Catastrophe

by Dino Buzzati

  “It also says, ‘Save time,’” Fedri added rather foolishly; he too was looking at a paper.

  “What, what did you say?” asked his father, who had not understood but was generally apprehensive.

  “Yes, it says here: ‘Save time! Time too should figure on the budget sheet of every good businessman, on the credit or debit side as the case may be.’”

  “I think you might have saved your own in this case,” murmured Martora, though plainly amused.

  At this point, somewhere beyond the curtain, a bell rang: so someone had braved this treacherous night and broken the barrier of rain that was pouring down, hammering on the roofs, devouring great chunks out of the riverbanks; for fine trees were falling noisily from these banks with their great pedestals of earth attached, to emerge for a moment a hundred yards downstream and be sucked down again by whirlpools: by that river which was swallowing up the edges of the old park, with its eighteenth-century wrought-iron railings and seats and its two stone dogs.

  “Now, who will that be?” said Signor Gron, taking off his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Callers even at this time of night? I dare say it’s about the subscription, that man from the parish council has been a perfect nuisance these last few days. Flood victims! Where are they all, anyway? They keep asking for money but I haven’t seen one victim, not a single one. As though . . . who’s there? Who is it?” he inquired in a low voice as the butler appeared from behind the curtain.

  “Signor Massigher,” replied the butler.

  Martora was delighted. “Oh, your charming friend! We had such a wonderful discussion the other day . . . there’s a young man who knows what he wants.”

  “He may be as intelligent as you like, my dear Martora,” said Signora Gron, “but I find that quite the least affecting of all qualities. These people who do nothing but argue . . . I don’t say Massigher isn’t a fine boy. . . . You, Giorgina,” she added quietly, “when you’ve said hello, be a good girl and go to bed. It’s getting late, you know.”

  “If you liked Massigher better,” retorted her daughter boldly, though trying to speak jokingly, “if you liked him better I bet it wouldn’t be late just yet.”

  “That’s enough nonsense, Giorgina. . . . Oh, good evening, Massigher. We hardly expected to see you tonight . . . you’re usually earlier than this . . .”

  The young man, his hair ruffled, stopped short on the threshold and looked at the family in horror. “But—don’t you know?” He moved forward, slightly embarrassed.

  “Good evening, Signora Maria,” he went on, ignoring the reproach. “Good evening, Signor Gron, Giorgina, Fedri, excuse me, doctor, I didn’t notice you there in the shadow . . .”

  He was plainly very nervous, pacing around from one person to the next as if bursting with some important news.

  “Have you heard?” he began at last, since the others gave him no encouragement. “Have you heard that the riverbank . . .”

  “Quite,” interrupted Signora Gron with masterly calm. “Terrible weather, isn’t it?” And she smiled, half-closing her eyes, trying to transmit some kind of understanding to her guest (Almost impossible, she thought to herself while doing so, a sense of occasion really isn’t his strong point).

  But the father had already risen from his chair. “Tell me, what have you heard? Something new?”

  “What do you mean, new?” interrupted his wife quickly. “I really don’t understand, my dear, you’re so nervous this evening . . .”

  Massigher was puzzled. “Quite,” he admitted, casting around for a way out, “nothing new that I know of. Except that from the bridge you can see . . .”

  “Well, naturally, the river in flood!” interrupted Signora Gron, helping him out. “Most impressive I should think. You remember the Niagara. Stefano? So many years ago . . .”

  At this point Massigher moved closer to the signora and whispered, choosing a moment when Giorgina and Fedri were speaking to one another: “But signora, signora,” his eyes sparkled, “the river is right below the house, it’s most unwise to stay, can’t you hear the . . .”

  “Do you remember, Stefano?” she went on as though she hadn’t heard him, “do you remember how frightened the two Dutchmen were? They wouldn’t go anywhere near it, they said it was an absurd risk, that one might get carried away . . .”

  “Well,” retorted her husband, “it has sometimes happened, apparently, people leaning too far over, getting dizzy perhaps . . .”

