How i lost the war, p.17
How I Lost the War, page 17
“I’ll talk about it in a moment. But first, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to say a few words.”
The presenter hesitates for a moment, her face furrows with worry at this unscheduled addition to the programme.
“Of course!”
And she hands the microphone to my father.
He hesitates, embarrassed. He’s not used to microphones. He takes a deep breath into his capacious lungs. In a moment, his voice, that voice so similar to mine that we’re often mistaken for each other on the telephone, that voice I acquired when I became a man, that virile but hoarse voice, will fill the hall. My father holds the microphone like a torch. And I know what my father will say. I always know what he’s going to say. I know what jokes he’ll tell over a meal in a restaurant, I know what comments he’ll make on a particular politician’s statements on television, I know why he won’t like a particular film but will like a particular book, I know at what bend he’ll change gear, I know when he’ll phone me, I know how long it’ll take him to become impatient with the waiter, that he’ll buy himself a yellow sweater identical to one he already has, that he’ll ask a passer-by for a light. I know all that. And the reason I know isn’t because my father is predictable, because he’s an open book, or because he’s taken for granted. I know because I am also him. I am him and I am me, I am him while still being me, I am me while still being him. I am Terenzio, I am Fede, I am Vanni and then Fede again. Da capo. I am all of them. I am all the Terenzios, Vannis and Federicos in the Cremona family and in history, I am all the fathers and children and families who have generated the families of the fathers and children and families that existed before mine, before that curious creature descended from the tree to see the sun rising over the horizon of a new territory, before the whales swam in the vineyards where today we collect shells. I am what I am because of the ancient helix that drives life, because of the torch of humanity passing from hand to hand, from womb to womb. I am what I am because of the law, written in dust, to which all creatures belong. I am what I am because of that lamb’s bone trapped in the sixth step on the stairs of the castle. That’s why I know what my father is about to say.
Before talking about his hunting story, which has ripened in a drawer for God knows how many years, a story which like all stories brings the dead back to life, before saying that the inspiration came from a true story, that it was inspired by an episode that really happened, that it’s an affectionate memory of my grandfather, before citing Turgenev’s Sportsman’s Sketches, he’ll say what he really thinks.
He’ll say that after working all his life, after treating public patients and private patients for half-a-century, after tending to the bodies of men and women, old people and babies, but especially old people, after touching them, listening to their chests, supporting their smells, analysing their moods, breathing their breaths and tolerating their complaints, he, the first salaried worker of our entire breed, the broken ring in the chain, will say that he was born in this village, that he knows the life, death and miracles of the living and the dead, he’ll say that he’s never had anything from the village and its people. Anything. Only insults in return for favours, hatred and malevolence as small change to a man who paid with the coin of humility and constant readiness to help. And he’ll say that after more than half-acentury of serving the public, he’s finally reached a simple, unchallengeable judgment on the human race—people don’t deserve anything. That’s what he thinks. It’s what he says every time he comes home tired from work, takes off his shoes and throws himself down on the sofa. Go on, Father, go on, say it. Tell them that the daily trading in venom has poisoned you, tell them you’ve had enough and can’t wait to retire, so that you can turn off your mobile phone, take your dog out early in the morning, go hunting for woodcock. And while you’re about it, say thank you but really I can’t, it was a weakness, a sin of vanity, that you took part in the competition only because my grandmother insisted, that the son in you wanted to take part and the father has never won out over the son, tell them that you did it because it was winter and you were bored the way you always are in winter, and perhaps you also felt a bit lonely. Tell them, thank you from the bottom of your heart, but you, or rather we, tell them, “I’m very grateful, but I really don’t know what to do with this prize. Our house is full of knick knacks, there’s so much stuff that very soon there won’t be any more room for us, and so, even though I’d like to take it I really don’t know where we’d put it.” And while you’re about it, tell them the statue’s already ugly life-size, so imagine it in miniature—ugliness can’t be shrunk, only enlarged.
Go on, Father, go on. Tell them. Now.
My father is holding the microphone like a torch. He opens his mouth.
“I wanted to say one thing. I was born in this village … ”
Go on, Father, tell them.
“I was born here a good many years ago. I won’t go into details. And for thirty years, yes, thirty years, I’ve been the doctor here. For thirty years I’ve been helping the public. And I’ve formed an opinion of this village and its people, who I’ve always tried to serve as best I can, with respect, and humility. I think they’re all … ”
Go on, Father, tell them.
“All of them, from first to last … ”
Go on, Father. Tell them. Give it to them.
“Good people.”
Good people, my father said. Good people, those are the words he used.
“And I’d like to consider this prize you’re conferring on me, in this splendid setting, as in some way … in some way a prize for my whole career. A demonstration of your esteem and of the affection you’ve shown me throughout the years.”
The people applaud. Father’s eyes are watery.
“No, it’s the truth. I’m sorry, the emotion’s too much for me. That’s why I’m taking this opportunity to recall another citizen who loved these places and these people, my grandfather, the protagonist of the story.”
Your grandfather. My great-grandfather. The man who whipped the peasants.
