Malacqua

by Nicola Pugliese

  Is it dangerous? asked the councillor. Ah, no, I don’t think so, and then he explained what had happened with the torch and the start of a scream. In the end it was clear to the councillor and a little less clear to the others: if they wanted to look in the dark corner, they need learn to bear the scream that would emerge. A loud scream, loud enough, but nothing dangerous, and in the end it was bearable, yes, definitely, just a bit bewildering, nothing more, otherwise it was really quite bearable. But even a scream foreseen is not a thing to be trifled with. The councillor wondered to himself whether he could ask police officer Vincenzo Mirasciotto to reach an arm into the corner and bring that thing out with his hands. But suddenly he realised: there was no need, no, there was no need. If someone had that possible duty to fulfil, that that someone was him in person, the Councillor for Public Thoroughfares, and he also realised that he didn’t feel like it, he really didn’t, and considering that in the gap in the bench there was room for another head as well, he called the Deputy Commissioner for Tourism and Traffic to come and join them. The three of them stood there apprehensively without saying a word, and in the end, when they could put it off no longer, the councillor informed Mirasciotto that they were ready, so he could turn on his torch as he had done before. Vincenzo Mirasciotto explained: there isn’t time to see properly, just a second, a fraction of a second, and then the voices come, and you have to be ready, you have to be ready. For a moment the sound of rain was heard, streaming down the windows, and then the nod of agreement came: in the silence Vincenzo Mirasciotto lit the torch, pointing it right into the dark corner. And a groan came from it, deafening as if from a bloody wound reopened. A long, heart-rending cry as if from a multitude, which erupted outside the hall and made its way down to the courtyard, and climbed to the crenellated bastions, and took flight from the summit, outwards, towards the city, and now the city became clearly aware of it, oh yes, very clearly, and this time no mothers gave reassuring caresses, no girls started with fear, and in the end it was not as it had been when the cries had been heard before, no, this time everyone very clearly understood the message, which came clearly and distinctly like the long-ago waters of the Sebeto River: a multicoloured, heart-rending message that since that day – and it was the second day of rain – has remained hidden and locked away in the depths of their chests. Then the city was forced to lower its eyes, and those eyes looked at hands held firmly in laps, firm and sick as if afflicted with an illness and there was no illness, and the city gathered itself together in its thoughts of urban revitalisation, and carried out investigation, and it went on thinking firmly again, and the greyish streaks that crossed the sky of Posillipo were the same as the ones in Camaldoli and Ferrovia and San Giovanni a Teduccio and Materdei and La Sanità and Santa Lucia and Vomero, and from those streaks water fell with slow composure and water penetrated the gaps between stone and stone and water plunged slowly to dig, and it dug, and cut, and dug, and cut, and now the defences were disappearing, the cement was crumbling, supporting columns sent up desperate cries for someone to support them because they were about to give, yes, they were about to give: not suddenly, not immediately, and not from one day to the next, but they would give: and who will resist the water that falls and seeps and digs and cuts? Who created a hand so big that it can collect this water in its palm? And at that moment the city realised, and a cold, soft shiver ran through it, and the discs of the spinal column each knew for themselves and they were becoming disjointed and those bones were becoming disarticulated now, they were becoming disjointed, and shoulder blade and collarbone and the breastbone, the bearing structure was giving, and that will to live was giving too: what would happen?, what?, a universal flood to wipe everything out and start from the beginning?, an unknown rainbow irregular in its line and form?

  Carmela Di Gennaro, who sold contraband cigarettes, sadly reflected that by now she had little left to sell, and that one day or another the water was bound to reach even those boxes of hers that she had hidden under her bed. The water would penetrate the soft plastic sheet and the coloured cardboard, and through the wrapping of each pack it would reach the filter and the tobacco and one day an inert spongy mass would certainly be all that remained of these cigarettes that now she couldn’t sell because of the rain and because in the street there was no one, no one any more. The men had begun to desert the offices and factories, the banks and offices. It wasn’t fear, it wasn’t that, just a sad presentiment, a consideration that had withdrawn into her joints to recreate a different system. And what system could Carmela Di Gennaro have penetrated?, what different life would she live with her cigarettes?, with those packs and packages hidden under the bed, with that smell of rain entering her nostrils. She glanced at her burning stove to check that it was working well, and with her left hand she lifted the curtains slightly. In her iris she caught greyish images of rain coming down and coming down.