  He seemed to have recovered his calm, put on his glasses and sat down by the hearth again, stretching out his hands toward the fire to warm them.

  Now for the second time they heard the disturbing muffled roar. It seemed to come from deep in the earth below them, from the farthest recesses of the cellars. Despite herself, Signora Gron stopped to listen.

  “Did you hear that, Giorgina?” exclaimed her father, puckering his forehead. “Did you?”

  “Yes, I did. I can’t imagine what it is,” she replied, the color gone from her face.

  “Thunder, of course!” retorted her mother in a tone that admitted of no argument. “Just thunder . . . what do you think it is? . . . Not ghosts, by any chance?”

  “Thunder doesn’t sound like that, Maria,” remarked her husband, shaking his head. “It seemed to come from right beneath us.”

  “You know quite well how it is, my dear: every time there’s a storm it feels as if the house is going to collapse,” insisted his wife. “Then you hear the strangest noises in this house. All you heard was thunder, wasn’t it, Massigher?” she concluded, certain that he, a guest, would not dare to contradict her.

  He smiled with polite resignation and answered evasively: “You mentioned ghosts, signora . . . this evening, as I was crossing the garden, I had the curious sensation of being followed . . . I heard footsteps, as if . . . quite definite footsteps on the gravel in the main avenue . . .”

  “And rattling bones, and groans as well, of course?” suggested Signora Gron.

  “No, just footsteps, probably my own,” he replied, “you sometimes get strange echoes.”

  “Quite right, my dear boy . . . or mice, that’s far more likely, isn’t it? It’s certainly not a good idea to be as imaginative as you are, or goodness knows what one might hear . . .”

  “Signora,” he began again in a low voice, “surely you can hear it? The river is right below us, can’t you hear?”

  “No, I hear nothing,” she said curtly, replying in an equally low voice. Then, louder: “You’re not at all amusing with these anecdotes, you know.”

  The boy could think of nothing to reply. He tried to laugh, amazed at the woman’s obstinacy. So you don’t want to believe it, Signora Gron? he thought bitterly. (Even in his thoughts he addressed her just as in real life, using the polite form.) Unpleasant things don’t concern you, do they? You think it’s uncouth to talk about them. Your precious world has always withdrawn from them, hasn’t it? Well, let’s see where your ivory-tower viewpoint gets you in the end.

  “Just listen to this, Stefano,” she went on with sudden eagerness, addressing him across the whole room, “Massigher claims to have seen ghosts out in the park and he’s not joking . . . these young people certainly set a fine example.”

  “Signor Gron, don’t believe a word of it,” and he laughed effortfully. “I didn’t say that at all, I . . .”

  He broke off to listen. In the ensuing silence, above the sound of the rain, he thought he heard another sound swelling, threatening and ominous. He was standing in an arc of light from a slightly blue-tinted lamp, his lips parted a little; not frightened but throbbing with life, strangely unlike the people and objects surrounding him. Giorgina watched him with a feeling of desire.

  But don’t you understand, Massigher? she thought. Don’t you feel sufficiently safe in this great old house? How can you feel doubt? Isn’t it enough for you to be surrounded by these solid old walls, this nicely balanced peace, these impassive faces? How do you dare offend such dignity with your silly childis
h fears?

  “You look like a soul possessed,” remarked his friend Fedri affectionately, “like a painter . . . what prevented you from combing your hair? Please, next time . . . you know Mother’s views on this,” and he burst out laughing.

  He was interrupted by a peevish inquiry from his father: “Well, shall we begin this bridge? We’ve still got time, you know. One game and then bed. Giorgina, would you be good enough to get the cards?”

  At this point the butler appeared; he looked thoroughly dumbfounded by the turn events were taking. “What is it now?” asked Signora Gron, with ill-concealed irritation, “has someone else arrived?”

  “It’s Antonio, the bailiff . . . he wants to speak to one of you, he says it’s important.”

  “I’ll go,” said Stefano immediately, standing up quickly as though afraid of somehow being too late.

