The Penguin Book of Italian Short Stories

by Jhumpa Lahiri

  But don’t you understand, Massigher? Don’t you feel sufficiently safe in this great old house? How can you feel doubt? Isn’t it enough for you to be surrounded by these solid old walls, this nicely balanced peace, these impassive faces? How do you dare offend such dignity with your silly childish fears?

  ‘You look like a soul possessed,’ remarked his friend Fedri affectionately, ‘like a painter … what prevented you from combing your hair? Please, next time … you know Mother’s views on this,’ and he burst out laughing.

  He was interrupted by a peevish enquiry from his father: ‘Well, shall we begin this bridge? We’ve still got time, you know. One game and then bed. Giorgina, would you be good enough to get the cards?’

  At this point the butler appeared; he looked thoroughly dumbfounded by the turn events were taking. ‘What is it now?’ asked Signora Gron, with ill-concealed irritation, ‘Has someone else arrived?’

  ‘It’s Antonio, the bailiff … he wants to speak to one of you, he says it’s important.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Stefano immediately, standing up quickly as though afraid of somehow being too late.

  His wife did indeed hold him back. ‘No no, you stay here. It’s far too damp outside … you know quite well … your rheumatism … you stay here, dear. Fedri will go.’

  ‘It’ll only be the usual business,’ said the boy, walking towards the curtain. From the distance there came a confused sound of voices.

  ‘Are you going to play here?’ asked the signora in the interim. ‘Giorgina, take that vase away, please … then do go to bed, dear, it’s already late. And what are you going to do, Martora – go to sleep?’

  The old man roused himself, embarrassed: ‘Had I fallen asleep? Yes, I believe I had, for a few minutes.’ He smiled. ‘The fireside, old age …’

  ‘Mother,’ the girl called from another corner of the room. ‘I can’t find the box of cards, they were here in the drawer yesterday.’

  ‘Open your eyes, my dear. What’s that on the side table? You never find anything …’

  Massigher arranged the four chairs and began to shuffle the pack. At this point Fedri reappeared. Wearily, his father asked, ‘What did Antonio want?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ answered the boy merrily. ‘Just the usual peasant’s panics. The river’s very swollen, they say the house is in danger – think of that. They wanted me to go and see – in this weather! They’re all praying there now, and ringing the bells – can you hear?’

  ‘Fedri, let’s go and see together,’ suggested Massigher. ‘Just for five minutes. Will you come?’

  ‘And what about our game, Massigher?’ enquired the signora. ‘So you’d leave Dr Martora in the lurch? And get a soaking too.’

  So the four men began their game, Giorgina went to bed and her mother sat in a corner with her embroidery.

  As the game progressed, the thuds they had heard earlier became more frequent. It sounded as if some heavy object were falling into a deep mud-filled hole, a sound of doom coming from the bowels of the earth. After each thud there was a feeling of unease, the players hesitated to play their cards, caught their breath, fumbled, but the tension vanished as quickly as it had come.

  No one, it seemed, wished to talk about it. Except Martora, who observed at one point: ‘It must come from the sewer underneath here. There is one very old water pipe which runs into the river. Probably some sort of overflow …’ No one said anything.

  Now it is time to study the reactions of Signor Gron, that true nobleman. He is looking at the small fan of cards in his left hand, but occasionally his glance steals out beyond the cards to take in the head and shoulders of Martora, who is opposite him, and finally to include the far end of the room where the polished floor disappears under the fringes of curtain. And now he no longer looks at the cards or at the face of his old friend, but stares beyond him at the back of the room, at the bottom of the curtain; his eyes widen further, kindle with a strange light.

  At last the old nobleman says simply – dully, but in a tone of great desolation – ‘Look.’ He is not addressing his son, nor the doctor, nor Massigher in particular. He simply says ‘Look’, but that one word is frightening.

  He uttered this one word and the others looked up, even his wife, who was sitting in a corner with great dignity, absorbed in her embroidery. Slowly, from beneath the lower border of the dark curtain, something black and shapeless crept across the floor.