  By now it was clear to all the authorities, clear as the now-forgotten sun, that there was no way of removing the doll from that dark corner. Perhaps it could have been taken, perhaps, but who felt like assuming that responsibility? What would happen if only a single hand extended to touch it, to test its consistency? And in short perhaps he was not stupid enough to risk the unforeseeable when by other means and different contrivances the question might have been equally resolved? So it was, and the Councillor for Public Thoroughfares at that precise instant also realised: it could be drawn out no longer, it wasn’t possible now. However much authority he had, it was not sufficient, and in short there were others, higher up, and different in terms of rank and competence. The councillor, at that precise moment, decided to wash his hands of the matter, and to alert as they say the relevant bodies. That involved an initial obstacle not inconsiderable in extent: who is responsible, within the City of Naples, for a doll which, when lit by a torch, emits superhuman voices and long heart-rending groans as though of multitudes? To others perhaps this question would have seemed insurmountable, and beyond a practicable solution, but the pragmatic mind of the Councillor for Public Thoroughfares immediately grasped the solution, which was in any case within arm’s reach: he would alert everyone, yes, really everyone, from the Mayor to the Commander of Police of Naples II, from the Prefect to the Commander of the Territorial Army, from the Communal Medical Officer to the Press Organisations, from the Chief of Police to the Commander of the Financial Police, from the Land Registry Office to the National Library, from the President of the Regional Council to the Provincial President, from the Councillors’ Offices to the Museum of San Martino, from the Chamber of Commerce to the National Association of Medical Orderlies, from the President of the Regional Assembly to the Office of Antiquities of the Region of Campania, from the Office of Taxation to the Maritime Docks Board, from his Most Reverend Eminence the Cardinal to the President of the Association of Industrialists of the Province of Naples, and so on saying that he did not want for any reason in the world to find himself in trouble, in big trouble, over a doll like that. Which might not even have been a doll. But in the end the thought of what it really was had become secondary, the primary and fundamental necessity had now become a General Alert. The all-encompassing liaison work took several hours. In the meantime, very quickly, evening fell, with the rain that was coming down and coming down, with the rain and the darkness so dense that people couldn’t see each other now and there probably wasn’t anything to see anyway, and the unease was growing because so little could be seen, and Enel squads were on the road day and night – and this was the second day of rain – to reopen access where possible. The same Prefect had promptly interceded with the General Direction of the Fifth Zone so that the Office of System Recovery could engage as rapidly as possible. He had explained that the unease also went beyond the actual event itself, it was both psychological and political, that the masses must not be left in the dark, because darkness foments disorder and destroys respect for hierarchies. Once the General Alert had been issued in full, the authorities convened
at the Maschio Angioino, and outside it they set up a police patrol, and don’t let anyone through, you hear me?, I don’t want anyone here, not even God Almighty!, in a loud and imperious voice in the silence, he heard that voice echoing within him, he felt it like a tremor in the depths of his throat. And in short when the police patrol had been properly set up, Vincenzo della Valletta, army brigadier, reckoned angrily that now they would stay outside and in that rain for who knows how long, if he knew the Superior Officers. The Superior Officers always put them somewhere, their inferiors, and then forgot about them, inevitably, and it wasn’t so much because of the rain that he was annoyed by the whole affair, as indisputably because of that cruel forgetfulness to which he was forced to adjust every time he was called out on garrison duty, and fuck!, you can’t spend your whole life waiting, and who do you think is going to come here to the Maschio Angioino, at this hour, with the rain coming down and coming down and the city deserted? Vincenzo della Valletta reckoned that in any case he was thinking nonsense: the Prefect had spoken clearly, had he not?, extremely clearly. Or perhaps he wished to question the orders of the Prefect? And besides: at his age?, after a whole life of blind devoted loyal obedience? Let us put it quite clearly, Vincenzo della Valletta: might it not be the case that the rain over these last few days has gone to your brain?, do you realise that at the age of 52 you don’t even question your own wife?, you don’t challenge anything or anyone, do you realise that? Vincenzo della Valletta, your age is over, it has gone, gone forever, you are