Italo Calvino - [Our Ancestors 02]

by The Baron in the Trees (epub)

  Through this landscape was rippling a kind of wave, not visible, or even audible, except now and then, but what one could hear was enough to create a sense of uneasiness; a sudden sharp cry, and then the faint crash of something falling and perhaps even the crack of a breaking branch, and more cries, different ones this time, of angry voices, converging on the place where the cry had come from before. Then nothing, a sense of nothingness, as if things were happening in a completely different part of the woods; and in fact the voices and sounds now began again but seemed to be coming from one side or another of the valley, always from where the jagged little leaves of the cherry trees were moving in the wind. And so Cosimo, with a part of his mind meandering on its own—while another part seemed to know and understand it all beforehand—found the thought crossing his mind: Cherries talk.

  He began moving toward the nearest cherry tree, or row, rather, of cherry trees, tall, of superb leafy green, thick with black cherries; but my brother had not yet trained his eye to distinguish at once exactly what was and what was not on branches. He paused; the sounds of before had gone. He was on the lowest boughs, and felt all the cherries above weighing down on him; he could not have explained why, but they seemed to be converging on him, as if, in fact, he were on a tree with eyes instead of cherries.

  Cosimo raised his face and an overripe cherry fell on his forehead with a plop! He strained his eyes to look up against the sun (which was growing stronger), and saw that the tree he was on and the ones nearby were full of perching little boys.

  When they realized that they had been seen they were no longer silent, and called to each other in sharp though muted voices something that sounded like "Just look how he's dressed!" Then, parting the leaves in front of them, each climbed down from the branch he was on to one lower, toward the boy wearing the tricorn. They were bareheaded or in ragged straw hats, and some had their heads wrapped in sacking; they wore torn shirts and breeches; those whose feet were not bare had dirty strips of rag, and one or two of them had wooden clogs hung around their necks, taken off so as to climb better; they were the great band of fruit thieves from which Cosimo and I—in obedience to parental orders—had always kept as far away as possible. That morning, though, my brother seemed to be on the lookout for them, though with no very clear idea of what he expected from the meeting.

  He stood still and waited as they climbed down toward him, throwing out, in strident whispers, remarks like "What's he think he's up to, eh?" and spitting out an occasional cherry stone at him or flinging a worm-eaten, bird-pecked cherry with a little swirl as if slinging a stone.

  "Unhuh!" they exclaimed all of a sudden. They had seen the rapier dangling behind him. "D'ya see what he's got?" And they burst out laughing.

  Then they stopped and stifled their laughter as if something wildly funny was about to happen; two of the little urchins had very quietly moved on to a branch right above Cosimo and were lowering the top of an open sack down over his head (one of the filthy sacks that they must have used for their booty, and which when empty they arranged over their heads and shoulders like hoods). In a short time my brother would have found himself trussed into a sack without even knowing how, then tied up like a salami so they could beat him up.

  Cosimo sensed the danger, or maybe he didn't sense anything. Knowing they were jeering at his rapier, he drew it as a matter of honor. As he brandished it, the blade grazed the sack and, with a twist, tore it from the hands of the two little thieves and flung it away.

  It was a good move. The others gave an "Oh!" of both disappointment and surprise, and began yelling insults in dialect at the two who had let their sack be taken.

  But Cosimo had no time to congratulate himself on his success. For suddenly a new commotion burst forth, this time from the earth below; barking dogs, showers of stones and yells of "You won't get away this time, you dirty little thieves!"; and up came the tops of pitchforks. The urchins on the branches yanked up legs and elbows and hugged themselves. All that noise around Cosimo had aroused the fruitgrowers, who had been on the watch.

