Catastrophe

by Dino Buzzati

  “Lieutenant Recordini’s.”

  “Eh, would you be prepared to swear to it that Recordini isn’t against the Regime? Think back a little . . . I’m certain he must have given himself away at some time or other, that he has confided in you, eh . . .”

  “Oh, Lord, Recordini certainly isn’t a great enthusiast, but surely that doesn’t mean one should accuse him . . .”

  “Eh, come now, State influenza never makes a mistake . . . whose is that other empty desk there?”

  “That’s Professor Quirico’s desk, he’s the specialist in triple cipher . . . the most brilliant brain in the department.”

  “Eh, there you are then! He’s already had a few brushes with authority, if I’m not mistaken . . . wasn’t he nearly dismissed last year?”

  “You’re quite right,” agreed the Colonel, somewhat worried, “but . . . but couldn’t some of them be ill with other things? . . . This is a most dangerous system . . . one could so easily be mistaken.”

  “Eh, no fear of that sir, the Information Service sees to that . . . look at your register . . . the names of the absentees are marked with a small red cross if it’s influenza . . . perfect, eh?”

  The Colonel passed a hand over his forehead. And what if I get ill too? he thought. Unfortunately I’ve cursed the Chief at times, as well. How can one repress one’s thoughts?

  “Eh, a headache, didn’t you say? You’re looking rather pale today, sir, eh!” Sbrinzel gave a vicious little laugh.

  “No, no, I feel fine now,” said Molinas, controlling himself. “I feel simply fine, thank goodness.”

  “Eh, just as well . . . see you later sir, eh?” He went off, cackling to himself.

  Was it just a joke? Had Sbrinzel wanted to make fun of him? Or had the government really put into effect so infernal a means of trying consciences? Molinas considered his eight absent juniors. The more he thought about it, the more he had to agree that State influenza—if that was what it really was—had chosen its victims very aptly. For one reason or another, all eight were men of dubious patriotism, all eight very intelligent, and of course intelligence, as far as matters of political faith are concerned, is known to be a negative element. But here he asked himself, “Surely these wretched bacilli could sometimes make mistakes and affect innocent people as well? Possibly myself? Surely everyone must have had a hostile or irreverent thought about the Chief at some time or other? If I fell ill what would they do to me? Dismiss me? Court-martial? I mustn’t give in at any price, even if I do begin to feel ill.”

  And he did feel ill. His headache had become worse. A buzzing in his ears. Overwhelming desire for warmth and rest. With an effort he opened the file that Sbrinzel had brought. He studied the messages and divided them up. But they swam before his eyes.

  Under cover of pretending to examine a sheet covered with incomprehensible figures, he took his pulse, using his watch to time the beats: ninety-eight. Temperature? Or just fear?

  As soon as he reached home he rushed for the thermometer. He kept it in his mouth for over a quarter of an hour. Finally he plucked up enough courage to look at it and was left breathless: 102.

  Well dosed with quinine, ears booming, head aching at every move, he went back to the office that afternoon. Strange: Sbrinzel was waiting for him at his desk, and set malicious eyes upon him: “Eh, sir, excuse my saying so, but perhaps you drank a little too much at lunchtime . . . your eyes, they’re terribly bright, eh!”

  “A couple of glasses, certainly no more,” said Molinas to parry the blow.

  “Eh, by the way, how’s the headache?”

  “Gone entirely,” said the Colonel, thoroughly nervous. He put on a show of having a great deal of work to do, scrabbling helplessly amid piles of papers.

  Sbrinzel did go away, but came back a little while later. He enjoyed thinking up excuses for frequent visits. He would continue with his series of sibylline questions: Why did the Colonel have that scarf around his neck? Was he cold? Or did he have a cough? Slight laryngitis?

  Molinas continued to defend himself, but he was tired. Sbrinzel’s words echoed inside his head as if it were a bell. There seemed to be a leaden weight at the nape of his neck. Shivering fits. A confined, burning feeling in the chest. Thoroughgoing influenza, in fact. And not being able to mention it to anyone, because that would make it worse. And that wretched spy Sbrinzel, who had obviously guessed that he didn’t feel well and could hardly wait for his final collapse.

