The Twenty Days of Turin Page 10
The foreign press, however, remained puzzled in the wake of the arrest and the political motivations that were pinned to the crimes. It didn’t match the descriptions of the killings, however woolly, given by tourists who had passed through Turin. One could agree on the gigantism of the murderers (though not in every case: some killers were of almost normal stature). Yet their rage didn’t seem to revolve solely around human beings. No, they didn’t just grab passersby and throw them on the pavement or against trunks. After they’d slaughtered a few citizens in that fashion, they seized others, choosing them with care out of the crowd. Having accomplished what seemed like a selection process, they used them as human cudgels to bash one another. That’s right! And they weren’t dressed in tatty clothes like Mr. Mangiaferri. Some tourists swore that they’d seen them in sweeping, low-hanging cloaks—full of flouncy pleats—which opened at the front, revealing torsos enclosed by narrow blousons with long rows of buttons. Their breeches often clung tight to their legs. The expressions on their faces were nearly always serious and pensive, even in the heat of combat, which saw the “duelists”—such we’ll call them—begin by moving close to each other, taking their time to square off properly. Once the distance between them had narrowed to one short step, they raised their human clubs and bludgeoned one another, quietly but furiously. Yet why they did it, no one really understood . . .
In the face of such feverish accusations, our own press reacted with unanimous outrage. Our delegates to the European Parliament threatened to quit if this foreign smear campaign against a city rich with glorious traditions wasn’t stopped at once. And when the insinuations continued—as, indeed, did the killings—our threats took a more concrete form. The most alarming example of which was our determination not to repay huge debts to the International Monetary Fund.
Now the overseas papers became newly cautious. In a gambit that carried a strong flavor of reconciliation, the famous psychoanalyst Jean Lescaut expounded a theory within the pages of Le Monde that might have appeared to form a sensible compromise. The insomnia of the Turinese—whose causes, nonetheless, he could just barely understand himself—had brought citizens to the extreme limits of bearable psychic tension. When those limits were crossed, that tension exploded like a stick of gelignite; human antagonisms were magnified a hundredfold, and this could enable forms of aggression that were unthinkable in a normal situation. Such cruelty would fall on the first passerby who came to hand, and who in turn could very well be an aggressor. This also explained the code of silence that shut the lips of witnesses: Who would have the nerve to testify against his neighbor, when the following night, or the night after that, he too might behave exactly like him? The outpourings of grief inside Galleria Subalpina were a way to exorcise the sense of guilt that each citizen harbored deep within.
This explanation served to calm the waters. Our relations with other European countries went back, in a manner of speaking, to normal. As for Lescaut’s theory of psychic tension, it wasn’t held in high regard by the investigators: it lacked an ideological motive, and if studied with care, it ultimately suggested an underlying grievance that compelled and affected all citizens without discrimination. As a consequence, it was found preferable to keep Mangiaferri behind bars and track down any individuals near him who may have been accomplices. Notwithstanding the protests of certain radical groups, the law never came around to prosecuting the people who found themselves in jail. After four years locked up, Mangiaferri and others like him were freed when their terms of remand in custody expired. But the Twenty Days of Turin—which ended on July the twenty-second as suddenly as they had begun—were a distant event by now, an event that no one wished to recall.
IX.
THE MESSAGES
I COULD NO LONGER SHAKE the feeling that I was under scrutiny, not since the night of my encounter with Sister Clotilde. There was the issue of the mute phone calls: I was getting at least two of them a day now. And the car that had followed me as I drove back from Giuffrida’s house: a red Simca with two people inside. (I failed to get a good look at their sexes.) They could’ve overtaken me very easily if they’d had the mind to (I was hardly cruising in a muscle car like theirs) but instead they chose to tailgate me with a determination I wasn’t at all enjoying. As I got home and parked by the main door, I noticed the Simca had stopped at the Gran Madre di Dio Church. It lingered there as long as I gave no move of letting myself into the hallway. At that point, it took off abruptly: a squeal of tires, and it sped away toward Piazza Vittorio! I had other suspicions as well, but ones too fuzzy to describe.
Instead, I’ll touch on a new situation I got entangled in as I got home one day, after spending some time on my research at the public library. In the gap under the door I found a letter addressed to me. The sender’s name wasn’t given; if I wanted to reply to the message, I would have to go to an unused postal box in the area around Dora Station and deposit my response there. Now I’ll give you the gist of what the letter said:
Dear Sir,
For a long time now—months, perhaps even years, I hardly know!—I have been writing one letter every day to one person picked at random from an old telephone directory. Nobody has ever written back to me, but this hasn’t stopped me from trying. I don’t know how to explain this resistance to starting a dialogue: maybe someone doesn’t think I have a style that’s quite ornate enough, or they imagine I want to sneak into their life uninvited, to rub the ointment of my soul all over their trousers, so to speak. This is absolutely untrue! Besides, it isn’t like I’m asking anything from anyone; I’ve been an insurance agent since I was a young man and I can support myself. But enough of this preliminary talk; let’s get to the point: making a reciprocal acquaintance, starting a dialogue, which of course will need your reply in case you DO consider it . . . To start off with, I used to have a dog . . . But maybe hearing about my dog isn’t something you’d be at all interested in, in which event I’ll tell you about myself. I’m the most charming fellow you could meet in person; I’m smallish, perhaps, but not unsightly. I lead a modest but dignified existence, just like anyone else. One evening after another, I climb up to my little apartment, and sometimes it’s quite an effort because I live on the eighth floor and there’s no longer a staircase or an elevator—not since a little while ago. During the climb, as I cling to any handhold I can find, I can hear the pelting of garbage coming from above mixed with the voices of annoyed tenants, but I never hear anything besides that. Once I’ve managed to reach the top, I attentively read an old newspaper which I found one day in the rubbish heap. After the reading, which entertains me more and more each time, I take care to put the paper back in its place and I suck for five minutes on my maraschino cherries . . . At the stroke of midnight I return them almost intact in their glass jar where every day I see the level of saliva has risen a little higher than its previous position . . . I don’t deny, Dear Sir, that now and then I’d like some companion to bear witness to my joy. There’s the dog—that much is true—but that’s a matter I’m not authorized to discuss, at least not until I get your kind permission . . . Do I have it, Sir? Can we count on such a thing? I hope I have told you with the utmost candidness all that a man can say, without failing in the restraint which would be only appropriate for a relationship in letters with a stranger. As I await your answer, which may well be the start of an exchange of mutually interesting views, you have my most distinguished compliments. Please deposit any possible replies in . . . [His instructions followed.]
Yours Most Truly,
At first it was easy to think this was a joke by a friend. But the surety that there was no one in my circle of colleagues who’d be inclined to such dark humor left me with a hunch that the business wasn’t frivolous. The letter had a roundaboutness that came a bit too naturally. Even the place it indicated where I was supposed to deliver my answer was in keeping with its contents. Whoever it was who’d appeared anonymously to slide the letter under my door, I didn’t think the other occupants
of the building had any hand in it. And indeed I knew all of them: quiet unobtrusive people, lacking all irony, comfortable in their sturdy family attachments. Yes, sirree! The only one who had what we might call a “personal motive” for behaving in that way, was me! But come now! Surely I was still some way away from developing a split personality! In any case, I put the letter aside, promising to get back to it later with a cooler head. The day’s surprise had taken away my appetite. I left off the preparations for my solitary dinner to a later hour. What’s more, I’d come down with a headache; and what better cure for that than a nice walk around the neighborhood? It was a peaceful night; a spring breeze was rolling through that made the perfect painkiller for my aching cranium. I took a few deep breaths (expanding my abdomen, as the yogis teach, in order for oxygen to reach the base of the lungs). It was around half-past eight: an hour when the city crowds start thinning out of deference to household rites, and the bars enjoy a few moments of respite waiting for an invasion of patrons who won’t arrive a minute before nine. This was the upper limit of silence that I could hope to get if I wanted the pain that was crushing my head to loosen its grip.
I gazed at the sky and noticed that the moon was waning. A neon sign on the other side of the street was faulty. On my own side, there were three cars parked in single file along the sidewalk, all with the same make, color and model; even their license plates had certain numbers in common. It seemed to me that there were fewer pedestrians around than usual. On my right side—I still hadn’t set off toward the bridge crossing the Po as I’d intended to do—two young men with neat blond hair, wearing dark suits and purple ties, were talking to each other. Now and then they shot me sideward glances. They looked like a pair of Mormons; I’d seen similar types canvassing for their sect in front of Porta Nuova Station—their cheeks rosy, their necks eternally clean-shaven.
As soon as they saw me staring at them, they bolted, vanishing behind the nearest corner. Among the cars that were parked across the street, I noticed a red Simca, which for some reason I came to associate with the youngsters. There was no evidence to suggest that they were harboring any particular designs: until a short time later, when I saw them reemerging to my left—having, it seems, just skirted around the block—and making for the Gran Madre di Dio Church. They stopped under the main steps and gawked at the stone statues for some time. I wondered if they might’ve had something to do with the Millenarists. I recalled, however, that the Millenarists tended to dress on the casual side and their attitude was fairly laid-back. But these young men had a severity about them that left you anxious. That, I could tell you very well, because, seeing that they weren’t moving from their position, but rather stood there nailed to the spot in front of one of the neoclassical statues that kept guard over the steps, I carefully brought myself closer to snoop at what they were doing. One of them was holding a walkie-talkie and whispering something I couldn’t catch. Both of them glared at the statue with tenacity, almost as if they were expecting a response. Even I joined them in staring at it from my hiding place: I wouldn’t have been shocked if the sculpture suddenly gave an approving nod. But since—to my huge relief—nothing happened, I left them and got back to my stroll.