  It was an attack prepared in force. Tired of having their fruit stolen as it ripened, many of the small landowners and tenant formers of the valley had banded together; for the only answer to the little boys' tactics of plunging into an orchard all together, sacking and stripping it, then making off in the opposite direction, was to use similar tactics themselves; that is, for all to keep watch on an orchard where the boys were bound to come sooner or later, and catch them red-handed. Now the unmuzzled dogs were baying and champing with bared teeth at the foot of the cherry trees, while hayforks were brandished in the air. Three or four of the little thieves jumped to the ground just in time to have their backs pricked by the tridents and their bottoms bitten by the dogs, and rushed off screaming and lurching down the rows of vines. No more dared go down: they stayed quivering where they were, and Cosimo too. Then the fruitgrowers began setting ladders against the trees and climbing up, preceded by points of pitchforks.

  It took Cosimo some minutes to realize that there was no reason at all for him to be terrified just because the band of urchins was. And there was no reason at all for him to think that they were in the know and he wasn't. The fact that they were sitting there like idiots was proof enough; why didn't they escape on to the trees around? My brother had got there by a certain route and so could make off by the same route; he pulled his tricorn down on his head, looked around for the branch which he had used as a bridge, passed from the last cherry tree on to a carob, then dangled from the carob, dropped on to a plum tree, and so on. The others, seeing him moving on the branches as if he were at home, realized that they must follow close behind him or never find his route again, and they followed his tortuous itinerary in silence, on all fours. Meanwhile he had climbed into a fig tree, skirted a field, and swung down on a peach tree with such slender branches that the boys had to pass over it one at a time. They climbed the peach only to get a grip on the twisted trunk of an olive sprouting out of a wall; from the olive they jumped onto an oak stretching out a thick arm over the stream, and so reached the trees on the other side.

  The men with pitchforks, who thought they had caught the fruit thieves at last, saw them hopping away through the air like birds. They followed, running among the barking dogs, but had to get around the thicket, then over the wall, then across the stream at a point where there was no bridge, lost time finding a ford, and saw the urchins running away in the distance.

  They ran like human beings, with their feet on the ground. On the branches only my brother remained. "Where's that wagtail with the gaiters got to?" they asked each other, not seeing him ahead still. They looked up: there he was clambering about the olives. "Hey you, come down, we've shaken 'em off now!" But instead of coming down, he went leaping from bough to bough, from olive to olive, till he vanished from sight among the close-knit silvery leaves.

  The band of little vagabonds, with sacks on their heads and canes in their hands, were now assaulting some cherry trees at the bottom of the valley. They were working methodically, stripping branch after branch, when, on the top of the highest tree, squatting with his legs crossed, flicking down bunches of cherries and popping them in the tricorn on his lap, who should they see but the boy with the gaiters! "Hey, how did you get here?" they asked arrogantly. But they were crestfallen because it looked as if he had flown there.

  My brother was now taking the cherries one by one from his tricorn and putting them in his mouth as if they were sweets. Then he would spit out the stones with a flick of the lips, careful lest they stain his waistcoat.

  "This cake-eater," said one, "what's he want from us? What's he come to bother us for? Why doesn't he go and eat the cherries in his own garden?" But they were a little abashed, because he was smarter at getting about the trees than any of them.

  "Among ice-cream-eaters," said another, "a smart one does crop up now and again by mistake; take the Sinforosa for instance . . ."

  At this mysterious nam
e Cosimo pricked up his ears and, he did not know why, blushed.

  "The Sinforosa betrayed us!" said another.

  "But she was smart, she was, for a cake-eater herself, and this morning if she'd been there to sound her horn they wouldn't have caught us."

  "Even cake-eaters can come with us, of course, if they're on our side!"

  (Cosimo now understood that cake-eater meant an inhabitant of a villa, a noble, or at any rate someone of rank.)

  "Listen, you," said one to him, "let's get this straight; if you want to come with us, you pick the stuff with us and you teach us all the tricks you know."

  "And you let us into your father's orchards," said another. "They once shot at me there!"

  Cosimo listened to them, half absorbed in his own thoughts. Then he said: "Tell me, who is the Sinforosa?"

  Then all the ragamuffins scattered among the branches burst into roars and roars of laughter, so that one nearly fell off the cherry tree, and one flung himself back and held on to the branch by his legs, and another let himself dangle by his hands, shrieking with laughter all the time.

