Malacqua

by Nicola Pugliese

  Carlo Andreoli drank his coffee in bed, resting on his left elbow, surrounded by such darkness that he couldn’t see a thing, and lit a cigarette. The phone rang and at the other end of the line they told him all that had happened: the chasm on Via Aniello Falcone, two dead, two cars swallowed up, the collapse of Via Tasso, at house number 234, with the five people dead, killed in their sleep, the rain that was still falling, and if it went on falling like that there wasn’t much to be cheerful about, and that was more than enough to wake him up completely. He went to the bathroom and put his face by the mirror, which returned it to him. And first he thought about the paper, of course, everything that needed to be done, the reporters that needed to be dispatched, the photographs and everything. Then seven minutes later he was back in his car, and the alarm had gone off, now, and the red light had come on. His head spun through the city, up and down Via Aniello Falcone, up and down Via Tasso. And there was the chasm, and there was the collapse, and all the usual things, and the people, and the mechanical gestures, rituals, and the press releases, the calls to the editorial office, and getting it all down will be messy and they need to move fast, get a move on, you can’t go out without the news, you certainly can’t miss all the trains, today, not with everything that’s happened, imagine the mess. His head spun around the city seeing chasms and collapses he had known before, the weeping of mothers and relatives, the hysterical grief, the muffled, impotent rage. His head fled spinning, of course, it fled but then came back on tiptoe along narrow paths and built for him a cruel and inevitable presence: where is the ultimate meaning? In the stones of the Castel dell’Ovo? Where?

  He left his car on Via Partenope, and walked on in the falling rain: beyond the pavement the stone bridge, and the castle, with the yellowish stones against an inclement sky, and that rain falling on his knees and his shoes all the way between his toes, the damp reached his brain, the water rose along furrows and circumvolutions, shapeless gelatinous masses breathed with the water, and the water from within reached all the way inside his iris and appeared in his nostrils, it fell from his nostrils and down from his lips it fell slipping in grey rivulets. Within the view of that watery grey now falling in spates, oh yes, in cold spates, the eye runs identifying the gaps between stone and stone. Come on then, wake up.

  ‌

  ‌The Second Day

  And on the second day it became clear. The rain had persisted; yes, it had persisted for a whole exhausting night, and reinforcement units had come flooding into the city: from the outlying districts in particular, Torre del Greco, Castellammare, Salerno, Caserta: and nothing else could be seen in the streets but the movement, cautious, not reckless now, of the fire engines, the red vehicles, sirens blaring, darting here and darting there, and people shut away inside standing at their windows, as if waiting their turn, and now they’re coming here, now they’re coming here. Waiting was a gruelling, progressive illness that grabbed you by the throat and squeezed and squeezed. You found yourself thinking that you mightn’t die, but you wouldn’t go on living, at least not like before. That slow, interminable rain had altered the outlook on things: your life would never be the same again, never again, because now any emergent life was conditioned by the water that was falling, falling, the water stopping the cars in the streets, spewing back up from the sewers and down the hill towards the sea, and the water was rising from the sea as well, its pressure mounting, and the waves swelled to smash against the moorings, and you would also have to say that on the second day it became clear, or rather people began to understand: perhaps this wasn’t the rain of other years, other months, perhaps this rain here was coming from a long way away. This time the city’s patron saint, St Gennaro, would manage on his own, poor old stupid St Gennaro, with that glass ampoule of his blood melting vexingly, dividing minds and creating confusion. All the people were pressed up against their windows looking up from below and seeing and noticing and following, and there was a long, interminable procession of water to cross. It choked up from the gutters of the fortress of the Maschio Angioino, whose marble frontage was reflected in the grey shadow of the water that flowed from the gutters, but it was no longer a defence, oh, it wasn’t a defence any more, now it was in an anxious and imperceptible state of siege. And inside the fortress and within the high walls there was no one, and no one had any plans to go there, but faint voices issued from the deserted benches of the Baronial Hall, carried by microphones, so indistinct and defective that the words were impossible to make out. But they were words, words they certainly were, and human voices, ambiguously human, which burst outside in weird distortions, indecipherable sounds of sobbing, noises muffled and growing louder beneath the drops carried by the water.

