Catastrophe

by Dino Buzzati

  She ran to the hall window, opened the shutters and turned around.

  Two yards away from her, on the parquet flooring, was what appeared to be a large indented stain though, unlike most stains, it had a certain depth to it. She went up to it and touched it with her foot. Ashes. Spread out so as to form a particular pattern. The feeling of pain within her became fire, torment. The ashes were the exact shape of Luisella.

  The Monster

  AT THE TOP OF THE HOUSE WHERE THE GOGGI FAMILY lived there was an attic where the tenants’ maids normally put unwanted articles and objects too large for the dustbin; one afternoon in June, in the farthest and darkest recess of this attic a certain Ghitta Freilaber, governess and help to the Goggi (who had gone up there to throw away a pile of old papers which were taking up space in her room), came across a most hideous monster. It was oblong, roughly club-shaped and without any apparent limbs, and it was standing propped up in a corner; its flesh—if it could be so-called—was blackish and purple, soft yet firm, and throbbing, like that of certain tumors; at its top there was a sort of shapeless protuberance with two holes which might have been eyes, or mouths, or neither. And Ghitta, who hadn’t been able to see it clearly in the half light and had gone closer to see it better, the moment she had touched the thing and felt its clammy, warmish flesh contract (still without having any very clear idea of what it was, for if she had known she would probably have died on the spot, but thinking that she’d touched a toad or salamander) gave a shriek and fainted dead away. But she was a tough girl and, when she’d recovered her senses, instead of giving way to her fear, she managed to get up and bolt the door from the outside (not without a brief glance in the direction of this unprecedented sight which she now saw for what it was, despite the brevity of her glance); then she smoothed down her dress, brushed the dust off it and went downstairs, wondering whether what she had seen was real or not.

  As the Goggi household were all out at that time of day, except for the maid with whom she had no great intimacy, Ghitta went down to the porter’s lodge; here terror suddenly overcame her. Panting, she clung to the portress’s shoulders, stammering, “Oh, God, in the attic . . . in the attic,” but could get no farther. The portress, seeing her so upset, made her sit down on a small couch and, imagining that whatever had happened must necessitate some action on her part, unplugged her electric iron, sat down by Ghitta, gave her a series of encouraging little taps on the hand and asked, “Come on now, what’s happened?”

  At last, drawing a deep breath, Ghitta managed a partial explanation: “In the attic, with all the rubbish . . . there’s a sort of animal . . . a monster, in fact . . . a monster . . . ,” and she burst, definitively, into tears.

  Just at that moment a van driver came in to ask for the doors to be opened, as he had goods to bring in. The portress, nodding apology, left Ghitta alone. Yet this sudden recall to the basic realities of life relieved her; now that her first terror was over, she began to face the doubt that she must have imagined it all. A little closer reasoning, in fact, should have been sufficient. “What sort of animal could it have been? A huge misshapen reptile? In an attic? And of a kind that had never been seen anywhere else to boot? Or perhaps it was a secret”—this was her next suspicion—a secret known only to a small group of scientists who were keeping it hidden, generation after generation, so as not to give offense to mankind in general? Or was she herself simply ignorant in not having any conception of certain disgusting potentialities of the animal kingdom?

  At this point the portress, a genial creature, reappeared: “Oh, my poor dear. So you saw a monster in the attic? A mouse, of course, what else?”

  “It’s still there. It wasn’t moving,” said Ghitta. The portress’s condescending manner had something of the pity and disdain that all married women tend to have for spinsters. And although Ghitta was still young and fresh-looking, the portress had a vague feeling that she was partly withered by her virginity and was becoming rather hysterical.

  “Well, we’ll go and see as soon as my husband comes in—I can’t leave the lodge empty.”

  “Oh, no—I certainly shan’t go up there again,” said Ghitta, managing a feeble smile.

