History (107 page)

On Saturday, our lady doctor received another phone call from Ida. In her shy, old-woman's voice, always seeming afraid of being a nuisance, the mother informed her that, since yesterday, even the reduced dose of the usual medicine, instead of calming the child, seemed oddly to make him more restless. Shortly after taking it, the boy began to grow nerv and also at night his sleep had been rather agitated, often interrupted, and sensitive to the slightest sound. It seemed to Ida that the doctor's voice, answering her, sounded upset, and rather hesitant. She advised the mother to reduce the necessary daily dose still further, to the minimum; and to report back to her by Monday. Indeed, here the doctor curtly suggested to Ida they could go together to the Professor if the situation warranted; she herself would take mother and child to the hospital, as soon as the Pro fessor was free to see them . . . but as soon as possible, the beginning of the week . . . This suggestion was received by Ida with incredible grati tude. For some unknown reason, it seemed to her that the old maid's presence would be enough to divest the Professor of the offi shifty hauteur that clothed him, in her eyes, like a uniform, and which so fright ened her . . . But at the same time, as the doctor was proposing this urgent visit to her, Ida suddenly had the physical sensation of seeing her at the other end of the phone : in her white jacket, not completely buttoned up, her smooth hair in the untidy, crooked knot, and her big, hollow eyes, frank and impetuous, which now seemed to conceal some obscure diagno sis . . . lel didn't dare ask any explanation on this point, but she felt the doctor, for her part, was remaining silent out of pity. And even more strangely, Ida thought to recognize in her-who knows why?-a double kinship, with her mother Nora and also with Rossella the cat. She would have liked to hug that old maid tight, like her own mother or grand mother, and say to her: "Help! I'm all alone!" Instead she stammered : "Thank you . . . thank you . . ." "Not at all! That's settled then!" the doctor dismissed her angrily. And the rapid conversation was concluded.

Now the doctor herself, to tell the truth, couldn't have explained what she had seen, that Thursday, in Useppe's gaze. It had been like the reading of an exotic word, which still meant something, irreparable and already distant. The fact is that those little eyes (aware, without knowing it) were saying to everyone, simply,
goodbye.

So some may think it is now useless to narrate the rest of Useppe's life, which lasted a little over two days more, since the end is already known. But it doesn't seem useless to me. All lives, really, have the same end : and two days, in the brief passion of a kid like Useppe, are not worth less than

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years. Allow me, then, to stay a bit longer in the company of my little kid, before coming back alone to the secular life of the others.

The school year was ending, but the teachers had various tasks to perform even after classes were over. And Ida, always tormented by the suspicion she might lose her post for ineffi went to school punctually every morning even those cl after she had done her shopping the mo ment the stores opened. As a rule, the seasonal reduction of her work left her free earlier than usual (so at her return Useppe had just wakened ); otherwise, she would rush to the telephone in the secretary's offi at least to hear his voice say : "Hello, who's that?"

On those morn she was almost grateful for the bad weather, which, with Useppe's listlessness, relieved her of the odious necessity of double-locking the door. It was clear that, in Useppe's present state, he couldn't be granted his usual freedom to go out; still, she didn't dare put such a prohibition into words : to him it would surely sound like a punish ment. Thus, between the two of them, in those days, a tacit understanding existed; and for that matter, Useppe seemed actually frightened to look out of the door; so in the not long journey to the doctor's offi she had had to hold him tight and had felt him tremble.

About three times a day, Bella went out by herself, to deposit her corporal wastes in the street. And Useppe would anxiously stand guard at the kitchen window, to wait for her. Now his waiting didn't last long, because the shepherdess would tend to things dutifully, resisting the street's various temptations; but the moment he saw her reappear down in the courtyard, he would run to the door, pale with emotion, as if she were coming back from some immense expedition.

Starting already on the Friday, after Ida had reduced the doses of the sedative, his little body had regained some of its color and movement, freeing itself from the fog that had oppressed it until the day before. Indeed, in his features and in his skin a constant sensitivity now throbbed, like a minuscule zone of disturbed air. His features and colors were tenderly shaded by it, and his voice sounded more fragile because of it, but more silvery. Now and then he had joyful smiles, full of wonder, like a convalescent after a very long illness. And he had become far more desirous of caresses than usual, staying always close to Ida, acting like a kitten or even like an enamored seducer. He would take her hand and rub it over his face, or else he would kiss her dress, repeating to her: "You love me, rn

Ida began speaking to him again about their imminent departure for the country. She had asked information of a colleague, who had recommended a stay at Vico, a village not too far from Rome, cool and rich in beautiful woods. There were rooms to be rented reasonably, and there was a lake not far away and a farm that raised horses. "But Bella's coming, too, though!"

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Useppe said, worried. "Of ·course," Ida hastened to assure him, "all three of us are going, on the bus that the hunters take!" He brightened. Then, with the confusion of time that had come over him these days, a little later he began to speak of Vico in the past tense, as of a holiday already fi shed : "When we were at Vico," he said, with a certain wise animation, "Bella played with the sheep, and ran after the horses and the sea!" (he couldn't be persuaded that at Vico, with everything else, there wasn't also the sea : such a "holiday" without the sea seemed an impossibility to him). "There weren't any wolves there!" he stated. And he laughed, content; however, in his contentment there was already a fl of legend. It seemed that suddenly in his confused forebodings, Vico had become an unattain able harbor, beyond the seven oceans and the seven mountains.

