by Erri De Luca
I walked for hours. There was no one around; the wind had depopulated the island. No one wanted to be outside. I made an inspection of my sites. I didn’t look beyond the night to come, beyond the fire. I didn’t ask myself if I would get away with it, if I would avoid burning myself, being discovered, getting caught. At the time, I didn’t even know that there was a prison for juveniles. I didn’t want to know. I had to get as far as the fire. The aftermath might amount to nothing. I no longer had a home, a family, a future, all I had was an urgent present. I was alone in the world in that fire. The sirocco had no rest; neither did I. I felt good in that wind, it sharpened my senses, it brought the heat to my nostrils, and to my ears the noise of windows and doors rattling. It wiped out tracks, muffled sounds, hid the stars.
There was no sunset. As though extinguished, the light went out, night fell. I went back to the pensione and found the car there. At home they had left my dinner on the fully set table. I went outside to eat. I chewed slowly, as I like to do, eating unhurriedly. Then I felt sleepy. I had to wait for the middle of the night, but I’d never make it if I tried to stay awake. I went to my room and lay down on the floor. The absence of comfort would ensure that my sleep was brief. I found a position on my side and fell asleep. I awoke twice, the second time when my parents came home. I jumped into bed. My mother opened the door to see if I was there. I heard them go into the bathroom, exchange a few words, turn out the light. They fell asleep quickly. I waited, my eyes on the ceiling. The wind pushed the island out to sea; it was a raft adrift, way off course, losing the survivors of a shipwreck.
I got up and opened the window. I had been mistaken in my calculations: I could not lower myself from there, leaving the window open to rattle and make noise. I would have to leave by the front door without making a sound. It took endless minutes to turn the knob, reach the entrance, get outside. Barefoot, I felt the wind come at me, billowing my clothes. It took me by the throat but was not hostile; it was a dog that wagged its tail and whimpered loudly. I took the matches, the newspaper, and the demijohn of gasoline. The streets were paths of dust, debris rolling along as though carried by a current. A hunting dog came up to me and walked beside me for a good bit of the way. At the corner of the pensione he left me.
All along the way I had the wind on all sides, but in the last street it hit me head on, in the face. The night of the storm came back: “Né paù,” don’t be afraid, Nicola’s voice at my back and the crash of the sea. “Né paù,” I gestured with my head, I’m not afraid. There was not a light. I squeezed my eyes shut against the dust and forged ahead from memory. I had decided to do without a flashlight, trusting myself. I felt the car, the gate, raised the latch, and was inside. I kept the gate open with a stone so that it wouldn’t slam shut. Just a few meters to reach the door at the top of a few stairs. Next to the railing there was a covered corner. I huddled over to try out a match: it didn’t go out.
Don’t watch me, Chaiele, sleep in your train, forget the island, the summer.
I opened the demijohn and poured the gasoline on the door, slowly, so as not to splash any on my feet. I didn’t pour all of it, keeping the rest to slosh on the car. I moved in the dark with precise gestures, and could see better than before. I thought of nothing. I did what I had to do and that’s all, and I knew how to do it and it seemed obvious to me that I would know how. In the covered corner I lit a match and a sheet of newspaper. I held it to the door. Not at once, but after a few seconds the gasoline reacted with explosive force and I fell, thrown backward. I had been wise not to use the whole newspaper. The pages used as a wick had been torn from my hand by the fire. Now the fire blazed along the door and shattered the pane of glass set into it. I straightened up, blinded, clutching the remaining sheets. I lit them and left the walkway to set fire to the car as well. Before it took, I heard the shouts, Feuer, Feuer, and finally the car also burst into flame. I threw the demijohn at it. The savagery of my gestures kept me calm. In the street, the fire had become bright as day, the noise louder than the wind, and the heat ferocious:
Windows were flung open. Behind me, voices, shrieks. I was already in the middle of the street, running with the wind at my back, fast, light, the darkness cloaking my shoulders and a dog at the corner of the street waiting to run beside me. Behind me a fire erupted that could not change the past.
*A little fish I’d become / dusted with flour she’d turn me over / her little hand would grab hold of me / she’d throw me into the pan / donna Amalia Speranzella. (Translator’s note, as are all that follow.)
*On September 8, 1943, the Italian government surrendered to the Allies, but until Germany’s defeat in April 1945, those parts of Italy not yet conquered by the Allies were subjected to German occupation. Italian soldiers, formerly German allies, were now prisoners of war; racial laws, largely flouted under fascism, were rigorously observed by the German occupiers.
*Even in the masculine it is rare as a name but is widely used in the expression, Tizio, Caio, Sempronio, the equivalent of Tom, Dick, or Harry.
about the author
ERRI DE LUCA was born in Naples in 1950 and today lives in the countryside near Rome. He is the author of several novels, including God’s Mountain, Three Horses (Other Press), and The Day Before Happiness (Other Press). He taught himself Hebrew and translated several books of the Old Testament into Italian. He is the most widely read Italian author alive today.