  ‘Stefano, why on earth do you have to use that tone of voice?’ exclaimed Signora Gron, who had already jumped to her feet and was walking towards the curtain. ‘Can’t you see that it’s water?’ None of the four players had stood up.

  It was indeed water. It had finally crept into the villa through some crack or gap, sneaking like a snake along corridors before finally entering the drawing room, where it looked black because of the shadow. It would have been amusing had it not been such a blatant outrage. But behind that negligible tongue of water, that merest trickle, might there not be something else? Could one be quite certain that that was the full extent of the damage? Was there no water trickling down the walls, no pools between the tall shelves in the library, no slow dripping from the arched ceiling of the next room (the water falling on the great silver salver – a wedding present given by the prince many years ago)?

  ‘Those idiots have left a window open,’ exclaimed Fedri. ‘Go and close it then,’ said his father.

  But the signora intervened. ‘Out of the question – stay where you are; someone else will come and close it, I trust!’ She pulled the bell-pull nervously and they heard the distant sound of the bell. At the same time the mysterious splashing sounds began to occur with ominous, ever-increasing frequency; now they could be heard throughout the whole house. Old Gron, frowning, was staring at the tongue of water on the floor; it seemed to swell at the edges, then spill over, spreading a few inches, swell again, spread and so on. Suspecting that something unusual was about to happen, Massigher shuffled the cards to hide his own emotion. And Martora shook his head slowly, as if to say: ‘Such are the times we live in – one can no longer rely on one’s staff’; or perhaps, resignedly: ‘Nothing to be done about this now, my friends, you noticed it all too late.’

  A few moments passed without any sign of life from the other rooms. Massigher plucked up his courage: ‘Signora,’ he said, ‘I did tell you that –’

  ‘Good God! You again, Massigher!’ snapped Maria Gron, without letting him finish the sentence. ‘All because of a bit of water on the floor! Ettore will wipe it up in a minute. These wretched windows let in water all the time, we must have the fastenings seen to!’

  But Ettore did not appear, nor did any other of the numerous staff of servants. There was a sudden feeling of oppression and hostility abroad in the night. Meanwhile the mysterious splashes had developed into an almost continuous roar, as if barrels were being rolled around in the foundations, so that even the sound of the pouring rain outside was barely audible.

  ‘Signora!’ shouted Massigher suddenly, jumping to his feet determinedly. ‘Signora, where has Giorgina gone? Let me go and call her!’

  ‘What now, Massigher?’ Maria Gron’s face still expressed coldly polite amazement. ‘You are all terribly nervous this evening. What do you want Giorgina for? You don’t actually wish to wake her up, I trust?’

  ‘Wake her up!’ the young man retorted, almost mocking. ‘Wake her up! There you go again!’

  From the passage hidden behind the curtain, as from an icy cave, there came a sudden violent gust of wind. The curtain billowed like a sail and twisted around itself to allow the lights of the room to shine beyond it and reflect in the pool of water on the floor.

  ‘Fedri, run and close it quickly,’ cursed his father. ‘Good Lord, call the servants!’

  But the boy seemed almost amused by this unusual turn of events. He ran across the dark hall shouting: ‘Ettore! Ettore! Berto! Sofia!’ but his shouts were lost unanswered in the empty corridors.

&nb
sp; ‘Papà!’ he called suddenly. ‘There’s no light out here. I can’t see a thing … Oh God, what’s happened?’

  Back in the room all had risen to their feet, alarmed by his sudden call. Suddenly, inexplicably, water seemed to be pouring through the whole house. The wind blew fiercely through it as though there were holes in the walls, shaking the lamps, scattering cards and papers, upsetting flowers.

  Fedri reappeared, looking as white as a sheet and trembling slightly. ‘Good God,’ he kept saying mechanically. ‘Good God, how awful.’

