Cavalleria rusticana and Other Stories (31 page)

She whispered all this as if she were half asleep, resting her head on his shoulder.

After leaving the Biffi, they were inclined to linger as they walked the length of the
via crucis
of their bitter-sweet memories: the street corner where they had met, the pavement where they had stopped to exchange their first words with one another.

‘This was where it happened!’

‘No, it was further on!’

They dawdled on in a kind of stupor.
‘See you tomorrow,’ they said, as they parted company.

Next day Paolo was packing his cases, and the Princess, kneeling in front of his shabby old trunk, was helping him arrange his few belongings including his books, sheets of music on which he had scribbled her name in those early days, and the clothes she had seen him wearing so many times in the past.
She felt as if her heart would break as she watched each of his possessions disappear inside the trunk, one on top of the other.
Paolo was handing her his clothes as he went over to take them out of the wardrobe and the chest of drawers.
She paused for a moment to look at each of them in turn, folded them once, then twice, and packed them neatly away, ensuring they would remain uncreased, between the socks and the handkerchiefs.
They said little to one another, and seemed to be in something of a hurry.
The girl had put aside an old calendar on which Paolo was in the habit of jotting down occasional notes.
‘May I keep this?’ she asked.
He nodded, without turning round.

When the trunk was full there were still a few bits of old clothes draped over chairs and suitcases, along with his old overcoat.
‘I’ll see to them tomorrow,’ Paolo said, and the girl knelt on the lid of the trunk while he snapped the buckles into place.
She then went over to the bed where she had left her veil and her umbrella, laid them aside, and sat down sadly on the edge of it.
The walls were bare and sad-looking, all that remained in the room was the huge trunk, and Paolo rushing this way and that, rummaging in the drawers and wrapping up the rest of his things in a large bundle.

That evening they took their last stroll together.
She leant on his arm with a timid sort of air, as if her lover was beginning to turn into a stranger.
They went to the Fossati,
⁹
as they had often done on holidays, but they found the entertainment dull and left before the end.
The young man was thinking about all the people who would go back there and see the Princess in the audience, whilst she thought about not seeing Paolo among all those people.
They had grown accustomed to stopping for a beer at a small café in the Foro Bonaparte.
¹⁰
Paolo loved the great piazza there, through which he had walked so often on summer evenings, arm in arm with his Princess.

In the distance they could hear the sound of music coming from the Caffé Gnocchi, and could see the light coming from the rounded windows of the Teatro Dal Verme.
¹¹
Along the darkened road there
were countless splashes of light, where people sat outside the bars and the cafés.
The stars seemed to tremble in the deep-blue sky, and at various points between the trees along the dark avenues, a pair of black, silent shadows would move across the light of the gaslamps.
Paolo was thinking to himself, This is our last evening together!

They had chosen to sit at a table away from the crowd, in the darkest corner, with their backs turned towards a row of stunted shrubs that had been planted in old oil drums.
The Princess plucked a couple of the leaves and gave one to Paolo, a gesture that in the past would have started them laughing.
A blind man came along and strummed a whole repertory of tunes on his guitar, and Paolo gave him all the small change he had in his pocket.

They met for the last time at the station, when the train was about to leave, at the painful hour of the hurried, prosaic, careless adieu, uttered with no sign of enthusiasm or regret, amid the crush, the indifference, the hubbub and the throng that attend a departure.
The Princess followed Paolo like a shadow from the luggage office to the ticket window, copying his every step without saying a word, her umbrella rolled up under her arm.
She was white as a sheet.
He, on the other hand, was all confused and distracted-looking.
When they came up to the waiting-room an inspector asked for their tickets.
Paolo showed him his own, but the poor girl had no ticket to show, so it was there that they hurriedly shook hands in front of a great crowd of people pushing to get through, and the inspector punching the tickets.

She was left standing there beside the door, clutching her umbrella, as though waiting for someone else to turn up, and casting her eyes over the huge posters pasted here and there to the walls.
She watched the travellers as they made their way from the ticket office to the waiting-rooms, accompanying them all the way inside with that same expression of total bewilderment before turning to watch the next ones arriving.

Finally, after ten agonizing minutes, the bell rang, and the whistle of the engine could be heard.
The girl gripped her umbrella tightly and walked slowly away, tottering a little as she went.
Outside the station she sat down on a stone bench.

‘Farewell, you that are going now, you that have shared the secrets of my heart!
Farewell, you that went before him!
Farewell, you that
will come next, and you that will go as he has gone!’ The poor girl was almost demented.

And you, penniless great artist of the cafés, go and drag your chains somewhere else!
Go and dress more smartly, and eat every day!
Go and allow the dreams of your youth to drown themselves amid the pipe-smoke of the gin-palaces of distant lands where nobody knows you and nobody wishes you well!
Go and forget your Princess among the princesses of faraway places, after the small change you collect at the doors of the cafés has driven away the melancholy image of the last farewell you exchanged with her in that dismal waiting-room.
And later, when you return, no longer young, nor penniless, nor foolish, nor eager to fulfil the splendid visions of those early days, and you meet the Princess again, don’t remind her of the wonderful times you spent in each other’s company, of the laughter and the tears, for she too has filled out a little, she no longer dresses on credit at the Largo Cordusio, and would no longer understand what you are saying.
And that, sometimes, can be the saddest thing of all.

What with the raging storm, and her husband returning, purple in the face, at so unusual an hour, the poor woman began to tremble like a leaf, and could hardly summon up the breath to mumble, ‘What is it?
What happened?’

Lollo said nothing, not even ‘drop dead’.
He was a man of few words, especially when the moon was on the wane.
He alone knew what he was chuntering between his teeth, as he went on casting sullen looks at everything around him: the lantern on the table, the neatly made-up bed, the heavy cross-bar on the door leading to the kitchen, where the chickens, terrified on account of the storm, were making a great uproar.
The woman turned paler and paler, and hadn’t the courage to look her husband in the face.

‘Right ho!’ he said.
‘This won’t take me long.’

He hung his shoulder-belt on a nail, placed on the table the lamb that was hanging below it with its four legs bound together, and without another word he sat down, legs wide apart, hands dangling between his thighs.
His wife, meanwhile, not knowing what else to do in that tense situation, set bread and wine in front of him, as well as his pipe filled with tobacco.

‘What are you thinking of?
What’s on your mind?’ Lollo muttered.
‘One thing at a time, dammit!’

He chewed slowly, taking in large mouthfuls, keeping his back to the wall and his nose over his plate.
Every so often he turned his head to glance at the lamb, which was bleating as it tried to free itself, striking its head on the table.

‘Calm down, calm down!’ Lollo muttered, finally.
‘Calm down, there’s still some time to go.’

‘What are you going to do?
Say something at least.’

He looked at her as if he hadn’t heard, through a pair of mean little eyes that revealed no hint of his intentions, at the same time calmly lighting his pipe, so that the poor woman grew more and more bewildered.
Suddenly she threw herself on to her knees to untie his sodden leggings.

‘No,’ he said, pushing her aside with his foot.
‘I’m going out again.’

‘In this weather?’ she said, heaving a great sigh.

‘The weather’s not important.
As a matter of fact…!’

Speaking in that tone of voice, grim-faced, trying not to look her squarely in the eye, her shrunken little husband put the fear of God into her.
Solitude lay all around, and in the raging storm there was no chance of her cries for help being heard.

She cleared the table in silence while he sat puffing away at his pipe and spitting here and there.
All of a sudden the black hen began to cluck.
An ill omen.

‘Did you see anything of Angelo today?’ Lollo asked.

‘No… no…,’ his wife stammered, very nearly dropping the plates from her hands.

‘I told him to dig a pit… A nice big pit… I expect he will have done it.’

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!
Why?
Why a pit?’

‘There’s a wolf around here somewhere.
I’m going to catch him.’

She instinctively shot a brief glance towards the kitchen door, then fixed her eyes anxiously on her husband, who never even looked in her direction as he leant over his pipe with relish, as though he was already savouring the pleasure of catching the beast.
Her face grew even paler, as with trembling lips she murmured, ‘Jesus!
Jesus!’

‘Don’t be afraid.
I’m going to trap him, without putting my life at any risk.
A fine thing it would be if someone came along to steal from
you, and you risked losing your life into the bargain!
I’ve already spoken to Zango and Buonocore.
They’re in this as well.’

Whether it was the wine that was loosening his tongue, or he was simply taking pleasure in chewing over the cause of his ill temper, he never stopped, scratching away at his wrinkled chin, sometimes almost nodding off over his pipe, then chattering away like a magpie.

‘D’you want to know how it’s done?
You prepare a nice little trap for him… a lovely soft bed with leaves and branches… the lamb lying tied up on it, fresh meat to draw the crafty devil towards it.
When he hears the bleating and catches the smell of fresh meat, along he comes like a groom to a wedding, his nose sniffing the wind and his eyes lit up with longing.
But as soon as he falls into the trap he’s a helpless booby, at the mercy of whoever wants to throw sticks or stones, or boiling water!’

As if it could understand what he was saying, the lamb started bleating again like a baby, in a heartrending tremor of a voice.
Once more it leapt and shook itself, thrusting up its head, and beating it against the table like a hammer.

‘Stop!
For God’s sake, stop!’ the woman cried, clasping her hands together, almost out of her mind.

‘Don’t worry, he doesn’t even touch the lamb when he finds himself in the trap alongside her.
He prowls round and round the pit all night, trying to find a way to escape, even from temptation.
It’s as though he’s realized it’s all up and he has to ask God and men to forgive him.
You should see him there, at daybreak, with his head turned upward, waiting for the hunters and the dogs, eyes glowing like a pair of hot cinders.’

Finally he dragged himself to his feet and began to wander about the room like some phantom, dragging his sodden leggings behind him, holding up the lantern to rummage here and there.

‘What is it you’re looking for?
What do you want?’ his poor wife asked, breathless as she crawled along behind him.

He answered with a sort of grunt, and thrust the lamp under the bed.

‘There we are, that’s it, I’ve found what I’m looking for.’

At that moment there came a fierce gust of wind that almost blew
the house down.
A clatter was heard in the kitchen, the woman let out a yell and stood against the door.
Then, in the wind, the lamp went out, and suddenly it was pitch dark.

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God!
Wait!
I’ll look for the matches.
Where are you?
Where are you going?
Answer me at least!’

‘Shut up!’ cried Lollo, who had rushed to bolt the outer door.
‘Shut up!
Don’t you move!’ He then began to strike the flint so hard against the tinder, green as the sulphur match he had lit, that the lamp flickered in his poor wife’s shaking hands.
Once again he wandered round the room without a word.
He took up a stick of oakwood, cut out a notch at one end, and tied a length of rope to it fashioned out of goat’s hair.
Seeing that the storm had died down, his wife began to recover her spirits.
Cupping her chin between her hands, elbows on the table, she seemed absorbed by what he was doing, and asked him, ‘What’s that you’re making?’

‘What’s this?
This, you say?’ he mumbled, wheezing and puffing.
‘This is the biscuit for shutting up the mouth of the wolf.
We could do with another one for you, couldn’t we!
Aha!
You’re laughing now, are you?
Getting a bit of colour back in your cheeks?
You women are like cats, you have nine lives.’

Looking him straight in the eye, as if to guess what the grin on his face was concealing, she crawled on top of him, just like a cat, in fact, her breast heaving, with the hint of a smile on her lips.

‘Keep still, keep still, or you’ll spill the oil.
It’ll bring bad luck.’

‘It’ll bring bad luck all right,’ she cried.
‘But what is it you’re up to?
Tell me!’

‘I see!
Now you’re turning on the bad temper!
You know all the tricks, don’t you!
Want to know more, do you?
Want to know how to finish him off.
Well, all you do is lower this little toy into the pit.
The wolf, being stupid, grabs it between his teeth, and in a flash you switch the rope from the other end of the stick and tie it behind his neck.
After that the job’s done.
You can take the wolf and drag him up because now he can’t harm anyone!
And you do whatever you like with him.
But you have to wait till broad daylight.
I’m off now to get the trap ready.’

‘Shall I wait for you, then?
Are you coming back?’

Lollo went and unhooked his shoulder-belt, grunting as he did so.
Then he turned to pick up the lamb.
‘We shall see,’ he said.
‘The best part is seeing him caught there in the trap.
And after that you can do what you like with him, without asking permission from anyone.
You can even claim a reward from the town hall!
All you have to do now is stay where you are and keep still.’ Tucking the lamb under his arm, ‘Keep still,’ he repeated, ‘the wolf won’t touch you.
He’s too busy trying to save his own skin.’

Paying no attention to his wife, he then went out, locking the door behind him.

‘Why are you locking me in?’ his wife screamed, beating her fists against the door.
‘Answer me!
What are you up to?’

Lollo made no reply as he walked away through the rain and the wind.

‘Ah!
Holy Virgin!’ exclaimed the poor woman, as she wandered about the room, clasping her head between her hands.
Then the kitchen door opened and Angelo came in, looking pale as death, and moving unsteadily on his feet.

‘Trapped!
We’re trapped!’ she murmured, in a trembling voice.
‘He’s bolted us in!’

Without replying, the man rushed this way and that on tip-toe, exactly like a wolf caught in a trap.
Pale-faced and out of his mind, he wrenched at the door and the iron grille over the window.
Then he picked up the table like a feather and set it on the bed, placed a stool on top of it, and climbed up trying to reach the ceiling, clawing away desperately with his arms outstretched.
Finally he gave up, exhausted, looked sideways at his companion, and swore at her.

‘Ah!’ she burst out, hands on hips.
‘Is this the reward I get from you?’

‘Be quiet!’ he exclaimed, terrified, clapping his hand over her mouth.
‘Be quiet!
Can’t you see we’re staring death in the face?’

‘I curse the day I ever set eyes on you!’ the woman continued to mutter.
‘I wish I’d dropped dead on the very spot!’

‘Hush!’ he whispered, fingers to his lips, in a croaking tone of voice.
‘Hush!’

All one could hear was the wind, and the rain pouring down on the
roof.
She held her head between her hands, while he stared at her, utterly bemused.

‘What did he say?
What did he do?’ he finally got round to stuttering.
‘Perhaps we’re just imagining he suspected us.’

‘No!’ Lollo’s wife replied.
‘He knew for certain!
For certain!’

The lamp was running short of oil, and began to go out.
In a fit of rage, he attacked the door and window once again, then split his nails tearing away at the plaster and moaning like a wild beast caught in a noose.

‘Hail Mary, help me, help me now!’ the woman begged.

The lamp finally went out.
Turning round, he picked his way towards the woman, and in a low whisper he asked, ‘What’ll your husband do now?
Will he come back here?’

On hearing the prayers she was mumbling, without waiting for the poor wretch to answer, he said, ‘You should have recited your Hail Marys before!
It’s too late now!’

And so he began to unleash his bad temper upon her, calling her every filthy name under the sun.