WHY NOT JUST TELL you the truth? I was starting to feel happy. Maybe Segre’s theories didn’t seem so ridiculous the next day when I could view them with a clear head. Maybe we truly had hit rock-bottom. When you find yourself staring at unavoidable disaster, at the “point of no return,” the idea of escaping it feels like the perfect medicine. And here my hide was at stake! So I won’t get into detail about my preparations for departure, my resignation letter to the boss, the send-offs and best wishes from my colleagues, nor the process of booking a seat on the plane for that weekend—destination: Venice. I’ll only emphasize one detail, my purchase of a new recorder. I posted a letter by express to Ballarin telling him about my arrival and (with him firm in my mind) about the instrument, which to me now held a symbolic meaning: my honest intention to draw closer again to that “largesse of spirit” from which, perhaps mistakenly, I felt rejected. The Twenty Days could go to hell, and my research with them! What I needed now was inner peace!
I now had very little time left to pay my farewells to Turin, and I spent it by traipsing far and wide across the city, in a manner almost caressing it. There was no longer any reason to fear my enemies, who by this stage were surely well updated on my plans . . . When someone’s already in a scramble to “get out of the game,” why waste effort making sure his lips stay sealed? Yes, indeed, I spotted a few of them around, patrolling the streets with their dark suits, their notepads for jotting observations, their walkie-talkies. It hardly took much insight to know that a new “hidden power” was preparing itself, that the Library was getting back on its feet vigorously enough, albeit in new shapes and guises. The insomnia made its comeback, save that the victims were no longer being seized as clubs by unmentionable entities battling among themselves. Now they were left to waste away until they dried out completely, and then—who knew?—
perhaps someone saw to making them disappear, like abductees, removed from sight.
I wanted to spend my remaining time in the outer neighborhoods. Mayor Bonfante and his council were hard at work: I found greenery zones where years before there had only been concrete and asphalt . . . quite a few women’s clinics . . . The Rest Home for the Aging Poor no longer seemed like the waiting room for a cemetery; now it was an oasis of bliss where I wouldn’t have scorned to spend my last days . . . And there were so many kindergartens!
One evening, after dinner, I paid a visit to the neighborhood of Pietra Alta. I’d always been impressed, whenever I’d driven along Corso Giulio Cesare to reach the expressway, by the presence, to my left, of a church shaped like the prow of a ship: a fairly modern red-brick building with a grayish front entrance. A strange temple this was, built—following an image in the Gospel of Matthew—to symbolize the unshakable voyage of the Church through the centuries. Before I left, I wanted to finally see that neighborhood up close. I came there shortly after ten o’clock, on the eve of my departure. I found the atmosphere a little disheartening . . . Maybe it was because of the church, which was much taller than I’d imagined; it looked more like an icebreaker than a cruise ship: an icebreaker of which nothing remained but the bow, yet so immense that its circumference outdid all of its counterparts in the Atlantic. And the neighborhood mood was tense. Even in a large courtyard where some youths were having a volleyball match, there was no playfulness. The yard lay at one side of the church, below the level of the road, isolated by a high chain-link fence. THE KIDS’ REPUBLIC, one read on a banner.
It occurred to me that I was the only person watching the game. Everyone else threw shifty glances at the players, not siding with either team on the field, and dragged themselves along the sidewalk, their faces sad and worried. It seemed less like a sporting event and more like an occupation of territory. In fact, those kids wearing dark tights (there were girls as well), all with well-brushed short hair, were utterly silent except for the thudding of their hands against the ball. They didn’t seem to care which way the match went; it was as if they were in the courtyard purely to send the message: Look out, we’re here!