  Did he still need to explain that the river had burst its banks and was right here, below the house and was pouring past, implacable and uncaring? That the walls on that side of the house were about to collapse? That the servants had all vanished into the night and that soon no doubt there would be no light at all? His white face, his panicked shouts (he who was usually so elegant and self-confident), the frightful roar welling up from the bottomless abyss beneath them – was not all this sufficient explanation?

  ‘We must leave immediately, my car’s out there, it would be mad not to …’ Martora was saying, he being the only one who had retained any semblance of calm. At this point Giorgina reappeared, wrapped in a thick coat, accompanied by Massigher; she was sobbing a little, though quite decorously, almost without making a sound. Her father began searching around in the drawer containing his important papers.

  ‘Oh no, no!’ Signora Maria burst out in sudden despair. ‘I don’t want to go! My flowers, all my beautiful things – I don’t want to go, I don’t!’ Her mouth trembled, her face contracted as though it were about to fall apart, she was on the verge of consent. Then, with a marvellous effort, she smiled. Her mask of wordliness was intact, her highly sophisticated charms unimpaired.

  ‘I’ll always remember it,’ said Massigher, suddenly cruel, hating her with all his heart. ‘I’ll always remember your villa. It was so lovely on moonlit nights.’

  ‘Get a coat quickly, Signora,’ said Martora firmly, turning to her. ‘You get something warm too, Stefano. Let’s go before the lights fail.’

  Signor Gron was quite genuinely unafraid. He seemed devoid of all emotion and was clutching the leather wallet containing the papers. Fedri was pacing round the room, paddling in the water – he had completely let himself go. ‘It’s all over, then, all over,’ he kept saying. The electric light became weaker.

  Then there came a long, resounding thud, more awful and much nearer than anything that had preceded it, a sound of catastrophe. Fear held the family in its icy grip.

  ‘Oh no, no!’ the mother shrieked again suddenly. ‘I won’t, I won’t!’ Very pale, her face fiercely set, she began to walk anxiously towards the billowing curtain. But she was shaking her head, as though to say that she didn’t allow it, that she was coming in person and that the water could not dare to come any closer.

  They saw her pushing aside the flapping edges of the curtain with an angry movement and disappearing into the darkness, as though she were going to disperse an irritating band of beggars the servants had been unable to drive away. Did she hope that her aristocratic disdain could keep tragedy at bay, could intimidate the yawning abyss?

  She disappeared behind the curtain and, although the frightful rumbling sound seemed to swell, there was a feeling of silence.

  At last Massigher said: ‘There’s someone knocking at the door.’

  ‘Now really,’ said Martora, ‘whom do you imagine that could be?’

  ‘No one,’ replied Massigher. ‘Naturally, no one, at this stage. Yet there definitely is someone knocking. Probably a messenger, a spirit, a warning soul. This is a noble house. I think the powers that be sometimes take this into account.’

  ‘Eppure battono alla porta’

  First published in the literary supplement La lettura, XL, no. 9, September 1940. It was later included in I sette messaggeri (Mondadori, 1942) and Sessanta racconti (Mondadori, 1958).

  Massimo Bontempelli

  1878–1960

  ‘Funambolismo’ is a word often used to describe Bontempelli’s art – that of a tightrope walker. Among the most audacious of writers in this volume, he is also the most graceful. Everything Bontempelli wrote was brief, taut, exquisitely controlled. A precursor to Calvino, he was a key figure of the Italian avant-garde, formally anomalous even today. He began working as a school teacher and his first important book, a collection of stories called Sette savi (Seven Sages), was published in 1912. At around forty years of age, after covering the First World War as a correspondent on the front-lines, he went through a form of literary conversion, renouncing much of his preceding work. His new phase began with La vita intensa (The Intense Life), an emphatically experimental and ironic volume which contains ten micro-novels, all set in Milan and published in 1920. In his own preface to the book he declared his intention to ‘renew the European novel’. Much has been said about Bontempelli’s nationalist agenda and early role as Secretary of the Fascist Writers’ Union, his collaboration with Curzio Malaparte,1 his close friendship with Luigi Pirandello. And yet he refused to accept a university post denied to a Jewish professor in 1938, was forbidden, for the following year, to publish his work, and was forced into hiding in Rome for nine months during the Resistance. In 1937, when he was nearly sixty, he became a companion to the writer Paola Masino, thirty years his junior, who gave up writing to curate all of his work after his death. This story, exuberant, spare and post-apocalyptic, was written after his break with his former style. Describing a virtual reality before the term was invented, its themes are various: the transformation of space, the dividing line between nature and built environments, the contrasting ways that men and women sustain each other and survive. Bontempelli loved music, wrote about it, and composed it. He was also the first to apply ‘magic realism’ – an aesthetic term borrowed from German – to literature.

