The Path to the Spiders' Nests

by Italo Calvino

  At that moment the hawk begins screeching from the rafters in the roof, flapping its clipped wings as if in sudden desperation.

  ‘Babeuf! I must feed Babeuf!’ cries Mancino, and he runs to fetch the sack of entrails. Then the men turn against him and the bird, as if wanting to divert all their rancour on to something specific.

  ‘Damn you and your hawk! Filthy bird of ill omen! Some disaster happens every time it opens its mouth! Twist its neck! Twist its neck!’

  Mancino faces them with the hawk perched by the claws on his shoulder, feeding it bits of meat and looking at his comrades with hatred. ‘The hawk’s mine, it’s nothing to do with you, and I’ll take it into action with me if I want to, d’you get that?’

  ‘Twist its neck!’ cries Long Zena. ‘This isn’t the time to think of hawks! Twist its neck or we will!’

  He tries to grab it, and gets a bite on the back of his hand that draws blood. The hawk’s feathers are standing on end, it is spreading its wings and screeching ceaselessly, rolling its yellow eyes.

  ‘There! There! I’m glad!’ cries the cook. The men are all standing round him, their beards bristling with rage, their fists raised.

  ‘Shut it up! Shut it up! It brings bad luck! It’ll call the Germans down on us!’

  Long Zena sucks the blood on his wounded hand.

  ‘Kill it!’ he shouts.

  Duke, who is carrying the machine-gun, takes a pistol from his belt.

  ‘I’ll shoot it! I’ll shoot it!’ he grunts.

  The hawk, rather than showing any sign of quietening down, is becoming more and more frenzied.

  ‘Alright,’ Mancino suddenly decides, ‘Alright. Just see what I’m going to do. You wanted it.’

  He has taken the hawk by the neck in both his hands and is now twisting it, holding the head between his knees, towards the ground. The men are all silent.

  ‘There. Now you’re satisfied. You’re all satisfied, now. There.’

  The hawk is not moving any more, its clipped wings are hanging open, its stiff feathers drooping. Mancino flings it on to a bush, and Babeuf remains hanging there by its wings, with its head down. It gives a last quiver, then dies.

  ‘Into line. All into line and let’s go,’ calls Cousin. ‘Machine-gunners ahead, ammunition bearers behind. Riflemen last. Let’s go.’

  Pin is standing to one side. He does not get into line. Dritto turns and enters the barn. In silence the men start off along the track leading up into the mountains. Last is Mancino in his sailor’s jerkin with the bird-droppings all over his shoulders.

  Inside the barn the darkness smells of hay. The woman and the man are asleep in opposite corners, wrapped in their blankets. Neither moves. Pin could swear, though, that neither will close an eye again till daybreak. He lies down also, with his eyes open. He will look and listen, and not close an eye either. The two are not even scratching themselves. They are breathing deeply. Yet they are awake, Pin knows that; and gradually he falls asleep.

  It is daylight outside when he wakes up. Pin is all alone among trampled straw. Gradually he remembers everything. It’s the day of the battle! Why is there no sound of firing? It’s the day when the commander will have the cook’s wife! Pin gets up and goes out. The sky is so blue it’s almost frightening, and so many birds singing they’re almost frightening too.

  The kitchen has been set up among the ruins of an old hut. Giglia is inside. She is fanning a small fire under a can full of chestnuts; she looks pale, with dull eyes.

  ‘Pin! D’you want some chestnuts?’ she calls with that false motherly air of hers as if she were trying to keep him sweet.

  Pin hates women putting on maternal airs; he knows it’s all a trick and that they, like his sister, really hate him and are just afraid of him. He hates her.

  Has ‘it’ happened? And where is Dritto? He decides to ask her.

  ‘Well; done everything?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’ exclaims Giglia.

  Pin does not reply; he glances at her from half-closed eyes, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘I’ve just got up,’ says Giglia, looking angelic.

  She knows what I mean – thinks Pin – the cow. She’s understood.

  And yet he has a feeling that nothing definite has happened yet; the woman is looking tense and holding her breath.

  Dritto arrives. He’s been washing; around his neck is a faded coloured towel. His face looks older, covered with lines and shadows.

  ‘They’re not firing yet,’ he says.

