by Dino Buzzati
His friend Francesco Vescovi accompanied him on horseback on the first stage of his road. The horses’ hooves rang through the deserted streets. Dawn was breaking, the city was still sunk in sleep; here and there on a top floor a shutter opened, tired faces appeared and listless eyes looked for a moment on the miraculous birth of the sun.
The two friends did not talk. Drogo was wondering what Fort Bastiani would be like but could not imagine it. He did not even know exactly where it was, nor how far he had to go to reach it. Some people had said a day’s ride, others less; no one whom he had asked had ever really been there.
At the gates of the city Vescovi began to chat about the usual things as if Drogo were going for a ride in the country. Then suddenly he said:
‘Do you see that grassy hill? Yes, that one. Do you see a building on top of it?’ he went on. ‘That’s a bit of the Fort, an outwork. I passed it two years ago, I remember, with my uncle, when we were going hunting.’
They had left the city now. The fields of maize had begun, the pastures, the red autumnal woods. The pair rode on, side by side, along the white, sun-beaten road. Giovanni and Francesco were old friends, having lived together for years on end, with the same enthusiasms, the same friendships; they had seen each other every day, then Vescovi had got fat but Drogo had become an officer and now he saw how far apart they were. All that easy elegant life was his no longer; what lay in wait for him was serious and unknown. It seemed to him that his horse and Francesco’s had already a different gait, that the hoof-beats of his own were less light, less lively, with a suggestion of anxiety and fatigue, as if even the animal felt that life was going to change.
They had reached the brow of a hill. Drogo turned to see the city against the light; the morning smoke rose from the roofs. He picked out the window of his room. Probably it was open. The women were tidying up. They would unmake the bed, shut everything up in a cupboard and then bar the shutters. For months and months no one would enter except the patient dust and, on sunny days, thin streaks of light. There it was, shut up in the dark, the little world of his childhood. His mother would keep it like that so that on his return he could find himself again there, still be a boy within its walls even after his long absence – but of course she was wrong in thinking that she could keep intact a state of happiness which was gone for ever or hold back the flight of time, wrong in imagining that when her son came back and the doors and windows were reopened everything would be as before.
At this point his friend Vescovi took an affectionate farewell and Drogo went on alone, drawing nearer to the mountains. The sun stood overhead when he reached the mouth of the valley leading to the Fort. On the right he could see on a mountain top the redoubt Vescovi had pointed out. It couldn’t be very much further.
In his anxiety to come to the end of his journey Drogo did not stop to eat, but pushed his already tired horse on up the road, which was becoming steeper and was walled in between precipitous banks. Fewer and fewer people were to be met on the way. Giovanni asked a carter how long it took to reach the Fort.
‘The Fort?’ answered the man. ‘What fort?’
‘Fort Bastiani,’ said Drogo.
‘There aren’t any forts in these parts,’ said the carter. ‘I never heard speak of one.’
Evidently he was ill-informed. Drogo set off again and as the afternoon advanced became aware of a subtle uneasiness. He searched the topmost rims of the valley to discover the Fort. He imagined a sort of ancient castle with giddy ramparts. As the hours passed he became more and more convinced that Francesco had misinformed him; the redoubt he had pointed out must already be far behind. And evening was coming on.
Look how small they are – Giovanni Drogo and his horse – how small against the side of the mountains which are growing higher and wilder. He goes on climbing so as to reach the Fort before the end of the day, but the shadows rising from the depths where the torrent rushes are quicker than he is. At a certain moment they are level with Drogo on the opposite side of the ravine, seem to slacken pace for a minute as if not to discourage him, then glide up the hillside and over the boulders and the horseman is left behind.
All the valley was already brimful of violet shadows – only the bare grassy crests, incredibly high up, were lit by the sun when suddenly Drogo found himself in front of what seemed – it was black and gigantic against the intense purity of the evening sky – a military building with an ancient and deserted look. Giovanni felt his heart beat, for that must be the Fort; but everything, the ramparts, the very landscape, breathed an inhospitable and sinister air.
He circled it without finding the entrance. Although it was already dark there was no light in any window nor were there any watch-lights on the line of the ramparts. There was only a bat swinging to and fro against the white cloud. At last Drogo tried a shout.
‘Hallo,’ he cried, ‘is anyone there?’
Then a man rose from the shadows which had gathered at the foot of the walls, a poor beggar of some sort with a grey beard and a little bag in his hand. In the half-light it was difficult to make him out; only the white of his eyes glinted. Drogo looked at him with gratitude.
‘Who are you looking for, sir?’ the man asked.
‘I’m looking for the Fort. Is this it?’
‘There isn’t a fort here any more,’ said the stranger in a good-natured voice. ‘It’s all shut up, there hasn’t been anyone here for ten years.’
‘Where is the Fort then?’ asked Drogo, suddenly annoyed with the man.
‘What Fort? Is that it?’ And so saying the stranger stretched out his arm and pointed.
