by Dino Buzzati
From day to day Drogo postponed the decision; besides, he felt himself young still, newly twenty-five. Yet the subtle, worrying thought pursued him incessantly; and now there was the story of the light in the northern steppe. Simeoni might even be right.
* * *
Hardly anyone talked about it in the Fort, as if it were a matter of no importance, one which could not concern them. Their disappointment that the war had failed to break out was still too near, although no one would have had the courage to confess it. Too fresh also was their disappointment at seeing their companions depart, at being left, a forgotten handful, to guard the useless walls. The reduction in the strength of the garrison had proved clearly that the High Command attached no further importance to Fort Bastiani. The dreams which once had come so readily and had been so eagerly desired were now angrily rejected. Simeoni, rather than be mocked, preferred to keep silent.
Besides, on the succeeding nights the mysterious light was no longer to be seen nor was any movement to be distinguished by day on the edge of the plain. Major Matti, who had climbed up to the top of the tower out of curiosity, made Simeoni give him the telescope and swept the desert in vain.
‘Keep your telescope,’ he said to Simeoni in an indifferent voice. ‘It might be a good idea if instead of wearing out your eyes uselessly you were to pay some attention to your men. I have seen a sentry without a bandolier. Go and have a look. It must be that one down there.’
With Matti there was Lieutenant Maderna who later told the story in the mess amidst roars of laughter. Nowadays their only thought was to pass the days as pleasantly as possible and the whole story of the north was forgotten.
It was only with Drogo that Simeoni continued to discuss the mystery. For four days indeed there had been no sign of lights or moving specks, but on the fifth they reappeared. The northern mists – this was Simeoni’s explanation at least – spread and withdrew according to the time of year, the wind and the temperature; in the last four days they had come further south, engulfing what he took to be the workshop.
Not only did the light reappear but about a week later Simeoni claimed that it had moved, advanced towards the Fort. This time Drogo objected – how was it possible in the dark and without any point of reference to demonstrate that there had been a movement of the kind, even supposing it had really taken place?
‘There you are,’ said Simeoni obstinately, ‘you admit then that if the light had moved it could not be definitely proved. So I have as much right to say that it has moved as you to say that it has stood still. In any case you’ll see. I’m going to watch these tiny moving specks every day. You’ll see that little by little they are coming nearer.’
The next day they began to watch together, taking turns at the telescope. In actual fact all they saw were three or four tiny dots moving with extreme slowness. It was difficult even to see whether they were moving. One had to take two or three points of reference, the shadow of a boulder, the brow of a little hill, and work out the distances between them. In a few minutes’ time they saw that the proportions had altered. Which meant that the little speck had changed position.
It was extraordinary that Simeoni had been able to spot it the first time. Nor was it out of the question that the phenomenon had been going on for years or centuries – there might be a village there or a well beside which the caravans waited; and up to now no one at the Fort had used a telescope as strong as Simeoni’s.
The movement of the specks was almost always to and fro along the same line. Simeoni thought they were carts carrying stones or gravel; the men, he said, would be too small to be seen at that distance.
Usually only three or four little specks were to be seen moving at the same time. Supposing they were carts, Simeoni argued, if there were three moving there must be at least six standing still, loading and unloading, and these six could not be picked out because they merged with the thousand other unmoving dots on the landscape. So on that stretch alone they were working with ten vehicles, probably with four horses each, which was normal for heavy hauls. The number of men, in proportion, must run into hundreds.
Such remarks, made at first almost as a sort of wager or as a joke, became the only thing of interest in Drogo’s life. Although Simeoni was not particularly agreeable, being completely lacking in high spirits and pedantic in his conversation, in his free time Giovanni was almost always in his company and in the evening the two sat up late arguing in the anterooms.
Simeoni had already made an estimate. Even supposing the work went on very gradually and the distance was greater than was usually admitted, six months would be enough, he said, to bring the road within gunshot of the Fort. In all probability, he thought, the enemy would halt on the reverse slope of a ridge which ran across the desert.
Usually this ridge merged with the rest of the steppe, being identical in colour, but sometimes the evening shadows or the banks of mists revealed its presence. It fell away to the north, whether steeply or how far no one knew. The stretch of desert it hid from anyone looking from the New Redoubt was unknown – from the walls of the Fort the ridge could not be seen because of the intervening mountains.
From the summit of the ridge to the foot of the mountains where the New Redoubt rose on its rocky cone the desert stretched uniform and flat, interrupted only by an occasional fissure, by heaps of detritus, by narrow patches of cane.
When they had brought the road as far as the ridge, Simeoni anticipated, the enemy would be able to finish the remaining stretch almost in one spurt by taking advantage of a misty night. The ground was level and firm enough to allow even artillery to advance comfortably.
The six months he had allowed, the lieutenant added, could, of course, become seven or eight or even many more according to circumstances. And here Simeoni went over the possible reasons for delay – the existence of other intervening valleys invisible from the New Redoubt, which would make the work longer and more difficult; a gradual falling off in the pace of the work as the Northerners got further away from their supply base; complications of a political nature which might make it advisable to suspend the work for a certain period; the snow, which might halt the work and even bring it to a complete standstill for two months or more; the rains transforming the plain into marsh. Such were the principal obstacles. Simeoni insisted on going over each one meticulously to show that he had an open mind.
And supposing the road served no aggressive ends? Suppose it were being built for some agricultural project, in order to cultivate the vast steppe which up to now had remained sterile and uninhabited? Or if the work were simply to stop after two or three miles? asked Drogo.
Simeoni shook his head. The desert was too stony to be cultivated, he replied. Besides, the Northern Kingdom had immense deserted grasslands which served only for pasture; but on this side of the desert, he went on, the land would be considerably more suitable for such an undertaking.
But was it certain that they were really making a road? Simeoni assured him that on certain clear days, towards sunset, when the shadows were gradually lengthening, he had been able to make out the straight stretch of causeway. But Drogo had not seen it, although he had tried hard enough. Who could swear that that straight line was not merely a fold in the ground? The movement of the mysterious black specks and the light at night were no proof at all – perhaps they had always been there and in previous years perhaps no one had seen them because they had been hidden by mist, not to speak of the shortcomings of the old telescopes used in the Fort up to then.
* * *
While Drogo and Simeoni were arguing thus one day it began to snow. Summer isn’t over yet, was Giovanni’s first thought, and here the bad weather has come already. For it seemed hardly any time since he had come back from the city, that he had not even had time to settle down as before. And yet the calendar said the twenty-fifth of November – whole months had gone by.
Thick, thick snow fell from the sky and lay on the terraces and made them white. As he looked at it Dr
ogo felt his old worry more acutely than ever and sought in vain to dispel it by thinking of his youthfulness, of the number of years that lay before him. For some inexplicable reason time had begun to pass more and more quickly and engulfed the days one after another. You had barely time to look about and the night was falling, the sun was travelling below the horizon and would reappear in the opposite direction to illuminate the snow-clad world.
The others, his companions, did not seem to notice it. They carried out their usual duties without enthusiasm – in fact they became more cheerful when a new month appeared at the top of routine Orders, they became more cheerful as if something had been gained. All the less time to pass at Fort Bastiani, they calculated. Thus they had a goal of their own, never mind whether petty or glorious, and they were content with it.
Major Ortiz himself, who was already getting on for fifty, apathetically watched the weeks and months race past. By now he had given up having great hopes. ‘Another ten years or so,’ he said, ‘then I go on pension.’ He would go back home to an old provincial town, he explained, where some of his people lived. Drogo looked at him with sympathy but without being able to understand him. What would Ortiz do down there among the townspeople, with nothing to live for, alone?
‘I have learnt to accept things,’ said the major, guessing Giovanni’s thoughts. ‘Year by year I have learnt to want less. If I am lucky I shall go home with the rank of colonel.’
‘And then?’ asked Drogo.
‘And then that is enough,’ said Ortiz with a resigned smile. ‘Then I shall wait a little longer – content to have done my duty,’ he added jokingly.
‘But here, at the Fort, in these ten years, don’t you think that—’
‘That a war might come? Are you still thinking about a war? Haven’t we had enough of that?’
On the northern plain there was no longer anything suspicious to be seen on the fringe of the eternal mists; even the light had gone out. And Simeoni was delighted about it. This proved that he was right – it wasn’t a village nor yet a gipsy encampment, but merely some work in progress and the snow had interrupted it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was already some days since winter had descended on the Fort when something strange was to be read on the Order of the day hanging in its little frame on a wall of the courtyard.
‘Deplorable alarmist reports and false rumours,’ it ran, ‘Acting upon precise instructions of the High Command, I recommend N.C.O.’s and men not to give credence to, repeat, or otherwise diffuse, alarmist rumours concerning what have been presumed to be threats of aggression against our borders. Such rumours are entirely without foundation. They may, besides being undesirable for obvious reasons of discipline, disturb normal good relations with our neighbouring state and spread amongst the troops an unnecessary state of tension which is harmful to the service. It is my wish that viligance on the part of the sentries be exercised by the normal methods and that above all no recourse be made to optical instruments not contemplated in the regulations and which, if much used and used without judgment, easily give rise to errors and false conclusions. Any person in possession of such instruments must report to his unit commander who will take steps to withdraw the instruments and keep them in custody.’
There followed the normal orders for the daily guard duties and the signature of the commandant, Lieutenant-Colonel Nicolosi.
It was clear that the Order of the day, although formally addressed to the men, was actually aimed at the officers. Nicolosi had thus achieved two things – he had hurt no one’s feelings and he had informed the whole Fort. Obviously no officer would any longer dare to be seen by the sentries scanning the desert with telescopes not of the regulation pattern. The instruments issued to the various redoubts were old, practically unusable; some had even been lost.
Who had informed on them? Who had warned the High Command down there in the city? They all instinctively thought of Matti – it could only have been he, the man who always had the regulations to hand to kill any pleasure, any attempt at relaxation.
Mostly the officers laughed about it. The High Command, they said, was up to its usual form, two years late. In any case who gave a thought to invasions from the north? Ah, yes, Drogo and Simeoni – they had forgotten about them. Yet it seemed incredible that the Order should have been put up specially for those two. A good chap like Drogo, they thought, was certainly incapable of endangering anyone even if he spent the whole day with a telescope in his hand. Simeoni, too, was judged to be harmless.
But Giovanni was instinctively convinced that the lieutenant-colonel’s order was aimed at him personally. Once more things were working against him. What harm was there if he stayed an hour or two watching the desert? When he thought of it he felt a deep-seated anger grow within him. He was already prepared to await the spring. Once the snow had melted, he hoped, the mysterious light would reappear in the extreme north, the little black specks would once more begin to move to and fro; faith would be reborn.
For all his emotions were centred round that hope and this time only Simeoni was on his side – the others did not give it a thought, not even Ortiz, nor yet the regimental tailor, Prosdocimo. It was fine now to be so alone, to guard their secrets jealously, not as in the days before Angustina died when they had all looked at each other like conspirators with a kind of eager rivalry.
But now the telescope had been forbidden. Being as scrupulous as he was, Simeoni would certainly no longer dare to use it. Even if the light burns once more on the edge of the eternal mists, even if the little specks begin to come and go once more, they will not know – no one could make it out with the naked eye, not even the best sentries, famous hunters who can see a raven almost a mile away.
That day Drogo was anxious to hear what Simeoni thought of things, but he waited until the evening so as not to attract attention; for someone would certainly have reported them immediately. Besides Simeoni had not come to the mess at midday and Giovanni had not seen him elsewhere.
At dinner Simeoni appeared, but later than usual, when Drogo had already begun his meal. He ate at great speed, rose before Giovanni and went straight off to the gaming table. Was he perhaps afraid to find himself alone with Drogo?
Neither of them was on duty that evening. Giovanni sat in an armchair beside the door of the anteroom so as to catch his companion as he went out. And he noted how, during the game, Simeoni cast fleeting sidelong glances at him and tried not to show it.
Simeoni played late, much later than usual; which he had never done before. He continued to throw glances towards the door and hoped that Drogo would have got tired of waiting. At last, when all the others had gone, he too had to rise and move towards the door. Drogo came up to him.
‘Hello, Drogo,’ said Simeoni with an embarrassed smile. ‘I had not seen you, where were you?’
They had begun to walk along one of the innumerable dingy corridors which ran lengthways through the Fort.
‘I was sitting reading,’ said Drogo, ‘I didn’t notice it was so late.’
They walked in silence for a little in the light of the rare lanterns hung symmetrically on the walls. The other officers had already gone off together – they heard their voices come confusedly out of the far shadows. It was late and cold.
‘Did you read Orders?’ said Drogo suddenly. ‘Did you see that about false alarms? I wonder why. And who do you think played informer?’
‘How should I know?’ Simeoni replied almost rudely, stopping at the foot of a flight of stairs. ‘Are you coming up this way?’
‘And the telescope?’ Drogo insisted. ‘We won’t be able to use your telescope any more unless …’
‘I’ve already handed it in,’ interrupted Simeoni solemnly. ‘It seemed the best thing to do. Specially since they had their eye on us.’
‘I think you could have waited a bit. In three months when the snow has gone I don’t suppose anyone will give it a thought. We could watch again. The road you talk about – how wi
ll we see it without looking through your telescope?’
‘Ah, the road,’ and there was a trace of feeling in Simeoni’s voice. ‘But I ended up by being convinced that you were right.’
‘That I was right – how?’
‘That they aren’t making a road, it must be some village or other or a gipsy encampment as you said.’
Then Simeoni was so afraid that he denied everything? For fear of trouble he did not even dare to speak to him, to Drogo. Giovanni looked his companion in the face. The corridor was now completely deserted, no voice was to be heard; the wavering shadows of the two officers were projected monstrously on either side.
‘So you don’t believe in it any more?’ asked Drogo. ‘Do you really think you were mistaken? And what about all your calculations?’
‘They were only to pass the time,’ said Simeoni, trying to turn it all into a joke. ‘I hope you didn’t take me seriously.’
‘Tell the truth – you’re frightened,’ said Drogo with an angry voice. ‘Tell the truth – it was on Orders and now you don’t dare.’
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you this evening,’ answered Simeoni. ‘I don’t know what to say to you. It’s impossible to have a joke with you, that’s what it is, you take everything seriously – you’re like a child, that’s what you are.’
Drogo said nothing and stood looking at him. They remained for a few seconds without speaking, alone in the gloomy corridor; but the silence was too much for them.
‘Well, I’m going to bed,’ said Simeoni finally, ‘good night.’
And he went off up the stairs which were lit on each landing by a dim lantern. Simeoni climbed the first flight and disappeared round a corner; only his shadow was to be seen on the wall, then not even that. What a louse, thought Drogo.