  The first few times an inspection was necessary, of course. Because the voices could be heard very clearly, outside, in the gardens and the streets around Piazza del Municipio, and that faint, broken echo sometimes reached all the way to the windows of Palazzo San Giacomo, breathless anxiety snaked like fear along the corridors, an obscure reproach, and the first few times a security patrol was required.

  The Councillor for Public Thoroughfares sent out a select unit on an exploratory mission, seven policemen, seven, and the worried policemen went into the Maschio Angioino and saw the flooded courtyard spilling over with water, and the stone steps, the columns, and they went upstairs and into the rooms, into the corridors, they searched the Baronial Hall from top to bottom. Some of them remembered that only a month before they had served in that hall on the occasion of the council meeting, and they also remembered that it hadn’t been much of a meeting, with unruly crowds of the unemployed beyond the barriers. And they searched and searched, behind the benches and under the stair carpets, in the phone boxes and behind the adjacent snugs of the bar, and the counter of the bar was in place, yes, beyond a doubt, everything was in place, and in fact they almost felt they could see the mayor, there, on the bench at the top, the fat mayor bent over his papers so as not to hear, because it wasn’t his job, not to decide, because it wasn’t his job, other people would decide for him, and not to offer rebuttals, because rebuttals highlight problems and make matters worse, and in fact they had a distinct impression of having heard different voices, each different from the last, yes. But search as they might, they could find no trace of any human presences. One would have to add that as soon as they stepped inside the Maschio Angioino, the voices stopped, and the sobs, and the distorted screech of words, and there was silence, now, only silence that was entangled with silence and with the ever-changing roar of the falling water. And after the most detailed inspection possible the policemen decided to go outside. They actually left, and went to Palazzo San Giacomo to deliver their report, and they were in fact about to explain that there was no one there, no one at all, and that was exactly what they were about to say when from the crenellated bastions of the Maschio Angioino something like a roar rang out, and a long sigh, and sobbing, and faint words, and voice and voices trying to say, trying to come out, and couldn’t, they couldn’t, and they echoed only as far as the street, and the grey strips of sky that looked as if they were plummeting at an angle, but they weren’t plummeting, no, an impression and nothing else.

  In the council room of Palazzo San Giacomo the council decided that another inspection was required. Above all because the voices could be heard very distinctly, so there had to be someone in there, inside the Maschio Angioino, and secondly because the population was doing nothing but talking and murmuring about this unusual event, and the press was asking endless specious questions, so it would be a good idea to give the place a better check, give it a better check, that was it, and this time it would be a good idea if the Councillor for Public Thoroughfares went too, not because of his specific skills, and what might those have been?, but to give an example, and to show the timid, the thoughtless and the professional intriguers that first of all there was really nothing to be afraid of, and secondly that the opposition should not delude itself about attacking the
council on the issue of voices because there was no issue of voices full stop. The voices could be heard distinctly, that much was true, but it wouldn’t have changed anything. So, on that second expedition it was decided accordingly that the Councillor for Public Thoroughfares would take part in person, along with Deputy Commissioner Armando Giovannotti of the Tourism and Traffic Department, and a representative of the Carabinieri. And the expedition was in fact about to leave the courtyard of Palazzo San Giacomo when all of a sudden a phone call came in from Police Headquarters. His Excellency the Police Commissioner had found out about the expedition and was in a furious rage, and expressly demanded that a functionary from Police Headquarters should also be involved. What answer would he give to Rome, otherwise, if they asked him to explain the voices? It was precisely in deference to this legitimate demand that the patrol of official investigators was joined by Dr Giovanni Castellano, one of the most diligent and well-prepared men in the government building. And meanwhile the rain came down, and came down, and when you looked up there was nothing to be seen but an irritating presence, consciousness consolidating that perhaps from these rainy days onwards the outlook on things would change: yes, perhaps the rain wouldn’t only erode the asphalt of Ferrovia, the fragile terrain of Vomero, the soft volcanic stone of Posillipo. This waiting grew and broadened, it spread, and the issue of voices had moved from the small stories at the bottom of the inside pages to the front page, and on that day of all days, the second day of rain, the editors of the two Naples newspapers had each written scathing editorials, one entitled ‘The Voices from Within’ and the other ‘The Voices from Without’. And in the simple matter of the voices they plainly discovered an opportunity to address larger and more delicate problems that went straight to the top. It was, in fact, in consideration of issues of this kind that the Councillor for Public Thoroughfares, at midday precisely, gave the starting signal. All the senior authorities got into their cars, the drivers roared their engines, the cars set off, amid the silence of the onlookers and beneath the pouring rain. Three hundred metres further on, beneath the portal of the Maschio Angioino, the senior authorities alighted, thus beginning what would go down in the annals of the city as the Second Exploration of the Maschio Angioino.

