stop walking until he reached the park, a half-hour walk, and sat down (it was raining) on a bench near the Mayflower Hotel, a point he must have passed before, since it looked familiar. He recognized the entrance to the park, the statue of Christopher Columbus. Some hundred people were crowded around the base of the statue, listening to a guy making a speech. Women and girls, holding up anti-Communist and anti-Soviet placards. “We like the American way of life.” “Watch out, Commies, this war could become hot.”
A street peddler offered him some postcards. He chose one with the skyline of New York at night, to send to Fubini. But not to Reggio, not to the Federation. He’d send it to Vimondino where his old comrade went every week.
He walked back downtown to recover his valise; Eighth Avenue was dark and teeming with people (rush hour, hurry to the trains, the breathless end to the day) and he thought of Vimondino. He could go to his hometown. He could ask to change his destination from Rome to Milan. Then Milan to Mantua, Mantua to Guastalla, back to Vimondino from Guastalla on “his” train line, avoiding Reggio. Go to Fubini’s. (Fubini’s mother had always been good to him, she’d take him in.) Wait for Fubini to come home and talk to him. Explain to him. Oscar’s a good kid, after all, he’s fond of me. As soon as he arrived, get into bed, that was for sure. Get them to call the doctor. (Morganti, if he’s still there, Morganti can give me a doctor’s excuse for the chamber.) Maybe Fubini would like to go down to Rome, to listen in. Inform himself.
And thus from mighty Eighth Avenue to the streets of Vimondino, 1,700 inhabitants. A leap. Yes, Fubini, better him than Nuccia. Nuccia would have a hundred thousand questions, a hundred thousand stories to tell. Better for her, too. He’d write to her afterwards, or call her. If she wanted to, she could come visit for a short time. Later, sometime later.
Cross the Po River, his Po, familiar and wild, hidden by poplars. His melancholy Po. (He must call the interprovincial committee that was meeting about the river. The Po, my friends, has no bridges. Our river is good for nothing but flooding. We are padanians, people of the Po first, before we are natives of Emilia, or Lombardy, or Italy.)He heard himself thinking, incredulous. For the length of a block, one corner to the next, a couple of minutes, and again he heard that internal “No.” Send Oscar to Rome to find out what? To obtain what? In any case, Ferranini would never be the man he’d been before. Ready to join the ranks again out of discipline, abnegation . . . or resignation? Because he couldn’t think of anything better to do? The district medical officer Morganti certifies that Ferranini is resigned. Apathetic, deeply indifferent, was this the same man who had always been an eager, unquestioning participant? The crowd heading toward the trains went with him, and when they stopped at the lights they formed a compact front. People beside him, people behind, they moved forward again, men and women, with that five-in-the-afternoon midtown pace (rapid, orderly). As they flowed, he felt his inertia had found an excuse, a prop.
Still, he was in a hurry, and Eighth Avenue was interminably long (from Columbus Circle to Pennsylvania Station). He remembered that he hadn’t reserved a seat on that evening’s flight.
Without any trouble, they found him a seat, and on the flight to Milan. A very nice woman at the desk telephoned and took care of everything. She spoke to him in Italian. In her makeup bag on her desk was a lipstick, a golden cylinder with a bullet-shaped point. Patting his pocket he felt Nuccia’s lipstick, which he’d picked up in Rome on leaving the bookstore. I can tell Nuccia I traveled with a souvenir of her, he thought vaguely. They were on the bus, on the way to Idlewild. Nuccia would come to see him, he could count on that, he hadn’t actually done her any wrong. There was a traffic jam on the East River, and they were stuck there for a long time, halfway across the bridge. The night sky flickered with a million lights, and soon enough Ferranini was thinking that no, he couldn’t count on it. There was her husband. There was Lonati. Who knew what Lonati would get up to. Ferranini would be easy to hit back at. A man in liquidation—in practice, out. His enemies must be rubbing their hands with glee.
Lonati wanted Nuccia back, and maybe Nuccia was thinking: Walter with his wife, me with my husband. Four happy people. Nuccia was now more distant, more uncertain than Nancy. Everything was upside down. It was all so strange, unbelievable to him. Nuccia, a memory? Nuccia and all that? All what?Something bigger and more important than Nuccia, or Rome, or Oscar Fubini was coming unstuck from him. He must let it go, finally, or else grab it back: this was his life, and yet his consciousness was failing him, he couldn’t focus. He need to straighten things out and yet he wouldn’t, couldn’t. His troubled, elusive thoughts were coming together. But they were useless, angry. His position. Liquidated? By whom. How. President Leone had said: Your mandate comes from the electorate. Right was on his side. Liquidate Ferranini? Let them go to Reggio and find out what kind of man he was. And observe that after thirty years when the Catholics were in command, there was now a progressive administration in Vimondino. And there were a lot of other Vimondinos in the province. Hadn’t he achieved results? Hell if he hadn’t! He’d brought a couple of dozen cooperatives to the party, and several thousand members, and sympathizers, had brought backers and votes.
His old valise sat on his knees, and he pounded on it with both fists. Back when he was a believer, he’d known how to spread the faith. He’d been a driving force. Sure, he had left Rome without notifying anyone. For eight days, an emergency, family reasons. Eight days, it was no crime. In any case he’d let them know at the chamber, he had warned them. President Leone had been informed. The president’s office might have told his group.
“Back when he was a believer.” That was well said. And now? The bus had started to move again, slowly, and the East River disappeared behind them. The eight days were finished and he was returning, on time. According to the stipulations of the American authorities and in agreement with what he had promised. There could be no objections. Returning? They were moving very slowly, and in the dim half-light, some uneasy passengers shifted; they might be late arriving at the airport. Returning, was he?Next to him, an Italian was complaining. After protesting to the bus staff, he turned on Ferranini, who hadn’t backed him up.
“You, do you even ca
re whether you take off or not?”
Yes, he cared. He was keen to depart. Depart, that was it. Nobody was waiting for him on the other side, he had no plans. His bag was there with him; it held everything he had, everything he needed. He was free, independent. What was bothering him at that moment was the stink of cigarettes. Chesterfields, Lucky Strikes. Virginia tobacco. Once upon a time he’d liked the smell.
Getting off the bus, and later, waiting on the strip to board the plane, he shivered in the cold, the wind tossing freezing rain in his face. It was raining on his already sopping raincoat, the gabardine with the dusty, dandruff-strewn velvet collar. That morning in the hospital, Miss Joy had noticed it and brought him a brush, which he had rudely tossed on the bed. The rain bounded off the cement as they squeezed around the stairs up to the plane. Fourteen years ago he had also departed shivering, and in the same unpleasant weather, and back then, flying hadn’t been as safe: he had taken an old aircraft owned by an Irish company with a holy card of Saint Patrick on the door to the pilot’s cabin. This time things were different. Before they announced the takeoff, he searched the plane from back to front.
He would have been pleased to find Lamoureux onboard. His memory of the trip westward made him smile. And for a moment he thought he saw him; a tall, young, sun-tanned passenger who had taken off his jacket to replace it with a pajama top that was tight across his broad shoulders.
He sat down in his seat again. Took out the newspapers. Finally he felt like reading them. It was Friday, the paper said, and he thought: Tomorrow Fubini will be home, he goes back home on Saturday night. He had The New York Times and The Philadelphia Inquirer with him; he saw there was an editorial on Algeria, reports from Argentina, Saudi Arabia, and twenty other countries, and not even the briefest word from Italy. As usual. He pushed the papers away and buckled his seat belt. He thought: I’ll eat, then I’ll sleep.