The Novel of Ferrara, Page 3

  “When Lida was a little girl”—he said—“just this high,” she often came to his workshop. She would enter, come forward, raise herself up on tiptoes so her eyes could be at the level of the workbench.

  “Signor Benetti,” she would ask him in her little voice, “would you give me a small piece of wax paper?”

  “Gladly,” he’d reply. “But may I know what you want it for?”

  “Nothing. Just to cover my exercise book.”

  He would tell the story and laugh. Although he didn’t speak to either of the women in particular, his looks were directed exclusively toward Lida. It was her attention and agreement that he sought. And while she observed the man in front of her (he had a very big head, which fitted his stout torso, but was out of proportion with the rest of his body), and in particular his large bony hands, forcibly clasped together on the tablecloth, she felt that at least in this respect she could hardly do other than try to please him. Facing him with a reserved courtesy, she spoke calmly, composedly and—deriving from this a strange, unaccustomed pleasure—in a somehow submissive manner.

  Of nothing was the bookbinder more acutely aware than of his own importance. Nevertheless he was always in search of further kudos.

  Once, on one of the few occasions when he addressed the old woman, even calling her by her Christian name, it was to remind her of the year she’d come to settle in Ferrara. Do you remember—he said—the cold we had that year? He did, very clearly. The abundant heaps of dirty snow that remained along both sides of the city streets until mid-April. And how the temperature had dropped so low the river Po itself had frozen.

  “The Po itself!” he repeated with emphasis, widening his eyes.

  It was as though he could still see it, he continued, the extraordinary sight of the river gripped in the sub-zero winds. Between the snow-heaped banks the river had ceased to flow, had totally seized up. So much so that, toward evening, instead of making use of the iron bridge at Pontelagoscuro to cross the river, some laborers—they must have been transporting firewood to a sawmill in Santa Maria Maddalena and were returning to Ferrara—preferred to risk their then-empty carts across the huge sheet of ice. What madmen! They advanced slowly, a few meters in front of their horses, holding the reins gathered in one fist behind their backs, as with their free hands they scattered sawdust, and meanwhile they whistled and yelled like the damned. Why were they whistling and yelling? Who knows? Perhaps to embolden the beasts, perhaps themselves. Or else simply to keep warm.

  “I remember that famous winter,” he began one evening, with the respectful tone he always assumed when he spoke of people and things with any religious connection (orphaned as a child and brought up in a seminary, he had retained for the priests there, for priests as a whole, a filial reverence), “I remember that famous winter, poor Don Castelli led us out every Saturday afternoon to Pontelagoscuro to look at the Po. As soon as we’d passed Porta San Benedetto the children broke out of their lines. Five kilometers there and five back—it wasn’t just a stroll round the garden! And yet even to mention the tram to Don Castelli was big trouble. Although, given his age, he was gasping for air, he was always in front, always at the head of the whole troop with his fine soutane flowing and with yours truly at his side . . . A veritable saint, sure enough, and a real father to my humble self!”

  “I had just given birth to the baby,” Maria Mantovani put in, softly, in dialect, making the most of the silence that followed the bookbinder’s speech. “In town I felt lost,” she continued in Italian, “I didn’t really know anyone. But on the other hand how could I go back home? You know how it was, Oreste: in the country, it’s mainly the mentality that’s different.”

  It seemed as though Oreste hadn’t heard her.

  “Apart from in 1917, there’s never again been cold like that,” he reckoned, deep in thought. “But what am I saying!” he added, raising his voice and shaking his head. “It’s not even comparable. In the winter of 1917 it was warm—on the Carso!* You’d have to ask those on sick leave how it was here, those shirkers—whom we all know—” these final words he stressed with a sarcastic tone—“never saw the Front, not even on a postcard.”

  Taking in the unusually brutal dig directed at Andrea Tardozzi, the blacksmith at Massa Fiscaglia who had been let off service because of pleurisy and for that reason hadn’t been sent to war (in 1910 he had moved to Feltre, the Feltre up near the Alps, where he had settled with his family), Maria Mantovani stiffened, offended. And for the rest of that evening, cast out to brood alone in her corner over the innumerable events in her life that might have happened and that didn’t, she spoke not another word.