  And on the city this veil of rain, and they were aware of the waiting, waiting as draining as an animal’s agony, alive and dense as an interminable outpouring of blood. The horse lies supine on the asphalt of Via Partenope, the powerful cage of its chest rising as it breathes, and the silence all around is palpable, and from the horse’s nostrils the blood gushes and gushes. There is little left to say: that it was part of a team of eight, and that on the sea of Via Partenope, along with its seven travelling companions, with the coachman, and with the gravediggers, it had set off on its last dignified job: the collection, carriage and disposal of the corpse of a man who had expired the previous night, in his bed, in his own sheets, with the breath of his children on his face. The horse, however, was dying alone, yes, truly alone, a horse on the asphalt breathing its last, his heart giving up?, what?, through the veil of rain that was coming down and fraying the city’s edges you could sense the unease and the sad presentiment: life would have to change. And perhaps it was changing at that very moment. In the greyish weft of silence, the rain came down as a warning and an admonition, it came down and it grew, black regret unwaveringly consolidating between rib and rib, and in the bones that rainy dampness, and that disconnected noise that suddenly detached objects and people, built walls, and green partitions, and drove newly pregnant women into their houses and constrained them there, besieged.

  And so it was that the Second Exploration was about to end in a second failure, nothing at all within the walls of that castle, nothing but the noise of the rain from outside, and search and search as they might nothing had turned up, and as the reconnaissance team had presumptuously stepped inside the voices had stopped too, they had faded, they had gone away perhaps for good, and everyone was demoralised and tired. At that very moment Vincenzo Mirasciotto, city police officer, was searching with his electric torch beneath the opposition benches. In the orange circle of the torchlight something lit up for a moment, and suddenly the voice resumed. Loud and tremulous, like a curse from a consumptive, it rang out around the vaulted ceiling of the hall, reached the crenellated walls and spilled outwards in the direction of the city. At the sound of that incoherent and unnatural cry, Vincenzo Mirasciotto found himself hurled to the ground, with knees trembling and hands about which he knew nothing: that he still had them, how to use them, whether to use them at all. The torch rolled to the tip of his right shoe, its beam now directed at his own personal belly, with its inlaid buttons and the municipal crest, at the blue of his uniform which he always wore a little tight because he thought it looked more elegant that way. In short, for a few minutes Vincenzo Mirasciotto was so bewildered that he investigated himself, his own destiny, the mysteries of creation, the unusual event. Slowly, though, a few minutes passed, and then he had to perform a check. And yes, Vincenzo Mirasciotto knew suddenly, immediately after his involuntary pause, that his precise task was to perform a check, officially, a check, so he was careful not to alert anyone, and why would he have alerted anyone right then?, and he regained his composure, he tried to rebuild his dignity as a city policeman, his manly determination. Once he was on his knees, with the torch gripped in his right hand, he leaned forward, rested his left arm on the floor, and what an unfortunate posture, he thought, on all fours like an animal, and he tightened the grip of his fingers on the torch, and mentally reconstructed the position, at the end of the hall, in the dark little corner, from which he had seen something and, also mentally, prepared to receive full in the chest the terrifying cry that had emerged from there, and I’m turning it on now, I’m turning it on now, he repeated to himself, but at last he made his mind up and turned on the light. The noise came, a powerful blast of noise as if from a crowd, an indistinct roar of voices, a crash of thunder in the night. It came, that dark sonorous presence like a Great Almighty Voice and his body, the body of a simple city policeman, was hurled backwards. It was certainly something strange and terrifying, it did him no harm, oh no, it just crashed out that powerful, plaintive thunder. Like a loud groan, an anguished cry, what?, dear God!, what? Vincenzo Mirasciotto, amidst all that racket, and then that disconcerting, cold silence, was left on the ground with his hand on his chest, rubbing it level with his heart, oh, yes, his heart, and waited patiently