I asked a passerby what the name of the church was, and he told me it was called Our Lady of the Straight-and-Narrow Path. I went into a bar to have a coffee, then proceeded on to the neighborhood streets. I was fascinated by the effect the church gave when seen from the front; I paused in Via Cavagnolo, directly opposite the ship’s prow. In the semidarkness, with a row of dilapidated houses looming behind it, half submerged in an automobile graveyard that stretched as far as the eye could see, it gave a menacing impression. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a siren wail at any moment. In between the carcasses of vehicles, I saw human shadows loom up—bent figures, who must’ve been staying up late to dig for something among the metallic junk. And I knew too well what they were hunting for! Appropriately, I pretended not to see them.
The view was less distressing on the other side of the street: the houses were taller, the walls better preserved. I saw a factory for hair-dryer helmets, a shop selling plastic wares, a stationery shop and, what especially drew my attention, a little door standing open with the inside illuminated and a theater bill stuck to one of its panels—a very discreet notice. A sign was written above the door, in deliberately childish letters: PUPPET THEATER. The wall of the building that served as the theater had insulting graffiti smeared all over it in black paint. I went to the box office, and though the show had started long ago, I bought a ticket and headed inside. The little room was completely packed with regular people and lots of children. Theirs was a very different mood from what I’d seen on the street. They burst into laughter and applause, while on the tiny stage, two marionettes operated by wires—one representing a nineteenth-century general, the other a magisterial gentleman who could’ve been a minister in the Sardinian Parliament—were striking each other furiously with two huge clubs. It was the final scene, a duel to the death in the spirit of Carolingian-cycle heroics, its outcome still uncertain. Astonished, I saw that the “clubs” were two stiff wooden puppets. The general’s name was Ettore de Sonnaz—the “Capataz”—while his opponent was Count Frederico Sclopis of Salerano—the “Mighty Saleran.” They were clashing in the middle of a square, which I recognized as one of the squares in Turin. Each was struggling to get on the pedestal occupied by his opponent—that is, to switch places—but for all their efforts to beat each other into a pulp, neither of them was any closer to his goal. It was a very comical duel, worthy of the laughter I saw around me, and soon enough I joined in. Surrounding the duelists were other puppets, dressed as ordinary citizens, which they reached for, one at a time, to use as weapons. The spectators took sides in an impromptu chorus, with mock-heroic enthusiasm for this or that contender, and you could hear them shouting: “Sock ’im, Capataz!—Woo, that’s the stuff, Saleran!” . . .
The title of the entertainment was: The Twenty Days of Turin.
I felt a sort of liberation realizing the methods this part of the neighborhood had found to express the “truth” of those lethal events. And they weren’t just “alluding” to it, either. There was, you could say, a “visible respect” for the nitty-gritty.
The COUNT and ETORRE drew arms, and they meant it!
Not a soul in the Piazza was safe from their blitz.
The two perpetrators came out undented,
But the weapon of each bashed its partner to bits.
And then:
Across the square the GENERAL now took flight;
The COUNT behind him roared into the night!
This was a tense moment for the audience because it seemed the Count of Salerano was going to take the pedestal from the hated General and “at last have Via Juvarra to command.” But the retreat was only a ruse, and “the stalemate rattled on, fresh pawns in hand.” All very satisfying . . . Good show! It would’ve been, if only, right then, the floor hadn’t started creaking: a gravelly, vindictive noise, which grew louder and louder. The puppeteer cut off in the middle of a verse as the stage lights blacked out. There came another sound, of breaking glass, and the theater was plunged into darkness . . . “Earthquake!” I heard someone shout as people pushed and shoved to escape the room. I was thrown to the floor, then straightened up and ran away too . . . Via Cavagnolo was filled with panic. Everyone was running down the street. There was a second tremor, more powerful but shorter-lasting, which seemed to affect mainly the car bodies piled up and the nearby houses . . . A very selective earthquake, it dawned on me . . .
In the side streets, in fact, the situation seemed different. One of these, Via Ivrea, gave no signs of agitation at all; all I saw were sportive young men wearing tights, standing in a neat line, each holding a walkie-talkie against his mouth and watching the scene of terror from below without any distress . . . The prow of the church remained in front of me, immense and shadowy . . . Then, little by little, everything calmed down. The tremors didn’t repeat themselves; people started heading back into their homes, and at last even the sportive youngsters crept away from the scene. The show, however, didn’t resume.