  No, he mustn’t give in. The following day the Colonel was still at his post, though his temperature was almost 103 and his head felt like molten lead. “How come, sir, you’re so flushed, eh?”

  “The cold, perhaps,” answered the Colonel, determined not to weaken.

  “Eh, sir, I do believe you’re shivering. Why on earth are you shivering like that?”

  “Shivering? Absolute nonsense.”

  “Eh, sir, I really would be upset if you didn’t feel well.”

  “Nonsense, nonsense, I say . . . just a slight irritation in the throat . . .” A hundred and two point six, a hundred and two point eight. The Colonel would appear at the office at the usual time with the regularity of a robot, divide the work up among his juniors and then sit motionless at his desk, racked by bursts of hollow coughing.

  “Eh, sir, it sounds as though you’ve caught bronchitis, eh?”

  “No, no, it’s all in the throat . . . I’m perfectly well, I assure you.”

  On the fourth day he was almost defeated. “Let’s go out and have a coffee,” suggested Sbrinzel, obviously intending to put him to some sort of test. Outside it was bitterly cold, and the Colonel’s teeth were chattering even in the warm office.

  “No thanks; I’ve got a lot to do today.”

  “Eh, we won’t be long: a couple of minutes.”

  “No thanks, old fellow.”

  “Perhaps you’re not feeling too good, eh?”

  “No, no, I’m fine.”

  “Eh, I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that you do look a little drawn today . . .”

  On the fifth day he could hardly stand up. None of the juniors with influenza (there were sixteen by now) had yet reappeared. Where were they? Telephone calls to their homes for news were greeted by relatives with the answer “He’s not here” without further explanation. In prison? In hiding? Deported? Molinas was certain that he had pneumonia but didn’t dare consult a doctor, who would certainly tell him to go to bed and possibly inform the Ministry.

  Sixth day. All twenty-four desks were empty: their occupants all had influenza. Sbrinzel sniggered more insinuatingly than ever: “Eh, eh, you can hardly say the Chief is wrong to distrust intellectuals! What remains there of the famous Cip? Delivery men, porters, night watchmen, clerks, the simple souls, they’re the ones who believe whole-heartedly! . . . While the geniuses are all laid low, the geniuses, the government haters! . . . Eh, eh, sir, you’re the only exception, still holding out!” Sbrinzel winked, as if implying “but you’re of the same ilk and you’ll go too!”

  Eighth day. His chest like a pile of burning coals and with a temperature of almost 104, the Colonel entered his office at the usual time. He looked like a ghost. At the thought that Sbrinzel would soon be arriving and would have to be parried he felt a dull surge of sweetish nausea rise from deep within him, rise and rise like the water in a hand basin.

  But this morning Sbrinzel was not so prompt. Molinas thought, Perhaps he knows I’ve got influenza, perhaps he’s already reported it and I’m already in disgrace, ruined—and that’s why he hasn’t appeared.

  Shortly afterward he heard steps approaching across the silent empty room. Not Sbrinzel, but some slave of his, with the folder of messages. “And Sbrinzel?” asked the Colonel.

  The man gestured despairingly: “He hasn’t come today. He’s not coming. He’s in bed.”

  “With what?”

  “He’s got a roaring temperature.”

  “Who? Sbrinzel?”

  “He’s got influenza too . . . and
an absolutely prize case at that.”

  “Influenza? Sbrinzel? You must be joking.”

  “Why? What’s odd about it? He wasn’t at all well yesterday either . . .”

  The Colonel straightened up on his chair. A burst of life and hope came over him. He was safe, safe! He had won! That miserable spy had fallen, not he! Molinas felt better already, no more sickness, no more burning in his chest, no more temperature. The worst was over.

  He breathed deeply. For the first time in years he raised his eyes to the windows and saw, beyond the frozen roofs and under the crystal clear sky, the distant mountains gleaming, white with snow. They looked like silver clouds sailing gaily along, slow-moving, above the worries of the earth. He looked at them: for how long had he been oblivious to their existence? He thought, How different they are from us men, God, how pure and beautiful.