Wh the view in his memory was, in these hours, is hard to say. Perhaps it was of the last events before the attack; and of Davide, and of Scim6, and of their fates, he had a vague notion, barely initiated, protected by the semi-darkness. Sunday morning (it was the last Sunday of June) he took his papers and his colored pencils and began to draw. He declared that he wanted to draw snow, and he was upset because the pencils' colors weren't enough for him. "You remember when there was the snow?" Ida said to him, "and everything was white . . ," But he actually became indignant at Ida's ignorance. "Snow," he said, "has lots of colors! lots lots lots lots . . ." he kept repeating again and again, in a sing-song tone. Then, abandoning the subject of snow, he became involved in drawing a scene which, to his eyes, obviously, seemed bustling and varied, because his face accompanied his work with the most diverse expressions: smiling, or frowning and menacing, or biting his tongue. This drawing of his then remained there in the kitchen, but to a profane eye it would seem a tangle of unrecognizable forms.

At that point, the striking of noon, followed by the usual great pealing of bells, upset Useppe excessively and incomprehensibly. Paying no further heed to the drawing, he ran to his mother and, clinging to her, said in an uncertain tone : ". . . is today Sunday?" "Yes, it's Sunday," Ida answered, pleased to hear that he again recognized the days of the week, "you see? I didn't go to school, and for lunch I also bought you some cream puffs . . ." "But I'm not going out, not out, eh, rna?'' he almost shouted, in alarm. "No," Ida reassured him, "I'll keep you with me, don't be afraid . . .
"

It was immediately after dinner that the weather, cloudy now for several days, broke, with a joyous turbulence. As usual, Ida had gone to lie down on the bed, and from her room, in her fi doze, she heard some sound in the entrance hall. "Who is it?" she asked, almost in a dream. "It's Bella," Useppe answered, "she wants to go out." In fact, Bella, as she

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generally did more or less at this hour, had given the signal of her second obligatory exit, scratching at the fron t door with some expressive whim pers. 1l1e scene, in these past few days, had become habitual, and Useppe seemed to take pride in seeing Bella out and awaiting her return . . . Here Ida, without suspicion, plunged into her heavy afternoon sleep; while Useppe, there in the hall, hesitated at the opened door, unable to decide to close it behind Bella. l-Ie had the sensation, in fact, of having overlooked something, or of awaiting something, he didn't know what. Dreamily, then, he went out on the landing and shut the door after him. In his hands he was carrying Bella's leash, which on passing through the hall he had automatically taken from the peg where it normally hung.

From the small window on the landing of the stairs the cool sky-blue wind burst in, chasing the clouds as if it were
a
little horse frisking. Useppe was seized by a sudden palpitation : not because of the infraction ( which he didn't realize at all ) but because of the pleasure of living! His sleeping memory promptly emerged again to greet him in the air, but directed backwards, like a fl against the wind. It was unquestionably Sunday: however, not precisely
this
Sunday, another, previous one, perhaps last week's . . . In the afternoon, with the sun, it was just the time to go with Bella to the tree tent . . . Bella had run ahead of him, and he, murmur ing confused little words, started off in turn down the stairs. So Useppe set out on his next-to-last enterprise (of the last, which came the next day, I dare not imagine what the departure was like) .

The old concierge was napping in her little lodge, sitting with her head on her arms. Bella and Useppe met immediately outside the main door, where Useppe hooked the leash to her collar, according to their familiar rule. Bella, we know, often became a puppy again; and moreover, while she kept a clock in her head, she surely kept no ca there. She welcomed Useppe with a festive and natural dance, fi herself in immediate agreement with him that this was the time to go to the tree tent; and that in those parts there was a tacit appointment, perhaps since yesterday or the day before, with their friend Scim6. You would have said that Bella, too, in her ferv happiness, counted absolutely on Scim6's presence today in the usual place! But it is further known that, in her, bumpkin ignorance often alternated with a great wisdom: and who knows that today this wisdom wasn't advising her to encourage Useppe in the defensive games of his memory . . . ? In any case, for both of them the grim week just ended seemed temporarily erased from time.

The broken, pursued clouds ran derelict in the advance of a refreshing 'Nind that seemed to fl g streets and avenues wide. It was as if, at its passing, immense doors slammed open, all through space, and even beyond the sky. Clouds do not always dim the sky; at times they illuminate it: it

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depends on their movement and their weight. The sun's zone was totally free, and its glow dug precipices in the nearest clouds and cavern of light, which then broke up, struck by new gusts, of which Useppe heard the splendid din . Then the rays were redoubled, or shattered into so many fragments; and at the clashes, as the erratic masses kindled, they allowed dark tunnels to appear, or galleries decked with strings of lights, little inner rooms afl with ca or blue windows which opened and shut. As always at this hour the streets were half-empty, and the passing of the few vehicles and the people's footsteps seemed puff of breath. It isn't rare for weakened and enervated people to receive from sedatives, especially small doses, a stimulating eff like that of alcohol. And little Useppe was in a state of vivid and thirst-quenching intoxication, like a torn twig that re ceives a wetting. His awareness and his memories, along the way, were coming to life again, but only in part. Nature seemed to arrange their order for him in time and space not at random, but according to an intention. So the last week still remained shielded by a screen of shadow; and the mem ory of Davide, which returned fl to visit him, brought back a Davide before last Monday. 1l1is memory, still, gave him an obscure sense of laceration; but immediately na ture took care to heal this wound. Chat ting with Bella along the street, at least a couple of times he tentatively mentioned an appointment they had made with Vavide . . . But Bella, in agreement with nature, promptly said to him : "No! no! we don't have any appointment with him!" It seems that once, frowning and examining her with suspicion, he insisted stubbornly: "Yes, yes! Don't you know? We have an appointment!" But then Bella started dancing and singing to him, in every possible tone : "Now we're going to see Scim6! To see Scim6!" like a wet-nurse when distracting a baby by saying: "Look, look! There's a cat fl g!" and then exploiting the moment to make her charge swallow an other nourishing spoonful.