  ‘Hell, Dritto,’ exclaims Pin. ‘Have they all fallen asleep?’

  Dritto doesn’t smile; he is sucking his teeth.

  ‘Has the whole brigade fallen asleep on the crest, d’you think?’ says Pin. ‘And the Germans getting here on tiptoe? Raus! Raus! We turn round and there they are.’

  Pin points behind Dritto, who turns around. Then he is annoyed with himself for turning, and shrugs his shoulders. He sits down by the fire.

  ‘I’m ill,’ he says.

  ‘D’you want some chestnuts?’ asks Giglia.

  Dritto spits into the cinders.

  ‘No, they give me indigestion,’ he says.

  ‘Just drink the juice.’

  ‘That does the same.’

  Then he thinks it over. ‘Airight. Give me some,’ he says.

  He brings the lip of the dirty billy-can to his lips and drinks. Then he puts it down.

  ‘Good. I’m eating too,’ says Pin.

  And he begins to spoon up the mess of hot chestnuts.

  Dritto raises his eyes towards Giglia. His eyelids have long hard lashes on top; the ones underneath are bare.

  ‘Dritto,’ says the woman.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go?’

  Pin keeps his face inside the tin and looks at them from above the brim.

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘Into action, of course.’

  ‘How can I go anywhere, when I don’t know where I am myself!’

  ‘What’s wrong, Dritto?’

  ‘What’s wrong? I know what’s wrong! They’ve got it in for me at brigade headquarters, they’ve been playing cat and mouse with me for some time. It’s always: hey, Dritto we’ll talk about this afterwards, now listen, Dritto, think it over, Dritto watch out, this is the final push … To hell with all this … Devil take them. I can’t stand it any more. If they’ve something to say to me let them say it. I want to do what I want, for a change.’

  Giglia is sitting a little above him. She gives him a long look, breathing hard through her nostrils.

  ‘1 feel I want to do what I want, for a change,’ Dritto tells her, his eyes yellow. He puts a hand on her knee.

  Pin is sucking noisily at the empty tin.

  ‘Dritto, suppose they really get at you?’

  Dritto moves nearer her, now he is crouching at her feet.

  ‘I don’t mind dying,’ he says. But his lips are trembling, the lips of a sick boy. ‘I don’t mind dying. But first I’d like … First …’

  His head is turned up and he is looking at Giglia above him.

  Pin throws the empty tin on to the ground, with the spoon inside. Ding! goes the spoon.

  Dritto now turns his head towards him, and looks at him, gnawing his lips.

  ‘Eh?’ says Pin.

  Dritto gives a start.

  ‘They’re not firing,’ he says.

  ‘They’re not firing,’ says Pin.

  Dritto gets up, and walks round a little, nervously.

  ‘Go and fetch some water, Pin.’

  ‘Right away,’ says Pin, and bends down to do up his boots.

  ‘You’re pale, Giglia,’ says Dritto. He is standing behind her, with his knees touching her back.

  ‘Perhaps I’m ill too,’ breathes Giglia.

  Pin breaks out into one of his monotonous songs in an endless crescendo: ‘She’s pale! … She’s pale! … She’s pale! … She’s pale! …

  The man has put his hands on her cheeks and turned her fa
ce up. ‘Ill like me …? Tell me, Giglia, ill like me …?’

  ‘She’s pale! … She’s pale! … She’s pale! …’ sings Pin.

  Dritto turns on him with a furious face.

  ‘Will you go and get me that water?’

  ‘Wait a sec …’ says Pin. ‘I’ll just do the other up.’

  And he goes on fiddling with his boots.

  ‘I don’t know how you’re ill …’ says Giglia. ‘How are you ill?’

  Dritto says in a low voice, ‘So ill I can’t stand it any more, can’t stand it any more.’

  Now, still from behind her, he has taken her by the shoulders and is holding his hands under her arm-pits.

  ‘She’s pale! … She’s pale! …’

  ‘Pin!’

  ‘Right. I’m off now. Give me the flask.’

  Then he stops, with a hand to his ear. Dritto also stops, and looks out into the emptiness.

  ‘They’re not firing,’ he says.

  ‘Neh? They’re not firing at all …’ says Pin.

  They both stand there silently.

  ‘Pin!’