  The Miraculous Beach, or, Prize for Modesty

  (Aminta)

  Translated by Jenny McPhee

  At the first threat, people began to stay off the streets of Rome, then, after a few days, a generalized fear took over and the city itself began to empty out. Seized with fear, hour after hour, the citizens of Rome stormed the train stations, and, shoving their way on to train carriages, had fled far away. The richest people glutted their cars with oil and gas before bolting out of the thirteen city gates and, kicking up dust, headed to the most distant cardinal points.

  And so it was for ten days. Then suddenly the train stations were deserted and throughout Rome it was only the peddlers’ carts that raised any dust, the peddlers being afraid of nothing. At that point, no one was left in the metropolis.

  Only a few heroes and heroines stayed to watch over the city. At midday, the heroes roamed imperiously through the streets. Jacketless, they allowed the sun to whip their silk shirts to shreds while vainly regarding their reflections in their belt buckles. When seeing each other on opposite pavements, even without knowing one another, they smiled proudly, confident that from Laterano to Monte Mario, from Valle Giulia to Saint Paul’s, their supremacy would last undisturbed and uncontested for at least two months.

  The heroines didn’t go out in the sun. They each waited inside for their heroes to return home when they would dry their sweat and iron their silk shirts. The women went out only at night and, exercising their wily ways, they would flick flirtatious glances with their stray-cat eyes behind their companions’ backs.

  Since I adhere to the laws of nature, and love the heat of the sun in summer, the heat of the stove in winter, I was among those heroes who hadn’t fled the city during the summer onslaught. The heroine chosen to dry my sweat was called Aminta.1 This was once a male name, but my girlfriend’s father did not know literary history, and eighteen years earlier, trusting his own ear, he had imposed that name on his newborn daughter. The priest who baptized her didn’t dare inform the father of his innocent error.

  Aminta, at the first heat of summer, conceded immediately to the excellent reasons I ha
d used to convince her that we should stay in Rome instead of departing for the mountains or seaside.

  And so the first eight days of the heatwave passed easily.

  On Aminta’s pale face, I never once detected the slightest indication of regret, repentance, disrespect or desire.

  I was therefore astonished when, on the afternoon of the ninth day, having returned from my rounds on the blazing streets, Aminta, after a jubilant greeting, approached me where I had sunk down upon a couch in my study and, placing a hand on my shoulder, said suddenly:

  ‘Darling, you must give me a small present, you must have a beautiful bathing suit made for me.’

  I felt my brow furrow.

  My disparaging masculine soul became muddy with suspicion.

  I stared at her grimly:

  ‘What for, Aminta? What has come over you? Aren’t we divinely happy in Rome? Are you thinking of leaving? Of perhaps going to the beach? Oh, I have explained to you again and again that –’

  ‘No, no,’ she interrupted, her eyes, her brow, her mouth, her whole body laughing, ‘I didn’t mean that at all. Yes, we’re very happy here in Rome. Who would dream of leaving? I simply want a beautiful bathing suit in order to have a beautiful bathing suit.’

  ‘And once you have it?’

  ‘I will put it on.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Every so often. For a little while every day.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then after a while I will take it off.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it. I swear.’

  She was so transparent, all suspicion vanished from my soul.

  I kept quiet for a minute in order to give greater weight to the words I was about to utter, then declared: