The Skin (22 page)

Suddenly we heard a gay, sonorous, laughing voice. It proceeded from the depths of the olive-grove, and echoed among the bright, sun-splashed tree-trunks. We all stopped our antics and looked in the direction from which it came. Amid the silver-dappled leafy branches of the olive trees, silhouetted against the sky, whose grey-ness was relieved by occasional patches of green, we saw a negro. He was slowly making his way down the slope, over the reddish stones and through the blue, mist-shrouded junipers. He was a tall, thin young man, with very long legs. He carried a sack on his shoulders, and he stooped slightly as he walked, so that the rubber soles of his shoes barely touched the ground. "Oho! Oho! Oho!" he shouted, opening his red mouth wide, and he jerked his head from side to side as if he were in the throes of some tremendous, acute, heart-searing agony. The wounded man slowly turned his head in the direction of the negro, and a childish smile rose to his lips.

Having come within a few yards of us the negro halted and put down his sack, from which there came the clink of bottles. He passed his hand across his brow and in his boyish voice said: "Oh, you're having a good time, aren't you?"

"What you got in that sack?" asked the sergeant.

"Potatoes," said the negro.

"I like potatoes," said the sergeant; and turning to the wounded man he added: "You like potatoes too, don't you?"

"Oh, yes!" said Fred, laughing.

"The boy is wounded, and he likes potatoes," said the sergeant. "I hope you won't refuse a potato to a wounded American!"

"Potatoes are bad for wounded men," said the negro in a whispering voice. "They're death to a wounded man."

"Give him a potato," said the sergeant in a menacing voice, and meanwhile he turned his back on the wounded man and made signs to the negro.

"Oh, no, oh, no!" said the negro, trying to understand the sergeant's signs. "Potatoes are death."

"Open the sack," said the sergeant.

The negro started to wail, jerking his head from side to side. However, he bent down, opened the sack and took from it a bottle of red wine. He raised it, looked at it against the murky glimmer of sunlight that filtered through the mist, and clicked his tongue. Slowly he opened his mouth and eyes wide and uttered an animal cry which they all imitated with boyish glee.

"Give it here," said the sergeant. He uncorked the bottle with the point of a knife and poured a little wine into a tin mug which a soldier handed him. Raising the mug he said to the wounded man: "Your health, Fred," and drank.

"Give me a little," said the wounded man. "I'm thirsty."

"No," I said, "you mustn't drink."

"Why not?" said the sergeant, looking at me askance. "A nice mug of wine will do him good."

"A man with a stomach-wound shouldn't drink," I said in a low voice. "Do you want to kill him? The wine will burn his intestines, it'll make him suffer agony. He'll start to scream."

"You bastard," said the sergeant.

"Give me a mug," I said out loud. "I want to drink that lucky chap's health too."

The sergeant handed me a mug full of wine. I raised it and said: "I drink your health, and the health of your loved ones and of all those who will be waiting for you on the airfield. Your family's health!"

"Thank you," said the wounded man, smiling. "And Mary's health too."

"We'll all drink Mary's health," said the sergeant; and turning to the negro he added: "Out with the other bottles."

"Oh, no, oh, no!" cried the negro in a plaintive voice. "If you want some wine go and look for it like I did. Oh, no, oh, no!"

"Aren't you ashamed to refuse a little wine to a wounded comrade? Give it here," said the sergeant in a stern voice, removing the bottles from the sack one by one and handing them to his companions. They had all taken mugs out of their haversacks, and we all raised our mugs.

"A health to Mary, so fair, so beloved, so young!" said the sergeant, raising his mug; and we all drank the health of Mary, so fair, so beloved, so young.

"I want to drink Mary's health, too," said the negro.

"Of course," said the sergeant. "And then you'll sing a song in honour of Fred. Do you know why you've got to sing in Fred's honour? Because in two days Fred will be leaving for America by air."

"Oh!" said the negro, opening his eyes very wide.

"And do you know who will be waiting for him on the airfield? You tell him, Fred," the sergeant added, turning to the wounded man.

"Mummy," said Fred in a feeble voice, "Daddy, and my brother Bob . . ." He broke off and turned slightly pale.

"... your brother Bob . . ." said the sergeant. The wounded man was silent; he was breathing with difficulty. Then he said: ". . . my sister Dorothy, Aunt Leonor . . ." and fell silent.

". . . . and Mary," said the sergeant.

