"Have you seen him yourself?"
"Us? Has anyone ever seen him?"
"But are you sure he exists?"
"What a thing to say! Sure he exists? Why, even if he didn't exist. . ."
"If he didn't exist?"
". . . it wouldn't make any difference. Ha, ha, ha!"
"But everyone says. . ."
"Sure, what should they say; that it's Gian dei Brughi who steals and robs everywhere, that terrible brigand! We'd just like to see anyone doubting that!"
"And you, boy, you don't doubt it, do you?"
Cosimo began to realize that Gian dei Brughi was more feared down in the valley, and that the farther one got into the woods, the more the attitude changed into one of doubt and even open derision.
So his longing to meet the brigand passed as he realized that the real experts did not bother about Gian dei Brughi at all. And it was just then that he did happen to come across him.
Cosimo was on a nut tree one afternoon, reading. He had recently begun to pick up a few books again. Spending the whole day with a gun watching for a chaffinch gets boring in the long run.
Well, there he was reading Lesage's Gil Blas, holding his book in one hand and his gun in the other. Ottimo Massimo, who did not like seeing his master read, was wandering around in circles looking for excuses to disturb him; by barking, for instance, at a butterfly, to see if that would make Cosimo point his gun at it.
And then down the path from the mountain came running and panting a bearded, shabby, unarmed man, with two constables brandishing sabres and shouting behind him: "Stop him! Stop him! It's Gian dei Brughi! We've caught him, at last!"
Now the brigand had gained a little on the constables, but he was moving rather awkwardly as if afraid of mistaking the way or falling into a trap, and so having them soon on his heels again.
Cosimo's nut tree did not offer much chance for anyone to climb up it, but on his branch he had a rope which he always took about with him for difficult parts. He flung one end on to the ground and tied the other to the branch. The brigand saw this rope falling almost on his nose, faltered a moment; and then quickly clambered up, thus showing himself to be one of those impulsive waverers or wavering impulsives who always seem to be incapable of catching the right moment for doing anything and yet hit it every time.
The constables reached the spot. The rope had already been pulled up and Gian dei Brughi was sitting by Cosimo among the leaves of the nut tree. There was a fork in the path ahead. The constables took one each, then met again, and did not know where to go next. And then they bumped into Ottimo Massimo, who was sniffing around there.
"Hey," said one of the constables to the other, "doesn't that dog belong to the Baron's son, the one who's always up trees? If the boy is around anywhere here, he might be able to tell us something."
"I'm up here!" Cosimo called out. But he did it not from the nut tree where he had been before and where he had hidden the brigand, but from a chestnut opposite, to which he had quickly moved, so that the constables raised their heads at once in that direction without beginning to look at the trees around.
"Good day, your Lordship," said they. "You haven't by chance seen the brigand Gian dei Brughi?"
"I don't know who he is," replied Cosimo, "but if you're looking for a little man, running, he took the road over there by the stream. . ."
"A little man? He's a great big man who frightens everyone. . ."
"Well, from up here everyone seems quite small. . ."
"Thank you, your Lordship!" and they moved off toward the stream.
Cosimo went back into the nut tree and began to read Gil Blas again. Gian dei Brughi was still clinging to the branch, his face pale in the midst of red hair, his beard disheveled, stuck all over with dried leaves, chestnuts and pine needles. He was looking at Cosimo with a pair of green, round, stunned eyes; how ugly he was!
"Have they gone?" he decided to ask.
"Yes, yes," said Cosimo affably. "Are you the brigand Gian dei Brughi?"
"How d'you know me?"
"Oh, just by reputation."
"Are you the one who never comes down from the trees?"
"Yes. How do you know that?"
"Well, I hear of reputations too."
They looked at each other politely, like two respectable folk meeting by chance, who are pleased to find they are not unknown to each other.
Cosimo did not know what else to say, and began reading again. "What are you reading?"
"Lesage's Gil Blas."
"Is it good?"
"Oh yes."
"Have you a lot more to read?"
"Why? Well, twenty pages or so."