  As far as the bookbinder was concerned, having established, as he felt impelled to, the proper distance between them, he briskly resumed all the courtesy and gallantry that was his by nature. It was usually on himself and his own past that he dwelled. Till he was twenty, twenty-five, all had gone badly—he sighed—from every point of view. But afterward, work had changed that, his work, his craft, and from then on things turned around completely. “We craftsmen,” he used to say, with no lack of pride, looking Lida straight in the eyes. Never distracted, Lida quietly received his gaze. And he was grateful, one could see it, that she always sat there, on the other side of the table, so silently, so serenely, so attentively, thereby corresponding in her whole aspect to his secret ideal of womanhood.

  The bookbinder often talked on till midnight. Having exhausted his store of personal anecdotes, he began to talk of religion, of history, of the economy and so on, lapsing into frequent, bitter observations—expressed of course in a low tone—about the anti-Catholic politics of the Fascists. During the first period of his visits, without ceasing to listen to him, Lida would use the tip of her toe to rock the cradle in which Ireneo slept until he was four years old. Later, when he had grown a bit and had a little bed of his own (he grew up slight and frail, having contracted a long infectious illness when he was five that, apart from permanently weakening his health, undoubtedly influenced the frailty and lack of conviction of his character), Lida would get up from her chair every now and then and, approaching the child who was asleep, would lean over and place a hand on his forehead.

  4.

  IN THE summer of 1928, Lida had her twenty-fifth birthday.

  One evening, while she and Oreste Benetti sat in their usual places, divided as ever by the table and the lamp, suddenly, very simply, the bookbinder asked her if she would marry him.

  Soberly, without showing the least surprise, Lida stared at him.

  It was as if she were seeing him for the first time. She considered with extraordinary care every detail of his face, his very black, watery eyes, his tall, white forehead topped by an arch of iron-grey hair cut short, like a toothbrush, in the style of certain priests and soldiers, and she was astounded to find herself there, to be taking note of all this only now, so late. He must have been about fifty. At least.

  She was suddenly stricken by a wave of anxiety. Not able to say anything, she turned in search of help toward her mother, who, having risen to her feet, had come to the table and was leaning on it with both her hands. The grimace of impending tears that was already pulling down the corners of her mouth only added to her confusion.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she shouted angrily at her daughter in dialect. “Would you say what’s wrong?”

  Lida rose abruptly to her feet, rushed toward, then up the stairs—she left, slamming the door, and went down the other staircase to the entrance.

  Having finally reached the street, she immediately leaned her back against the wall beside the dark gaping cavity of the wide-open doorway, and looked at the sky.

  It was a magnificent starscape. In the distance a band could be heard. Where were they playing? she asked herself, with a sudden, spasmodic desire to mingle with the crowd, happy, dressed in a pinafore and holding an ice cream in her hand like a young girl without a care in the world. Was the sound coming from San Giorgio, in the clearing
beside the church? Or else from Porta Reno, perhaps the Piazza Travaglio itself?

  But by then her breathing was no longer so labored. And there it was, coming through the walls of old brick against which she rested the whole of her spine, there it was, reaching her, the whispering voice of Oreste Benetti. He was speaking to her mother, now, quietly as though nothing had happened. What was he saying? Who could tell? Whatever the words, his voice, the placid, subdued hum of his voice was enough to persuade her to calm down, to encourage her to go back inside. When she reappeared at the stair landing she was once again mistress of herself, of her thoughts and her gestures.

  Having shut the door, gone down the stairs neither too hurriedly nor too deliberately, taking care not to catch the eyes of either the bookbinder or her mother—during her absence the two of them had remained in their places, he seated at the table, she standing: and there they still were, silent, examining her face with inquisitive gazes. She passed close by the table, sat down again in her place, and almost imperceptibly narrowed her shoulders. And the topic of marriage—for the nearly two hours that their guest still remained—was not broached again, nor was it in the course of the innumerable other evenings that were to follow.