The wounded man nodded assent, and slowly his lips parted in a smile.

"And  what would you do," said the sergeant,  turning to the negro, "if you were Aunt Leonor? Naturally, you'd go to the airfield as well to wait for Fred, wouldn't you?" "Oho!" said the negro. "Aunt Leonor? I'm not Aunt Leonor !" "What! You're not Aunt Leonor?" said the sergeant, giving the negro a menacing look and making strange signs to him with his mouth. "I'm not Aunt Leonor!" said the negro in a whimper. "Yes! You are Aunt Leonor!" said the sergeant, clenching his fists.

"No, I'm not," said the negro, shaking his head. "But you are! You are Aunt Leonor," said the wounded man, laughing.

"Oh, yes! Why, of course I'm Aunt Leonor!" said the negro, raising his eyes to heaven.

"Of course you're Aunt Leonor!" said the sergeant. "You're a very charming old lady! Look, boys! Isn't it right that he's a dear old lady—dear old Aunt Leonor?" "Of course!" said the others. "He's a very charming old lady!" "Look at the boy!" I said to the sergeant. "Look at Fred." The wounded man was gazing at the negro intently, and he was smiling. He seemed happy. His brow glowed red, and great beads of perspiration were rolling down his face.

"He's suffering," said the sergeant in a low voice, forcibly gripping my arm. "No, he's not suffering," I said.

"He's dying—can't you see he's dying?" said the sergeant in a strangled voice. "He's dying peacefully," I said, "without suffering." "You bastard!" said the sergeant, looking at me with hatred in his eyes.

Just then Fred uttered a groan, and tried to raise himself on to his elbows. He had turned horribly pale, and the colour of death had suddenly suffused his brow, removing the light from his eyes.

All were silent—even the negro was silent—as they gazed at the wounded man, their eyes full of terror.

From behind the hill came the deep, hollow boom of the cannon. I saw the black wind meandering among the olive trees, casting a melancholy shadow over the leafy branches, the stones and the shrubs. I saw the black wind, I heard its black voice, and shuddered.

"He's dying—oh, he's dying!" said the sergeant, clenching his fists.

The wounded man had fallen on to his back. He had opened his eyes again and was looking about him with a smile.

"I'm cold," he said.

It had started to rain. It was a fine, icy drizzle, and it descended upon the leaves of the olive trees with a continuous soft hissing sound.

I took off my greatcoat and wrapped it round the wounded man's legs. The sergeant did the same, and covered the dying man's shoulders.

"Do you feel better? Are you still cold?" said the sergeant.

"Thanks, I'm better," said the wounded man, giving us a smile of gratitude.

"Sing!" said the sergeant to the negro.

"Oh, no," said the negro, "I'm afraid."

"Sing!" cried the sergeant, raising his fists.

The negro drew back, but the sergeant seized him by the arm. "Ah, you won't sing?" he said. "If you don't sing I'll kill you."

The negro sat on the ground and began to sing. It was a sad song, the lament of a sick negro, sitting on the bank of a river, amid a shower of white flakes of cotton wool.

The wounded man started to groan, and the tears poured down his face.

"Shut up!" shouted the sergeant to the negro.

The negro stopped singing, and gazed at the sergeant with the eyes of a sick dog.

"I don't like your song," said the sergeant. "It's sad, and it's got no tune. Sing another."

"But . . .", said the negro, "that's a marvellous song!"

"I tell you it's got no tune!" cried the sergeant. "Look at Mussolini. Even Mussolini doesn't like your song." And he pointed his finger at me.

They all began to laugh, and the wounded man turned his head and looked at me in amazement.

"Silence!" cried the sergeant. "Let Mussolini speak. Go on, Mussolini!"

The wounded man laughed; he was happy. They all pressed round me, and the negro said: "You're not Mussolini. Mussolini is fat. He's an old man. You're not Mussolini."

"Ah, you think I'm not Mussolini?" I said. "Look at me!" And I stood with legs apart and arms akimbo, swaying my hips. I threw back my head, puffed out my cheeks, thrust out my chin and pouted my lips. "Blackshirts of all Italy!" I cried. "The war in which we have been gloriously defeated is at last won. Our beloved enemies, in fulfilment of the prayers of the whole Italian nation, have at last landed in Italy to help us fight our hated German allies. Blackshirts of all Italy—long live America!"

"Long live Mussolini!" they all shouted amidst laughter, and the wounded man drew out his arms from under the blanket and feebly clapped his hands.

