The Twenty Days of Turin

by Giorgio de Maria

  “If they haven’t taken the vim out of you,” he said, “it’s because, in some way or another, you put up resistance . . . And the hidden power that’s being marshaled is not amused by people who resist. In the era of the Library, the followers of that power sought above all to splinter our will, to push us all the way to rock-bottom. The results went far beyond their expectations and many of them must have remained astonished; but certain events, once they’re called forth, even unconsciously, might be irreversible. Or maybe those powers are reviving because they’ve come across the nourishment they need once again: you can always find people willing to offer it. The murderers from the Twenty Days no longer seem like the absolute protagonists under the new situation; they’re only pawns, by the looks of it. It seems like mysterious fellowships have been formed . . . A violence that’s less tumultuous, more selective and purposeful, but no less dangerous for that reason . . .”

  I felt Segre was coming to a very delicate point; I wanted to ask him why these instruments of death and their allies or instigators couldn’t in the end be fought, exposed to public opinion . . .

  “I don’t think we can establish any trail of concrete evidence joining those murderers with whomever—at least to our ­appearance—happens to command them. The evil is too deep-rooted, yet also too widely sown, entangling people, objects and objectives . . . The physical executors of its crimes are entities much too far beyond suspicion, since one cannot even mention them without feeling reason crumbling. Absolute evil couldn’t have taken a more unassailable form . . .” Segre eyed me severely. “I fear today that if the two of us were bold enough to come clean about our speculations, we’d have a hard time managing to express ourselves except in deep allusions. Even the foreign papers, ten years ago, never went far enough to call them by name: they digressed in describing the massacres, they wrapped them up with words, but who dared to ever say what they really were? That duty far exceeds our simple capabilities . . . So I wonder if you might dare to tell me, right now, as plainly as you can: Who are the murderers?”

  He pointed a finger at me and began dinging his plate with a fork. And when I couldn’t respond, he said, “See now if I’m right or not? I too wouldn’t risk it . . . It would be too humiliating to admit the evidence, declaring that something emerged from nowhere at all to capitalize on our ‘power vacuum.’ I’m no scientist, but I think a biologist, a physicist, an expert in mineralogy—none of them would know enough to make a diagnosis of such phenomena, not without taking that ‘power vacuum’ into account.”

  “And yet . . . the evidence was there . . . And it would still be there if . . . if we wanted to hold people to their responsibilities,” I said, now in the grip of despair, knowing well that I was mangling my words.

  “The evidence! And you think anyone cares about the evidence? . . . Perhaps you’re alluding to the imprints on the flower beds, on the asphalt, to photographs that were taken and which nothing has been heard of since? To certain ludicrous nocturnal pursuits, carried out by the forces of justice, which ended as soon as the murderers returned, motionless, to the places they came from? There was no lack of evidence, that’s for sure! But if nothing came out of it, perhaps we should look elsewhere for the reasons why . . . Even Nature can become depraved if people relentlessly incite it to do so . . . And Nature must have had an interest, taking an unscrupulous glance at our history where it discovered the perfect setting it needed to try out some new experimental form of life. Those who are unmoving, those who are beyond suspicion—as far as they are inert and familiar—and yet soaked in blood from head to toe, have always found ideal living conditions and absolute safety in our country. Millions of mouths have always protected them, whether screaming their praises or staying firmly zipped. Understanding this, Nature may have decided to go one step further, which was impossible until now. Can you point to anything more permanent, anything harder to suspect, than those murderers?” added Segre with an ironic touch, topping up his glass and mine. “Or instead of answering, wouldn’t you rather drink up?”

  I followed his second suggestion. The giddiness that the wine gave me sat well enough with my tablemate’s dizzy dialectic. I began to drink without restraint.

  “But why . . . here, exactly . . . in Turin?”

  “Bah . . . Who knows? Perhaps because we’re an isolated city, out of the international time stream, where certain experiments can be carried out without drawing too much attention . . . What do we know about what’s going on in remote planets, which our telescopes and probes can never dream of reaching? These ‘security concerns’ have prompted Nature to select Turin out of all cities!”

  “So what do we do now?” I said, covering my face with my hands.