  ‘I’m going!’

  Pin leaves, dangling the flask and whistling the tune he has been singing. There’ll be a lot to amuse him today. Pin will be quite pitiless; Dritto does not frighten him now he’s not in command any more; he’ll never command anything again, now he’s refused to go into action. Pin’s whistling can no longer be heard from the kitchen. He stops, turns round and tiptoes back. Will they already be on top of each other on the ground, biting each other’s necks like dogs? Pin is already back in the kitchen, in the ruined hut. No, they’re still where they were. Dritto’s hands are now under her hair, at the nape of her neck, and she is making cat-like movements as if to avoid them. They turn at once, with a start, sensing his presence.

  ‘Well?’ exclaims Dritto.

  ‘I came to fetch the other flask,’ says Pin. ‘The straw’s undone on this one.’

  Dritto runs a hand over his forehead. ‘Here you are.’

  The woman gets up and goes and sits near the sack of potatoes.

  ‘Well. Let’s peel some potatoes; at least we’ll be doing something.’

  She lays an empty sack on the ground and puts potatoes and a couple of knives on it.

  ‘Take a knife, Dritto, here are the potatoes,’ she says.

  Pin thinks her silly and hypocritical.

  Dritto is still running his hand over his forehead. ‘They’re not firing yet,’ he says, ‘I wonder what’s happening?’

  Pin goes out again; this time he really will go and fetch water. They’ll have to be given time, otherwise nothing will ever happen. Near the spring is a bush laden with blackberries. Pin settles down to picking and eating them. He likes blackberries, but finds they give him no pleasure now; although he fills his mouth with them he can’t taste any flavour. There; now he’s eaten enough, he can return. But perhaps it’s still too soon; better if he can get something else over first. He crouches down among the bushes, It makes him feel good to force himself and meanwhile think of Dritto and Giglia chasing each other round the ruined hut, or of those prisoners being led out into the darkness, naked and yellow, and made to kneel down in the graves they’ve dug themselves, with chattering teeth; evil incomprehensible things, as strangely fascinating to him as his own excrement.

  He wipes himself with leaves. He’s ready, off he goes.

  In the kitchen the potatoes are spilled all over the floor. Giglia is in a corner beyond the sacks and cooking-pots, with a knife in her hand. Her man’s shirt is open: inside it are her warm white breasts! Dritto is also standing on the other side of the sacks, and is threatening her with his knife. Yes, they are chasing each other, perhaps they’ll wound each other next!

  Instead of which, he is laughing; they are both laughing; it’s all a game. It’s not nice laughter, and the joke seems to hurt them, but they are laughing.

  Pin puts down the flask. ‘Water,’ he says loudly.

  They leave their knives now and come to drink. Dritto takes the flask and gives it to Giglia. Giglia grasps it and drinks, while Dritto looks at her lips.

  He says, ‘They’re not firing yet.’

  Then he turns towards Pin. ‘They’re not firing yet,’ he repeats. ‘What on earth’s happening down there?’

  Pin is pleased at being asked a question like that, as if they were equals.

  ‘What d’you think can be happening?’ he asks.

  Dritto drinks in great gulps, empties the flask down his throat, as if he’s never going to stop. He dries his mouth. ‘There, Giglia, if you want any more. Drink up if you’re thirsty, then we’ll send for another.’

  ‘If you want me to,’ says Pin sourly, ‘I’ll bring you a pailful.’

  They both look at each other and laugh. But Pin realizes they’re not laughing at what he said; it’s a laugh between the two of them, secret, without any reason.

  ‘If you like,’ says Pin, ‘I’ll bring you enough to bathe in.’

  They go on looking at each other and laughing.

  ‘To bathe in,’ repeats the man, and it’s difficult now to tell if he’s laughing or if his teeth are chattering. ‘To bathe in, Giglia, to bathe in.’

  He has taken her by the shoulders. Then suddenly his face darkens and he drops his hands. ‘Down there,’ he says, ‘look down there’

  Hanging on a bush, a few yards away, is the dead hawk, dangling on its wings.

  ‘Away with it. Away with the filthy thing,’ he says, ‘I don’t want to see it any more!’

