Arturo's Island

by Elsa Morante

  “We don’t believe in any Madonna.”

  And I added:

  “Or in God.”

  “But your father is a Christian now,” she replied, gravely. (That statement of hers, which at the moment I let go, distractedly, without really considering it, was to appear subsequently, in my memory, as a surprising novelty . . . but I will return to this later.)

  From our brief discussion of the domestic images the bride’s thoughts seemed to return, in that connection, to the subject of the ancestor, evoked a little earlier by my father. And, perplexed, she decided to ask me if that ghost, hater of women, was truly wandering through the castle! At her question, I again shrugged, with a grimace. Her credulity was wearing me out!

  “But why don’t you understand?” I burst out. “It’s true that that man from Amalfi once lived here, but he’s dead. You know what dead means? In other words, you should know that my father doesn’t believe in ghosts, and I don’t, either. Ghosts don’t exist anywhere. They’re romantic legends!”

  She moved closer to me and, circumspectly, in a solemn whisper, asserted that, on the contrary, ghosts do exist: she had never seen one, though an acquaintance of her godmother, who was a night nurse at the Hospital for Incurables, had seen hundreds of them. “But,” she said finally, “if I see them, what to do? They’re not a thing to inspire fear.” And she explained to me that they are simply unfortunate souls, sinners in torment, who, like helpless, wretched beggars, go around pleading for prayers for their eternal peace. In appearance, they no longer have the shape of humans, but look like fluttering scraps of cloth. And it’s enough to say a requiem for them: then they go away immediately.

  I was tempted to reveal to her that the dead, almost certainly, have no more spirit, that in death everything is extinguished and all that survives is glory; but then right away, having second thoughts, I said to myself that it would be pointless to inform her of certain things. In fact, in no case could glory ever be given to her; and so she might as well be left deluded in her opinions.

  I contented myself with pointing out to her sarcastically:

  “Well, if all you need is a prayer to get rid of them, why are you afraid of being alone at night?”

  “It’s not them I’m afraid of!” she protested, determined and almost indignant. “I’d be ashamed to be afraid of them. Of them or of any other thing! I’m not like my sister, who’s even afraid of cats’ eyes at night! For me, even if there’s lightning, or criminals, I’m not afraid! Ask my mother if it’s not true: that I’m never afraid! Of anything!”

  (“But,” I thought, without saying it, “you are afraid of my father.”)

  “The only thing I’m frightened of,” she resumed, as if making an effort to explain to me something very difficult that she didn’t know how to explain to herself, “is this: being alone. But not for some reason! It’s just that fact of being alone, without anyone nearby! It’s just the fear of being alone, nothing else, that scares me! And then! Why in this world should so many souls exist if not to join together? And not only people! Animals, too: during the day, maybe, they go around separately, but at night they all sleep together!”

  “It’s not true!” I retorted firmly. “Certain animals know how to be solitary, and they’re magnificent and proud, like heroes! The owl almost always perches alone, and the dugong comes out only at night; and the elephant sets off by itself and goes far away when it’s time to die!

  “But then man has much more heart than all the animals! He’s equal to a king, he’s equal to a star!

  “But that’s enough.

  “I,” I concluded proudly, “have always been alone, my whole life.”

  “That’s the fate of someone who doesn’t have a mother,” she commented, with such ingenuous compassion that her sour, toneless voice sounded melodious. “Yes,” she added, as if she were stating a rare philosophical thought, “the mother is our first companion in this life, and no one ever forgets her . . .

  “I, too,” she declared suddenly, sadly, “have had an orphan’s fate! Because I’ve been without a father. And without a brother, too: my mother, my sister, and I, just three women, that’s how our family was left.

  “Before my sister there was a brother, younger than me: he was eight when he died. Yes, it’s five years at Christmas since the day of his death. He died with my father in that very famous terrible disaster!”

  “What disaster?” I asked, with sudden interest. In fact, from her grand, aristocratic tone I expected that the disaster she mentioned was derived at least from an extraordinary air raid, or some other event of world importance.

  “Oh, that famous disaster of the load of cement, which was talked about as far away as Rome. Because four human beings died, and what fine funerals they had! The band came, and the authority, and all paid for by the city: the horses, the crown, and everything.

  “. . . My father had gone to work: and think! That usually he was on strike, because he was so lazy: he preferred the profession of gentleman, he was like that . . . But that week he’d felt the desire, and had gone to work to unload cement. And my brother brought him some food.

  “We had made pasta without sauce, which my brother liked most of all. Because my brother had all kinds of peculiar ideas; for example, sauce! He didn’t like it! And my mother said to him: ‘First go and take some to your father, and then come back and eat with us.’ And he left, grumbling about it, with my father’s plate wrapped in a napkin. And that was the last we saw of him. It was the fatality of destiny!”

  That story, although tragic and moving, to tell the truth had been somewhat disappointing to me. Still, so as not to offend my guest, I didn’t reveal my disappointment, but, rather, to be polite, I sighed deeply. And she, absorbed in the solemnity of her sorrows, exchanged with me a trusting and grateful look; then, sighing in turn, she observed, in the meditative tone of a thinker:

  “Yes, for death a big man and a child are the same. For death they’re all creatures!”

  As she said this, her girlish ignorance seemed to be reclothed in a great old age, full of an indefinable, almost regal wisdom. But meanwhile a childish consolation had already surfaced in her sad funeral lament:

  “But in the end,” she asserted with conviction, “the day will come when families will be reunited, all together again, in true eternal celebration!” Here she stopped, as if fearful of shadowing, by some female indiscretion, that non-earthly celebration: and she merely hinted, full of mysterious respect, like someone reciting the exotic books of a sacred Sibyl or the Prophet Daniel:

  “Yes, those who fear death really are wrong, because death is a disguise, that’s all: in this world, purposely, it appears very ugly, like a wolf; but in Paradise it will be seen in its true guise, with the beauty of the Madonna, and there it changes its name, and is called not Death but Eternal Life. Because in Paradise, truly, to say that word death—no one would understand you.”

  She broke off, swinging her head with a secret, enchanted expression, as if her imagination already anticipated, even if modestly, the splendors of that future, which, however, shouldn’t (in proper reverence) be talked about too much . . . Then, finally, resuming, she didn’t hesitate to conclude:

  “And so on the last day, beautiful Eternal Life will appear to us at the gate, laughing beside the Blessed Crowned Virgin, like another mother of all Christians, who has prepared a great, never-ending celebration for them. And there we’ll be again with my father and my brother, and with my other brothers and sisters, too, some of whom died at birth, and some as infants . . .”

  From her credulous, rapt smile, with its slightly savage fresh joy, it was evident that for her the impassive indifference of eternity had been transformed into a fabulous fair with lights and songs and joyous dances, and infants and children! She let me know (assuming that particular air of noble pomp that she often used with regard to her family) that besides her, Nunziata, the first, her mother had borne nine other children, male and female. Almost every year,
in fact, she had given birth, in the twelve years of her marriage, so that her friends said to her: Viulante, your Nunziatina doesn’t need to get herself a doll, you always take care of making a new one for her . . . But unfortunately the will of God had caused most of those numerous children to fly back up to Heaven even before they had learned to walk on the earth . . .

  Luckily, none of them had left without Holy Baptism, and she began to mention them to me by their baptismal names, one by one. There was a Gennaro, two Peppinos, a Sarvatore, an Aurora, a Ciccillo, and a Cristinella . . . Finally her expression became vaguely bewildered:

  “If I think again about those siblings,” she said, “I have a worry that I won’t be able to recognize them, in a tomorrow: I remember them as if they were all the same, from the same mold! . . . But of course there in Paradise we recognize each other without even saying our names, the relationships will be written on our foreheads! And you, too, will find your mother there, and we’ll all be together, all one family!”

  The vision of Arturo’s mother passed through my mind, who, solitary, and disdainful of any mixing, had left the island of Procida in her beautiful Oriental tent, without saying goodbye to him.

  I answered harshly:

  “For the dead there is no family. In death, we don’t recognize anyone.”

  She looked at me the way a learned man looks at an ignorant, but, still, with profound respect, and didn’t dare reply. Only, after a second, wrapping a curl around her fingers, she observed, in a faint, dreamy voice:

  “That brother of mine, who I was telling you about, also had special opinions of his own, so people called him the Reasoner, because he was always reasoning; and when he spoke, everyone was silent. His name was Vito.”

  After that we were silent for a while. Then, looking at me with timid compassion, she resumed:

  “And so you’ve always spent all your time alone!”

  “Yes!”

  “But . . . your father . . . doesn’t he keep you company?”

  “Of course!” I answered. “When he’s on Procida, he’s always with me! From morning to night! . . . But he has to travel! And I’m not old enough yet for traveling. Soon I will be, though, and I’ll travel with him.”

  “And you’ll travel together to do what?”

  “What do you mean, to do what! Well! First of all to visit the geographic wonders of the world! That’s obvious!”

  “What wonders?” she asked.

  The Double Oath

  The subject that, with her question, she brought up was too fascinating, and had burned too long with no outlet in the closed space of my imagination, for me not to be instantly drawn into an irrepressible eloquence. And so I began citing to her, emphatically, the most pressing among the many spectacular wonders that, scattered throughout the globe, awaited the visit of Wilhelm and Arturo Gerace . . . But although she had so far accepted every one of my words with such modesty, on this new subject she demonstrated a stubborn authority.

  It seemed that for her nothing outside Naples and the surrounding area was worth the trouble of exploring, so that as she heard me celebrate those exotic places jealousy of Neapolitan honor made her darken. And every so often she interrupted to tell me, in a glorious and at the same time bitter tone, that in Naples, too, there was this and there was that . . . As if all the magnificent things that existed in the rest of the world were, in essence, second-rate, provincial, and citizens of that paramount metropolis could save themselves the trouble of traveling: for them it was enough to be born, because they could find the supreme example of everything right close by.

  I began to boast about the Castle of the Crusaders in Syria, where, in olden times, ten thousand knights lived! And she, ready, announced to me that in Naples there was a castle (fifty times as big as my father’s) that was called dell’Ovo, the Egg, because it was all closed, with almost no openings, like an egg; and inside were the kings of the Two Sicilies, the Bourbons . . . I cited the colossal Sphinx of Egypt, which thousands of caravans came from all the continents to see. And in response she named a church in Naples where there was a marble Virgin, as tall as a giantess, who sometimes when you showed her a crucifix (even a small one, the kind that people wear around their neck like a charm) shed real tears. She assured me that many people had witnessed the miracle: not only Neapolitans but Americans, French, and even a duke; and that that statue was visited by thousands of pilgrims, who with offerings of crosses, hearts, and precious chains had transformed the church into a gold mine . . .

  I talked to her about the Indian fakirs, and she immediately had to boast of a collection of phenomena no less marvelous, which dwelled in Naples! In Naples, in the sacristy of a convent, there was a tiny, delicate nun who had been dead for more than seven hundred years; but she was still pretty and fresh as a rose, so that, in her crystal urn, she resembled a doll in a shop window . . . And in Naples, in Piazza San Ferdinando, lived an old man, with a black tongue and lips, who could eat fire. He performed at the cafés, devouring handfuls of fire; meanwhile his grandchildren went around with a bowl, and so that strange old man made a living for the family.

  I let her talk, with a generosity not without pity, since for me the city of Naples signified merely a point of departure for my journeys, a negligible atom! While she, because of her inglorious fate, was condemned to know nothing of the world outside Naples and Procida. So I was listening, with an almost dutiful air, to all that Neapolitan stuff, which others must have told her and that she was telling me with perfect credulity, gesticulating with her little hands . . . when suddenly a fantastic hilarity began to tickle my throat, and I broke into such a fit of laughter that I collapsed flat on the floor on my stomach.

