by Mark Martin
––Where did you go on holiday? asks one chap.
––Sui mont ad Parasac! replies the other, by which he means nowhere.
Peasant sarcasm.
Parasacco was a village of few houses, on a bend in the road that wound its way through clumps of trees to the south of Via Rossonia, just before the turning to Medelana. Via Rossonia went all the way to the Abbazia di Pomposa. Travelers on foot, however, would walk down to the comune of Ostellato, admiring on the way the bleak landscape with its network of access paths across the marshlands.
Medelana, already a ghost hamlet at the end of the last century, was now little more than a fleck of gray-green spittle on the horizon. When I was a young girl, andar a Madlana––to go to Medelana––meant going to watch porno films. There was a cinema in Medelana that my schoolmates used to go to even when they were under age. Sad little group pilgrimages. Still images projected onto a sheet, one after the other in sequence to create the illusion of movement: cock in, cock out, cock in, cock out, a little squirt and then it started all over again. Then the cinema closed down. Every now and then they reopened it for a bingo night, though less and less frequently, and in the end it was shut down completely.
Not far away was the defunct factory that used to produce the moulds for decoys––for hunting. Plastic ducks. The main wall collapsed, the rain ruined the large containers and the web-footed imitations escaped––so, plastic ducks on the San Nicolò canal, ducks on the branch of the Po at Volano. In my day, this part of the river was not as high or as wide. After the Crisis it rose by at least a yard and became wider. Now it really is a major river.
There it goes, the invincible armada of ducks on its way to the sea. Who knows where the ones that don’t get stuck in the reed beds will end up? Maybe, a hundred years from now, they’ll reach the Grande Macchia, the Big Dump, a vortex of rubbish that floats around in the Pacific and sooner or later picks up every bit of plastic that ends up in the water. I picture the Macchia in the sun: a calm, aromatic expanse. Sun-kissed. Photodegrading.
Ducks, here I come. My eagerness to be on the move is growing, com al canarìn d’Alvo––like Alvo’s canary.
It’s unbelievable, the things that come back to me! A story from before I was born: someone had sold a duckling to a chap called Alvo, pretending that it was a canary. Alvo put it in a cage and the “canary” grew and grew until . . . and that’s the origin of the expression: at crési com al canarìn d’Alvo––“you’ve grown like Alvo’s canary,” people said to their grandchildren between one visit and the next, or to preteens during the summers when their physical development would spurt. But I digress.
I wake up with a start, in the freezing cold. A pale light embraces the world, mist rising from the pools and large ponds that once were fields, just like the mist when I was a girl. To the northeast a jagged strip of land stretches out in front of me. The main highway to Porto Garibaldi. What’s left of it.
I’m looking for my childhood home.
A few days ago, when I went into Ferrara, I found a copy of an old dictionary. Yellow scrunched-up pages covered in mildew. Luigi Ferri’s Ferrarese–Italian Dictionary, 1889. I read it during my pilgrimage, entry by entry, page after page, camped out under ancient overpasses, sitting on my rolled-up sleeping bag, my legs aching after trudging thousands of steps through the mud.
What a mournful parade of extinct words! Dialect words used by my grandmothers, lost long before the Crisis.
Argùr
Zarabìgul
Arzèstula
. . . green lizard, ant-lion, great tit . . .
Sciorzz
Baciosa
Capnégar
. . . glow-worm, curlew, blackcap . . .
Vague memories, sudden cranial jolts, a hesitant vibration of neurons.
Aliévar
Hare
By the time I could walk there were no longer any hares left in the fields behind our house. Exterminated, every last one of them. I didn’t see a hare myself until I was nine, just its putrefied remains, maybe the last one from its world. Extermination: before the actual beings themselves existed, we didn’t have the words for them. And now that these beings are returning, and I often hear curlews and on summer evenings I see glow-worms everywhere, the words sciorzz and baciosa are more dead than ever.
The re-flooding, slow but inexorable, of once reclaimed land is in full flow. The eastern part of the old province is, in parts, more than four yards below sea level, and the water refuses to budge; it wants to return to the places it was expelled from. The Commission still has a degree of control, but elsewhere water pumps are no longer working and whole comuni have surrendered. Goodness knows what has happened to the Magoghe. It was the lowest inhabited place in Italy.
We took the land around us for granted. Few people stopped to think that every damn day somebody had to keep the water in check and pump it away so that our houses didn’t flood. I offer up a prayer to the workers in the Consortium. I thank them for what they did, and I thank those who have stayed behind to keep watch. I thank them for their futile, Sisyphean efforts to keep above water land that sooner or later will inevitably surrender to the sea. Its salty waters are already rising, the coast is slowly drowning. At least, that’s what travelers say. That’s what the amateur radio operator from Porto Tolle says.
I think of you, guardian of the reclaimed land. I don’t know who is paying you, or how or how much. I don’t know what you think you will save or why it is important to you. I don’t know what you dream about, but I do know that you are saving something, and I am your ally, your sister. I, like you, and you, like me, both look for a future in the past.