  Such a row did they make that their pursuers were on their heels again. In fact they must have been right underneath, the men and the dogs, for a loud barking arose and then up came the pitchforks again. Only this time, made wary by their recent setback, they first occupied the trees around and climbed up them with ladders, and from there surrounded the band with tridents and rakes. On the ground the dogs, with all their men scattered about on trees, did not know at first where to head for and wandered around barking away with muzzles in the air. So the little thieves were able to jump quickly to the ground and run away in different directions among the confused dogs, and though one or two got a bite on a calf or a blow from a stone, most of them got away safe and sound.

  On the tree remained Cosimo. "Come down!" shouted the others as they made off. "What are you doing? Sleeping? Jump down while it's clear!" But he gripped the branch with his knees and drew his rapier. From nearby trees the fruitgrowers were thrusting out pitchforks tied on sticks to reach him, and Cosimo kept them off by brandishing his sword, till one got right at his chest and pinned him to the trunk.

  "Stop!" called a voice. "It's the young Baron of Piovasco! What are you doing up there, sir? How on earth did you get mixed up with that rabble?"

  Cosimo recognized one of our father's laborers, Giuà della Vasca.

  The pitchforks withdrew. Many of the group took off their hats. My brother also raised his tricorn with two fingers, and bowed.

  "Hey, you down there, tie up the dogs!" shouted they. "Let him get down! You can come down, sir, but be careful, it's a high tree! Wait a moment, we'll put up a ladder! Then I'll take you back home!"

  "No, thank you, thank you," said my brother. "Don't put yourself out, I know the way, I know the way on my own!"

  He vanished behind the trunk and reappeared on another branch, twirled round the trunk and reappeared on a branch higher up, vanished behind this and then only his feet were visible on an even higher branch, as there were thick leaves above; and then the feet jumped, and nothing more was seen.

  "Where's he gone to?" said the men to each other, not knowing where to look, up or down.

  "There he is!" He was at the top of another tree farther away, then vanished again.

  "There he is!" He was at the top of still another tree, swaying as if in the wind, and jumping.

  "He's fallen! No! There he is!" All that could be seen, above the waving green, was his tricorn and queue.

  "What sort of master have you got?" the others asked Giuà della Vasca. "A man or a wild animal? Or is he the devil in person?"

  Giuà della Vasca was gasping. He crossed himself.

  A song could be heard from Cosimo, a kind of call in solfeggio: "Oh, Sin-for-ro-saaa!"

  } 5 {

  THE Sinforosa—gradually Cosimo came to know a lot about this personage from the chatter of the band. It was a name they had given to a little girl, from one of the villas, who went about on a small white pony, had made friends with them and protected them for a time and even, dominating as she was, commanded them. She would ride the roads and paths on her pony, tell them when she saw ripe fruit in an unguarded orchard, then follow their attack on horseback like an officer. Around her neck she wore a hunting horn, and while they were sacking the almond and pear trees she would be galloping up and down slopes from which she could see over the whole countryside, blowing her horn as soon as she noticed any suspicious movements which might mean discovery. At the sound, the urchins would jump off the trees and hide: so while the little girl was with them they had never once been caught.

  What happened afterward was more difficult to understand; the Sinforosa's "betrayal" seemed to have been twofold: partly her having invited them into her own garden to eat fruit and then getting them beaten up by her servants; and then her having made a favorite of one of them, a certain Bel-Lorè—who was still jeered at for it—and another, a certain Ugasso, at the same time, and set them against each other; and then it transpired that the urchins had been beaten by her servants, not when they were stealing fruit but after her dismissal of the two rivals, who had then united against her; there was also talk that she had often promised some cakes, but those she finally gave them were made with castor oil, so that they had tummy-aches for a week afterwards. One of these episodes or some episode like these or all these episodes together had caused a break between the Sinforosa and the band, and now they talked of her with a bitterness mingled with regret.