  He takes it up by one of its wings and flings it far into the rhododendrons; Babeuf flies off as perhaps he never did in his life. Giglia puts a hand on Dritto’s arm. ‘No, poor Babeuf!’

  ‘Away with it,’ Dritto is pale with anger. ‘I don’t want to see it any more! Go and bury it, Pin! Pin, go and bury it. Take the spade and bury it, Pin!’

  Pin looks at the dead bird in the rhododendrons; suppose it gets up, dead though it is, and bites him right between the eyes?

  ‘No, I won’t,’ he says.

  Dritto’s nostrils quiver; he puts a hand on his pistol.

  ‘Take the spade, Pin, and get going.’

  Pin takes the hawk up by a leg; the claws are curved, and hard like hooks. He sets off with the spade on his shoulders, carrying the dead bird with its head dangling down. Through the rhododendrons and a patch of woodland and he’s out in the meadows. Under those meadows rising in gradual slopes up towards the mountains all the dead are buried, with eyes full of earth, dead enemies and dead comrades. And now the hawk as well.

  Pin walks over the meadows in curious twists and turns. He doesn’t want, when he digs a grave for the bird, to uncover a human face with his spade. He doesn’t want to disturb the dead at all, he’s afraid of them. And yet it would be fine to dig up a dead body, a naked corpse with his teeth bare and his eyes empty.

  Now Pin can only see mountains around him, and huge valleys with invisible depths, and high rocky slopes black with woods, then mountains again, row after row of them, into the infinite distance. He is alone on the earth. Under the earth are the dead. Beyond the woods and slopes is the rest of humanity, males and females rubbing themselves against each other on the ground, others attacking and killing. At his feet lies the dead hawk. Huge clouds are flying above him in the windswept sky. Pin begins digging out a grave for the dead bird. A small grave is enough; a hawk is not a man. Pin takes it up; its eyes are shut, with bare, white, almost human-looking lids. If he tried to open one, he would see the round yellow eye beneath. He feels an impulse to fling the hawk into the great empty space above the valley and see its wings open, then watch it rise in flight, circle above his head and fly off towards a distant peak. And then he would follow it as they do in fairy stories, walking over mountains and plains until he reached an enchanted land where all the inhabitants were good. But instead Pin now puts the hawk down into the grave and rakes earth on it with the tip of the spade.

  At that
moment an explosion like a thunderbolt fills the valley; shots, bursts, deep bangs, all amplified by echoes. The battle! Pin jumps back in terror. Terrible noises lacerate the air very near him, he can’t tell where. Soon bullets will be falling right on top of him. Soon the Germans will be appearing on the rocky slopes, bristling with machine-guns, and be on him.

  ‘Dritto!’

  Pin runs away. He’s left the spade sticking in the earth of the grave. He runs with the lacerating noises exploding all round him.

  ‘Dritto! Giglia!’

  There; now he’s tearing through the wood, Machine-gun fire, grenades, mortars; the battle has suddenly started out of its sleep and it’s impossible to tell where it is; perhaps only a few yards from him; perhaps he’ll see machine-guns firing at him at the turn of this path, and dead men lying among the bushes.

  ‘Help! Dritto! Giglia!’

  He is out among the rhododendrons now. Under the open sky the shooting is more frightening than ever.

  ‘Dritto! Giglia!’

  No one in the kitchen. They’ve escaped! Left him alone!

  ‘Dritto! They’re firing! They’re firing!’

  Pin runs haphazardly among the banks of rhododendrons, sobbing. There, in the bushes, is a blanket, a blanket wrapped round a moving human body; one body … no, two bodies … two pairs of legs are showing … twined together … heaving up and down.

  ‘The battle! Dritto! They’re firing! The battle!’

  Chapter Eleven

  The brigade has reached the Pass of the Half-Moon after endless hours of marching. There is a cold night wind blowing which freezes the sweat into the bones; the men are too tired to sleep and the commanders order a short halt behind some rocky boulders. In the dim, cloudy darkness the pass looks like a concave bowl with its rims wreathed in mist, from which rise the top of two rocky heights. Beyond it lie free plains and valleys, fresh areas not yet occupied by the enemy. The men have not rested since they set off for the battle, yet they show no sign of any of those dangerous collapses of morale which are apt to come suddenly after long strain; the stimulant of battle has not worn off yet.