Today, anyway, the waters of the canal are still. For the last week the sky has spared us; it threatens and is sad, but it doesn’t weep.
Little of my childhood home is left standing: split in two by climbing plants, tilting towards the north because of the pine tree that fell onto it. And it’s so small . . . When I was cìrula, a little girl, it encircled me like a palace. In winter it kept us warm. Outside the snow covered the ground and under its mantle memories of games played in the sunshine were buried underground like spring bulbs.
April sped by, its clouds not yet emptied, and summer surprised us with late-falling showers of rain; we would shelter under the entrances to the haylofts, many of which had already been abandoned. On dry days, we lay in the sun, drank lemonade, flirted, chattering about nothing. But that chatter was us, who we were.
Now the house is so poky, perhaps because I’m practically on stilts. It feels like there’s nine inches of mud on the soles of my boots.
The gods were kind to mother and father. They passed away before the Crisis and are spared the sight of all of this devastation today.
The sun is already low in the sky. I don’t want to go in. I won’t be strong enough.
Something furry slips through a gap in the crumbling walls. It’s a rat. No, it’s a ferret. A ferret slips away without looking at me and disappears into the bushes. It must be a descendant of pets that turned feral, the owners not having been able to get them sterilized in time.
The Crisis arrived before the vet did.
I can’t sleep. I am reading. It’s nearly dawn but I am reading. The light from the bonfire makes the letters tremble on the page.
A bissabuò
Snèstnar
Barbagùl
. . . zigzagging, sideways, wattles . . .
Pinguèl
Budlòz
Rugnir
. . . palate, umbilical chord, to neigh . . .
The ruins of a language are heart-wrenching. Every word that dies out is a house that gives up, sags and sinks, becomes buried in the sand.
These words were inhabited, human beings filled them with life and stories.
When you look at the ruins of a house they help you imagine what the home was like. You hear footsteps, the sound of little children at play, voices that come and go . . . But you can’t inhabit
the ruins in the same way that you inhabit a home. The home no longer exists.
I look up from my book and for a long time I search for the Pleiades, but I can’t find them.
It’s my last day here. Tomorrow I am going back to the southwest.
II. San Vito, November 22, on my
way to Bologna once again.
Am ambushed by a solitary marauder, hidden among the bushes surrounding the parish church of San Vito. An inch further to the left and he would have broken my nose, but I was already moving back and his stick just struck me a glancing blow. He put his full force behind it and lost his balance. I saw him fall badly and hit his elbow on a stone.
––Ouch! he exclaimed, just like in the comics you find rotting away in the ditches. Putrefied stories. I also found bundles of torn euros, not that they’d be any use. Not here, anyway.
He has picked himself up. Now he’s staring at me with curiosity. He is thin (who isn’t?). He has green eyes and mousy hair. The rags he’s wearing remind me of something. I recognize them: the uniform and greatcoat of the carabinieri.
––You’re not from around here, you can tell.
––How? I was born here, though I live miles away now.
When I use the feminine conjugation of the verb “born,” he lights up.
––Wow, you’re a woman! I’d never have guessed!
I lift my hood and pull down my scarf. He can see that I am middle-aged. He can see my wrinkles and his smile fades but doesn’t disappear altogether.
––Where do you live now? What have you come back for?
––I could say that that’s my business, I reply, but lightly, with no hostility in my voice.
He sniggers.
––And you would be well within your rights. And what if I ask you what your name is? Any name will do.
He’s welcome to my name. He offers me his hand and I shake it. His hand is cold.
––I’m Matteo, he says.
––Are you a marauder, Matteo?
––Moché, moché! You must be joking, I thought you were the marauder! Because I’d never seen you before.
––I’m just a passerby.
––Aren’t you afraid, traveling on your own?
––Like everybody else. No more, no less. But what were you up to in the bushes?
––I was emptying my bowels, he replies straightaway. Actually, I hadn’t yet started. And now it’s gone back up. Still, it’ll come back down.
And he laughs again, this time more loudly.
We are silent for a while. We look about us. The plane trees that line Via Ferrara, which is no longer tarmacked, are enormous. No one prunes anymore. Everywhere huge branches intertwine, making a roof overhead. The old trunk road is like a tunnel. Underneath, somebody is obviously still pulling up the weeds, moving fallen branches, filling in the biggest holes in the road. The road is stony but passable.
––While I’m at it, can I ask you something else? I promise you it won’t piss you off, ok?
––I nod in agreement.
––Bon. What’s the government doing? Does it still exist where you are?
––No. There’s a skeleton government, but it’s still in the South.
––That’s what I imagined. Here only the Commission shows up. The ex-carabiniere who I thought was a bandit shrugs his shoulders. They help us, if you can call it that. Goodness knows why.
––They do it in exchange for the services provided by the government. Do you sleep inside the church? I ask him.
––My feet decide where I sleep. And what does the government do, exactly?
––It patrols the coastlands, the borders with Europe. The Ionian Sea, the Tyrrhenian Sea . . . It arrests and drives out illegal immigrants.
––Kills them, more like. I know how these things work, I was part of the system.
And at this point a pause would be good, a moment to think, but the man goes straight on.