  The Landslide

  HE WAS AWOKEN BY THE RINGING OF THE TELEPHONE. It was the editor of his newspaper. “Leave by car immediately,” he said. “There’s been a great landslide in Valle Ortica . . . yes, Valle Ortica, near the village of Goro . . . a whole village swept away, probably lots of dead. Anyhow you’ll see. Don’t lose any time about it. And please—do your best.”

  This was the first time he’d been entrusted with an important assignment, and he was somewhat worried by the responsibility. However, taking stock of the time available to him, he felt confident. The place was about 130 miles away—he would be there in three hours. So he would have the whole afternoon to find out his facts and write his article. Easy, really; he would be able to distinguish himself without too much effort.

  It was a cold February morning. The roads were almost empty and he was able to drive very fast. Almost before he’d expected, he saw the outlines of the hills approaching; then, veiled in mist, the snow-covered peaks.

  Meanwhile, he thought about the landslide. Perhaps it was a real disaster, with hundreds of victims; he might have to write a couple of columns for two or three days in succession; he wasn’t saddened by the thought of so many people suffering, though he was not callous by nature. Suddenly he had an unpleasant image of his rivals, his colleagues from the other papers: he imagined them already on the spot, collecting valuable information, much more prompt and efficient than he. He began to glance anxiously at all the cars going in his own direction. Doubtless they were all going to Goro, for the landslide. Often, seeing a car ahead of him on a straight stretch of road, he would quicken his pace to reach it and see who was in it; each time he was convinced it was going to be a colleague, but in fact it was always an unknown face, mostly country people: small farmers, brokers, even a priest. They looked bored and sleepy, as if the great disaster didn’t concern them in the least.

  He came to the point where he had to turn off the straight, asphalted road and go to the left along the road to Valle Ortica, which was narrow and dusty. Although it was late morning, there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary: no signs of the army, of ambulances or of trucks with first-aid equipment, as he had envisaged. Everything was deep in winter torpor, except for the wisps of smoke from the chimneys of the occasional peasant’s house.

  The milestones at the road’s edge showed Goro fifteen miles away, fourteen, thirteen, but still no sign of movement or alarm. Giovanni inspected the steep slopes in vain for signs of the break, for the white scar of the landslide.

  He arrived at Goro about midday. It was one of those strange villages that still exist in abandoned valleys which seem to have been left a hundred years behind; bleak and unfriendly, shut in by gloomy mountains without foliage in summer or snow in winter; nonetheless the summer haunt of three or four desperate families.

  The small central square was empty when he arrived. Odd, Giovanni thought to himself, could they possibly all have fled or locked themselves in their rooms after such a catastrophe? Unless by any chance the landslide had happened in a village nearby and they’d all gone there? Pale sunlight lit up the front of a small hotel. Giovanni got out of the car, opened the glass doors and heard loud talking, apparently that of a perfectly happy group at the table.

  The landlord, in fact, was having lunch with his large family. There was plainly no clientele at this time of year. Giovanni apologized for his intrusion, introduced himself as a journalist and asked about the landslide.

  “Landslide?” repeated the landlord, a large, coarse, friendly man. “We don’t have things like that here. But if you’d like lunch, take a seat by all means—in here with us, if you don’t mind. The other room isn’t heated.”

  He insisted that Giovanni should sit down with them; meanwhile, taking no notice of the visitor, two boys, who must have been about fifteen, were causing great merriment among the assembled company by their references to certain family matters. The landlord insisted that Giovanni should stay and assured him that he wouldn’t find a meal ready anywhere else in the valley at that time of year; but Giovanni was beginning to feel uneasy; he intended to eat, of course, but first he wanted to see the landslide. How come they knew nothing about it here at Goro? The editor had given very specific directions.

  As the discussion continued, the boys sitting at the table began to take note. “The landslide?” asked a child of about twelve, who had gathered what they were talking about. “Of course, but that’s higher up the valley, at Sant’Elmo”—he was shouting in his delight at being better informed than his father—“It was at Sant’Elmo, Longo told me about it yesterday!”

  “What do you suppose Longo knows about it?” retorted the landlord. “You keep quiet. What do you think he knows? There was a landslide once when I was a child, but much lower down than Goro. You may have seen it, about six miles from here, where the road . . .”