  This doesn’t mean to suggest that Oreste Benetti nurtured any doubt whatsoever about what Lida’s response would sooner or later be. Quite the contrary. For him, from that moment on, it was as though Lida had already consented, as though they were already fiancés.

  This was evident from the different way he treated her: always solicitous and kind, yes, but within, deep down, there was an air of authority which had been lacking before. At this juncture, he alone—it seemed as though he wanted to declare—was in a position to guide her through life.

  In his view, Lida’s character had a serious defect—he was willing to say it openly, in such cases, not hesitating to call on Maria Mantovani as a witness with a sideways glance—which was always to be looking backward, always to be chewing over the past. Why not, for a change, force herself to look a little the other way, toward the future? Pride was a great ugly beast. Like a snake, it slithered in where you least expected it.

  “You need to be reasonable,” he sighed by way of conclusion. “You need to stay calm and keep going forward.”

  Other times, however, in apparent self-contradiction, even if by nods, by hints and carefully veiled insinuations—Lida following the skilful, tireless workings of his mind without ever reacting, as though hypnotized—it was actually he who showed her the picture of her youth: unregulated, anarchic, unaware of the urgent need to achieve a higher maturity, a dignified and tranquil way of life.

  And on this topic, yes, certainly—he also let it be understood—since he loved her, he naturally understood, made excuses for her, forgave everything. His feelings, however, were not so blinded, she should realize, as to stop him remembering (and making her remember) that she had committed a gross error, a mortal sin from which she would only be absolved the day she was married. What on earth had she imagined? Had she perhaps dreamed that a man of her own breed—who, besides, as she was well aware, was almost thirty years older—could think of love outside of marriage, of a Catholic marriage? Marriage was a duty, a mission. The true believer was incapable of conceiving of life, and consequently of the relationship between man and woman, in any other way . . .

  All three of them, however, were in such a state of nervous tension, were so continually on the alert, that it would have needed little indeed to throw the fragile balance of their relations into crisis. After every clash, they remained uneasy, sulky, holding on to their grudges.

  On one occasion, for example, referring to Ireneo, the bookbinder said that truly he wished the baby well: just as if he were his father. Betrayed by the heat of the moment, he had let himself go a shade too far.

  “But just a second, aren’t you Uncle Oreste?” exclaimed Ireneo, who was already seven years old, and had acquired the habit of showing him his homework before he was put to bed.

  “Of course . . . you understand . . . It was only a manner of speaking. What strange things go through your mind!”

  The bookbinder’s confusion suddenly gave Lida a clear sense of her own importance. While, a bit breathlessly, the good man kept on talking to the child, she and her mother exchanged glances and smiled.

  But the moments of silent tension and malice were, all considered, quite rare. To avert them, or leave them behind, presents always played a useful role. Right from the start, Oreste Benetti had always been lavish with those. Although he had made it clear that after the wedding they would all move together to a little villa beyond Porta San Benedetto (for which he was negotiating terms of sale with a building firm, but, despite that, he had promptly had the electric lights installed and the walls whitewashed and had bought various bits of furniture, a cheap cast-iron stove, a picture, some kitchen utensils, a couple of flower vases and so on), it was as if the marriage, about which, it was evident, he never for a moment stopped thinking, were something he hadn’t the slightest intention of rushing. He was in love—he said so with his presents—which were often useless, it was true, and sometimes a bit absurd. If he married her, it was because he loved her. He had never in his life been engaged before, not even once. Neither as a youth nor later as a man had he ever tasted the inebriating pleasure of giving presents to a fiancée. Now that this pleasure was allowed him, he had every right to see that things proceeded slowly, gradually, with a rigorous respect for all the rules.

  He came round every evening at the same time: at nine-thirty on the dot.

