Arturo's Island Read online

  In those days, my father always took her around the island, and they were together all the time; I never went with them on their walks and avoided being with them. The weather stayed fine and, continuing the habits of my solitary life, I usually went out in the morning, with a big piece of bread and cheese, and didn’t return until dark. I also carried a book, and when I was tired of wandering I went to the café at the port, the one kept by the widow who made Turkish coffee in the enameled coffeepot.

  In fact in that period I had money (an extraordinary novelty), because my father had given me fifty lire before leaving for his wedding, the morning he collected the money from the farmer. With that unaccustomed capital, for me an enormous sum, in my pocket, I peremptorily ordered a coffee with anise from the widow; and, throwing the money on the bar in advance, without condescending to any conversation, I went to sit in a corner, where I remained reading as long as I felt like it. At that hour, the only customer in the café was me; and the old woman either napped or devoted herself to long games of solitaire. Every so often, with the threatening, scornful air of an outlaw, I took out Silvestro’s famous illegal lighter, and, although unfortunately it lacked a flint and wouldn’t light, I clicked it ostentatiously. Reading, then, I always had displayed on the table a pack of cheap cigarettes, which I had recently bought but left untouched: in fact, in the past I had occasionally taken a few drags on my father’s butts, and I considered tobacco nauseating.

  As night fell, the widow lighted a small lamp on the bar and, in that light, continued her solitaire. The flame of the squat candle, burning in front of the portrait of her dead husband, glowed with an almost sinister effect in the murky shadows of the place; and then I felt truly proud. It seemed to me that I really was a pirate of the seas, in a dubious tavern of adventurers: maybe in some Pacific village, or in the back alleys of Marseille.

  But since the faint light didn’t allow me to read, at a certain point I got bored and, without saying goodbye to anyone, left the café and went back up in the night to the Casa dei Guaglioni.

  As soon as I returned, I went straight to my room and shut myself in, not caring to look for the newlyweds; and then a feeling of solitude, of a kind that I had never known in the past, began to invade me. Even my mother, the beautiful golden canary of fables, who used to appear at my first call, no longer came to my rescue. And the worst was this: That it was not because of her unfaithfulness that she had failed me. It was I myself who had suddenly lost any desire to search for her, denying her mysterious person. My lack of belief, which had once spared her alone, now banished her, too, underground, among the other dead who are nothing and have no answer to give. Although I was sometimes tempted by a yearning for her, I said to myself immediately, crudely: “What are you thinking? She’s DEAD.”

  I thus endured some difficult moments. But even in such moments I preferred to be alone, rather than find myself with the newlyweds. The only time we were all three together was in the evening, at dinner.

  My stepmother had introduced this new custom at our house: every night we had a hot dinner, and the fire in the kitchen was burning at all hours of the day. This was, to tell the truth, the only reform she brought to our domestic order. For the rest, not being a great housewife, she limited herself to pulling up the blankets on the beds and, every so often, sweeping, in a very summary fashion but with great energy, the kitchen and the other rooms. And so, fortunately, our house remained, more or less, the same as before, with its historic grime and its natural disorder.

  Our Costante, now that the bride was there, had with much satisfaction given up his duties as cook and servant, returning to his farm life. She could take care of our house herself; he showed up once or twice a week, to bring us fruit and other farm products.

  At dinnertime, my father called me in a loud voice, and I came down. After that unique, celebratory evening of the first day, our communal dinners now unfolded rather silently. My stepmother was always fearful and uneasy in my father’s presence; but, unlike the first day, now, almost involuntarily, she stayed near him every minute, and even ended up sitting huddled next to him. At times, my father let her be, paying no attention to her, and at times, annoyed, he avoided her; but, as I said, in those days he was never apart from her.

  After dinner, we all went to bed. Usually I preceded them, getting to my room quickly, where, closing the door, and without even turning on the light, I immediately got under the covers. From there I soon heard their footsteps in the hallway and the sound of a door closing behind them; and instinctively I covered my ears with my fists, for fear of hearing that cry again from their room. I couldn’t explain to myself the reason: but I would rather have seen a fierce beast appear before me than hear it again.

