Fantastic Tales

by Italo Calvino

  XII

  The storm died down … but its final stirrings could still be felt. The hour was still early—there were no people to be met on the streets, in many places were lying pieces of chimneys, tiles, palings from fences blown about, broken boughs from trees …. “What must it have been like at sea last night!” I couldn’t help thinking as I saw the traces left by the storm. I was on the point of going to the wharf, but my legs, as if they were obeying an irresistible pull, carried me in the other direction. Not ten minutes later I was already in a part of town I had never visited before. I did not walk quickly, but at an even pace, step after step, with a strange feeling in my heart; I was anticipating something extraordinary, impossible, and at the same time I was certain that this extraordinary thing would come true.

  XIII

  And eventuate it did, this extraordinary thing I anticipated. Suddenly, some twenty paces in front of me, I caught sight of the same negro who had spoken to the baron in my presence in the coffeehouse! Wrapped up in the same cloak I had already noticed him wearing on that occasion, he seemed to spring up out of the ground, and, turning his back to me, walked with a light step along the narrow pavement of the crooked street! I immediately rushed after him, but he also doubled his pace, although he didn’t look behind him, and suddenly he turned sharply around the corner of a house which stuck out. I ran up to the corner and rounded it no less quickly than the negro …. How amazing! Before me stretched a long, narrow and perfectly empty street; it was flooded with the dull lead colour of the morning fog—but peering I could see to the very end of it, I could account for every single building in it … and there was not one living object moving in it anywhere. The tall negro in the cloak had disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared! I was astounded … but only for an instant. Another feeling immediately seized me: this street which stretched out before my eyes, utterly soundless as if dead—I recognized it! It was the street from my dream. I gave a start and hunched myself—the morning was so fresh—then straight away, without the slightest hesitation, and somewhat startled at my assuredness, I went forward!

  I began to look carefully …. And there it was, there on the right, with a corner facing the footpath, there was the house from my dream, there was the old gate with the stonework scrolls on both sides. The windows of the house were certainly not round, but square … but that wasn’t important. I knocked at the gate, knocked twice, three times, louder and louder …. The gate opened slowly, with a heavy creak, as if it were yawning. In front of me stood a young serving-girl, sleepy-eyed and with tousled hair. She had obviously just woken up.

  “Does the baron live here?” I asked, while casting an eye quickly around the deep, narrow courtyard …. Exactly. Everything was exactly right … there were the boards and logs I had seen in my dream.

  “No,” answered the maid, “the baron doesn’t live here.”

  “What do you mean? He must!”

  “He’s not here any more. He left yesterday.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “To America.”

  “To America!” I repeated without meaning to. “He’s coming back, isn’t he?”

  The girl gave me a suspicious look. “We don’t know. He may not come back at all.”

  “And did he stay here long?”

  “Not long, a week or so. He’s not here now.”

  “And what was this baron’s name?”

  The girl looked at me intently.

  “Don’t you know his name? We called him simply ‘the baron.’ Hey! Peter!” she called out, seeing me push forward. “Come over here; there’s a stranger here asking all sorts of questions.”

  The ungainly figure of a hefty workman appeared from inside the house.

  “What is it? What do you want?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and after listening to me sullenly, he repeated what the girl had told me.

  “So who lives here, then?” I said.

  “Our master.”

  “And who is he?”

  “A carpenter. On this street everyone is a carpenter.”

  “May I see him?”

  “Not now, he’s asleep.”

  “Can’t I come into the house?”

  “No, you can’t. You’d better be off.”

  “Well, will I be able to see your master later?”

  “Yes, why not? You can see him any time. He’s a tradesman, isn’t he? But you’d better clear off now. Don’t you know how early it is?”

  “And what about the negro?” I suddenly asked.

  The workman looked in a puzzled way first at me, then at the maid.

  “What negro are you talking about?” he said finally. “You’d better be going, sir. You can come again later. You can have a talk with the master.”

  I went out onto the street. The gates at once banged shut behind me, heavily and abruptly, this time without creaking.

  I took good note of the street and the house, and set off, but not home. I had a feeling akin to disenchantment. Everything that had happened to me had been so strange, so extraordinary—and yet how stupidly it had ended! I had been sure, I had been convinced, that in that house I would see the room that was familiar to me—and in the middle of the room my father, the baron, in a dressing-gown smoking a pipe …. And instead of that the master of the house was a carpenter, and he could be visited as often as you wished—and he would even probably take an order for furniture ….

  And my father had gone away to America! So what did it remain for me to do now? Tell my mother everything—or bury forever the very memory of this meeting? I was decidedly not in the frame of mind to come to terms with the notion that such a supernatural and mysterious beginning could have such a senseless, such an ordinary ending!

  I didn’t want to go back home—and just followed my nose, right out of town.

  XIV

  I walked, with my head down, not thinking about anything, not even feeling anything very much, but completely absorbed in myself. I was dragged from my torpor by an even, muffled, angry beat. I looked up: it was the sea making a noise and droning, only about fifty paces from me. I saw that I was walking across a sand-dune. Stirred up by the night storm, the sea was white with sea-horses right up to the horizon, and the steep-walled ridges of the long waves rolled in one after the other and smashed on the flat shore. I went closer to them—and walked along the very line left by their ebbing and flowing on the yellow, ribbed sand, littered with torn pieces of rubbery sea-weed, fragments of seashells, and snake-like ribbons of sedge. Sharp-winged seagulls, flying in on the wind with a pitiful cry from some far airy abyss, soared, white as snow against the grey cloudy sky, then fell steeply, and, almost skipping from crest to crest, flew off again and were swallowed up, sparks of silver in the strips of swirling foam. A few of them, I noticed, were persistently wheeling above a large rock which was sticking out alone in the middle of the monotonous sheet of the sandy shore. On one side of the rock grew coarse sedge in uneven piles; and where its tangled stems grew out of the yellow salty soil, I could see something black, something quite long, rounded, and not very big …. I started to look closely …. There was some dark object lying there, lying motionless beside the rock …. The closer I approached, the clearer the object became, the more defined ….

  I was only some thirty paces from the rock ….

  Why, it was the outline of a human body! It was a corpse; somebody drowned and thrown up by the sea! I went right up to the rock.

  It was the corpse of the baron, my father! I stood rooted to the spot. Only now did I realize that from early morning I had been led by some unknown forces—that I was in their power—and for several instants my mind was empty of everything except the incessant splashing of the sea—and numb fear at the fate which had taken possession of me ….

  XV

  He was lying on his back, tilting a little to one side, his left arm thrown back behind his head … his right arm was twisted under his body, which was doubled up. His feet, in high sailors boots, had been suc
ked into the boggy slime; his short dark-blue jacket, saturated with salt, had not come undone; a red scarf was still tightly knotted around his neck. His swarthy face, turned to the sky, seemed to be laughing quietly; his upper lip was turned back and I could see his fine, close-set teeth; the dull pupils of his half-closed eyes could scarcely be distinguished from the darkened whites; his hair, clotted and covered in tiny foam bubbles, was strewn on the ground, baring his smooth forehead with the lilac-coloured line of the scar; his narrow nose stuck up in a steep, whitish line between his sunken cheeks. The storm of the previous night had done its work …. He hadn’t seen America! The man who had so wounded my mother, who had so disfigured her life—my father—yes! my father—I could have no doubt about this—was now lying, spread out helplessly in the mud at my feet. I had a feeling of vengeance gained, and pity, and repulsion, and, more than anything, horror—double horror: at what I saw and at what had happened. What was evil and criminal in me, about which I’ve already spoken, those mysterious urges were rising up in me … were suffocating me. Aha! I thought: that’s why I am as I am …. This is when blood makes itself felt! I stood beside the corpse, and looked, and waited: would those dead pupils flicker? Would those frozen lips twitch? No, he was completely motionless; even the sedge, onto which the breakers had cast him, seemed to have died; even the seagulls had flown off—and there was not a single piece of debris anywhere, not a single board, nor piece of smashed rigging. The whole beach was empty—there was just he, and I, and the sea roaring in the distance. I looked back: the same emptiness there too—a chain of lifeless hills on the horizon—and that was all! I felt terrified at leaving this wretched man so utterly alone, in the slime of the seashore, for fish and birds to eat; an inner voice told me that I should find some people, call them, if not to help—how could they!—then at least to gather him up and take him to some shelter … but I was suddenly gripped by an indescribable fear. It seemed to me that the dead man knew that I had come there, that he himself had arranged this last meeting—I even thought I heard the familiar, muffled muttering …. I ran to one side … looked around again …. Something glinting on the body caught my eye: it brought me to a halt. It was the rim of something gold on the hand which was thrown back … I recognized my mother’s engagement ring. I remember how I made myself turn back, go up to the body, bend over it …. I remember the sticky touch of the cold fingers, I remember how I choked, screwed up my eyes, and ground my teeth, trying to pull off the stubborn ring ….

  At last it was off—and I ran off at breakneck speed—and something was borne along behind me, overtaking me, trying to catch me.

  XVI

  Everything I had experienced and felt was no doubt written all over my face when I got home. As soon as I entered my mother’s room, she suddenly straightened up and gave me such an insistently questioning look that, after trying in vain to give some explanation, I ended up wordlessly holding out to her the ring. She became terribly pale, her eyes widened extraordinarily and became lifeless like his—she gave a feeble cry, seized the ring, staggered, fell on my breast and became utterly still, her head thrown back and her wide, crazed eyes devouring me. I held her in both arms and without moving from that spot, without hurrying, I quietly told her everything, not concealing the smallest detail. She listened to my story to the end without saying a single word, although her breast heaved more and more heavily—and her eyes suddenly came to life and she lowered her eyelids. Then she put the ring on her third finger, and, stepping aside a little, began getting her mantilla and hat. I asked her where she meant to go: she raised her eyes with an astounded expression and tried to reply but her voice failed her. She shuddered several times, rubbed her hands as if trying to warm herself and finally said: “Let’s go there.”

  “Where, Mother?”

  “Where he’s lying …. I want to see …. I want to find out …. I shall find out ….”

  I tried to talk her out of going; but she almost had an attack of nerves. I realized that it was impossible to oppose her wish—and we set off.

  XVII

  And so now I was again walking across the sand of the dune—but this time not alone. I was leading my mother by the arm. The sea had receded, moved even further off; it was quietening down, but its weakened sound was still threatening and malevolent. Here at last appeared in front of us the lonely rock—and the sedge. I looked carefully, trying to make out the rounded object lying on the ground—but I couldn’t see anything. We drew closer; I unintentionally slowed my steps. But where was that black, motionless thing? There were only the stems of the sedge showing dark above the sand, which had already dried out. We went right up to the rock …. There was no corpse anywhere—there was only an imprint left in the place where it had been lying and you could tell where the arms and legs had been …. Around about the sedge seemed to be trampled—and a man’s footsteps were noticeable; they went across the dune, then disappeared on reaching a stony ridge.

  Mother and I exchanged glances and were ourselves frightened at what we read on our faces ….

  Had he risen and walked away himself?

  “But he was dead when you saw him, wasn’t he?” she asked in a whisper.

  I could only nod my head. It wasn’t three hours since I had stumbled on the baron’s body …. Someone had discovered it and carried it away. We had to seek out who had done this and what had become of him.

  XVIII

  As she was on her way to the fateful place, she had been racked by fever, but she had kept her self-control. The disappearance of the body struck her as the final misfortune. She was stunned. I feared for her reason. It was with great difficulty that I got her home again. I put her back to bed, and put her under the doctor’s care again; but as soon as my mother came to her senses again somewhat, she immediately demanded that I go off and search for “that man” without delay. I obeyed. But, despite all possible measures, I found nothing. I went to the police several times, visited all the surrounding villages, had several advertisements printed in the newspapers, sought information everywhere—and all in vain! I did actually hear that a drowned man was brought to one of the small seaside villages …. I rode off there immediately, but he had already been buried, and anyway his description was not at all like the baron’s. I found out what ship he had sailed on for America; at first, everyone was sure that that ship had been lost during the storm; but several months later rumours began to circulate to the effect that the ship had been seen at anchor in New York harbour. Not knowing what action to take, I started looking for the negro I had seen, offering him through the newspapers quite a significant sum of money if he would present himself at our house. Some tall negro in a cloak did indeed come to our house while I was away …. However, after asking the maid a lot of questions, he suddenly went away and did not return again.

  Thus it was that all trace of my … my father was lost; thus it was that he sank without return into soundless darkness. My mother and I never spoke of him; only once, I remember, she expressed surprise at my not having mentioned my uncanny dream earlier; and she at once added “so it was really …” but didn’t finish her idea. My mother was ill for a long time, and even after she was recovered our earlier relationship was not reestablished. She felt awkward with me—right up to her death …. Yes, awkward. This is a sorrow nothing can be done about. Everything is eventually smoothed over, memories of the most tragic events in the family gradually lose their strength and painfullness; but if a feeling of awkwardness has taken root between two people who have been close—this is impossible to eradicate. I did not have again the dream which used to trouble me so; I am no longer “searching” for my father; but sometimes in a dream I would seem to hear—and still do—certain far-away cries, incessant, mournful plaining; these sounds are carried from behind a high wall somewhere which it is impossible to climb over, they strain my heart—and I cry with closed eyes—and I am in no way able to understand whether it’s a live man moaning or whether it’s the drawn-out, wild howl of
the turbulent sea I can hear. And then it again turns into that animal muttering—and I awaken with anguish and horror in my heart.

  NIKOLAI SEMYONOVICH LESKOV

  A Shameless Rascal

  (Chertogón, 1879)

  Among the stories of this great Russian writer, there are some that qualify better as “fantastic” than this one. But there are many reasons why I chose this tale: the rhythm of an infernal dance that animates it, the transfiguration of an evening’s events that takes place before the eyes of a young man (the result of the powerful vitality of a rich sinner), and the lightness with which a story that seems to be about damnation turns into a tale of repentance and salvation, even though both courses are impelled by the same impulse.