One day, when Guido had invited me to go fishing in the evening, I put off my decision until I could see if Augusta would allow me to stay out so late that night. I told him I wouldn’t forget that his boat would be casting off from the Sartorio dock at 9:00 p.m. and, if it was possible, I’d be there. So I assumed he, too, would immediately know he wouldn’t see me that evening and, as I had done so many other times, I would fail to turn up at the appointed hour.
Instead, that evening I was driven out of the house by my little Antonia’s screams. The more her mother caressed her, the more the little one screamed. Then I tried a system of mine that consisted of shouting insults into the tiny ear of that yelling monkey. The only result was to alter the rhythm of her screams, because she began to cry out also in fright. Then I thought to try another system a bit more vigorous, but Augusta recalled Guido’s invitation just in time and accompanied me to the door, promising to go to bed by herself if I was late coming home. Indeed, if it would send me away, she would even contrive to take her coffee without me the next morning, if I were still out then. There is a little divergence of opinion between me and Augusta—our only one—about how to treat troublesome babies: it seems to me that the baby’s suffering is less important than ours and that it’s worth letting the infant endure it in order to spare the adult greater distress; she, on the contrary, feels that as we made the children, we must also put up with them.
I was in plenty of time to reach the dock, and I crossed the city slowly, looking at the women and at the same time devising a mechanism that would prevent any disagreement between me and Augusta. But for my device mankind was not yet sufficiently mature! It was destined for the distant future and could be of no help to me except in showing me the trivial cause that made my disputes with Augusta possible: the lack of a little device! It would have been simple, a domestic tramway, a high chair equipped with wheels and tracks on which my child would spend her day: an electric switch, at one touch, would send chair and screaming baby off, at top speed, toward the most remote point in the house, whence its voice, muted by the distance, would actually seem pleasant. And Augusta and I would remain together where we were, serene and loving.
It was a night rich in stars and without a moon, one of those nights when you can see a great distance, a night that therefore softens and soothes. I looked at the stars that might still bear the mark of my dying father’s farewell glance. The horrible period in which my children soiled and screamed would pass. Then they would be like me; I would love them dutifully and effortlessly. In the beautiful, vast night I was completely reassured and had no need to make resolutions.
At the end of the Sartorio dock, the lights from the city were cut off by the old building from which the point itself extends like a brief pier. The darkness was perfect, and the water, deep and dark and still, seemed to me lazily swollen.
I no longer looked at either heaven or sea. A few paces from me there was a woman who aroused my curiosity, thanks to a patent-leather boot that for an instant gleamed in the darkness. In this brief space and in the darkness, to me it seemed this woman, tall and perhaps elegant, and I were enclosed in a room together. The most enjoyable adventures can occur when least expected, and, seeing that woman suddenly and deliberately approach me, for an instant I had a most pleasant sensation, which vanished immediately when I heard the hoarse voice of Carmen. She tried to act pleased at discovering that I, too, was one of the party. But in the darkness and with that voice, she couldn’t pretend.
I said to her roughly: “Guido invited me. But if you want, I’ll find something else to do and leave you to yourselves!”
She protested, declaring that, on the contrary, she was happy to see me for the third time that day. She told me that the entire office would be united in this little boat, because Luciano was there, too. What a disaster for our business if we were to sink! Surely she had told me about Luciano’s being there only to prove to me that the meeting was innocent. Then she continued chatting volubly, at once informing me that this was the first time she was going fishing with Guido, then confessing it was the second. She had involuntarily let me know that she didn’t mind sitting on the bottom of the boat, the bilges, and it seemed strange to me that she should know the term. Thus she had to confess that she had learned it when she had gone out fishing with Guido the first time.
“That day,” she added, to reveal the complete innocence of her first excursion, “we went fishing for mackerel, not bream. In the morning.”
Too bad I didn’t have time to encourage her to chatter more, because I could have learned everything that mattered to me, but Guido’s boat was emerging from the darkness of the Sacchetta and rapidly coming toward us. I still hesitated. Since Carmen was there, shouldn’t I go away? Perhaps Guido hadn’t even meant to invite us both, because, as I recalled, I had practically refused his invitation. Meanwhile the boat tied up and, jauntily, confident even in the darkness, Carmen stepped down, not bothering to take the hand Luciano held out to her. As I hesitated, Guido cried: “Don’t waste our time!”
With one bound, I was also in the boat. My leap was almost involuntary: a result of Guido’s cry. I looked at the land with great desire, but a moment’s indecision sufficed to make it impossible for me to go ashore. Finally I sat at the prow of the not-large boat. When I grew accustomed to the darkness, I saw that at the stern, facing me, sat Guido and at his feet, on the bottom, Carmen. Luciano, who was rowing, separated us. I felt neither very confident nor very comfortable in the little boat, but I soon grew accustomed to it and I looked at the stars, which again soothed me. It was true that in the presence of Luciano—a devoted servant of the family of our wives—Guido would not risk betraying Ada, and so there was nothing wrong in my being with them. I keenly desired to be able to enjoy that sky, that sea, and the vast calm. If I were going to feel remorse and therefore suffer, I would have done better to stay at home and submit to the torture of my little Antonia. The cool night air swelled my lungs and I realized that I could enjoy myself in the company of Guido and Carmen, of whom I was, after all, fond.
We rounded the lighthouse and were out at sea. A few miles farther on, the lights of countless sailing boats were shining: there, quite different traps were being set for the fish. From the Military Baths—a massive, blackish establishment on stilts—we began to move up and down along the Sant’Andrea seafront. It was a favorite spot with fishermen. Beside us, silently, many other boats were following our same course. Guido prepared the three lines and baited the hooks, spearing some shrimp by the tail. He gave each of us a pole, saying that mine, at the prow—the only one provided with a sinker—would attract the most fish. In the darkness I could discern the pierced tail of my shrimp, and it seemed to be moving slowly the upper part of its impaled body, that part that hadn’t become a sheath. This movement made it seem to be meditating rather than writhing in pain. Perhaps whatever produces pain in large organisms can be reduced, in the very small, until it becomes a different experience, a stimulus to thought. I dropped the shrimp into the water, lowering it, as I had been instructed by Guido, about thirty feet. After me, Carmen and Guido dropped their lines. Guido, at the stern, now also had an oar, which he used to propel the boat with the skill required to keep the lines from tangling. Apparently, Luciano wasn’t yet sufficiently skilled to guide the boat like that. In any case, Luciano was now assigned the little net with which he would lift from the water the fish our hooks brought to the surface. For a long time he had nothing to do. Guido chattered a lot. Who knows? Perhaps he was drawn to Carmen more by his passion for instruction than by love. I would have preferred not to sit there listening, but rather to think of the little animal I kept exposed to the voracity of the fish, suspended in the water, and that, nodding its tiny head—if it continued to do so in the water—would lure fish all the better. But Guido called to me repeatedly, and I had to hear his theory of fishing. The fish would nibble the bait several times and we would feel them, but we should take care not to pull on the l
ine until it became taut. Then we should be ready to give it the jerk that would drive the hook squarely into the fish’s mouth. Guido, as usual, was lengthy in his explanations. He wanted to explain clearly to us what we would feel in our hands when the fish nibbled the bait. And he continued his explanations when Carmen and I already knew from experience the almost aural sensation produced on the hand by every contact the hook underwent. Several times we had to draw in the line to replace the bait. The little pensive animal remained unavenged in the maw of some clever fish able to elude the hook.
On board was some beer and sandwiches. Guido spiced everything with his ceaseless garrulity. Now he talked about the enormous riches that lay in the sea. He didn’t mean fish, as Luciano believed, or the riches sunk there by man. In the water of the sea, gold was dissolved. Suddenly he recalled that I had studied chemistry, and he said to me: “You should also know something about this gold.”