“This prize is for him, too. And I’d like to thank everyone, in the first place the jury … ”
My father looks at my grandmother, wrapped in her fur coat in the front row. My grandmother makes a small gesture of approval.
“ … then the public, the inhabitants of the village, Signor Gattai, Sadat Mawazini … ”
I have to leave. It’s hot in here. Impossible to breathe.
“ … and of course the Mayor, the Savings Bank, the Mountain Territorial Association … ”
I climb the stairs of the theatre two-by-two. They aren’t stairs, they’re the hold of a submarine …
“ … the Voluntary Ambulance Brigade, the village band … ”
I look down. Straight ahead of me. I’m not the one climbing. Just my feet.
“ … the pastry shop which provided the catering, the cellar which offered … ”
The applause follows me to the door. Air.
Air. The sky is my friend. Too many houses around me. Too many front doors. Someone might come out of one of them. Someone I’ve been saying hello to since I was little and no longer have any desire to say hello to.
Tell them, Father. Tell them what you won’t tell them.
I see the swollen bellies of the chub
ISEE THE SWOLLEN BELLIES OF THE CHUB. I see them floating on the water like lifeless white water lilies. The prehistoric head of a goby entangled in seaweed, the spotted livery of a barbel abandoned to the current.
Death has passed. Today, death has passed this way.
And to think that just yesterday life flowed. It flowed slowly past the banks of the stream. In May, the green backs of the dace would dart about, ready to spawn, in August the fish would spend all day in their lairs, then leap out nervous with hunger, snap a dragonfly and immediately shoot into the safe shade of the roots. In September, the chub would throw themselves on the blackberries that had dropped in the heat, and in winter the barbels would swim lazily back upstream in search of warmer water. Everything was alive along the stream. I would be coming back from school and would choke at the thought of being part of all that life. I would get on my cross-country moped with the red mud guards and the blue saddle, the bag with the rods over my shoulder, my jacket with fur pockets stuffed with corks, plums and floats which made a noise like a maracas with every jolt on the rough ground. A rapid glance at the water to decide which line to use—a round float if the current was strong, a thin line if the water was transparent. Then I would go to the dunghill on Pietro’s farm, to flush out some earthworms. The spade would sink into the dunghill, and there they were, shining at the bottom, red and fat, affronted by the sunlight. When the summers were hot and dry and the earth was like burnt sawdust, the worms would bury themselves as deep as possible to find a little humidity. Then it would take several blows with the spade to dig them out, but in the end, however far an animal goes, man will always find it. You had to be quick to grab them with your fingers before they dived back into the darkness of the earth. The stream with its summer langours and autumn gusts, its abrupt bends and calm sweeps, its nervous twists and sensible pools. The stream which disappeared and reappeared in the middle of the thorn bushes or between the rows of poplars which cut across the fields, the stream which murmured in the heat or rushed breathlessly towards the lake. The stream with its spring light embroidering the shadows between the elders, the stream with the pollen caught in the spiders’ webs like dead butterflies, the stream with the frogs, the dragonflies on the surface of the water, the stream with the fish tails held straight against the current, the stream where you fished with your hands if you had the courage to put them right inside the lairs, the stream with the water snakes and the little green and yellow pike, the stream with those legendary eels, never seen, never fished, only mentioned by old fishermen, who, if you asked them when it was that they had fished for eels, would look into the distance and say, Before you were born. Before they built the weir downstream. Making you feel guilty for being so young.
I still see the swollen bellies of the chub turning round and round. And the spotted liveries of the barbels abandoned to the current. And the heads of the lifeless gobies, and the white ribs of the frogs opened like nutcrackers. An intolerable spectacle.
The person who had done this had to pay, whoever it was. And I had a good idea who it had been.
People shoot themselves in the foot
I HEARD THIS STORY from an estate agent. You can take it as true. A middle-aged man who’s in financial difficulty decides to sell his house. He isn’t very old, but there’s no need to make him younger than he is.
Yet something strange happens. When the estate agency phones to tell him that a customer who’s interested in the house is coming to see it, he prepares himself conscientiously for the encounter. But instead of making himself look down at heel, which he is, he dyes his hair black, dresses in sporty youthful clothes, and finds unexpected reserves of energy. It’s not hard to imagine that the customers are alarmed by this unexpected burst of youth and the deal duly falls through.
This is a good example of how people sometimes shoot themselves in the foot. And I did something similar the day when I went to the carabinieri barracks in the village to lodge a complaint against persons unknown for causing an environmental catastrophe. I knew from an acquaintance who worked as a pool attendant that on the very days when the fish blight had occurred, the Olympic pool at the resort had been drained and cleaned. The drainage pipes led directly into the stream. That mass of hot water mixed with chlorine could well have affected the stream’s delicate ecosystem. Unfortunately I had no evidence to back up my theory. The only thing I could do was attach to my statement a photographic record of the disaster—dead and dying fish, frogs and grass snakes. As he put the photographs back into the envelope, the marshal made light of the situation, saying that there was “no point making a drama” out of the deaths of a few fish, it might be a spontaneous blight, perhaps a parasite, a pandemic. Yes, marshal, of course, a case of collective suicide! I had collected a sample and taken it to a private lab for analysis. In the water of the stream there turned out to be clear traces of chlorine, and an unwarranted increase in sulphur, manganese and iron, all minerals present in the water of the baths. The marshal transmitted my complaint to the prosecutor’s department, because he had no choice, and the prosecutor’s department opened and closed in record time a ridiculous investigation which concluded with this case of environmental damage being dismissed as the work of persons unknown. But, in return, these persons unknown, after denying any responsibility for the affair, did not take long in making themselves known.
The expropriation
Having identified malfeasance in the improper use of public hot waters for private ends, notice is hereby given that all waters present in the holding known as La Torre, the property of Rossana Cremona and sons, be immediately handed over for intubation and pumping to the Aquatrade thermal resort opened by Ottone Gattai. If said operation has not been carried out within two weeks, said waters will be sequestered and the taps sealed.
Yours faithfully
Andrea Chechi (lawyer)
I had always known it might end like this. I put the telegram back down on the desk and looked at my father, who was looking at me sternly.
“Why did you do it?”
“Because it was the only thing to do.”
“There’s never only one thing to do, even when it seems that way, there are always at least two … ”
“But they expropriated our olive grove, they cut down the trees, they stripped the square, poisoned the moat. When you’re under siege, you don’t serve tea and pastries to the barbarians camping outside the walls.”
“What a poet! Do you realise that, in trying to save the fish, you’ve ruined a family? Do you realise they’ve called off the deal for the transfer of the other property? Do you realise that thanks to your playing the Pericles of the Val di Chiana we’re being sued? Do you realise how much your act of bravado will cost us? Well, do you or don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And despite all that, you’re still convinced that you did the right thing?”
“Do you remember when I was going to school and I was always worried by the Saturday maths test, always afraid of Signora Cannoli who would hit us on the head if we made a mistake? Do you remember what you used to say? Do what you have to do, whatever happens, you used to say. Well, I did what I had to do, whatever happens.”
What happened was that they took everything from us. Everything, down to the last farm. My grandmother made a scene, said that I wasn’t blood of her blood, then fainted and had to be put to bed. My uncle burst into tears, refused to come out of the hot-water swimming pool until the carabinieri sealed up the springs. Then he sat there naked in the dried-up tub like dead coral. My family all stopped talking to me. More out of shame than necessity, the whole family moved north, to stay with distant relatives. Only my mother would send me affectionate letters from time to time asking me how I was and admonishing me not to catch cold and to always read the use-by date on tinned food.
Now that I was finally free, there was only one thing left to do—go underground.
Not a line
THE STRANGEST THING is that although our war, our guerrilla conflict, claimed its dead and wounded, no one ever said a word about it. Not a line in the papers, not a single report on TV. Despite the rigid censorship of the media, some news filtered through all the same. Some people knew, or found out, and in some pensioners’ bars or cultural associations it was talked about sotto voce, and the validity of our reasons was discussed, the opportunity to take up arms in support of our cause and follow the path of resistance against thermal globalisation. Some followed our example and formed little partisan bands, launching a military campaign in enemy-occupied thermal territories. Unfortunately, from the beginning there was a lack of liaison between the groups, and bottlenecks in the chain of command. All of which gave the enemy time to regroup, take the appropriate countermeasures and, above all, keep the conflict going in the medium and long term, to the point where guerrilla tactics lose their impetus and it becomes a wearying war of attrition. Which is already a defeat, like a movement becoming a political party.
They were days of fierce clashes and uncertain outcomes
THEY WERE DAYS of fierce clashes and uncertain outcomes. At the beginning, the revolt, like all revolts from below, was swept along on a wave of enthusiasm. Our first action was heroic. We lay in wait on the Cassia and hijacked a bus carrying Russian tourists from Fiumicino to the resort. I remember it was summer and scorching hot, we were all sweating and I remember that as we waited for the bus, which had been signalled by the lookouts, my pants were riding up inside my buttocks. Garrone was peeing himself, but the orders were imperative. It was forbidden to move away from our positions—we couldn’t run the risk of jeopardising the ambush just because someone wanted to pee. Tito was standing in the middle of the road as a decoy, behind a stall full of shoes, belts and bags with designer labels at half price (all fakes bought as a job lot from a Chinaman in Prato). We hoped this bait would attract the attention of the tourists but we weren’t sure. Fortunately, the coach driver slammed on the brakes at the sight of the stall, and the Russians got out brandishing big wallets stuffed with euros. We came out into the open, armed to the teeth. It was child’s play to neutralise the driver and hijack the party.
For several days, we kept the hostages in a shelter we had prepared inside an abandoned sheep fold. Except that keeping the hostages, as the history of kidnapping teaches, turned out to be more difficult than taking them. We were not to know that the group hadn’t come straight from Fiumicino, but had spent a couple of days by the sea, on the beaches of Circeo, where their milky skins had all been scalded by the Mediterranean sun. At night the hostages moaned like lepers and the sheepfold was like a lazaret. We were forced to buy quintals of aftershave lotion to lessen those moans, which might have given us away.
