But, mentally, he crumpled up this last page, just as he had written it and threw it into the sea where he imagined he could see it floating, together with the orange peel.
— 2 —
“I sent for you so that you’d take off the handcuffs,” the man said in a low voice.
His shirt was unbuttoned and his eyes were closed as if he were sleeping. He seemed to have a yellow complexion, but perhaps it was the curtain strung across the porthole that gave the whole cabin this colour. How old could he be; thirty, thirty-five? Perhaps no older than Maria Assunta; prison ages a man quickly. And then that emaciated look. He felt a sudden curiosity and thought to ask the fellow his age. He took off his hat and sat down on the opposite bunk. The man had opened his eyes and was looking at him. The eyes were blue and, who knows why, this touched his feelings. “How old are you?” he asked in a formal manner. Formal, perhaps because this was the end of his service. And the man was a political prisoner, which was something special. Now he sat up and looked at him hard out of his big blue eyes. He had a blond moustache and ruffled hair. He was young, yes, younger than he seemed. “I told you to take off my handcuffs,” he said, in a weary voice. “I want to write a letter, and my arms hurt.” The accent was from the North, but he didn’t know one northern accent from another. Piedmontese, perhaps. “Are you afraid I’ll escape?” he asked ironically. “Look here, I won’t run away, I won’t attack you, I won’t do anything. I wouldn’t have the strength.” He pressed one hand against his stomach, with a quick smile which traced two deep furrows in his cheeks. “And then it’s my last trip,” he added.
When the handcuffs were off he poked about in a small canvas bag, taking out a comb, a pen and a yellow notebook. “If you don’t mind I’d rather be alone to write,” he said; “your presence bothers me. I’d appreciate it if you’d wait outside the cabin. If you’re afraid I may do something you can stay by the door. I promise not to make trouble.”
— 3 —
And then he’d surely find something to do. When you’ve work you’re not so alone. But real work, which would yield not only satisfaction but also money. Chinchillas, for instance. In theory he already knew all about them. A prisoner who had raised them before his arrest had told him. They’re charming little creatures; just don’t let them bite your hands. They’re tough and adaptable, they reproduce even in places where there isn’t much light. Perhaps the closet in the cellar would do, if the landlord would allow it. The man on the second floor kept hamsters.
He leaned against the rail and loosened his shirt collar. Hardly nine o’clock and it was already hot. It was the first day of real summer heat. He fancied he smelled scorched earth and with the smell came the picture of a country road running among prickly pear plants, where a barefoot boy walked towards a house with a lemon tree: his childhood. He took another orange from the bag he had bought the evening before and began to peel it. The price was impossibly high at this season, but he had allowed himself a treat. He threw the peel into the sea and caught a glimpse of the shining coast. Currents outlined bright strips in the water, like the wake of other ships. Quickly he calculated the time. The prison guard would be waiting at the pier and the formality of turning the prisoner over to him would take a quarter of an hour. He could reach the barracks towards noon; it wasn’t far. He fingered the inside pocket of his jacket to check that his discharge papers were there. If he were lucky enough to find the sergeant in the barracks he’d have finished by one o’clock. And by half-past one he’d be sitting under the pergola of the restaurant at the far end of the harbour. He knew the place well but he’d never eaten there. Whenever he passed by he paused to look at the menu displayed on a sign surmounted by a swordfish painted in metallic blue. He had an empty feeling in his stomach, but it couldn’t be hunger. At any rate he let his imagination play over the dishes listed on the sign. Today it will be fish soup and red mullet, he said to himself, and fried zucchini, if he chose. To top it off, a fruit cup or, better still, cherries. And a cup of coffee. Then he’d ask for a sheet of paper and an envelope and spend the afternoon writing the letter. Because you see, Maria Assunta, when you work you’re not so alone, but it must be real work, which yields not only satisfaction but also a bit of money. And so I’ve decided to raise chinchillas, they’re charming creatures as long as you don’t let them bite your hands. They’re tough and adaptable and they reproduce even in places where there isn’t much light. But in your house it would be impossible, you can see that, Maria Assunta, not because of Giannandrea, whom I respect even if we don’t have the same ideas; it’s a question of space and here I have the cellar closet. It may not be ideal, but if the man on the floor above me raises hamsters in a closet I don’t see why I can’t do the same thing.
A voice from behind caused him to start. “Officer, the prisoner wants to see you.”
— 4 —
The guard was a lanky fellow with a pimpled face and long arms sticking out below sleeves that were too short. He wore his uniform awkwardly and spoke the way he had been trained to. “He didn’t say why,” he added.
He told the guard to take his place on deck and went down the stairs leading to the cabins. As he crossed the saloon he saw the captain chatting with a passenger at the bar. For years he’d seen him there and now he waved his hand in a gesture that was less a greeting than a sign of old acquaintance. He slowed his pace wanting to tell the captain that he wouldn’t see him that evening: it’s my last day of service and tonight I’ll stay on the mainland, where I have some things to attend to. Then it suddenly seemed ridiculous. He went down the next flight of stairs to the cabin deck, then along the bare, clean passageway, taking the master-key off his chain. The prisoner was standing near the porthole, looking out to sea. He wheeled around and looked at him out of those childlike blue eyes. “I want to give you this letter,” he said. He had an envelope in his hand and held it out with a timid but at the same time peremptory gesture. “Take it,” he said; “I want you to post it for me.” He had buttoned up his shirt and combed his hair and his face was not as haggard as before. “Do you realize what you’re asking?” he answered. “You know quite well I can’t do it.”