In a gap in the nearby crags (they were already deep in darkness), behind a disorderly range of crests and incredibly far off, Giovanni Drogo saw a bare hill which was still bathed in the red light of the sunset – a hill which seemed to have sprung from an enchanted land; on its crest there was a regular, geometric band of a peculiar yellowish colour – the silhouette of the Fort.
But how far off it was still! Hours and hours yet on the road and his horse was spent. Drogo gazed with fascination and wondered what attraction there could be in that solitary and almost inaccessible keep, so cut off from the world. What secrets did it hide? But time was running short. Already the last rays of the sun were slowly leaving the distant hill and up its yellow bastions swarmed the dark hordes of encroaching night.
Chapter Two
Darkness overtook him on the way. The valley had narrowed and the Fort had disappeared behind the overhanging mountains. There were no lights, not even the voices of night birds – only from time to time the noise of distant water.
He tried to call, but the echoes threw back his voice with a hostile note. He tied his horse to a tree trunk on the roadside where it might find some grass. Here he sat down, his back to the bank, waiting for sleep to come, and thought meanwhile of the journey ahead, of the people he would find at the Fort, of his future life; but he could see no cause for joy. From time to time the horse pawed the ground with its hooves in a strange, disturbing manner.
When at dawn he set off again he noticed that on the other side of the valley, at the same height, there was another road, and shortly after made out something moving on it. The sun had not yet reached so far down and the shadows lay heavily in the angles of the road, making it difficult to see clearly. But by quickening his pace Drogo contrived to draw abreast and saw that it was a man – an officer on horseback.
A man like himself at last – a friendly being with whom he could laugh and joke, talk of the life they were going to share, of hunting expeditions, of women, of the city; of the city which to Drogo now seemed to have become part of a distant world.
Meanwhile the valley grew narrower and the two roads drew closer, so that Giovanni Drogo saw that the other was a captain. At first he did not dare to shout – it would have seemed silly and disrespectful. Instead he saluted several times, raising his right hand to his cap, but the other did not respond. Evidently he had not noticed Dro
go.
‘Captain,’ Giovanni cried at last, overcome by impatience, and he saluted again.
‘What is it?’ a voice replied from the other side. The captain had halted and saluted correctly and now asked Drogo to explain his cry. There was no severity in the question, but it was evident that the officer was surprised.
‘What is it?’ the captain’s voice echoed again, this time slightly irritated.
Giovanni stopped, used his hands as a megaphone and replied with all his breath:
‘Nothing, I wanted to say “Good day” to you.’
It was a stupid explanation – almost an offensive one, because it might be taken for a joke. Drogo repented of it at once. He had got himself into a ridiculous situation simply because he was bored with himself.
‘Who are you?’ the captain shouted back.
It was the question Drogo had feared. This strange conversation across the valley was beginning to sound like an official interrogation. It was an unpleasant beginning, since it was probable, if not certain, that the captain was from the Fort. However, he had to reply.
‘Lieutenant Drogo,’ Giovanni shouted, introducing himself.
The captain did not know him – in all probability could not catch the name at that distance; however, he seemed to become less ruffled, for he moved forward again making an affirmative gesture as if to say that they would meet shortly. In fact, half an hour later a bridge appeared at a point where the ravine narrowed. The two roads became one.
At the bridge the two men met. The captain, without dismounting, came up to Drogo and held out his hand. He was a man getting on for forty or perhaps older with a thin, aristocratic face. His uniform was clumsily cut but perfectly correct. He introduced himself: ‘Captain Ortiz.’
As he shook his hand it seemed to Drogo that he was at last entering the world of the Fort. This was the first link, to be followed by all sorts of others which would shut him in.
Without more ado the captain set off again and Drogo followed at his side, keeping a little behind out of respect for his rank and awaiting some unpleasant reference to the embarrassing conversation of a few minutes before. Instead the captain kept silence – perhaps he did not want to speak, perhaps he was shy and did not know how to begin. Since the road was steep and the sun hot, the two horses walked on slowly.
At last Captain Ortiz said: ‘I didn’t catch your name at that distance a little while ago. Droso, wasn’t it?’
‘Drogo, with a “g”’ Giovanni answered, ‘Giovanni Drogo. But really, sir, you must excuse me if I shouted back there. You see,’ he added with confusion, ‘I didn’t see your rank across the valley.’
‘No, you couldn’t see,’ Ortiz admitted, not bothering to contradict him, and he laughed.
They rode on thus a while, both a little embarrassed. Then Ortiz said: ‘And where are you bound for like this?’
‘For Fort Bastiani. Isn’t this the road?’
‘Yes, it is.’
They fell silent. It was hot; on all sides there were still mountains, huge wild grass-covered mountains.
‘So you are coming to the Fort?’ said Ortiz. ‘Is it with a dispatch?’
‘No, sir, I am going on duty. I have been posted there.’
‘Posted to the strength?’
‘I believe so, to the strength, my first posting.’