"Go on, go on!" said the Sergeant.

"Blackshirts of all Italy . . . !" I cried. But at that point I stopped, and followed with my eyes a group of girls who were walking down towards us through the olive trees. Some were full-grown women, others were still children. They were dressed in scraps of German and American uniforms, and their hair was held in place above their brows with handkerchiefs. The sound of our laughter, the singing of the negro, and perhaps the hope of food had induced them to venture forth from the caves and ruined houses which in those days sheltered the inhabitants of the Cassino district, who lived in them like wild beasts. Yet they did not look like beggars. They had a proud, noble appearance, and I felt myself blushing, I was ashamed of myself. Not, indeed, that I was humiliated by their wretched state and wild aspect. I felt that they had sunk more deeply than I into the abyss of humiliation, that they were suffering more than I was, yet their eyes, their demeanour and their smiles expressed a pride that was more robust, more downright than my own. They approached and stood in a group, silently looking now at the wounded man, now at one or other of us.

"Go on, go on!" said the sergeant.

"I can't," I said.

"Why can't you?" said the sergeant, giving me a menacing look.

"I can't," I repeated. I felt myself blushing, Iwas ashamed of myself.

"If you don't . . ." said the sergeant, taking a step forward.

"Aren't you ashamed of me?" I said.

"I don't see why I should be ashamed of you," said the sergeant.

"He has ruined us, dragged us through the mire, covered us with shame. But I have no right to laugh at our shame."

"I don't understand you. Who are you referring to?" said the sergeant, looking at me in amazement.

"Ah, you don't understand? It's better so."

"Go on," said the sergeant.

"I can't," I answered.

"Oh, please, Captain," said the wounded man, "please go on!"

I looked at the sergeant with a smile. "Forgive me," I said, "if I don't make myself clear. It doesn't matter. Forgive me." And I pouted, swayed my hips and raised my arm in the Roman salute.

"Blackshirts!" I cried. "Our American allies have at last landed in Italy to help us fight our German allies. The sacred torch of Fascism is not spent! It is to our American allies that I have entrusted the sacred torch of Fascism! From the distant shores of America it will continue to illuminate the world. Blackshirts of all Italy—long live Fascist America!"

A chorus of laughter greeted my words. The wounded man clapped his hands. The girls were standing in a group in front of me, and they too clapped, looking at me with strange expressions.

"Go on, please," said the wounded man.

"That's enough of Mussolini," said the sergeant. "I don't like to hear Mussolini shouting 'Long live America!' Do you understand?" he added, turning to me.

"No, I don't understand," I said. "All Europe is shouting 'Long live America!'"

"I don't like it," said the sergeant; and going up to the girls he cried: "Signorine! Dance!"

"Yeah, yeah!" said the negro. "Wine, Signorine!" And pulling a small mouth-organ from his pocket he raised it to his lips and began to play. The sergeant put his arm round a girl and began to dance, and all the others followed his example. I sat on the ground beside the wounded man and laid my hand on his brow. It was cold and dripping with sweat.

"They're having fun," I said. "To forget the war one must dance now and again."

"They're splendid guys," said the wounded man.

"Oh, yes," I said. "American soldiers are splendid guys. They are simple and good-natured. I like them."

"I like Italians," said the wounded man, and stretching out his hand he touched my knee, and smiled.

I clasped his hand in mine and averted my face. I felt a lump in my throat, and I could hardly breathe. I cannot bear to see a human being suffer. I would rather kill him with my own hands than to see him suffer. The colour rose to my temples as I reflected that this poor boy lying in the mud with his stomach ripped open was American. I would have preferred that he had been an Italian, an Italian like myself, rather than an American. I could not bear the thought that we were to blame, that I myself was to blame, for the suffering of this poor American boy.

I averted my face and contemplated that strange rustic carnival, that miniature Watteau painted by Goya. It was a lively, exquisite scene, with the wounded man lying on the ground, the negro leaning against the trunk of an olive tree playing the mouth-organ, the ragged, pale, thin girls in the arms of the handsome pink-faced American soldiers, in the silver olive-grove; and all around the bare hills, whose green grass was strewn with red stones, and, above, the grey, immemorial sky, ribbed with narrow blue streaks, a sky that was flabby and puckered like the skin of an old woman. And little by little I felt the hand of the dying man turning cold in mine; little by little I felt it going limp.