I didn’t remember much, but I nodded, venturing a remark of whose truth I was unsure. I asserted: “The gold of the sea is the most expensive of all. To acquire one of those napoleons lying dissolved down here, you would have to spend five.”
Luciano, who had eagerly turned to me to hear me confirm the riches on which we were floating, now looked away, disappointed. He no longer cared about that gold. But Guido agreed with me, believing he could recall that the price of such gold was exactly five times its market value, just as I had said. He even glorified me, confirming my assertion, which I knew was a total invention of my brain. Obviously he felt I represented no great threat, and he harbored not a shadow of jealousy regarding that woman curled up at his feet. I thought for an instant of embarrassing him by declaring that now I remembered more clearly, and to extract one of those napoleons from the sea, ten would be necessary, or perhaps a mere three would be enough.
But at that moment I was summoned by my line, which suddenly tautened at a mighty tug. I gave a tug in reply, and I shouted. With a leap, Guido was beside me; he snatched the line from my hand. I gladly let him have it. He started pulling it up, first in short lengths, then, as the resistance lessened, in great ones. And in the murky water the silvery body of a big animal could be seen shining. It now swam rapidly and without resistance, following its pain. So I understood also the pain of the silent animal, because it was shouted by that haste in rushing toward death. Soon I had it, gasping, at my feet. Luciano had drawn it from the water in the net and, yanking the hook with no consideration, he removed it from the fish’s mouth.
He squeezed the heavy fish.
“A seven-pound bream!”
In admiration, he quoted the price it would have fetched at the fish market. Then Guido observed that at this hour the water was still, and it would be hard to catch any more fish. He told how fishermen believed that when the water neither waxed nor waned, the fish didn’t eat and therefore couldn’t be caught. He philosophized on the danger an animal risked because of its appetite. Then, starting to laugh, unaware that he was compromising himself, he said: “You’re the only one able to fish this evening.”
My catch was still wriggling in the boat when Carmen let out a cry. Without stirring, and with a great desire to laugh audible in his voice, Guido asked: “Another bream?”
Confused, Carmen answered: “I thought so! But it’s already let go of the hook!”
I’m sure that, overwhelmed by his desire, Guido had given her a pinch.
At this point I felt uncomfortable in that boat. I no longer followed the activity of my hook with my desire, indeed, I jerked the line so much that the poor fish couldn’t bite. I declared I was sleepy, and I asked Guido to put me ashore at Sant’Andrea. Then I wanted to allay his suspicion that I was leaving because I was annoyed by what Carmen’s cry must have revealed to me, so I told him of the scene my little girl had made that evening, and of my desire now to make sure she wasn’t sick.
Obliging as always, Guido drew the boat up to the shore. He offered me the bream I had caught, but I refused it. I suggested giving it back its freedom by throwing it into the sea, which provoked a cry of protest from Luciano, as Guido good-naturedly said: “If I knew I could give it back health and life, I would. But by now the poor animal can go nowhere but into a pan!”
I followed them with my eyes, and I could verify that they didn’t exploit the space I had left free. They were huddled close together, and the boat went off a bit high at the prow and too heavy at the stern.
It seemed to me a divine punishment when I learned that my baby had come down with a fever. Hadn’t I caused her illness, feigning for Guido a concern for her health that I didn’t feel? Augusta had not yet gone to bed, but Dr. Paoli had been there a short time before and had reassured her, saying he was sure the fever, as sudden as it was violent, could not indicate any serious illness. We stood a long time watching Antonia, who lay limp on her little cot, the skin of her face dry and flushed intensely below her disheveled dark curls. She didn’t cry out, but moaned now and then, a brief lament arrested by an imperious torpor. My God! How close her sickness brought her to me! I would have given a part of my life to free her respiration. How could I dispel my remorse for thinking I couldn’t love her, and having spent all that time, when she was suffering, far from her and in that company?
“She looks like Ada!” Augusta said with a sob. It was true! We noticed it then for the first time, and that resemblance became more and more obvious as Antonia grew, so that sometimes I feel my heart quake at the thought that she could suffer the fate of the poor woman she resembles.
We lay down, after setting the baby’s cot beside Augusta’s bed. But I couldn’t sleep: I had a weight on my heart as I did on those evenings when my misdeeds of the day were reflected in nocturnal images of suffering and remorse. The baby’s illness weighed on me as if it were my own doing. I rebelled! I was pure and I could speak, I could tell everything. And I did tell everything. I told Augusta about the meeting with Carmen, the position she occupied in the boat, and then her cry, which I suspected had been provoked by a brutish gesture of Guido’s, though I couldn’t be sure. But Augusta was sure. Because otherwise, immediately afterwards, why would Guido’s voice have a tone of hilarity? I tried to temper her conviction, but then I had still more to tell. I confessed also my own part, describing the boredom that had driven me from the house, and my remorse at not loving Antonia more. I immediately felt better and I fell sound asleep.
The next morning Antonia had improved; the fever was almost gone. She lay there, calm and breathing freely, but she was pale and drawn as if she had been consumed by a struggle disproportionate to her little organism; obviously she had emerged from the brief battle victorious. In the consequent peace, which also affected me, I recalled with regret how horribly I had compromised Guido, and I wanted Augusta to promise me she would communicate her suspicions to no one. She objected that they weren’t suspicions, but obviously certainties, which I denied, without managing to convince her. Then she promised everything I wished, and I went off to the office with an easy mind.
Guido hadn’t yet come in, and Carmen told me they had had quite a run of luck after I left. They had caught another two bream, smaller than mine, but nice and plump. I was reluctant to believe it, and I thought she was trying to convince me they had abandoned the occupation in which they had been involved while I was there. Hadn’t the water become still? How late had they stayed out on the water?
To convince me, Carmen also made Luciano confirm the catching of the two bream, and from that time on I imagined that, to ingratiate himself with Guido, Luciano was capable of anything.
Still during the idyllic calm that preceded the copper-sulfate affair, something fairly strange occurred in that office, which I have been unable to forget, both because it confirms Guido’s boundless presumption and because it places me in a light where I can hardly recognize myself.
One day all four of us were in the office, and the only one who was talking about business was, as always, Luciano. Something in his words sounded,
to Guido’s ear, like a reproach, which in Carmen’s presence was hard for him to tolerate. But it was equally hard for him to defend himself, because Luciano had the proofs that a transaction he had advised months before, which Guido had rejected, had later earned a large sum of money for the person who accepted the offer. Guido ended by declaring that he scorned commerce, and he asserted that if fortune failed to assist him in business, he would find a way of making money through other, far more intelligent activities. Playing the violin, for example. All were in agreement with him, including me, though I expressed one reservation: “Provided you study a lot.”
My reservation displeased him, and he said at once that if it were just a matter of studying, then he could have gone into many other fields—literature, for example. Here, too, the others agreed, and so did I, but with some hesitation. I didn’t recall clearly the physiognomies of our great men of letters, and I tried to evoke them, to find one that resembled Guido.
He then cried: “Would you like some nice fables? I’ll improvise some, like Aesop!”
All laughed, except Guido himself. He asked for the typewriter and, fluently, as if he were writing under dictation, with broader gestures than practical typewriting demands, he wrote down his first tale. He was about to hand the little page to Luciano, but then he thought better of it, took it back, replaced it in the machine, and wrote a second; but this one cost him greater effort than the first, and so he forgot to keep simulating inspiration with his gestures, and he had to revise his words several times. So I believe the first of the two fables wasn’t his and only the second truly issued from his brain, of which it seems to me worthy. The first tale was about a little bird who happened to notice that the door of his cage had been left open. At first he thought to take advantage of this oversight and fly away, but then he changed his mind, fearing that if, during his absence, the door was closed, he would have lost his freedom. The second concerned an elephant, and it was truly elephantine. Suffering from weak legs, the heavy animal went to consult a man, a famous physician, who, seeing those ponderous limbs, cried, “I never saw stronger legs!”