  This was why, later on, the portress’s husband, Enrico, a carpenter by trade, went up to the attic alone, with a flashlight because it was dark by then and absolutely convinced that Ghitta had been seeing things. And indeed, when he opened the door of the junk room and shone his flashlight around, he saw nothing unusual. All there was in the corner where the governess had seen the monster was a big tarpaulin bag, dark brown in color, containing various bits of fishing tackle belonging to a tenant who had fished a lot a few years earlier but was now an invalid. He touched it, shook it—no sign of movement. Inside there was probably a dismounted rod, keeping it rigid, and a net or cover or something, which made it soft. Not in the least surprised to find no monster, Enrico bolted the door and went downstairs.

  “Your monster was an old bag,” he reported to Ghitta, as soon as he was back in the lodge. She colored violently. “A tarpaulin bag. With fishing tackle in it.”

  “But I touched it. It moved.”

  “Brilliant,” he exclaimed, amused. “It moved because you touched it. Goodness knows what you were thinking of at the time!”

  “What do you mean, ‘thinking of’? I had a most awful fright.”

  “Well, I took a good look,” said the porter, laughing heartily. “Are you satisfied now?”

  Yes, Ghitta was satisfied and went upstairs, while the couple glanced meaningfully at one another. So it had been an ordinary optical illusion. Nevertheless, the porter’s repeated assurances could not dispel the shock just like that. Ghitta was absorbed by the problem for the whole evening, nagged by a desire to go up there and see for herself. It might perhaps have done her good to tell the whole story to the Goggi family. But since she had sole care of the three children, she thought it better to keep quiet: What if their mother were to decide that she, Ghitta, was the victim of hallucinations, hysterical?

  Furthermore, for the simple reason that she didn’t want to exaggerate the importance of the whole story, she didn’t even ask the portress to be discreet. So that soon the whole house knew and laughed about it, and the various maids found it an excuse to call her “the monster girl”; even Signora Goggi, coming home one evening, asked about it: “Well, Ghitta, what’s all this about a monster? Did you really see one?” Taken unawares, the girl went pale: not because she was afraid of embarrassing questions or sarcasm but simply because suddenly, absurdly, she was certain that the monster really did exist. Controlling herself, she smiled and said laughingly, “Oh, you know how it is. I had such a horrible shock. I thought I saw a sort of animal, a frightful monster in fact. The sort of thing that can easily happen, in the dark.” “Quite—you’ve always had rather a vivid imagination, but I didn’t realize it went this far,” said Signora Goggi with a shadow of annoyance in her voice. “Anyhow, next time anyone has to go to the attic it had better be Anna, she wouldn’t see monsters even if there really were any!”

  “But what do you mean?” asked the young girl nervously. “Do you think there really might be something?”

  “Do I? That would be perfect!” the woman said, laughing outright. The whole thing became a joke, with Ghitta doing her best to join in the various sallies and sarcasms which absorbed the whole family until bedtime. The monster, old Dr. Verolini’s fishing tackle, the doctor himself and his asthma, his extremely withdrawn existence and presumed demoniac practices, Ghitta’s fright, the supposed inspection by the porter, the chatter of the other inmates—all this was exploited at length for family comment, with much intentional insistence and self-conscious eccentricity; and finally Ghitta felt herself carried away by this wave of affectionate good humor.

  But unpleasant thoughts surfaced again during the stillness of the night, they rose up and blotted out the rest of the world; when the laughter had died away and the whole house was asleep, the moon rose above
the domes and lonely roofs; deep in the parks the lovers cast their shadows, in the hospitals pain rose again from the bowels of the sick, the night birds which had been hanging, swaying, above the putrid canals, flew away; an occasional train whistle, every now and again some mysterious call, was countered by the silence of the long streets; the sleepless thought of time passing; and twenty-eight-year-old Ghitta Freilaber, seated on her bed, strained her ears for sounds of movements from the distant attic. Ghitta was a strong-minded girl and had overcome many temptations during her lifetime, but she was now in the throes of one she could not resist, one which had taken her unawares as soon as she realized she was alone: the temptation of going to the attic again—and not tomorrow or the day after, but now, before dawn, for she saw already that she would not be able to sleep. It was a very great temptation; because as soon as she was sure that everyone was asleep, she put on a dressing gown and crept out of the room and up the back stairs with a candle, fully aware of the danger to which she was exposing herself. She drew comfort from the geometrical patches of moonlight which fell from the great empty windows to light up the landings of the stairway—they reminded her of the old walls of country houses on which this same light must now be shining—haymaking and the soft chirping of crickets—and this reminded her, pleasantly, of her childhood.

  What if the monster really were there? If Enrico had lied? If she were unable to control her terror? What rubbish, she told herself: as far as its being there is concerned, it simply isn’t; but I must see with my own eyes, I can’t wait until tomorrow morning. She went up as quietly as she could. But all was silence; peaceful June night, vast sleep of thousands, calm breath of sleeping children. What if Signora Goggi were to find out that she was wandering about at two in the morning? What could be her excuse? Here she caught sight of the small enameled plate bearing the name Brozzesi, which meant that she was on the top floor; the stairs were becoming steeper and narrower.

  Now she was on the top landing. It had all been so easy, after all. She stood listening for some time, but there was complete silence. Slowly she brought her right hand to the handle of the bolt, the candle flame shuddered slightly, the sound of a car at the far end of the street, far away by now. She drew the bolt with a sudden movement—luckily it didn’t make much noise—and pushed the door firmly.

  But it didn’t give. It opened half an inch, then stopped with a slight clang. The girl started, then stood still, her heart beating fast. Then she saw that a chain and padlock had been fixed to two rings she’d never noticed before, one on the door and the other on the doorpost; this was what stopped it opening.

  Ghitta drew back afraid. Who had locked the room? And why that very night, when it had always been open before? Who had given the order? Why such a fuss? Could it be that inside . . . ? Yet it was so silent, so terrifyingly silent.

  She went downstairs and slipped back into her room without anyone noticing; the household continued to sleep. Who had locked the door? Perhaps there was nothing so extraordinary about it, perhaps Enrico was supposed to keep it locked only he hardly ever went up there and the maids always forgot; possibly the two rings had always been there, and the chain on the doorpost as well, without her ever having noticed. Or could it be the work of Signora Goggi, as soon as she’d heard about the business, to keep her from going up there and getting worked up; after all, employers are like that, you do one silly thing and they become thoroughly suspicious; or perhaps Signora Goggi had done it with the best of intentions, to spare Ghitta any more frights like the one she’d had. Or it might be old Verolini himself, worried about his tackle; why should he not have heard the rumor by now? Anyhow, the key was doubtless in the porter’s lodge for the tenants to use, and tomorrow she would . . .

  But, thought Ghitta, it could also be something quite different. The fact that the door had been locked meant that someone was concerned to hide the loathsome object. Now, if it were a monster, hers was no longer a shocking and gratuitous intrusion; it would mean she had stumbled upon an awful secret surrounded by a thousand different precautions, protected by untold complicity. Why, for instance, should Enrico have lied? There was good reason to believe that he was au fait with what was going on and that that was why he had gone up there in the first place. Enrico, apparently such a decent type? For whom would he do such a thing? Anyhow, what could his action mean? Why hadn’t he seemed at all annoyed? Surely he would have panicked, seeing his fearful secret so endangered? But his good-humored sympathy and understanding hadn’t deserted him for a moment. How was that? Or had he in fact seen nothing but an old sack—he was such a simple type. So was there someone else concerned to conceal this hideous thing?

  That’s enough of that, said Ghitta to herself, feeling that she was losing the thread of her own argument. Anyhow, what does it matter to me? It’s not an ogre or a dragon, nothing really dangerous. If someone has something as horrible as that to hide, so much the worse for him. Yet the girl felt that the whole house was tainted by its presence. The very idea of its possible existence was enough to poison her life within those walls. Should she leave? But where could she go? After all, the family had been so good to her and she was already quite attached to the three children. And would she feel any freer elsewhere? Might other houses, other towns, not hold similar horrors?

  But the next morning, as so often miraculously happens, all these thoughts had melted into thin air. Her fears, her midnight escapade and her intention of bringing things into the open and leaving the family all seemed absolutely ridiculous. The rays of the sun filtering through the shutters were sufficient to bring her a feeling of liberation which had seemed almost impossible.

  But when, on her way out for a walk with the two older children, she asked casually for the key of the lumber room to take up various old papers, and the portress, not in the least surprised at the question, said she didn’t know where it was, perhaps her husband had it and he was out at present, or that it had been temporarily given to a tenant—and all this corresponded oddly to her hypotheses of last night—it was then that Ghitta started to feel worried again. Although she had no real reason for thinking so, she decided that a series of pretexts was going to be given to prevent her being given the key; that after her casual giving of the alarm yesterday, various forces would be marshaled to stifle the scandal and to make a joke of it all, as though it were all the product of the overworked, oversensitive imagination of a young woman: a web of deception, precise as clockwork, put into action entirely for her benefit; she was to be treated with all possible respect and indulgence but from now on, if she were to persist in her desire for further knowledge, there might be open hostilities and retribution.

  It was so much simpler to believe that the monster was all a figment of her imagination, that Enrico had been telling the truth and had shut the door because he thought it better, that he or some tenant now had the key, in short that there was absolutely nothing to it. Yet for some reason Ghitta pursued her suspicions doggedly, interpreted the most harmless signs as worrying symptoms, imagined the wildest plots. Her pride would not allow her to let the matter drop. She would have liked to discuss it with someone, but didn’t know with whom. Stefano, her fiancé, was far away. Don Angelo, her confessor? That would be no good, he wouldn’t believe her. Signora Goggi? The last person to discuss it with; Ghitta was too well acquainted with women of good society and their petty suspicions. Just as they were back at the house, about twenty yards from the main door, Ghitta and the two children met Signor Gerolamo, the portress’s father, a good-humored little old man whose one concern in life was to pass the time and who was therefore always ready for a chat. He appeared out of the lodge at that very moment and seemed especially pleased to have met Ghitta.

  “Ah, Miss Freilaber,” he exclaimed, coming toward her, “not a word, Gina’s already told me everything. . . . But whatever were you thinking of, my dear young lady?” He winked foolishly, as though implying that he knew all about it. Then, with a gesture of sudden affectionate
intimacy, almost of solidarity, he spoke in her ear: “and you’re by no means the first, you know!”

  Ghitta, annoyed at first by these apparently pointless confidences, turned around and looked him in the face. “No, no,” he repeated with the same lunatic gaiety, “don’t look at me like that!” and he proceeded to recount an incident which he obviously regarded as a delightful anecdote: one morning seven years ago when he, Gina’s father, had still been porter there, the previous owner had come down from the attic as pale as a sheet and, when asked what had happened, had given evasive replies but had told his accountant that very evening that he intended to sell the house; as indeed he had done, remarkably quickly; so much so that for some time afterward people had mentioned ghosts and so on in connection with the sale.

  At that juncture Ghitta, alarmed by the story, decided that it was better to appear quite unaffected. She received it with joking incredulity and, with the children as her excuse, managed to take her leave of the old man. When she got in she decided not to ask for the key again (anyhow the very fact that the portress, seeing her passing, didn’t mention the matter to her, seemed to her revealing) and that same day she had the bright idea of sending an anonymous letter to the police. “In your own interest, I advise you to take a look in the attic of Via Raimondi 38 (the door right at the top of the stairs and not the corridor to the left). You may find something very strange. A friend.”

  It was only after she’d posted this that she realized that it was a mistake. In fact if the police took no action, she could no longer tell them personally about her suspicions without giving herself away; alternatively, there might be some kind of row and then probably Signora Goggi would think she had some kind of fixation and dismiss her; not to mention the reactions of the owner of the house, the porters, the other tenants. Nobody likes visits from the police.