  Cosimo listened eagerly to these stories, nodding as if every detail fitted into a picture he knew already, and finally decided to ask: "But which villa does she come from, the Sinforosa?"

  "What, you mean you don't know her? You're neighbors! The Sinforosa from the Ondariva villa!"

  Even without this confirmation Cosimo had felt sure that the friend of the urchins was Viola, the girl of the swing. It was—I think—because she had said she knew all the fruit thieves around, that he had first begun looking out for the band. And yet from then on the urge inside him, vague though it still was, grew sharper. At one moment he found himself longing to lead the band in a raid on the Ondariva orchards, then to offer her his services against them (after, perhaps, inciting them to molest her so as to be able to defend her), then to perform some feat of daring which would reach her ears indirectly. With all these ideas buzzing in his head he followed the band more and more distractedly; and when they left the trees and he was alone a veil of sadness would pass over his face, like a cloud over the sun.

  Then he would suddenly jump up and, agile as a cat, scramble over branches and across orchards and gardens, humming some tense little song between his teeth, his eyes set as if seeing nothing, balancing by instinct just like a cat.

  We saw him go by various times, in an absolute daze, over the branches of our garden. "There he is!" we would suddenly shout, for whatever we did he was still in the forefront of our minds, and we used to count the hours and days he had been up on the trees, and our father would say, "He's mad! He has a devil in him!" and then attack the Abbé Fauchelefleur: "The only thing is to exorcise him! What are you waiting for, you. Now I ask you, mon abbé, what are you doing there with your hands crossed? He's got the devil in him, my own son, you understand, sacré nom de Dieu!"

  The word "devil" seemed to wake a precise chain of thought in the Abbé's mind; he shook himself out of his lethargy all of a sudden and launched into a most complicated theological discourse on how the presence of the devil should be properly understood, from which it was not clear if he was contradicting my father or just generalizing. He would make no pronouncement, in fact, on whether a relationship between the devil and my brother was to be considered possible or excluded a priori.

  The Baron became impatient, the Abbé lost the thread, I was already bored. With our mother, on the other hand, the state of maternal anxiety, of fluid emotion, had consolidated, as every emotion tended to with her, into practical de
cisions and a search for concrete ways and means, as the preoccupations of a general should. She had found a field telescope, a long one, with a tripod; she would put her eye to it and so spend hours on the terrace of the villa continually regulating the lenses to keep the boy in focus among the leaves, even when we could have sworn he was out of range.

  "Can you still see him?" our father would ask from the garden, where he was pacing up and down under the trees without ever succeeding in laying eyes on Cosimo, except when the boy was right above his head. The Generalessa would signal down that she could, and that we mustn't disturb her, as if she were following troops' movements from a hill. Sometimes she obviously did not see him at all, but she had got a fixed idea, I don't know how, that he must appear in a given place and not elsewhere, and there she kept her telescope trained. Every now and again she must have admitted to herself that she had made a mistake; and then she would look away from the eyepiece and begin to examine a surveyor's map which she held open on her knees, with one hand to her mouth in a thoughtful attitude and another following the hieroglyphics on the map, until she had decided on the spot which her son must have reached, plotted the angles, and pointed her telescope on some treetop in that leafy sea, slowly moving the lenses into focus; and then from the gentle little smile on her lips we would know she had seen him, that he was really there!

  Next, she would take up some colored flags which she had on a stool, and wave one and then the other in decisive, rhythmic movements, like signals. (This slightly annoyed me as I did not know that our mother had those flags and knew how to manage them, and I thought how lovely it would have been if she had taught us to play at flag-signaling before, when we were both small; but our mother never played and now it was too late.)

  I must say, though, that in spite of all her tools of war, she remained a mother, with her heart in her mouth, and her handkerchief screwed in her hand. One would have thought that she found acting the general a relief, or that working off her apprehensions as a general rather than a simple mother soothed her distress, for she was a fragile woman, whose sole defense was that military style inherited from her Von Kurtewitz forebears.