The prisoner sat down on the bed and looked at him in a manner that seemed ironical, or perhaps it was just his childlike eyes. “Of course you can do it,” he said, “if you want to.” He had unpacked his canvas bag and lined up the contents on his bunk as if he were making an inventory. “I know what’s wrong with me,” he said. “Look at my hospital admission card, have a look. Do you know what it means? It means I’ll never get out of that hospital. This is a last trip, do you follow me?” He emphasized the word “last” with an odd intonation, as if it were a joke. He paused as if to catch his breath and once more pressed his hand against his stomach, nervously or as if in pain. “This letter is for someone very dear to me and, for reasons I’m not going to bother explaining, I don’t want it to be censored. Just try to understand, I know you do.” The ship’s siren sounded as it always did when the harbour was in sight. It was a happy sound, something like a snort.
He answered angrily, in a hard, perhaps too hard voice, but there was no other way to end the conversation. “Repack your bag,” he said hurriedly, trying not to look him in the eyes. “In half an hour we’ll be there. I’ll come back when we land to put your handcuffs in place.” That was the expression he used: put them in place.
— 5 —
In a matter of seconds the few passengers dispersed and the pier was empty. An enormous yellow crane moved across the sky towards buildings under construction, with blind windows. The construction yard siren whistled, signalling that work should stop and a church bell in the town made a reply. It was noon. Who knows why the mooring operation had taken so long? The houses along the waterfront were red and yellow; he reflected that he’d never really noticed them and looked more closely. He sat down on an iron stanchion with a rope from a boat wound around it. It was hot, and he took off his cap. Then he started to walk
along the pier in the direction of the crane. The usual old dog, with his head between his paws, lay in front of the combined bar and tobacco shop and wagged his tail feebly as he went by. Four boys in T-shirts, near the juke-box, were joking loudly. A hoarse, slightly masculine woman’s voice carried him back across the years. She was singing Ramona and he thought it was strange that this song should have come back into fashion. Summer was really here.
The restaurant at the far end of the harbour was not yet open. The owner, wearing a white apron, with a sponge in hand, was wiping a deposit of salt and sand from the shutters. The fellow looked at him and smiled in recognition, the way we smile at people we’ve known for most of our life but for whom we have no feelings. He smiled back and walked on, turning into a street with abandoned railway tracks, which he followed to the freight yard. At the end of one of the platforms there was a letterbox whose red paint was eaten by rust. He read the hour of the next collection: five o’clock. He didn’t want to know where the letter was going but he was curious about the name of the person who would receive it, only the Christian name. He carefully covered the address with his hand and looked only at the name: Lisa. She was called Lisa. Strange, it occurred to him: he knew the name of the recipient without knowing her, and he knew the sender without knowing his name. He didn’t remember it because there’s no reason to remember the name of a prisoner. He slipped the letter into the box and turned around to look back at the sea. The sunlight was strong and the gleam on the horizon hid the points of the islands. He felt perspiration on his face and took off his cap in order to wipe his forehead. My name’s Nicola, he said aloud. There was no one anywhere near.
THE TRAINS THAT GO
TO MADRAS
The trains from Bombay to Madras leave from Victoria Station. My guide assured me that a departure from Victoria Station was, of itself, as good as a trip through India, and this was my first reason for taking the train rather than a plane. My guide was an eccentric little book, which gave utterly incongruous advice, and I followed it to the letter. My whole trip was incongruous and so this guidebook suited me to perfection. It treated the traveller not like an avid collector of stereotype images to be visited, as in a museum, by three or four set itineraries, but like a footloose and illogical individual, disposed to taking it easy and making mistakes. By plane, it said, you’ll have a fast, comfortable trip but you’ll miss out on the India of unforgettable villages and countrysides. With long-distance trains you risk unscheduled stops and may arrive as much as a whole day late, but you’ll see the true India. If you have the luck to hit the right train it will be not only comfortable but on time as well; you’ll enjoy first-rate food and service and spend only half as much as you would on a plane. And don’t forget that on Indian trains you may make the most unexpected acquaintances.
These last points had definitely convinced me, and perhaps I was so lucky as to have hit the right train. We had crossed strikingly beautiful country, unforgettable, also, for the variety of its human components, the air-conditioning worked perfectly and the service was faultless. Dusk was falling as the train crossed an area of bare red mountains. The steward came in with tea on a lacquered tray, gave me a dampened towel, poured the tea and informed me, discreetly, that we were in the centre of the country. While I was eating he made up my berth and told me that the dining-car would be open until midnight and that, if I wanted to dine in my own compartment, I had only to ring the bell. I thanked him with a small tip and gave him back the tray. Then I smoked a cigarette, looking out of the window at the unfamiliar landscape and wondering about my strange itinerary. For an agnostic to go to Madras to visit the Theosophical Society, and to spend the better part of two days on the train to get there was an undertaking that would probably have pleased the unusual authors of my unusual guidebook. The fact was that a member of the Theosophical Society might be able to tell me something I very much wanted to know. It was a slender hope, perhaps an illusion, and I didn’t want to consume it in the short space of a plane flight; I preferred to cradle and savour it in a leisurely fashion, as we like to do with hopes that we cherish while knowing that there is little chance of their realization.
An abrupt braking of the train intruded on my thoughts and probably my torpor. I must have dozed off for a few minutes while the train was entering a station and I had no time to read the sign displaying the name of the place. I had read in the guidebook that one of the stops was at Mangalore, or perhaps Bangalore, I couldn’t remember which, but now I didn’t want to bother leafing through the book to trace the railway line. Waiting on the platform there were some apparently prosperous Indian travellers in western dress, a group of women and a flurry of porters. It must have been an important industrial city; in the distance, beyond the tracks, there were factory smokestacks, tall buildings and broad, tree-lined avenues.
The man came in while the train was just starting to move again. He greeted me hastily, matched the number on his ticket with that of the berth and, after he had found that they tallied, apologized for his intrusion. He was a portly, bulging European, wearing a dark-blue suit, quite inappropriate to the climate, and a fine hat. His luggage consisted of a black leather overnight bag. He sat down, pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and, with a smile on his face, proceeded to clean his glasses. He had an affable, almost apologetic air. “Are you going to Madras too?” he asked, and added, without waiting for an answer, “This train is highly reliable. We’ll be there at seven o’clock in the morning.”
He spoke good English, with a German accent, but he didn’t look like a German. Dutch, I thought to myself, for no particular reason, or Swiss. He looked like a businessman, around sixty years of age, perhaps a bit older. “Madras is the capital of Dravidian India,” he went on. “If you’ve never been there you’ll see extraordinary things.” He spoke in the detached, casual manner of someone well-acquainted with the country, and I prepared myself for a string of platitudes. I thought it a good idea to tell him that we could still go to the dining-car, where the probable banality of his conversation would be interrupted by the silent manipulations of knife and fork demanded by good table manners.
As we walked through the corridor I introduced myself, apologizing for not having done so before. “Oh, introductions have become useless formalities,” he said with his affable air. And, slightly inclining his head, he added: “My name’s Peter.”
On the subject of dinner he revealed himself to be an expert. He advised me against the vegetable chops which, out of sheer curiosity, I was considering, “because the vegetables have to be very varied and carefully worked over,” he said, “and that’s not likely to be the case aboard a train.” Timidly I proposed some other dishes, purely random selections, all of which he disapproved. Finally I agreed to take the lamb tandoori, which he had chosen for himself, “because the lamb is a noble, sacrificial animal, and Indians have a feeling for the ritual quality of food.”
We talked at length about Dravidian civilization, that is, he talked, and I confined myself to a few typically ignorant questions and an occasional feeble objection. He described, with a wealth of details, the cliff reliefs of Kancheepuram, and the architecture of the Shore Temple; he spoke of unknown, archaic cults extraneous to Hindu pantheism, of the significance of colours and castes and funeral rites. Hesitantly I brought up my own lore: the legend of the martyrdom of Saint Thomas at Madras, the French presence at Pondicherry, the European penetration of the coasts of Tamil, the unsuccessful attempt of the Portuguese to found another Goa in the same area and their wars with the local potentates. He rounded out my notions and corrected my inexactness in regard to indigenous dynasties, spelling out names, places, dates and events. He spoke with competence and assurance; his vast erudition seemed to mark him as an expert, perhaps a university professor or, in any case, a serious scholar. I put the question to him, frankly and with a certain ingenuousness, sure that he would make an affirmative answer. He smiled, with a certain false modesty, and shook his head. �
�I’m only an amateur,” he said. “I’ve a passion that fate has spurred me to cultivate.”
There was a note of distress in his voice, I thought, expressive of regret or sorrow. His eyes glistened, and his smooth face seemed paler under the lights of the dining-car. His hands were delicate and his gestures weary. His whole bearing had something incomplete and indefinable about it, a sort of hidden sickliness or shame.
We returned to our compartment and went on talking, but his liveliness had subsided and our conversation was punctuated by long silences. While we were getting ready for bed I asked him, for no specific reason, why he was travelling by train instead of by plane. I thought that, at his age, it would have been easier and more comfortable to take a plane rather than undergo so long a journey. I expected that his answer would be a confession of fear of air travel, shared by people who have not been accustomed to it from an early age.
He looked at me with perplexity, as if such a thing had never occurred to him. Then, suddenly, his face lit up and he said: “By plane you have a fast and comfortable trip, but you miss out on the real India. With long-distance trains you risk arriving as much as a day late, but if you hit the right one you’ll be just as comfortable and arrive on time. And on a train there’s always the pleasure of a conversation that you’d never have in the air.”
Little Misunderstandings of No Importance Page 10