  His wife did indeed hold him back. “No, no, you stay here. It’s far too damp outside . . . you know quite well . . . your rheumatism . . . you stay here, dear. Fedri will go.”

  “It’ll only be the usual business,” said the boy, walking toward the curtain. From the distance there came a confused sound of voices.

  “Are you going to play here?” asked the signora in the interim. “Giorgina, take that vase away, please . . . then do go to bed, dear, it’s already late. And what are you going to do, Martora, go to sleep?”

  The old man roused himself, embarrassed: “Had I fallen asleep? Yes, I believe I had, for a few minutes.” He smiled: “The fireside, old age . . .”

  “Mother,” the girl called from another corner of the room. “I can’t find the box of cards, they were here in the drawer yesterday.”

  “Open your eyes, my dear. What’s that on the side table? You never find anything . . .”

  Massigher arranged the four chairs and began to shuffle the pack. At this point Fedri reappeared. Wearily, his father asked, “What did Antonio want?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” answered the boy merrily. “Just the usual peasant’s panics. The river’s very swollen, they say the house is in danger—think of that. They wanted me to go and see—in this weather! They’re all praying there now, and ringing the bells, can you hear?”

  “Fedri, let’s go and see together,” suggested Massigher. “Just for five minutes. Will you come?”

  “And what about our game, Massigher?” inquired the signora. “So you’d leave Dr. Martora in the lurch? And get a soaking too.”

  So the four men began their game, Giorgina went to bed and her mother sat in a corner with her embroidery.

  As the game progressed, the thuds they had heard earlier became more frequent. It sounded as if some heavy object were falling into a deep mud-filled hole, a sound of doom coming from the bowels of the earth. After each thud there was a feeling of unease, the players hesitated to play their cards, caught their breath, fumbled, but the tension vanished as quickly as it had come.

  No one, it seemed, wished to talk about it. Except Martora, who observed at one point, “It must come from the sewer underneath here. There is one very old water pipe which runs into the river. Probably some sort of overflow. . . .” No one said anything.

  Now it is time to study the reactions of Signor Gron, that true nobleman. He is looking at the small fan of cards in his left hand, but occasionally his glance steals out beyond the cards to take in the head and shoulders of Martora, who is opposite him, and finally to include the far end of the room where the polished floor disappears under the fringes of curtain. And now he no longer looks at the cards or at the face of his old friend, but stares beyond him at the back of the room, at the bottom of the curtain; his eyes widen further, kindle with a strange light.

  At last the old nobleman says simply, dully but in a tone of great desolation, “Look.” He is not addressing his son, nor the doctor, nor Massigher in particular. He simply says “Look,” but that one word is frightening.

  He uttered this one word and the others looked up, even his wife, who was sitting in a corner, with great dignity, absorbed in her embroidery. Slowly, from beneath the lower border of the dark curtain, something black and shapeless crept across the floor.

  “Stefano, why on earth do you have to use that tone of voice?” exclaimed Signora Gron who had already jumped to her feet and was walking toward the curtain. “Can’t you see that it’s water?” None of the four players had stood up.

  It was indeed water. It had finally crept into the villa through some crack or gap, sneaking like a snake along corridors before finally entering the drawing room, where it looked black because of the shadow. It would have been amusing, had it not been such a blatant outrage. But behind that negligible tongue of water, that merest trickle, might there not be something else? Could one be quite certain that that was the full extent of the damage? Was there no water trickling down the walls, no pools between the tall shelves in the library, no slow dripping from the arched ceiling of the next room (the water falling on the great silver salver, a wedding present given by the prince many years ago)?

  “Those idiots have left a window open,” exclaimed Fedri. “Go and close it then,” said his father. But the signora intervened. “Out of the question, stay where you are; someone else will come and close it, I trust!”

  She pulled the bellpull nervously and they heard the distant sound of the bell. At the same time the mysterious splashing sounds began to occur with ominous ever-increasing frequency; now they could be heard throughout the whole house. Old Gron, frowning, was staring at the tongue of water on the floor; it seemed to swell at the edges, then spill over, spread a few inches, swell again, spread and so on. Suspecting that something unusual was about to happen, Massigher shuffled the cards to hide his own emotion. And Martora shook his head slowly, as if to say, Such are the times we live in, one can no longer rely on one’s staff; or perhaps, resignedly: nothing to be done about this now, my friends, you noticed it all too late.