  “Do you still want to write your book on the Twenty Days?” Segre asked enigmatically.

  I shook my head.

  “Right, then! There’s nothing left to do but get ourselves out of danger . . . Even if we’d never presume to sound the names of the killers, telling who it was who strangled poor Giuffrida, it’s likely others will still believe we’re able to do it. Their ‘security concerns,’ unfortunately, don’t play in our favor: the perverse scheme that’s unfolding is ready to do anything not to be ­hindered . . . As for the government authorities and the mayor, I fear they couldn’t be much help. Bonfante’s too much of a quibbler, and the establishment was always too cautious when it was necessary to intervene, before the evil outgrew measurement on a human scale . . . Our chances of recuperating, over time, have shrunk to but a small glimmer of hope . . . It’s very hard to rebuild anything when you haven’t yet severed the serpent’s head.”

  Segre began to peer into his wine glass, like an oracle scrutinizing a crystal ball. “The future is very dark . . . Foul, small-minded deities have emerged from the heart of the rock . . . And beings of flesh and blood, like us, are celebrating this atrocious event . . . Promise me you’ll leave the city?”

  “Yes, I’ll promise you that.”

  “And to do it as fast as you can?”

  I promised him that as well.

  “Now we can try to finish our meal.”

  I thanked him again for his offer to lend me money, but I had some savings and there’d be more from my severance pay. Segre gave me the address of a Venetian friend of his and said he’d write to him to pre-announce my arrival. Leaving the restaurant, he parted with a friendly, melancholy smile. When I arrived home, a bit shaky from too much wine, I examined my door. It hadn’t taken a bang from anyone’s mace . . . What I saw was the imprint of a hand!

  XI.

  TAKING LEAVE

  WHY NOT JUST TELL you the truth? I was starting to feel happy. Maybe Segre’s theories didn’t seem so ridiculous the next day when I could view them with a clear head. Maybe we truly had hit rock-bottom. When you find yourself staring at unavoidable disaster, at the “point of no return,” the idea of escaping it feels like the perfect medicine. And here my hide was at stake! So I won’t get into detail about my preparations for departure, my resignation letter to the boss, the send-offs and best wishes from my colleagues, nor the process of booking a seat on the plane for that weekend—destination: Venice. I’ll only emphasize one detail, my purchase of a new recorder. I posted a letter by express to Ballarin telling him about my arrival and (with him firm in my mind) about the instrument, which to me now held a symbolic meaning: my honest intention to draw closer again to that “largesse of spirit” from which, perhaps mistakenly, I felt rejected. The Twenty Days could go to hell, and my research with them! What I needed now was inner peace!

  I now had very little time left to pay my farewells to Turin, and I spent it by traipsing far and wide across the city, in a manner almost caressing it. There was no longer any reason to fear my enemies, who by this stage were surely well updated on my plans . . . When someone’s already in a scramble to “get out of the game,” why waste effort making sure his lips stay sealed? Yes, indeed, I spotted a few of them around, patrolling the streets with their
dark suits, their notepads for jotting observations, their walkie-talkies. It hardly took much insight to know that a new “hidden power” was preparing itself, that the Library was getting back on its feet vigorously enough, albeit in new shapes and guises. The insomnia made its comeback, save that the victims were no longer being seized as clubs by unmentionable entities battling among themselves. Now they were left to waste away until they dried out completely, and then—who knew?—

  perhaps someone saw to making them disappear, like abductees, removed from sight.

  I wanted to spend my remaining time in the outer neighborhoods. Mayor Bonfante and his council were hard at work: I found greenery zones where years before there had only been concrete and asphalt . . . quite a few women’s clinics . . . The Rest Home for the Aging Poor no longer seemed like the waiting room for a cemetery; now it was an oasis of bliss where I wouldn’t have scorned to spend my last days . . . And there were so many kindergartens!