  Lida would hear him coming from afar, from as far as the street. And there it was, the vigorous ringing of the bell that announced him, and there were his steady footsteps on the staircase, on the entrance side, and up there, at the level of the landing, his cheerful greeting.

  “Good evening, ladies!”

  He would begin to descend, still humming that air from The Barber of Seville between his teeth, then interrupt himself halfway down the stairs with a polite cough. And suddenly the room would be full of him, of the little man who wore his hair a bit like a soldier, a bit like a priest, and of his heated, brisk and imperious presence.

  His arrival scene was always the same—for years it never changed. Although she could predict it in every particular, each time Lida was overcome by a kind of lulled stupefaction.

  She would let him come forward, without even giving him a nod or getting to her feet.

  But before, how had it been then in those cherished days?

  Oh, at that time, when an equally vigorous ringing signaled that David, wrapped in his hefty blue coat with the fur collar, stamping his feet on the cobblestones out of impatience and the cold, was waiting for her, as agreed, outside the front entrance on the street—he had never wanted to come in, never felt the need to be introduced!—then, on the contrary, she’d had very little time to grab her overcoat from the wardrobe, put it on, shut the wardrobe and bring her face up to the mirror on the wall, furiously dab some powder on and adjust her hair. She was only conceded those few, precious seconds. And yet they were more than enough, as in the large mirror, looking small and shiny, with her hair drawn back behind her head (the light behind her made her seem almost bald), she saw the grey head of her mother appear and disappear, rapid and darting behind her back.

  “What are you gawping at?” she turned to shout at her. “You know what? I’ve had enough—enough of you and this whole life.”

  She went out, slamming the door. David didn’t like to be kept waiting.

  5.

  STILL TREMBLING, grasping his arm, she would let herself be led away.

  Rather than turning right and heading toward the city center, they usually went down Via Salinguerra until they reached the city walls, and then from there, walking at a good pace along the path that topped the walls, they would arrive at Porta Reno in about twenty minutes. It was David’s preference. Since he had made peace with his family—so as to free himself later, h
e said, when he was in a better position to do so, but in the meantime he would graduate, he really needed to graduate!—it was worth their being careful for now, at least to avoid being seen around together. At this point, it was indispensable, he kept on repeating. Given the situation, she herself ought to be convinced that certain “ostentatious displays” ought to be well and truly done with. By “ostentatious displays” he was referring to the earliest period of their relationship, when, throwing down a gauntlet, he was even willing to take her to the Salvini cinema in the evenings, when they would go to sit in the main cafes, including the Borsa, in daylight, and he’d proclaim that he’d already had more than enough of the boring and hypocritical life he’d been leading up till now—university, friends, family and so on. Anyway, wasn’t it much better this way? he would hurriedly add, with a grin. Aren’t hindrances, subterfuges, the best spur and incentive for love? In any case, one fact was for sure: along that path on top of the walls, or, soon after, at the little cinema in Piazza Travaglio where they were heading, no one from his family or “circle” would ever encounter them.

  Regardless of all that, she kept up alongside him in silence, frozen in body and soul.

  And yet, after a little while, almost as soon as she found herself in the crowded, smoky stalls of the Diana, seated next to David with her eyes fixed on the screen, her frayed nerves quickly relaxed. Not seldom the films narrated love stories in which, despite everything, she kept dreaming of herself as the heroine: something that in the final moments induced her not only to look round at David (in the penumbra cut in mid-air by the elongated, blue cone of light which sprang from the projector behind, she could discern his long, thin neck, with his large, protruding Adam’s apple just above the tie-knot, his unhappy profile, always seeming to be drowsy, his brown, brilliantined hair slightly curly at the temples), but also to seek out his hand and grasp it anxiously. And David? Ready as he was to return her look and give an answering squeeze to her hand, he seemed relaxed, even to be in a good mood. But she could never rely on that. After having let her hold his hand for a while, he would sometimes withdraw it brusquely. He would move his whole body away, or else, if he hadn’t already taken off his coat, he would stand up and do so. “It’s so hot in here,” he’d sigh heavily, “you can hardly breathe.”