"Because when you've finished it, I'd like to ask if I can borrow it." He smiled rather confusedly. "You know, I spend my days hiding, and never know what to do with myself. If I only had a book every now and then, I say. Once I stopped a carriage, very little in it, except for a book, and I took that. I brought it up with me, hidden under my jacket. I'd have given all the rest of the booty to keep that book. In the evening, lighting my lantern, I went to read it. . . it was in Latin! I couldn't understand a word . . ." He shook his head. "You see, I don't know Latin . . ."
"Oh well, Latin. That's difficult," said Cosimo, feeling that in spite of himself he was taking a protective attitude "This one is in French. . ."
"French, Tuscan, Provençal, Spanish—I can understand them all," said Gian dei Brughi, "and even a bit of Catalán; Bon dia! Bona nit! Está la mar molt alborotada!"
In half an hour Cosimo finished the book and lent it to Gian dei Brughi.
And so began the friendship between my brother and the brigand. As soon as Gian dei Brughi had finished a book, he would quickly return it to Cosimo, take another out on loan, hurry off to hide in his secret refuge, and plunge into reading.
Before, I used to get Cosimo books from the library of our house, and when he had read them he would give them back to me. Now, he began to keep them longer, as after he had read them he would pass them to Gian dei Brughi, and they often came back with their covers stained, with marks of damp, streaks of snails, from the places where the brigand had kept them.
Cosimo and Gian dei Brughi would arrange meetings on stated days on a certain tree, exchange books and go off, as the woods were always being searched by police. This simple operation was very dangerous for both of them; for my brother, too, who would certainly not have been able to justify his friendship with that criminal! But Gian dei Brughi was taken with such a longing to read that he would devour novel after novel, and, as he spent the whole day long reading, he would devour in one day certain tomes which my brother had spent a week over, and then he had to have another at once, and if it was not the day for their meeting he would rush all over the countryside searching for Cosimo, terrifying families in all the cottages and setting the whole police force of Ombrosa on the move.
Now, Cosimo, being always pressed by the bandit's demands, began to find that the books I got him were not enough, and he had to go and find other supplies. He knew a Jewish book-dealer named Orbecche, who also got him works in a number of volumes. Cosimo would go and knock at his window from the branches of a carob tree, bringing him hares, thrushes, and partridges he had shot, which he would exchange for books.
But Gian dei Brughi had his own special tastes; one could not give him just any book, or he would return it to Cosimo the next day to have it exchanged. My brother was at the age at which people begin to enjoy more serious reading, but he was forced to go slowly, as Gian dei Brughi had brought him back the Adventures of Telemachus, warning him that if he gave him such a dull book another time, he would saw the tree down from under him.
At this point Cosimo would have liked to separate the books which he wanted to read leisurely by himself, from those which he got only to lend the bandit. But this was impossible, for he had to read these over too, as Gian dei Brughi became more exacting and distrustful, and before taking a book he wanted Cosimo to tell him something
about the plot, and made a great fuss if he caught him out. My brother tried to pass him some light novels; and the brigand came back furiously asking if he'd taken him for a woman. Cosimo never could succeed in guessing what he would like.
In fact, with Gian dei Brughi always at him, reading, instead of just being Cosimo's pastime for half an hour, became his chief occupation, the aim of his entire day. And what with handling the books, judging and acquiring them and getting to know of new ones, what with his reading for Gian dei Brughi and his own increasing need to read as well, Cosimo acquired such a passion for reading and for all human knowledge, that the hours from dawn to dusk were not enough for what he would have liked to read, and he, too, would go on by the light of a lantern.
Finally, he discovered the novels of Richardson. Gian dei Brughi liked these. Having finished one, he immediately wanted another. Orbecche got Cosimo a whole pile of volumes. The brigand now had enough to read for a whole month. Cosimo having found peace again, plunged into the Lives of Plutarch.
Gian dei Brughi, meanwhile, lying in his hiding place, his coarse red hair full of dried leaves and hanging down his wrinkled forehead, his green eyes growing red in the effort to see, was reading and reading, moving his jaws in a frenzied spelling motion, holding up a finger damp with saliva ready to turn the page. This reading of Richardson seemed to bring out a disposition long latent in him; a yearning for the cozy habits of family life, for relations, for sentiments known in the past, a sense of virtue and of dislike for the wicked and vicious. Nothing around him interested him any more, or it filled him with disgust. He never came out of his nest now, except to run to Cosimo to exchange a volume, particularly if it was a novel in many volumes and he had got to the middle of the story. And so he lived in isolation, without realizing the storm of resentment gathering around his head, even among the inhabitants of the wood who had once been his confidants and accomplices, but were tired now of an inactive brigand who still had the whole of the local police force after him.
In the past, around him had gathered all the locals who had fallen foul of the police, even in small ways: petty thieves such as the vagabonds, and tinkers, or real criminals, such as his bandit comrades. These people not only made use of his authority and experience for each of their thefts or raids, but also used his name as a cover, for it would go by word of mouth, and leave them unknown. And even those who did not take part in these operations drew advantage from their success, for the wood would fill with stolen goods and contraband of every kind which had to be disposed of or resold, and all those who trafficked round there did good business. And then anyone who did a job of thieving on his own account, unknown to Gian dei Brughi, would use that terrible name to frighten his victims and get more out of them; people lived in terror, thinking they saw Gian dei Brughi or one of his band in every evildoer they came across, and so loosen the strings of their purses.
These good times had lasted a long while; then gradually Gian dei Brughi found he could live on unearned income and draw apart more and more. It would all go on like this forever, he thought, instead of which things changed, and his name no longer inspired the reverence it had before.
What use was he, Gian dei Brughi, now? With him tucked away somewhere, bleary-eyed, reading novels, never doing a job, never getting any stuff, people couldn't go about their business quietly any longer, what with the police always around looking for him and arresting anyone at the slightest suspicion. Add the temptation of the price on Gian dei Brughi's head, and it is obvious the poor bandit's days were numbered.
Two other brigands, youths who had been taught by him and could not resign themselves to losing such a fine leader, decided to give him a chance to rehabilitate himself. They were named Ugasso and Bel-Lorè, and, as boys, had been in the band of fruit stealers. Now, as youths, they had become apprentice brigands.
So they went to see Gian dei Brughi in his cave. There he was, lying on the straw. "Yes, who is it?" he muttered, without raising his eyes from the page.
"We've an idea to discuss, Gian dei Brughi."
"Mmmmm . . . what idea?" and he went on reading.
"Do you know where Costanzo the exciseman's house is?"
"Yes, yes. . . eh? Who? What exciseman?"
Bel-Lorè and Ugasso exchanged an irritated look. If the brigand didn't take that accursed book from under his eyes, he wouldn't understand a single word they said. "Do shut that book a moment, Gian dei Brughi, and listen to us."
Gian dei Brughi seized the book with both hands, got up on his knees and made as if to hold it against his chest while keeping it open at the mark. Then the urge to go on reading was too much and, still holding it tight against him, he raised it enough to plunge his nose in again.
Bel-Lorè had an idea. He saw a cobweb with a big spider on it. Bel-Lorè raised the cobweb with the spider on top and threw it at Gian dei Brughi, between his book and his nose. And poor Gian dei Brughi had gone so soft he was even frightened of a spider. He felt the spider's legs tickling and the web sticking to his nose, and without even understanding what it was, gave a little yelp of disgust, dropped the book and began fanning his hands in front of his face, with starting eyes and dribbling mouth.
Ugasso swooped down and managed to seize the book before Gian dei Brughi could put a foot on it.
"Give me back that book!" said Gian dei Brughi, trying to free himself from spider and web with one hand, and tear the book from Ugasso's hand with the other.
"No, listen to us first!" said Ugasso, hiding the book behind his back.
"I was just reading Clarissa. Do give it back! I'd just reached a bit. . ."
"Listen to us. Tonight we're to take a load of wood to the exciseman's house. In the sack, instead of wood, there'll be you. When it's dark, you come out of the sack. . ."
"But I want to finish Clarissa!" He had managed to free his hands from the last remains of the cobweb and was struggling with the two youths.