  The Head of the Household Gets Bored

  After a week of fine weather the rain began again on the island; but I went out just the same every morning, and sometimes returned home soaked. More days of that solitary life of mine passed like that, when, around the middle of the second week, my father began to talk about leaving. Then I couldn’t stand the bitterness of losing the remaining hours of his company, and I was driven to try to be near him, unwillingly enduring the presence of my stepmother as well.

  It was afternoon; and, as on the day of their arrival, we were all three in my father’s room, while he smoked, half lying on the bed, as he usually did. The smoke from the Nazionale cigarettes, which he lighted incessantly starting in the morning, made the air of the room heavy, and beyond the opaque windows the enormous clouds of the sirocco passed by. No one had any desire to talk. My father yawned, constantly changing his position on the bed, like someone with a fever; and his eyes appeared a strange dusty blue. For him boredom seemed to be a bitter and tragic weight, no less than a disaster. And I recognized, in that, the mysterious laws of his that I adored: the same that, more important than any reason, had once, during my childhood, caused him almost to faint before my eyes because of a jellyfish sting.

  So even this boredom, which made him languish, became fascinating. I saw that he was eager now to leave the island; and I regretted more bitterly the days just passed, and lost, when he was present here, accessible at every moment, and I avoided him! All this was my stepmother’s fault, and an avenging rage against her was kindled in me.

  (At the distance of so much time, I’m now trying to understand the feelings that, strangely, were beginning to crowd into my heart in those days; but I’m still unable to distinguish their shapes, which were all jumbled inside me, and not illuminated by any thought. In memory, I perceive a deep, isolated valley on a night of dense clouds: down in the valley a horde of wild creatures, wolves or lions, have started a fight, almost in play, which becomes serious and bloody. And meanwhile the moon proceeds beyond the clouds, in a clear, very distant zone.)

  I think that for more than half an hour no word was heard from the three of us: my stepmother sat quietly on a chair, respecting, perhaps with some apprehension, my father’s moods. It was he who, finally, broke the silence, exclaiming in an exasperated tone: “Enough. I can’t bear this island anymore. I have to make up my mind to get away.” And he threw a just-lighted cigarette on the floor with an expression of disgust.

  Already for a couple of days he had been talking about travels, as I said, but had left the date of his departure vague. Naturally, it was understood that this time, too, he would go alone: the bride would wait for him on Procida, according to her duty. She knew it well; and at his angry exclamation she looked down, without making any objection. In her huddled-up position, her shoulders, too narrow compared with her buxom chest, gave her, at that moment, a poor and vulnerable aspect. But the black lashes of her sensitive, lowered eyelids seemed to cast on her face the shadow of a mysterious severity; and under her red sweater the tranquil movement of her breath was visible.

  My father threw her a glance tinged with anger and, at the same time, a confusing tenderness; as if, wishing to depart, and yet feeling some regret at leaving her, he were
accusing her of being the cause, involuntarily perhaps, of his lingering on the island. Then he repeated capriciously, “That’s enough! what the devil am I waiting for, to get away?” and she at that moment blinked, and their gazes met. Then she murmured, looking up at him with serious eyes:

  “You haven’t been married two weeks and already you’re leaving home!”

  She had spoken in a tone more of submissive lament than of revolt; but the remark had the power to instantly cancel any shadow of friendship from my father’s eyes. “Well, what’s so strange?” he erupted with contempt. “Can I get rid of the desire to do what I like, even if I’ve been married for less than two weeks? Are you afraid the ogre will eat you, if you stay on Procida without me?

  “Arturo,” he added then, proudly, “has stayed on Procida without me countless times, and he’s never made a fuss when he sees me leaving. This is what happens, when you get involved with women.”