––It’s crazy, are there really still people who want to come to this bog? he says.
––Some parts of Italy are still functioning okay, and in any case it’s worse in Africa. But, you know, lots of them don’t come here to stay. It’s more that Italy is the weak link. They arrive here, if they are able to, and move north, if they are able to. They move north into Europe.
––To do what? Is there any work still?
––I think so, something like that.
Then it’s my turn to ask him a question.
––How often does the Commission show up? I’ve been crossing the province for days and I’ve yet to see a single official.
––It depends. They come by helicopter. They’re the only people who have fuel. Some of them look Chinese.
By helicopter? I’ve seen a few gliders and hang gliders recently. I’ve seen some hot-air balloons and even an airship, but I’ve never ever seen any helicopters. And given the noise they make, surely I’d have noticed them.
Maybe I spoke my thoughts out loud because Matteo insists.
––They do come, they do. They land in the village squares, hand out rations, hold meetings with the local councilors––––
––Local councilors? Have elections started up again?
––Well, in a manner of speaking . . . The commissioners didn’t want them to, but people organize themselves. As I am well aware, because I’m a councilor, too.
––Oh, yes? Where?
––Gambulaga.
––It wasn’t a local council in my time.
––Everything changes. Especially the times. Have you got anything to eat?
In my rucksack I have the frogs I caught yesterday. There’s a lot of them. I cook them on a spit, the meat tasteless but crunchy. And I have a bunch of wild radicchio. Matteo shows me a purple water-bottle.
––There’s something to drink, too, he says. Clean water, purified with alum given out by the Commission.
And so we eat together, at the edge of the little wood behind the church.
––It’s windy, I say. Why don’t we go inside the church?
––It’s dangerous in there. God’s in there. Here we’re safe.
I accept his answer, without asking for further explanations.
––Are you going back home? Matteo asks.
The local councilor who had been about to kill me wants to talk.
––Yes. Near Bologna. Casalecchio.
––What, all the way to Casalecchio on foot?
––There’s still some transport available when you get past Ferrara. And lots of horses. I’ll hitch a lift, like I did to get here. I saw some hot-air balloons tethered in a field. If they can be used, that would be even better.
––Don’t people still shoot at the balloons?
––I don’t think so. That only happened in the early days.
––And have you got any money to pay for the ride?
––Money’s not much use any more. The Commission changes money into vouchers, and I’ve got a few.
For a while we concentrate on our food, our jaws working, tongues mixing it up, our gastric juices getting to work.
––Did you come through Ferrara?
The dream from a few nights ago. A city––it feels unreal. On a dark foggy winter’s morning a river of people flows over the city walls, and there are truly a lot of them, a greater number than all of history’s dead combined. They look down at their feet and every now and then they sigh. They charge over the Montagnone and down Via Alfonso d’Este, all the way to where the branch of the River Po at Volano flows under the bridge. I see someone I used to know and call out to him.
––Rizzi! You once stood with me in front of the war memorial in Udine. The body that you buried in the garden has begun to sprout. What do you think, will it bloom this year? Or has the big freeze destroyed the garden? Please be careful, keep the dog away. It digs up the soil and it likes men!
––Did you come through Ferrara? I’ve not been there for eight years and it’s
only twelve miles away.
––Yes, but I didn’t stop. People told me it was dangerous.
––The last time I was there––Matteo is talking again––the Crisis was very recent. You could still find petrol on the black market and I went on my moped to look at the petro-chemical plant. It was swarming with officials from the Commission. You can imagine, what with all those toxic substances about to leak out and kill everything . . . The various parts of the plant were holding up well and I’ve heard that they’re still standing firm. They’d already stopped producing some things before the Crisis and at that time a large number of silos, full of ammonia or whatever, went missing. Carted away, goodness knows where.
––Africa, I reckon.
––Expect so, he says, but adds nothing.
A few minutes of peaceful silence follow. Tiredness flows out of my body through my pores, my muscles discharge toxins, and even my mind is restored. My eyesight becomes keener and my ears stop buzzing. My lunch companion glances up at me, but I am the first to start up the conversation again.
––You said that people around here are organizing themselves. Tell me: what does a local council do?
He snorts.
––Hah! Not much. It decides how to distribute aid, rounds up volunteers to pull up weeds in the fields. It writes to the relatives of the dead . . . I used to be a carabiniere. You can tell, can’t you? When the Crisis happened I was in Cosenza. In order to get back home I took a train like the ones you used to see in documentaries, you know, like in India, with people even sitting on the roof. It took me two days. It kept stopping in little villages I’d never even heard of . . . And you, what kind of work did you do?
My other recurring dream. I am twenty-eight years old, I am writing my first novel. It is about the lives of a group of young seminarists at the time of the Second Vatican Council: forbidden loves, theological arguments, squables and disagreements, an unforeseen death. They come from peasant families––devout but not overly so––and I have to try and depict a background of popular religious sentiment. I draw on the “anthropology” of the changes taking place at that time. In fact, I am killing two birds with one stone because I’m using material from my thesis. Nothing ever gets thrown away.