  One evening, after dinner, I paid a visit to the neighborhood of Pietra Alta. I’d always been impressed, whenever I’d driven along Corso Giulio Cesare to reach the expressway, by the presence, to my left, of a church shaped like the prow of a ship: a fairly modern red-brick building with a grayish front entrance. A strange temple this was, built—following an image in the Gospel of Matthew—to symbolize the unshakable voyage of the Church through the centuries. Before I left, I wanted to finally see that neighborhood up close. I came there shortly after ten o’clock, on the eve of my departure. I found the atmosphere a little ­disheartening . . . Maybe it was because of the church, which was much taller than I’d imagined; it looked more like an icebreaker than a cruise ship: an icebreaker of which nothing remained but the bow, yet so immense that its circumference outdid all of its counterparts in the Atlantic. And the neighborhood mood was tense. Even in a large courtyard where some youths were having a volleyball match, there was no playfulness. The yard lay at one side of the church, below the level of the road, isolated by a high chain-link fence. THE KIDS’ REPUBLIC, one read on a banner.

  It occurred to me that I was the only person watching the game. Everyone else threw shifty glances at the players, not siding with either team on the field, and dragged themselves along the sidewalk, their faces sad and worried. It seemed less like a sporting event and more like an occupation of territory. In fact, those kids wearing dark tights (there were girls as well), all with well-brushed short hair, were utterly silent except for the thudding of their hands against the ball. They didn’t seem to care which way the match went; it was as if they were in the courtyard purely to send the message: Look out, we’re here!

  I asked a passerby what the name of the church was, and he told me it was called Our Lady of the Straight-and-Narrow Path. I went into a bar to have a coffee, then proceeded on to the neighborhood streets. I was fascinated by the effect the church gave when seen from the front; I paused in Via Cavagnolo, directly opposite the ship’s prow. In the semidarkness, with a row of dilapidated houses looming behind it, half submerged in an automobile graveyard that stretched as far as the eye could see, it gave a menacing impression. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a siren wail at any moment. In between the carcasses of vehicles, I saw human shadows loom up—bent figures, who must’ve been staying up late to dig for something among the metallic junk. And I knew too well what they were hunting for! Appropriately, I pretended not to see them.

  The view was less distressing on the other side of the street: the houses were taller, the walls better preserved. I saw a factory for hair-dryer helmets, a shop selling plastic wares, a stationery shop and, what especially drew my attention, a little door standing open with the inside illuminated and a theater bill stuck to one of its panels—a very discreet notice. A sign was written above the door, in deliberately childish letters: PUPPET THEATER. The wall of the building that served as the theater had insulting graffiti smeared all over it in black paint. I went to the box office, and though the show had started long ago, I bought a ticket and headed inside. The little room was completely packed with regular people and lots of children. Theirs was a very different mood from what I’d seen on the street. They burst into laughter and applause, while on the tiny stage, two marionettes operated by wires—one representing a nineteenth-century general, the other a magisterial gentleman who could’ve been a minister in the Sardinian Parliament—were striking each other furiously with two huge clubs. It was the final scene, a duel to the death in the spirit of Carolingian-cycle heroics, its outcome still uncertain. Astonished, I saw that the “clubs” were two stiff wooden puppets. The general’s name was Ettore de Sonnaz—the “Capataz”—while his opponent was Count Frederico Sclopis of Salerano—the “Mighty Saleran.” They were clashing in the middle of a square, which I recognized as one of the squares in Turin. Each was struggling to get on the pedestal occupied by his opponent—that is, to switch places—but for all their efforts to beat each other into a pulp, neither of them was any closer to his goal. It was a very comical duel, worthy of the laughter I saw around me, and soon enough I joined in. Surrounding the duelists were other puppets, dressed as ordinary citizens, which they reached for, one at a time, to use as weapons. The spectators took sides in an impromptu chorus, with mock-heroic enthusiasm for this or that contender, and you could hear them shouting: “Sock ’im, Capataz!—Woo, that’s the stuff, Saleran!” . . .

  The title of the entertainment was: The Twenty Days of Turin.

  I felt a sort of liberation realizing the methods this part of the neighborhood had found to express the “truth” of those lethal events. And they weren’t just “alluding” to it, either. There was, you could say, a “visible respect” for the nitty-gritty.

  The COUNT and ETORRE drew arms, and they meant it!

  Not a soul in the Piazza was safe from their blitz.

  The two perpetrators came out undented,

  But the weapon of each bashed its partner to bits.

  And then:

  Across the square the GENERAL now took flight;

  The COUNT behind him roared into the night!

  This was a tense moment for the audience because it seemed the Count of Salerano was going to take the pedestal from the hated General and “at last have Via Juvarra to command.” But the retreat was only a ruse, and “the stalemate rattled on, fresh pawns in hand.” All very satisfying . . . Good show! It would’ve been, if only, right then, the floor hadn’t started creaking: a gravelly, vindictive noise, which grew louder and louder. The puppeteer cut off in the middle of a verse as the stage lights blacked out. There came another sound, of breaking glass, and the theater was plunged into darkness . . . “Earthquake!” I heard someone shout as people pushed and shoved to escape the room. I was thrown to the floor, then straightened up and ran away too . . . Via ­Cavagnolo was filled with panic. Everyone was running down the street. There was a second tremor, more powerful but shorter-lasting, which seemed to affect mainly the car bodies piled up and the nearby houses . . . A very selective earthquake, it dawned on me . . .

  In the side streets, in fact, the situation seemed different. One of these, Via Ivrea, gave no signs of agitation at all; all I saw were sportive young men wearing tights, standing in a neat line, each holding a walkie-talkie against his mouth and watching the scene of terror from below without any distress . . . The prow of the church remained in front of me, immense and shadowy . . . Then, little by little, everything calmed down. The tremors didn’t repeat themselves; people started heading back into their homes, and at last even the sportive youngsters crept away from the scene. The show, however, didn’t resume.

  During the night I dreamed that a huge icebreaker had devastated the entire neighborhood.

  The next morning, I arrived at Turin-Caselle Airport with a feeling of relief. I’d almost done it now. I just had to wait, in good trim, for the arrival of the shuttle bus that would carry me and the other passengers to the DC-10 standing on the runway. Men in orange jumpsuits were still fiddling around wit
h the plane. Once I’d checked in my baggage and filled in my boarding card, two security officers determined that the case for my recorder (which I wanted to take on board with me) had no concealed weapons inside: the sight of my harmless instrument brought a smile to their faces. I still had a quarter of an hour before departure . . .

  But what a horrible night it had been! It wasn’t just my dream about Our Lady of the Straight-and-Narrow Path bulldozing houses and burying their tenants under rubble . . . (Its catastrophic work complete, the church shaped like the prow of a ship went back to its proper place, fully intact, only its prow was no longer a prow, but two giant hands folded blamelessly in prayer . . .) No, the nightmare wasn’t the last of it . . . I was woken with a start, yet again, by another loud blow against the main door. This time, however, the entrance gave way. As I sat on the bed, my face pouring with sweat, I heard slow, lumbering footsteps climb the staircase and halt in front of my bedroom door. I thought of dialing the emergency line so they’d dispatch a police car right away, but memories of my last encounter with Segre deterred me from trying it . . . What would I tell them over the phone? Could I even trust the cops? Maybe an ambulance would arrive the next day to take me to the loony bin . . . Then goodbye, Venice! Better to end my life like Giuffrida, strangled by two merciless fingers . . . At worst, if that creature tried to break down my door and enter by force, I could dive out the window . . . Toward one o’clock, thankfully, it went away—stomp! stomp!—down the stairs, with more stomping out on the sidewalk and onto the road toward Gran Madre di Dio. As soon as the stomping faded away, I knew that I’d have nothing more to fear that night. That had to have been the last warning, all to make sure I had no second thoughts about leaving the city.

  The shuttle bus came at last. As I climbed the ramp stairs into the plane, I noticed that a little crowd had turned up on the tarmac. How they’d gotten the extraordinary permission to do this, I didn’t know. The people in the crowd waved with gusto at the passengers beside me, but nobody waved back. I looked at the gathering (. . . friends? . . . colleagues?) and saw that I was one of the passengers they were saluting. A blue foulard scarf was flapping in the wind just for me! And what a surprise when I realized the person waving it was Bergesio’s sister! Two youngsters in navy blue suits, their faces already familiar, dealt me some kind of military salute with their wrists bent at right angles to their foreheads. And then, nestled a bit deeper among the others, I saw a figure in white with a sweet smile; she greeted me by fluttering her hand, almost like she was seeing off a lover . . . It was Sister Clotilde.