  She shook her head and, nervously toying with her curls, said, “But . . . I . . . Vilèlm—” “You, who are you? What do you expect?” my father interrupted her. At the sound of that name Vilèlm, uttered by her, he had a scowl of impatience, and even that small nervous gesture with the curls seemed to irritate him. “And leave your dirty ringlets alone,” he ordered her finally. “Think instead about getting some of your foolish claims out of your mind, if you had any . . . But I, Vilèlm! What do you expect, you, just because you’ve become my signora?”

  The stepmother listened to him, mute and sullen; but her eyes, unconsciously, expressed dependence and loyalty.

  He flung his feet off the bed and stood in front of her. I saw mounting in him the obscure rancor that only the bride seemed able to provoke and that had already been revealed once, the first day, in that same room. But that time, in my inner self, I had taken her side; today, instead, I was pleased that he mistreated her. In fact I hoped that he would rage against her physically, maybe throw her on the floor and trample her under his feet. It almost seemed to me that in such an assault I would find a sense of repose.

  “Remember,” he resumed, flaring up with increasing violence at every word, “that, married or not, I am always free to come and go as I please, and I don’t have to answer to anyone for myself! For me no obligation or duty exists, I AM A SCANDAL! No, it’s not to you, sweetheart, that I have to account for my fancies! The great emperor is still to be born who can keep Wilhelm Gerace in a cage! And if you, poor little flea-bitten doll, think that as a result of marriage I should remain attached to your rags, you’d better disabuse yourself now!”

  He turned toward the window his beautiful blue eyes, darkened by the impossible anguish of boredom and a furious nostalgia: “Oh, why,” he exclaimed, “are there no more boats tonight? Why must I wait until tomorrow? I want to leave immediately, on the first steamer, and for a long time I will send no news of myself!” His gaze returned to the bride, with an expression of impatience and bitterness. One would have said, at that moment, that, for the sole fact of existing and encumbering the air in front of him, she was committing a crime, she was threatening the right of Wilhelm Gerace. That right was: to feel as free as the angels—and I considered legitimate the youthful persistence with which my father defended it. In fact, that right was, in my eyes, the primary origin of his grace, and of his immortality, I would say.

  “I . . . didn’t speak of opposing your will . . . it would be a mortal sin! You are my husband . . . I vowed obedience . . . you are the head of the house . . . and you command me . . .” said my stepmother, with conviction. But she was so frightened by his tumultuous behavior that tears began to well up in her eyes. Since I had known her, I had always seen her resist the temptation to cry. This was the first time she had given in.

  At the sight of the tears, my father lost the last vestige of compassion or indulgence that he might have had left. “What!” he exclaimed, with a kind of horror. “Have we already reached this point: that you’re crying because I’m leaving?”

  And he looked at her suspiciously, not hating her, but really loathing her. As if she had suddenly taken a mask off her forehead, revealing the face of a demon nymph, who wished to imprison Wilhelm Gerace.

  “I order you to answer that question,” he commanded her, with a harsh expression, as if he were accusing her of a crime. “You’re weeping because of your grief at my departure? Eh? You’re crying FOR THAT?”

  She looked at him with a singular boldness, her eyes sullen and proud, despite the tears; and resolutely answered no.

  “I don’t want weeping for love of me, I don’t want love,” my father warned her, imitating her voice with aversion as he uttered the word love, which, in his slightly hybrid language, he pronounced ammore, in the Neapolitan style. “Know, girl, that I would never have married you if I hadn’t been sure of this: that you did NOT have any feeling for me. It was your duty to obey your mother that made you accept the marriage. You didn’t love me, fortunately! And I enjoyed seeing your mamma and godmother, who, thinking they were being clever, hid that from me; while for me, instead, it was the ideal! You will do well, wife, never to have any feeling for me. I don’t know what to do with the feelings of women. I don’t want your love.”

  During this speech, the bride, holding back her tears, looked at my father with eyes that were large but without wonder, as if she were listening to an incomprehensible, barbarian language. Meanwhile, he had begun to march from the bed to the window, giving her aggressive looks:

  “My forebear, who is pictured there, in that portrait, said that a woman is like a leper: when she fastens on to you, she wants to eat you entirely, bit by bit, and isolate you from the universe. The love of women is bad luck, women don’t know how to love. My forebear, girl, was a saint, who always spoke the truth. Aah!” And suddenly my father took the portrait of the Amalfitano off the wall and hugged it to his heart ostentatiously. And in that tenor’s pose he burst out unexpectedly into clear, spontaneous laughter, as if to mock the stepmother and the Amalfitano.

  Against Mothers (and Women in General)

  Then suddenly the stepmother shook her hair hard and stuck out her chin in an expression of insubordination and challenge. “That man,” she burst out, invaded by a strange spirit of battle, “that wizard, forgot his mother! To speak like that about women! Goodness! But if it wasn’t a woman, who made him?” Here she began to rock back and forth, in an attitude of such boasting, and pride, that she appeared almost insolent: “What even the ignorant know, and even the goats know,” she went on, “how beautiful the mother is! And no one ever forgets her, she is our first love of all! Who even—”

  “Shut up, you ugly, slovenly devil,” my father interrupted her.

  And, collapsing on the bed, he again burst into laughter, but it was trembling and disjointed, very different from the laughter of a moment before. “The mother!” he repeated. “My forebear,” he declared triumphantly, turning to the stepmother, “had no mother! He was born of the encounter between a cloud and a thunderclap!”

  “Really!” said my stepmother skeptically. “A cloud and a thunderclap.”

  “Yes, lucky for him! If only each of us could be born like that, from . . . a tree trunk . . . a crater of Vesuvius . . . a flint . . . from anything that doesn’t have the womb of a woman!”

  “But . . . women . . . sacrifice everything . . . for their children—” the stepmother tried again to object (although she was frightened by those invectives). “Enough, I told you, silence!” my father interrupted her again. “They sacrifice . . . You want to know an important eternal verity, you devil, tiger? Learn this: SACRIFICE IS THE ONLY TRUE HUMAN PERVERSION. I don’t like sacrifice. And maternal sacrifices . . . Aah! Of the many evil females one can meet in life, the worst of all is one’s own mother! That is another eternal verity!”

  Here I was so perplexed that I couldn’t contain a sigh; but I don’t think my father heard it. He had thrown his head back on the pillow and, talking, tossed on the covers with such turbulence that the bed was
like a ship in a tempest. Having imposed silence on my stepmother, he continued to deliver a monologue about mothers, no longer interested in who heard him. Now he argued with teeth clenched, now in a thundering voice, breaking out every so often into a laugh or a vulgar exclamation; and in his tone I soon recognized that particular emphasis (sly, contemptuous, and dramatic) with which, for his own amusement, he sometimes seemed to provoke the dead.

  Then I saw again in memory that old group photograph in which, amid numerous classmates of the same age, a large buxom girl in a sentimental pose was singled out by a small inked cross . . .

  “. . . At least,” he was saying, continuing his argument, “you can save yourself from other women, discourage their love; but who can save you from a mother? She has the vice of holiness . . . She is never satisfied with expiating the sin of having created you, and, as long as she lives, she, with her love, won’t let you live. And it’s understandable: she, poor insignificant girl, possesses nothing but that famous sin in her past and her future, you, unfortunate son, you are the only expression of her destiny, she has no other thing to love. Ah, it’s hell to be loved by one who loves neither happiness nor life nor herself but only you! And if you have a desire to avoid such an abuse, such a persecution, she calls you Judas! Precisely, you’re a traitor, because you feel like wandering through the streets to conquer the universe, while she wants to keep you with her forever, in her dwelling of one room and kitchen!”

  I followed that speech with extreme eagerness, mixed, however, with a feeling of apprehension. In fact, it seemed to me, strangely, that, while he was speaking, a mysterious mother, large and buxom, who had descended from unknown northern regions, was there, torturing him in the cruelest way, to punish him for speaking ill of her. And, in spite of the fascination that the subject of mothers always had for me, I hoped that he would stop; but instead he continued, intensely and at length. As if, to while away the boredom of that day, he were recounting to himself an unpleasant fable: