‘I am sure that handsome gentleman was my sister’s lover,’ said Dante. ‘He looks like a professor, no?’
The priest was a fat, likeable little man who spoke with the accent of the Romagna. During the homily he launched into a fine speech on the serenity of the immortal soul and the resurrection of the flesh, and at that point Dante interrupted him, approaching the altar, voice booming in the empty church. The priest gave him a dirty look.
‘Mo ben! This is hardly the moment, you foolish lug!’ he shouted.
Dante apologised, yelling that he was distracted and that such things happened. Lost in his thoughts about immortality, he had very nearly lit a cigar on the spot.
After the service, the bier was transported to the cemetery and inserted in the appointed vault in the family chapel, a nineteenth-century Gothic Revival structure covered with curlicues. The stonemasons were ready with their bricks and cement already mixed. It took them scarcely ten minutes to finish their task. The Morozzi brothers stood stonily in front of the chapel, looking disoriented. Signora Maria glared at them with disgust. When the ceremony was over, Dante energetically shook the hand of each of the brothers, which as usual felt spongy and sweaty, and slippery as fish. Behind their oversized black sunglasses, their wives looked saddened, heads down and muttering.
‘Poor thing.’
‘What a shame!’
‘Poor Auntie, to die so young.’
Hearing these comments, Dante burst out laughing, his mind on the will. At last he lit his cigar. After kissing Signora Maria one last time, he went home, collapsed in an armchair and, with his first sip of grappa, burst into tears.
‘But that’s not very interesting,’ Dante said to the dinner guests. ‘Would you like to hear about the will?’
They all said yes. More grappa and cigarettes made the rounds. Dante clutched his cigar with his teeth, to free up his hands. He liked to draw in the air the things he described.
‘All right. Imagine a beautiful room with wooden bookcases up to the ceiling, full of thick tomes with gold-inlaid spines: Plutarch, Herodotus, Roman law, The Guild of Notaries, the History of Italy, a Bible, and then some large oriental vases, a clock under a bell-jar, some bronze statues — a female nude, an Indian on horseback … Hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room, a large, unlit chandelier with crystal pendants, a very fine Persian carpet on the floor, and an enormous desk, perfectly uncluttered … All this in penumbra, since the shutters are closed outside a row of three tall windows. The secretary shows us in, has us sit in the five chairs already lined up for us, and with a cold smile, she says: “Mr Balatri will be with you in a moment. He apologises for the lack of light, but he’s just had an operation on his eyes.” Then she leaves, heels clattering on the floor. We waited a good ten minutes without saying a word. I felt like laughing, but managed to restrain myself. Then the lawyer comes in, a tiny, quiet man who looked like he was in pain, wearing tinted glasses because of the operation. He sits down, looking us straight in the eye, and says, “My condolences.” He had a funny voice, all nose, but maybe it was just me who thought it was funny, since I knew what the upshot of the whole business would be.’
Dante savoured his story between mouthfuls of smoke.
‘The lawyer then opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope, which he opened with a paper knife, extracting a sheet of paper. Glancing again at all of us, to see if we were ready, he began to read: “I, the undersigned, Rebecca Pedretti-Strassen, being of sound mind, declare that upon my death, the following shall be done according to my wishes: I bequeath all my possessions, including the villa and paintings-” and here the lawyer paused, coughed into his hand and cleared his throat, as the nephews leaned forward in their chairs “to the convent of the Sisters of Monte Frassineto, with the sole exception of…” At this point confusion broke out: some started scraping their shoes against the floor, Giulio bit into his fingernails, drawing blood, and the lawyer politely asked for silence, so he could go on. He resumed: “… with the sole exception of a small painting of a purple sky, which I leave to my brother Dante, with my best wishes for a long and happy life; a sum in the amount of three million lire, to be given to Signora Maria Dolci, with my sincerest affections; and four photographs, attached hereto, which I leave with all my heart to my beloved nephews, Anselmo and Giulio Morozzi, and their lovely wives, that they may keep the memory of their dear Aunt Rebecca forever alive … Here are the pictures.” All four reached out to take them. It was a beautiful shot of my sister standing in front of the villa. Four copies, one for each, so they wouldn’t quarrel over it.’
Dante chortled and applied a match to his cigar until it caught flame. Then he knocked back a slug of grappa and took three deep puffs, filling the air with a great smelly cloud of smoke.
‘There was pandemonium. My nephews were nearly in tears, the wives started shouting and pounding the desktop. Gina stood up without a word, took one step, and collapsed on the carpet. The lawyer was shocked, his hands were trembling. He summoned his secretary and told her to call an ambulance, but then Gina suddenly woke up and started punching her husband, who had come to her aid. “Stop, darling, don’t hit me like that,” he said. And so the lawyer dismissed the secretary with a gesture and then threw up his hands. “Please give me your attention for a moment. There is also a codicil to the will … Feel a little better now, signora? Come, think you can get up now?” But Gina only burst into tears and lay down flat on the carpet like a spoilt little girl, kicking her shoes off. Angela was biting her finger and moaning. The lawyer ignored them and turned back to his document; it was clear he couldn’t wait for it all to be over. He raised his voice a little, so they could hear him over the whimpering, and read: “Codicil. Dear Anselmo and Giulio, dear Gina and Angela, I anxiously await you …” Ladies and gentlemen, please! One more minute of your attention … “Dear Dante, please be good to Gideon, I entrust him to your care as if he were my child, since I have none …” And so on and so forth. There followed some instructions as to the care of Gideon and a fond goodbye to yours truly, full of praise … private stuff, in short.’
Dante then lowered his eyes, perhaps thinking of that fond goodbye, and remained that way until Bordelli asked him who Gideon was. Dante roused himself and pulled on his cigar, but it had gone out again.
‘Who’s Gideon? He’s the cat.’
‘Then I’ve seen him. He’s a beautiful cat, big and white,’ said Bordelli. Dante threw up his hands.
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen him.’
Botta chimed in that he really liked that sort of name for a cat. Then he squirmed a bit and said that he, too, had a story to tell. As nobody objected, he sat up straight in his chair.
‘I’d like to say something about the Germans. It’s true they did a lot of horrible things, but something happened to me which … well, it made me change my mind a little. Not that I think well of the Nazis or anything, but Nazis are one thing, and people are another, if you know what I mean. Maybe it’s better if I get straight to the story and cut short the preamble.’ He took a quick sip and went on.
‘In ’45 I was taken prisoner by the Germans, up in the north, along with a lot of other Italians. There were about sixty of us. They had us digging ditches and chopping wood and treated us like slaves. They gave us hardly anything to eat, and if anybody complained he got a thrashing or worse. One day the Americans bombed us, and it was like the end of the world. One bomb smashed open the wall of the room where we were imprisoned, and after hesitating for a moment, we all started running away like rabbits, every man for himself and God with us all, the bullets flying over our heads. I ran until my legs gave out, breathing hard as if the air itself was freedom. I ended up at the end of some footpath and was already feeling I’d made it, when out of the bushes comes this Nazi with a machine gun. He was as big as an ox, about six foot six, shoulders as broad as a barn, really scary. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, and short blond stubble glistened on his bare head. After my run I’d practically landed on top of him, and now I was out of breath. I looked up at his big ruddy face, convinced my life was about to end. Now he’s gonna cut me in two with machine-gun fire, I thought to myself. Instead he gives me this German sort of smile and says: “Goin’ home to Mamma, eh?” I couldn’t manage to speak, and so I nodded “yes”, and he stepped aside and let me go. I didn’t wait to be asked twice. I was off like a shot, and as I was running I turned round to see what the German was doing. And there he was, waving goodbye like a friend, still smiling. The whole thing made a deep impression on me, because if that German had acted like a German, I wouldn’t be here today … Then … then a few months later, another thing happened to me …’
Bordelli interrupted him with a smile, took his time lighting a cigarette, then pushed his glass over to Diotivede for a refill.
‘My dear Botta, that’s a beautiful story you just told us, very moving, but for every story you tell there’s a thousand more, all different, and I’d like to tell one right now, really briefly, as long as everyone’s in agreement.’ He turned to look at the others and saw that there was no objection. ‘All right, then, this is the story of something that happened to a friend that I met back up with right after the war, Senior Grade Lieutenant Binismaghi, and since he told it to me himself, you might think it’s a happy story, but that’s not really the case. When his ship was taken by the German navy, the prisoners were taken to an Italian port under German occupation and treated with the proper respect due to them under the Geneva Convention. They had comfortable cells and plenty of food, all according to regulations. Until the day, several weeks later, when the SS intervened by order of Berlin. They took all the ship’s officers aside for interrogation. Lieutenant Binismaghi was led into one of the conference rooms of the town hall, which had been turned into the office of a German non-commissioned officer. And a fine office it was, bright and clean and equipped with a photo of the Fuhrer and the Nazi flag. Behind his thin, round spectacles, the young German had a pair of blue eyes straight out of a fairy tale of Prince Charming, and he cut a rather dashing figure. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, whereas my friend was nearly twice his age and felt a bit put out to have this young blond whippersnapper asking him questions. But these things happen in war. Naturally, he didn’t answer any of the questions, but only gave his name, surname and serial number and declared his loyalty to the king of Italy. The Nazi didn’t bat an eyelid and actually seemed quite unruffled. He changed the subject and started making small talk in rather good Italian. He asked Binismaghi where he was from, what his city was like, what the traditional dishes were, what the women of his region were like, and so on. And he listened very attentively, showing sympathy for this Italian officer loyal to his king. He even said some amusing things, and the two men laughed together. In the end he thanked Binismaghi for the pleasant conversation and stood up to shake his hand. He smiled, his pale blue eyes staring at Binismaghi from behind his eyeglasses. Binismaghi also smiled and turned away to leave. But he didn’t make it to the door, because Prince Charming shot him in the nape of the neck from barely six feet away. My friend woke up a few hours later under the dead bodies of his comrades. The bullet had entered at the base of the skull and come out of his mouth without touching his brain. The Germans had taken him for dead and tossed him into a large pit with the rest. Since no one paid any attention to the dead, he was able to escape … As you see, Botta, this story also has a happy ending, but it was only due to good luck, not to any good deed by a Nazi.’
Botta raised his hands as if to defend himself from an accusation.
‘But I said I wasn’t saying anything good about Nazis, only that they weren’t all the same,’ he said. Then he wanted immediately to tell the story of the other thing that had happened to him. First, however, he served everyone a last spoonful of pudding, scraping the bottom of the tureen. Nobody refused — on the contrary — and after that last bit of Turkish cream, some of them turned to the papassinos.
Ennio then resumed speaking.
‘A few months later, I found myself face to face with another German. His uniform was in tatters, and he was unarmed. He showed me a picture of his girlfriend and seemed desperate. He told me he was a deserter and said he’d never shot anyone. He kept saying “Italiani amici.” He begged me to get him past the front. He wanted to go home. To Mamma, I thought. I didn’t know whether to believe anything he told me, but in the end I remembered the German who had let me go and I decided I should help him. We spent the night in an abandoned barn. The front was only a few miles away, and we could hear the blasts of the heavy artillery. We lay down next to each other under a blanket, and then, in the middle of the night, it started raining mortar shells. With each explosion the German grabbed hold of my arm and squeezed and squeezed, muttering in German. The shelling lasted a long time, and the next morning my arm was covered with bruises. We got up and headed off through the fields. I helped him cross the front. And that’s the story. The guy might be German, but every time I think back on it I feel I did the right thing. What do you think?’
Dante put a large hand on Botta’s shoulder, crushing him into his chair.
‘You did exactly the right thing. One man saves you, you save another, and he saves another. Human actions are links in a chain, whether they are good or bad. This is something you should always bear in mind: whosoever does evil not only does evil, but passes it on.’
Canapini knitted his brow and nodded solemnly. He’d had a lot to drink, and something important was simmering inside his head. Then he raised a finger and said:
‘Yes, but what is good and what is bad? If a man steals to eat, is it good or bad? And if a policeman catches him in the act and instead of arresting him gives him some money, is that right or wrong?’
Canapini was clearly drunk. He actually had a happy expression on his face. Fabiani looked at him fondly.
‘Good, I think, is everything that puts life above all else. Evil is everything that runs counter to this assertion.’
Canapini tried to get Bordelli’s attention.
‘What’s an “assertion”?’ he asked.
Bordelli was about to reply when Botta took the words out of his mouth. He had, in spite of everything, gone to school in his youth.
‘It means statement, affirmation, declaration … You know, something somebody says.’
Canapini smiled and took a sip of grappa.
‘So, someone who steals in order to eat is doing good,’ he said, ‘because he will die if he doesn’t eat.’
Fabiani smiled.
‘Naturally,’ he said.
This made Canapini very happy. He raised his glass and toasted the psychoanalyst.
Dante was in deep meditation. A mysterious shadow had fallen over his face, as if he were hatching some new invention. Bordelli lit his umpteenth cigarette and invited Diotivede to tell a story.
‘If you feel like it, of course,’ he said. The doctor asked for a cigarette, even though he normally didn’t smoke. Bordelli lit it for him, admiring, as usual, the old man’s fitness and childlike freshness. Diotivede looked down at the millions of crumbs scattered across the tablecloth. He looked as if he were searching among hundreds of stories for the one most appropriate to the mood of the moment.
He smiled.
‘This is probably a little silly, but it’s something that made a lasting impression on me, I’m not sure why. It must have happened at least fifty years ago, around 1914. I was almost twenty and engaged to a beautiful girl of Greek origin. If I close my eyes I can still see her: the long, black hair, and a mole right here, next to her lip. Her name was Simonetta. We were very much in love but quarrelled a lot, especially over silly things. We both wanted to be always right. We used to quarrel everywhere, even in public. That day we were walking along, about a yard apart, hurling abuse at each other. People were giving us a wide berth and looking at us with disapproval. At one point I said something particularly nasty to her and she came at me screaming and kicking me in the shins. Then she scratched me in the face with her fingernails and drew blood, so I grabbed her by the wrists and twisted them brutally …’ Diotivede mimed the gesture and grimaced in shame. ‘At that moment, I felt someone grab my arm, and I turned round in anger, only to find an old vagrant, dirty and smelly. He looked at us with despair in his eyes, trying to say something but not managing to say it. He had the foul breath of an alcoholic. He had seized hold of our wrists and wouldn’t let go, forcing us to stop hitting each other. He was staggering, and his face was covered with broken veins. I thought he might be unwell, or mad. Simonetta, too, had calmed down and was looking at the old man with a sort of disgust. He was still clutching our arms, when at a certain point he started shaking his head and saying: “No! No! S’il vous plait … You mustn’t … Faut pas faire ca … Faut pas vous battre! Regardez-vous dans les yeux.” I remember his face well, he had lost almost all his teeth, his cheeks were grey with the dirt of months without bathing. “Embrassez-vous, s’il vous plait, whether you love each other or not, c’est pas important, c’est pas important, embrassez-vous s’il vous plait.” A man in uniform walked past and told him to stop bothering us, grabbing him by the collar and pushing him away. But the old man kept yelling from far away, “Embrassez-vous, embrassez-vous.” I looked at Simonetta, threw myself into her arms, and she burst into tears. And there you have it. This is the first time I’ve ever told anyone. That old tramp didn’t know us, he’d never seen us before and was probably even crazy, but he had the freedom of mind to tell us what he felt. After that day, whenever we started quarrelling, one of us would say, “Embrassez-vous, s’il vous plait,” and we would both start laughing.’
Dante seemed very pleased with this story. He sucked on his cigar and ran his fingers through his hair.