  It seemed to me that I had never felt such an extraordinary happiness: so that it seemed to belong not only to me but also to her, and to the entire universe! But she, naturally, took it badly. Her Neapolitan boasts suddenly broke off and I heard her voice protesting, resentful and mortified:

  “Ask my mother if I’m lying. You can ask all Naples if those facts I was telling you are my invention or are true.”

  At that I raised my head a little, ready to loyally reassure her, since in reality I didn’t doubt her good faith and, oddly, I didn’t like to unjustly upset her . . . But as soon as I saw her in front of me again, looking at me sulkily and swaying back and forth, hilarity, like a musical refrain, possessed me again, and instead of speaking I laughed harder than before.

  This scene repeated itself two or three times in the space of a minute. Every so often I stopped laughing, gave her another glance, and began laughing more heartily. So that without any intention on my part she, inevitably, appeared more and more offended. She stuck out her lips in vexation, which now seemed close to overwhelming her, and I began to think, “What will she do?” with the pleasure of a dramatic game, as when I used to provoke Immacolatella.

  Finally, I heard her start muttering; and suddenly she took a step toward the center of the room, where she stopped, exclaiming, in the harsh, absolute tones of a prophet:

  “I swear it! in front of all the blessed souls of Purgatory! I didn’t invent a single lie! They all stand as witnesses of this oath!”

  Before the great solemnity of this scene, I instantly became serious again. But, in the present moment, she didn’t even look at me. And she ended:

  “. . . My father hears me, too, and my brothers and sisters! May I fall to the ground here right this minute if I’ve invented those things about Naples. May I fall down dead!”

  Having uttered her oath, she swallowed, and I saw that her chin and mouth were trembling with the emotion of feeling slandered. Without looking at me, perhaps fearful of seeing me laugh again, she said in a faint voice:

  “Now you can believe me, that I didn’t tell you any lies.”

  My conscience then roused itself, to reproach my earlier rudeness. And, angry at myself, I rose to my feet with a determined impulse and stood in front of her. Then I exclaimed, in a tone that was m
ore than serious, in fact historical and fateful:

  “On my honor! May I be struck dead here if I speak falsely: I swear that I believed in the sincerity of every word you said from the start, and I don’t consider you a liar!”

  Within my memory, in my life so far, never had a ceremony of such importance taken place. And I felt a great satisfaction in that. As for her, she had already grown cheerful again, and gave me a smile that seemed to thank me and ask, at the same time: “Why, then, such hilarity?” But, in all conscience, I found no better response than this, which I offered hastily:

  “I was laughing like that because I felt like laughing,” and she was satisfied by that explanation, nor did she ask for another. She gave a brief, grateful sigh, in which all the bitterness she had swallowed a few minutes earlier seemed to relax, unburdening her heart of every weight; and, shaking her head at her own suspicions, she said in a contented voice:

  “And I . . . thought you were accusing me of telling lies . . .”

  I shrugged. “Well, come on! I know perfectly well that you don’t tell lies!” I exclaimed, adding in a tone of bold proclamation: “I know you!”

  That phrase, I know you, came naturally to me. And as I said it I realized, surprising myself, that, although it was odd, it really was true: all other people (and my father more than anyone!) remained mysterious to me, whereas although I had met her today for the first time, I already seemed to know her by heart. Had that surprising discovery been, basically, the real reason for my laughter? In any case, not knowing what else to say, I sat down again on the floor where I’d been before, and concluded, in a curt tone:

  “Well! I swore on my honor! What else do you want? Damn it!”

  Her lips made a slight anxious movement, as if she wished to say to me: “But I’ve forgiven you! My goodness! I’ve forgiven you!” But then, instead of speaking, she smiled at me, with the air of asking forgiveness for herself. Thus she hastened eagerly toward me, like a little hen that spreads its wings as it walks; and, still smiling, she stopped humbly a few steps away. Then I smiled at her, too, although with a certain condescension, out of one side of my mouth.