"Listen to us . . . when it's dark, you come out of the sack, armed with pistols, get the exciseman to give you all the week's take, which he keeps in the coffer at the head of the bed . . ."
"Do just let me finish the chapter. . . pl-e-ease."
The two youths thought of the times when Gian dei Brughi used to plant a pair of pistols in the belly of anyone who dared contradict him. It gave them a twinge of nostalgia. "Well, you take the bags of money, d'you understand?" They went on sadly. "Bring 'em back to us, and we'll give you your book back, so's you can read to your heart's content. All right? You going?"
"No. It's not all right. I'm not going!"
"Ah, not going, aren't you . . . so you're not going . . . Well, we'll just see!" And Ugasso took a page toward the end of the book ("No!" screamed Gian dei Brughi), tore it out ("No, stop!"), crumpled it up and threw it in the fire.
"Ah! Swine! You can't do that! I shan't know how it ends!" And he ran after Ugasso to snatch the book.
"Are you going to the exciseman's then?"
"No, I'm not!"
Ugasso tore out another two pages.
"Stop! I haven't reached that yet! You can't burn them!"
Ugasso had already flung them in the fire.
"Swine! Clarissa! No!"
"Well, are you going?"
"I. . ."
Ugasso tore out another three pages and flung them in the flames.
Gian dei Brughi threw himself down with his head in his hands. "I'll go," he said. "But promise you'll wait with the book outside the exciseman's."
So the brigand was thrown in a sack with branches covering his head. Bel-Lorè carried the sack on his shoulders. Behind came Ugasso with the book. Every now and again, when Gian dei Brughi by a jerk or groan inside the sack seemed to be regretting his bargain, Ugasso let him hear the sound of a page being torn out, and Gian dei Brughi would calm down at once.
By this method they took him as far as the exciseman's, dressed up as colliers, and left him there. Then they went and hid a short way off, behind an olive tree, wait
ing for him to perform the robbery.
But Gian dei Brughi was in too much of a hurry, and came out of the sack before dark, when the place was still full of people.
"Up with your hands!" he called. But he wasn't the same man as before; he seemed to be seeing himself from the outside, and felt a little ridiculous. "Up with your hands, I said. Get against the wall, all of you . . ."
Oh dear, he didn't believe it himself. He was just acting. "Is this the lot?" He hadn't noticed that a child had escaped.
Well, there wasn't a minute to be lost on a job of that kind. But he dragged it out, the exciseman pretended to be stupid and not able to find the keys. Gian dei Brughi realized they were no longer taking him seriously and felt rather pleased at this deep down.
Finally, he came out, his arms loaded with bags of coins, and ran almost blindly toward the olive tree fixed as the meeting place.
"Here's the lot! Now give me back Clarissa!"
Four-seven-ten arms flung themselves around him, gripped him from shoulder to ankle. He was raised up bodily and tied like a sausage. "You'll see Clarissa behind bars!" and they took him off to prison.
The prison was a small tower beside the sea. A pine copse grew nearby. From the top of one of these pine trees, Cosimo could get quite near Gian dei Brughi's cell and see his face through the grate.
The brigand did not worry about his interrogation or trial. Whatever happened, his only worry was those empty days in prison without being able to read, with that novel left half finished. Cosimo managed to lay hands on another copy of Clarissa and took it up on the pine tree.
"What part did you get to?"
"The part where Clarissa is escaping from the brothel!"
Cosimo turned over a few pages. "Ah, yes, here we are. Well . . ." and facing the grate, on which he could see Gian dei Brughi's gripping hands, he began reading out loud.
The prosecution took a long time preparing its case. The bandit resisted the rack; it took days to make him confess each one of his innumerable crimes. So before and after the interrogations every day he would listen to Cosimo reading. When Clarissa was finished, Cosimo saw that Gian dei Brughi was rather sad, and it struck him that Richardson might be a little depressing to one shut up like that, so he decided to start on a novel by Fielding whose plot and movement might give him back a sense of his lost liberty. That was during the trial, and Gian dei Brughi could think of nothing but the adventures of Jonathan Wilde.
Italo Calvino - [Our Ancestors 02] Page 10