to come back to his senses: he saw himself, of course he did, he saw himself lying there on the ground, his hand automatically stroking his chest, his body still disjointed as if the soldering had come apart. He saw himself, and was even aware of the cry that was moving away now, moving outside towards the city, and for a few minutes he was lucid enough, and as soon as he had heard there we are I’m getting a grip, now I’m getting a grip, he had really got a grip, and on the floor he went on reflecting. He cast his eyes around and saw the benches of the council chamber and the vaulted ceilings and the seats and the Mayor’s chair and his other hand clutching the torch, and he stayed firmly on the floor with a half-smile, and intensely bright lights went out one after the other, and then he felt alone, utterly alone. But much as that unusual condition weighed upon him – would his outlook on life change over the days to come? – he clearly felt the corners of his mouth stretching in a smile of self-satisfaction: oh a half-smile, just a half-smile, fine, but: he knew. Certainly, he knew now, and he had seen, and without a doubt he had seen very clearly, even if he didn’t understand, even if he couldn’t understand, but where seeing was concerned he had seen. For another few minutes he stayed down there, sitting, with the benches in front of him and that thing in the far dark corner, and the torch clutched tightly in his fingers. And it was only after thinking, after thinking and thinking again, that he made his mind up at last: he got to his feet, smoothed the creases in his jacket, examined the tips of his shoes, and finally, unsteadily, crossed the Baronial Hall on the corri
dor side. In his mind he repeated everything to himself, as he would tell it: and in fact, when the time came the explanation came out quite clearly. Mr Councillor, strange and unbelievable though it might seem to you, I think I have identified the source of the voices, except that it isn’t easy to say, it isn’t easy to say, and perhaps it would be better if we all went down there once more. And now there was a tremor in those words of his, and down the windows came the noise of the falling rain, and each one of them reflected: he would certainly remember that day, and who could ever forget such a day? And in the end Vincenzo Mirasciotto said it straight and clear: Mr Councillor, the source of the voices is a doll. And as he said it, he himself noticed the suspicion on the part of the others, and the disbelief, and the sarcasm. Was it possible that he might have been dreaming? No, he certainly hadn’t been dreaming, no sir. There was that deep, enfolding silence, and from outside a noise of rain perfectly identical to the noise of rain from the previous day, and it had seemed for a moment as if nothing was going to change, really nothing, and difficult though the situation was, it was still under control, and the authorities in charge of security had plainly implemented their security, hadn’t they? And until that moment nothing had escaped the mechanics of the predictable, nothing at all, but a doll, come on, now, a doll! Certainly, they were all thinking it, oh, how they were thinking it, but no one said it, no one, and in fact they all stayed silent, heads lowered, studying the tips of their shoes, and in the end there was nothing left but to say let’s go. They left, in fact, in silence, only the sound of the heels of their shoes tapping out a rhythm in that ridiculous void with its high vaulted ceiling. With that sound still echoing they walked down the long corridor, and climbed the wooden stairs of the council benches, and then went down to the opposition benches, and the Councillor of Public Thoroughfares, who until that moment had been guiding the delegation towards the new evidence, now nodded to Vincenzo Mirasciotto, who was walking ahead of him, to indicate that he alone knew the place. Vincenzo Mirasciotto, a simple city policeman, said yes sir, and he advanced into the second row of benches, and once he had reached the third bench he stopped, sank to his knees and went down on all fours. Looking as he had done before, he tried to make something out in the darkness, and he could make out nothing but the same dark darkness as before. He nodded respectfully towards the councillor, moving slightly aside as if to say dear Mr Councillor, if you want to see, you too can go on all fours like me. The councillor did not object, and all the others, the members of the delegation, even though no one had asked them, all knelt on the floor and went down on all fours, scraping their knees and the palms of their hands, and discreetly colliding, and inadvertently jostling one another.