  A few moments passed without any sign of life from the other rooms. Massigher plucked up his courage: “Signora,” he said, “I did tell you that . . .”

  “Good God! You again, Massigher!” snapped Maria Gron without letting him finish the sentence. “All because of a bit of water on the floor! Ettore will wipe it up in a minute. These wretched windows let in water all the time, we must have the fastening seen to!”

  But Ettore did not appear, nor did any other of the numerous staff of servants. There was a sudden feeling of oppression and hostility abroad in the night. Meanwhile the mysterious splashes had developed into an almost continuous roar, as if barrels were being rolled around in the foundations, so that even the sound of the pouring rain outside was barely audible.

  “Signora!” shouted Massigher suddenly, jumping to his feet determinedly. “Signora, where has Giorgina gone? Let me go and call her!”

  “What now, Massigher?” Maria Gron’s face still expressed coldly polite amazement. “You are all terribly nervous this evening. What do you want Giorgina for? You don’t actually wish to wake her up, I trust?”

  “Wake her up!” the young man retorted, almost mocking. “Wake her up! There you go again!”

  From the passage hidden behind the curtain, as from an icy cave, there came a sudden violent gust of wind. The curtain billowed like a sail and twisted around itself to allow the lights of the room to shine beyond it and reflect in the pool of water on the floor.

  “Fedri, run and close it quickly,” cursed his father. “Good Lord, call the servants!”

  But the boy seemed almost amused by this unusual turn of events. He ran across the dark hall, shouting: “Ettore! Ettore! Berto! Sofia!” but his shouts were lost unanswered in the empty corridors.

  “Papa!” he called suddenly. “There’s no light out here. I can’t see a thing. . . . Oh, God, what’s happened?”

  Back in the room all had risen to their feet, alarmed by his sudden call. Suddenly, inexplicably, water seemed to be pouring through the whole house. The wind blew fiercely through it as though t
here were holes in the walls, shaking the lamps, scattering cards and papers, upsetting flowers.

  Fedri reappeared, looking as white as a sheet and trembling slightly. “Good God,” he kept saying mechanically. “Good God, how awful.”

  Did he still need to explain that the river had burst its banks and was right here, below the house and was pouring past, implacable and uncaring? That the walls on that side of the house were about to collapse? That the servants had all vanished into the night and that soon no doubt there would be no light at all? His white face, his panicked shouts (he who was usually so elegant and self-confident), the frightful roar welling up from the bottomless abyss beneath them—was not all this sufficient explanation?

  “We must leave immediately, my car’s out there, it would be mad not to . . .” Martora was saying, he being the only one who had retained any semblance of calm. At this point Giorgina reappeared wrapped in a thick coat, accompanied by Massigher; she was sobbing a little, though quite decorously, almost without making a sound. Her father began searching around in the drawer containing his important papers.

  “Oh, no, no!” Signora Maria burst out in sudden despair. “I don’t want to go! My flowers, all my beautiful things, I don’t want to go, I don’t!” Her mouth trembled, her face contracted as though it were about to fall apart, she was on the verge of consent. Then, with a marvelous effort she smiled. Her mask of worldliness was intact, her highly sophisticated charms unimpaired.

  “I’ll always remember it,” said Massigher, suddenly cruel, hating her with all his heart. “I’ll always remember your villa. It was so lovely on moonlit nights.”

  “Get a coat quickly, signora,” said Martora firmly, turning to her. “You get something warm too, Stefano. Let’s go before the lights fail.”

  Signor Gron was quite genuinely unafraid. He seemed devoid of all emotion and was clutching the leather wallet containing the papers. Fedri was pacing around the room, paddling in the water, he had completely let himself go. “It’s all over, then, all over,” he kept saying. The electric light became weaker.