left with your uniform, so look after it, and fuck right off and stay on duty with the rain coming down and all the rest of it. The rain was in fact coming down with violence, a coordinated precipitation slightly more dense than it had been in the morning. It had intensified, in short, and it seemed sometimes to respond to gusts of wind. Some had thought that the wind, yes, if the wind had risen up, perhaps strong and violent, perhaps then the rain would have stopped, perhaps it was a remote possibility, if the wind had risen. But it was soon clear that this was nothing but an impression, and an erroneous impression, what was more, because the rain was falling in torrents just as it had done the previous day, and there was nothing to observe or to record, nothing whatsoever, apart perhaps from the disarming bureaucratic regularity of the falling rain, beating down on the leather of their boots, and their boots were unmoving. Within the Maschio Angioino in the meantime a decision had been made which involved certain unknown factors and some calculated risks, truth be told, but in the end after lengthy confabulations it had appeared clear to one and all, clear and most pressing: that things could certainly not continue like this. The same bomb-disposal experts who had been dispatched to this spot could do nothing but light one cigarette after another and wait for the Appropriate Offices to make their decision. After a small meeting among the Higher Authorities, a decision had at last been taken and it was if nothing else a starting point, and this was what had been decided: that the bench beneath which the thing had been hidden would be broken up and removed forthwith, respecting the niceties and precautions of the case, and that, without moving or touching the mysterious doll, the wood of the benches would be taken outside, in such a way as to bring the thing to light without at the same time causing any traumas or shocks. It was clearly a provisional decision, perhaps even slightly too political a decision, but dear sirs let us take into account the supreme responsibilities that each one of us bears upon his shoulders, let us take into account the delicacy of the problem, let us ponder well the consequences that might be unleashed by an inappropriate action, and let us then do what at this point in time remains within our scope: to bring the doll to light. If nothing else, we will be able to take a closer look at it, and it may also be the case that by bringing the doll to light we will at last have a key to its interpretation. Because here no one believes in ghosts and dolls, so an explanation will be forthcoming, oh we will see such a thing, you can be sure of it. And when the agreement had been reached and established once and for all, two carpenters from the Municipality of Naples approached the bench with their tools. They studied its composition, its structure, the nature of the wood, the hinges, the nails, the type of glue which in places brought the planks together, and then they began to dismantle it. Always being careful to dismantle it gently, because not only was there a danger, obviously, if no one had previously attempted to approach and their intervention had become necessary, but above all they were working in the open, that is beneath the watchful eyes of the Supreme Authorities, and how were they going to complete the task at hand, for example, if even the slightest of their actions were to determine anything unusual or generally inauspicious? This mission was not to be taken lightly, far from it. With these thoughts silently mulled and ruminated upon, the two of them knelt down to work for about twenty minutes, with all the care and delicacy required, and in the end it was clear, not least and most of all to the Supreme Authorities that it had been a job well done, a job very well done, in fact, with prudence and exactitude. And the Prefect, who was following the work attentively, was on the point of saying something about the accuracy and exactitude of their intervention, and in fact he had already parted his lips, and his tongue had moved from his palate, and in short all that was missing was the vibration of the vocal cords, when the panel was removed, yes, once and for all. The panel was removed. And the doll was seen. And it was also seen without further ado that the doll was nothing but a doll. Black of hair and pale with a bluish hue, with a floral dress, the flowers white yellow and green, the little arms uncovered, and among the hair velvet ribbons. And that fixed doll’s gaze, with the dark pupil, and black rather than dark, black, profoundly dark. And fixed were those eyes like doll’s eyes with that impression of profundity. As if something were disappearing into the distance, fleeing, fleeing. There was curiosity around. And fear, too, disguised as sarcasm. Nothing was heard in the vast hall for the first thirty seconds, nothing at all, and that silence, so irreparably silent, assumed physical form and pressed down on their backs, everyone felt its weight upon their eyelids and their knees. An airborne jellyfish, a transparent dream.