‘I see, to the strength, quite right. Good, good. May I congratulate you?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
They fell silent again and rode on a little further. Giovanni had a tremendous thirst; there was a wooden water-bottle hanging by the captain’s saddle and you could hear the glug-glug of the water in it.
‘For two years?’ asked Ortiz.
‘I beg your pardon, sir – did you say for two years?’
‘Yes, for two years – you will be doing the usual two years’ tour of duty, won’t you?’
‘Two years? I don’t know. They didn’t tell me for how long.’
‘But of course it’s two years – all you newly commissioned lieutenants do two years, then you leave.’
‘Two years is the usual for everyone?’
‘Of course it’s two years – for seniority they count as four. That’s the important thing. Otherwise no one would apply for the post. Well, if it means a quick rise I suppose you can get used to the Fort, what d’you say?’
Drogo had never heard of this, but, not wishing to cut a stupid figure, he tried a vague phrase:
‘Of course, a lot of them …’
Ortiz did not press the point; apparently the topic did not interest him. But now that the ice was broken, Giovanni hazarded a question:
‘So at the Fort everyone has double seniority?’
‘Who is everyone?’
‘I mean the other officers.’
Ortiz chuckled.
‘The whole lot of them! That’s good. Only the subalterns, of course, otherwise who would ask to be posted to it?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Drogo.
‘You didn’t?’
‘No, sir, I learned only two days ago that I had been posted to the Fort.’
‘Well, that’s certainly odd.’
Once more they were silent, each apparently thinking different thoughts.
‘Of course,’ said Ortiz, ‘it might mean …’
Giovanni shook himself.
‘You were saying, sir?’
‘I was saying – it might mean that no one else asked for the posting and so they assigned you officially.’
‘Perhaps that’s it, sir.’
‘Yes, that must be it, right enough.’
Drogo watched the clear-cut shadow of the two horses on the dust of the road, their heads nodding at every step; he heard only the fourfold beat of their hooves, the hum of a fly. The end of the road was still not in sight. Every now and again when the valley curved one could see the road ahead, very high up, cut into precipitous hillsides, climbing in zigzags. They would reach that spot, look up and there the road was still in front of them, still climbing higher.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ asked Drogo.
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Is it still far?’
‘Not very – about two and a half hours, perhaps three at this pace. Perhaps we will be there by midday.’
They were silent for a while; the horses were in a lather – the captain’s was tired and dragged its hooves.
‘You are from the Royal Military Academy, I suppose?’ said Ortiz.
‘Yes, sir, from the Academy.’
‘I see – and tell me, is Colonel Magnus still there?’
‘Colonel Magnus? I don’t think so. I don’t know him.’
The valley was narrowing now, shutting out the sunlight from the pass. Every now and again dark ravines opened off it and down them there came icy winds; at the head of the ravines one caught sight of steep, steep peaks. So high did they seem, that you would have said two or three days were not time enough to reach the summit.
‘And tell me,’ said Ortiz, ‘is Major Bosco still there? Does he still run the musketry course?’
‘No, sir, I don’t think so. There’s Zimmermann – Major Zimmermann.’
‘Yes, Zimmermann, that’s right, I’ve heard his name. The point is that it is a good many years since my time. They will all be different now.’
Both now had their own thoughts. The road had come out into the sun again, mountain followed mountain, even steeper now with rock faces here and there.
‘I saw it in the distance yesterday evening,’ said Drogo.
‘What – the Fort?’
‘Yes, the Fort.’ He paused, then added to show that he knew how to behave: ‘It must be very large, isn’t it? It seemed immense to me.’
‘The Fort – very large? No, no, it is one of the smallest – a very old building. It is only from the distance that it looks a little impressive.’
He was silent for a moment, then added:
‘Very, very old and completely out of date.’
‘No, no, it’s a second class fort,’ Ortiz replied. He seemed to enjoy belittling it but with a special tone of voice – in the same way as one amuses oneself by remarking on the defects of a son, certain that they will always seem trifling when set against his unlimited virtues.
‘It is a dead stretch of frontier,’ Ortiz added, ‘and so they never changed it. It has always remained as it was a century ago.’
‘What do you mean – a dead frontier?’
‘A frontier which gives no worry. Beyond there is a great desert.’
‘A desert?’
‘That’s right – a desert. Stones and parched earth – they call it the Tartar steppe.’
‘Why Tartar?’ asked Drogo. ‘Were there ever Tartars there?’
‘Long, long ago, I believe. But it is a legend more than anything else. No one can have come across it – not even in the last wars.’
‘So the Fort has never been any use?’
‘None at all,’ said the captain.
As the road rose more and more the trees came to an end; only a scattered bush remained here and there. For the rest – parched grass, rocks, falls of red earth.
‘Excuse me, sir, are there any villages near at hand?’
‘No, not near. There’s San Rocco, but it will be twenty miles away.’
‘So I don’t suppose there’s much in the way of amusement?’
‘Not much, that’s right, not much.’