I spent half an hour wandering through the arcades of Via Po, pausing to look at shop windows. On the way back, I noticed that the two youngsters were gone, and there was no more of the Simca either. So there was something to my suspicions after all! I couldn’t rule out a relationship between these two characters and the car that had followed me down the hill. I went to take another look at the statue. While I was studying its Olympic indifference, I glimpsed, through the corner of my eye, a white figure at the top of the steps. I sprang around. The church’s entrance had one door wide open, and, against the darkness within, what I saw was almost wraithlike. She was gazing at me forcefully with her arms crossed over her chest, and in her eyes there was an inquisitorial determination . . . “Sister Clotilde!” I stammered. I fully expected she would come to meet me and rebuke me for not obeying her and her sisters’ exhortations . . . The distance between us didn’t allow me to take in the expression on her face and my imagination began to play tricks: now it seemed deadly serious; a moment later I swore she was laughing. Was her white habit moving in the breeze, or were the folds as stiff as marble?
I couldn’t bear the ambiguous sight any longer. I started hiking up the great steps, but my feet didn’t get very far before she turned away and disappeared into the church. The door closed gently, without a sound.
There was nothing I wanted now except to flee the scene, get safely home and bolt the door. I switched the radio on at full blast; then I prepared my dinner with unusual diligence; I even consulted a recipe book I’d inherited from my mother. After I’d eaten and turned the volume down, I sat at my desk and reread the anonymous letter. Well, I had to do something to keep my mind busy! I couldn’t count the recorder among my personal belongings anymore, having roundly destroyed it. So I tried jotting down a few sentences. I can’t remember what I wrote, just that I slipped the letter in an envelope; the following day—it hurts me to admit this—I went and deposited it near Dora Station, exactly as my pen pal had asked.
One afternoon, coming home from the office, I found a second letter under my door:
Dear Sir,
I have received your letter which is, overall, most interesting. In fact, I had to carry it in my mouth so my hands could remain free, since my building’s Administration still hasn’t provided a more reasonable way to climb back up into my apartment . . . But all things considered, there’s no harm in a bit of exercise—especially with the atmosphere these days, oh, the atmosphere! You’ll excuse me, Dear Sir, if I respond to you without having read the whole of your letter yet, but a thorough reading isn’t something one can do on the spot. On the other hand, maybe this isn’t actually true: maybe I read it, but for some reason it said nothing to me (for instance, the lighting is totally inadequate within these premises) . . . But now we’re talking about something else. I would like to provide you, Dear Sir, with an image of the tenement I live in. My building is a very high cylindrical tower. A long time ago, the stairwell was demolished. The Administration at the top floor has issued a memorandum in which it explained the reasons for this decision, but that’s not the most important thing. (When there’s a wall, there’s a way! A way to climb it, I mean.) What leaves me baffled is that the Administration has begun to use the stairwell shaft as a garbage dump. At first I didn’t take much notice: it was old furniture, books, papers, kitchen scraps. But later, the nature of the waste started to become—how to put this?—somewhat more challenging and personal. One would find—if you’ll permit me the term—human excrement, which fell from above in ever increasing amounts. Over several years, the level has risen to the point that it now reaches the first floor of units, where mercifully only the working families live. And all of this has happened without a word of explanation! More than that, the fear of even stricter sanctions is so great that the other tenants are silent, as if being covered in s*** by the powers of the gerontocracy (up above, they’re all old) was perfectly normal. Now, Dear Sir, I ask you . . . Does all of that seem reasonable? Does it seem fair? I’m sure you’ll answer me . . . And so then, Distinguished Sir, as I await your letter, which will be one of the most cherished gifts I could ever hope to receive, you have my very best wishes,
Yours Most Truly,
The fact that I’d succumbed to the temptation of replying to this stranger left me feeling a profound despair. I didn’t know how to match this failure of mine to any desire aside from a wish to alleviate the endless grind of my research. It was as if I’d been working to flush out an enemy and getting into bed with him at the same time. Of course, every day I was going to either the Civic or the National Library, and on each occasion I’d make some little discovery. One Saturday morning, I went to a barbershop in Piazza Lagrange (Eligio’s, for those who don’t know the place), not so much to get a shave, but to c
hat with the owner a bit. I imagined that he possibly had some useful information to share. He’d been running his shop in the piazza for twenty years and he must’ve seen a few things around that area!
As Eligio got ready to give my head the scissor treatment, I opened the latest issue of Tuttosport; I thought I could use it to start up a conversation, and indeed it wasn’t long before the subject of football had helped break the ice between us. It was easy enough to gather which team he supported, and I didn’t fail to make it known that it was my team too. I left it up to him to go into the details about this or that player’s style on the field, and, showing that I always agreed with him, just as his harshest critic died down, I told Eligio that he could count himself a lucky man. Not only would his team win the championship this year, but he also had the satisfaction of working in one of the loveliest little squares in Turin. I didn’t know what I would’ve given to be in his place! I described how squalid the street was where I worked at my day job, and how dull my white-collar duties were—certainly not worth the effort of a university degree! Eligio said I was utterly right. His parents had wanted to send him off to university but he held his own: he’d be a barber or he’d be nothing! In that, he’d succeeded, and now he was more than pleased with himself.
“This square . . .” I began casually. “At one time it used to be called ‘Piazza Paleocapa’? Wasn’t that the name?”
Eligio pretended he hadn’t heard me.
“I’m asking because I came by here once—it must’ve been quite a while ago—and it seemed to me that on that pedestal there was a monument to Pietro Paleocapa—you know, the engineer and government minister—not to Lagrange.”