by André Aciman
“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 soccer game. So more screams, more running, jumping, thudding. And Andrea stayed there, at the other end of the line, with the heavy, determined breathing of a little peasant.
Rain or no rain, whatever it cost, he felt 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.
* Sgnór avucàt: Ferrarese dialect for signor avvocato, the respectful title given to a lawyer.
† Alcide De Gasperi (1881–1953) was the founder of the Christian Democracy Party and prime minister of Italy from 1945 to 1953.
‡ Tupìn: Ferrarese dialect for mouse, but here a reference to violent young Fascists.
§ Istituto Nazionale delle Assicurazioni: a large Italian insurance company.
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 toward Bellagamba who, seeing him approach, cast away his cigarette. He paid for the telepgghone 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 sidewalk 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 Cafe Fetman once again.
Bellagamba was still there, standing on the sidewalk.
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 meters, 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 ringroad, 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 toward the far end beside the pinkish surrounding wall, with the usual 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 kilometers 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 bell tower, 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 haybarn; 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 toward Romea then, after a few hundred meters, turned left, all the bends to left and right leading at a slant into the valleys. He breathed deep. Toward the south, as far as the eye could see, he noted the vast, almost marine expanse of the Valle Nuova; toward 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 at least a piece of bread 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 homemade bread or a slice of Ciambella cake, the rustic kind with big sugar crystals sprinkled all over it, by knocking a
t 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 meters to go—he thought accelerating—and then he’d find out if Ulderico’s man had indeed waited for him. It was unlikely. But for 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 toward 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 bell towers 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, toward 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 word,” 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, toward 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 securely emerged. And what if he went ahead on his 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 in 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 meters 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, witnessed by the almost reflective sheen of the paint and by the roof’s corrugated iron sheet that looked fresh from the builder’s merchant’s. 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 toward the shack.
Having got halfway across the bridge, he had only to read above the door salsamenteria 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.
2.
FROM HOW the young man was dressed—visored cap, a sheepskin-lined military jacket, rubber waders up to his groin—but most of all from the questioning insistence of his gaze, he worked out at once who it was before him. It was Ulderico’s man, Gavino—it couldn’t be anyone else.
He raised his arm in a lively wave.
“Good day,” he shouted out.
The young man gave a slight bow. A somewhat stiff bow like a soldier’s.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he said calmly.
“I’m very late, I know,” he replied.
He lowered his head.
“Perhaps it’s because I haven’t been here in the valleys for at least fifteen years,” he added with an attempt at a laugh, “and so, you know how it is, one loses all track of time. My apologies.”
“Don’t give it a thought.”
He’d said “Don’t give it a thought.” Now he gave the faintest of smiles. Did he think him capable of not paying him for his services?
That would have been absurd: absurd from every point of view. He put his hand on his wallet, determined to fish out the five one-hundred lire notes on the spot which, according to the going rates, he owed him. But the other man was quick to stop him. Certainly not, he said with a slight gesture of annoyance. They had plenty of time to sort out the fee. They could get to that “afterward.” Right now it would be much better if they concentrated on getting to the hide. The wind had changed direction, he went on in his calm, precise almost accentless Italian, lifting his blue eyes to scan the sky. And if they hurried there was still the chance they’d shoot something.
He’s right, he thought. No doubt about it.
“I forgot to bring along something to eat,” he objected nevertheless. “I wouldn’t want to get hungry. Would it be alright,” he asked, nodding toward the shack, “if I had them make me a sandwich?”
“As you wish,” Gavino replied. And he stepped aside to let him pass.
Inside the shack was much bigger than he’d expected.
It consisted of a single room—deep, narrow and in semi-darkness. Along the side walls were widely spaced, cramped windows like embrasures. To the right was a lit fire, and seated motionless in front of it were three old men. Ahead, parallel to the facing wall was a sales counter divided into two parts: one reserved for tobacco, the other for food. And behind this, on the side of the former, her long raven hair haloed by the scarse light from one of the small windows, the gaunt, pallid, bloodless face of a woman. He stopped just over the threshold and, with half-closed eyes, breathed in the odor that pervaded the locale—a mixture of freshly sawn wood and cheap foodstuffs, without Gavino showing the slightest impatience. The half-dark; the dry warmth; those three customers, there, with their glasses in their hands, their decrepit faces on which the flames incised deep wrinkles as though they were sculptures; the head of the woman behind the counter, the smell of the sawmill, of ham and food in oil and so on: it seemed to him exa
ctly as though he’d ended up in a refuge high in the mountains. What bliss if only he could find some way of staying there! he said to himself, now unable to resist that disheartened feeling he’d begun to grapple with from first catching sight of Gavino. How right and quick he’d been to guess the sheer comfort he would feel once he’d got inside the shack!
A little later, reemerging into the air, the light gave him a fortifying, reanimating shock. The baked red of the big Tuffanelli house shone vividly, joyfully: it looked like someone had just finished polishing it. The stretches of water that lay in the Valle Nuova, when he paused for a moment at the peak of the bridge to look at them, astonished him with their extraordinary intensity of blue. They shone blue not only in the distance, where the hard cold wind flecked them here and there with foam, but also near the bank, there, where half-hidden rivulets between foreshore and foreshore twisted their way as near as two or three hundred meters from where some houses stood.
Yet later still, in the car, going along that sandpit of a road, made ever narrower by the water flowing from the Tufanelli house to Lungari di Rottagrande, new motives for unhappiness and regret began to encroach on him.
The dog, first of all; Gavino’s bitch. Youthful and exuberant—a cross between an Italian pointer and a setter, medium-sized, brick-red—there was no hope that she’d stay quiet for a single moment. Gavino switched between talking to her soothingly in dialect, while carressing her mud-spattered flanks, or pulling her down beneath his legs, shouting at her, even hitting her. All to no effect. Even when it seemed as though she’d given up making a fuss, only sticking her head up like a seal between her master’s boots every now and then, the car was still just as full of her, of her obsessive boisterousness, of her life. Leaving aside the smell she gave off, she kept on whining, trembling and fidgeting. Should he stop the car, let her out on her own, to let off steam and chase behind? Not worth even considering, Gavino said at a certain point. In the state of excitement she was in, it was probable she’d dive into the water—with the likelihood that just when they needed her she’d be nowhere near.