  “But there was one, I tell you!” the child insisted. “At Sant’Elmo it was!”

  The argument would have continued had Giovanni not interrupted: “Well, I’ll go as far as Sant’Elmo and have a look.” The landlord and his sons went out on to the square with him, obviously fascinated by the car, which was a recent model of a kind never seen there before.

  It was only three miles from Goro to Sant’Elmo, but to Giovanni they seemed endless. The hairpin bends were so steep and violent that he had to reverse constantly and try again. The valley became darker and bleaker. The sound of a distant tolling of bells gave Giovanni hope.

  Sant’Elmo was even smaller than Goro, even more broken-down and poverty-stricken. It was now a quarter to one, but either because of the deep shadow of the surrounding mountains, or because of the very gloom produced by such desolation, it seemed almost nightfall.

  By now Giovanni was really worried. Where was this landslide? Surely the editor wouldn’t have sent him off so urgently without being sure of his facts? Might he have made a mistake in giving the name of the place? Time was passing rapidly, if he didn’t hurry he wouldn’t have anything ready in time.

  He stopped the car and asked directions from a boy who seemed to understand immediately.

  “The landslide? It’s farther up,” he said, pointing. “It takes about twenty minutes.” Then, seeing that Giovanni was about to get back into the car, he added warningly: “You can’t go by car though; you’ll have to go on foot, it’s only a small path.” He then agreed to act as guide.

  They left the village, climbing a steep muddy mule track which ran crisscross over the shoulder of the mountain. Giovanni had trouble keeping up with the boy and was too breathless to ask questions. But what did it matter? Soon he would see the landslide, he would fulfil his duty toward the paper and no one had gotten there before him. (Odd, though, that the place was so deserted; presumably either there had been no victims, or there had been no calls for help—perhaps only a few deserted houses had been affected.)

  “Here we are,” said the boy at last, as they came to a sort of spur. He pointed a finger. Opposite them, on the other side of the valley, there had indeed been a huge fall of reddish earth. It must have been about nine hundred feet from the top of the break
to the valley floor, where the largest boulders had piled up. But it was impossible to see how there could ever have been a village there, or even a small hamlet. There were also suspicious tufts of vegetation growing on the steep slopes.

  “Look, sir, you see the bridge?” said the boy, pointing to the remains of some ruined building down in the valley, amid heaps of red boulders.

  “And there’s no one there?” asked Giovanni in amazement, gazing around intently but still seeing no one. Only bare slopes, embedded rocks, spreading mountain streams, stone walls supporting small patches of cultivated land; it was all a gloomy rust color. The sky had slowly clouded over.

  The boy looked at him, blankly. “But when did it happen?” Giovanni insisted. “Some days ago?”

  “I dunno!” replied the boy. “Some say three hundred years ago, some as much as four hundred. But bits still go on falling.”

  “Good God,” shrieked Giovanni, furious. “Couldn’t you have said so earlier?” The boy had brought him to see a landslide three hundred years old, a geological freak, mentioned in guidebooks for all he knew! And those ruins in the valley might be the remains of a Roman bridge! What an idiotic mistake; and meanwhile it was getting dark. But where, where was the landslide?

  He ran back down the mule track, followed by the boy, who was almost in tears with the fear of having lost his tip. He was incredibly agitated: not understanding why Giovanni had lost his temper, he ran behind him beseechingly, hoping that appeasement was still possible.

  “He’s looking for the landslide,” he said to everyone they met. “I don’t know, I thought he meant the one by the old bridge, but it’s not that one. Do you know where it is?” He questioned all the men and women in sight.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said a little old woman who was engaged in some kind of activity on her doorstep. “Wait till I call my man!”

  Soon afterward, preceded by the loud clattering of clogs, there appeared on the threshold a man who, though he couldn’t have been much over fifty, had a gloomy desiccated look about him. “Ah, so they’ve come to see!” he said when he saw Giovanni. “It’s not enough for the whole thing to collapse in front of my very eyes; now the gentlemen have to roll up and take a look! Certainly, come and see!” He appeared to be shouting at the journalist but it was evident that the outburst was directed at mankind in general rather than at him personally.