During the night I dreamed that a huge icebreaker had devastated the entire neighborhood.
The next morning, I arrived at Turin-Caselle Airport with a feeling of relief. I’d almost done it now. I just had to wait, in good trim, for the arrival of the shuttle bus that would carry me and the other passengers to the DC-10 standing on the runway. Men in orange jumpsuits were still fiddling around with the plane. Once I’d checked in my baggage and filled in my boarding card, two security officers determined that the case for my recorder (which I wanted to take on board with me) had no concealed weapons inside: the sight of my harmless instrument brought a smile to their faces. I still had a quarter of an hour before departure . . .
But what a horrible night it had been! It wasn’t just my dream about Our Lady of the Straight-and-Narrow Path bulldozing houses and burying their tenants under rubble . . . (Its catastrophic work complete, the church shaped like the prow of a ship went back to its proper place, fully intact, only its prow was no longer a prow, but two giant hands folded blamelessly in prayer . . .) No, the nightmare wasn’t the last of it . . . I was woken with a start, yet again, by another loud blow against the main door. This time, however, the entrance gave way. As I sat on the bed, my face pouring with sweat, I heard slow, lumbering footsteps climb the staircase and halt in front of my bedroom door. I thought of dialing the emergency line so they’d dispatch a police car right away, but memories of my last encounter with Segre deterred me from trying it . . . What would I tell them over the phone? Could I even trust the cops? Maybe an ambulance would arrive the next day to take me to the loony bin . . . Then goodbye, Venice! Better to end my life like Giuffrida, strangled by two merciless fingers . . . At worst, if that creature tried to break down my door and enter by force, I could dive out the window . . . Toward one o’clock, thankfully, it went away—stomp! stomp!—down the stairs, with more stomping out on the sidewalk and onto the road toward Gran Madre di Dio. As soon as the stomping faded away, I knew that I’d have nothing more to fear that night. That had to have been the last warning, all to make sure I had no second thoughts about leaving the city.
The shuttle bus came at last. As I climbed the ramp stairs into the plane, I noticed that a little crowd had turned up on the tarmac. How they’d gotten the extraordinary permission to do this, I didn’t know. The people in the crowd waved with gusto at the passengers beside me, but nobody waved back. I looked at the gathering (. . . friends? . . . colleagues?) and saw that I was one of the passengers they were saluting. A blue foulard scarf was flapping in the wind just for me! And what a surprise when I realized the person waving it was Bergesio’s sister! Two youngsters in navy blue suits, their faces already familiar, dealt me some kind of military salute with their wrists bent at right angles to their foreheads. And then, nestled a bit deeper among the others, I saw a figure in white with a sweet smile; she greeted me by fluttering her hand, almost like she was seeing off a lover . . . It was Sister Clotilde.
I didn’t like this mise en scène one bit. I stepped inside the aircraft without responding to their compliments.
A female voice wished us a safe and happy journey on behalf of the captain and his crew; we were scheduled to land in Venice within roughly half an hour. Soon after that, the plane took off. I realized that there were no stewardesses moving through the aisles; nobody was going past to hand out the scented towelettes. The cockpit was closed off. The “safe and happy journey” announcement had been a recording. I’d never enjoyed air travel, and the neglect for the passengers shown by the aircrew had left me a little uneasy. Even so, the amount of anxiety my economy-class companions were displaying seemed excessive to me. They avoided speaking to each other or even looking at their fellow travelers. Instead, they clung to the armrests of their seats, keeping their mouths firmly shut or biting their lower lips. Not one of them had a newspaper open. If any of these people knew each other—by blood, by friendship, by marriage—then I should’ve seen at least a few of them holding hands: some glimpse of mutual consolation. But even a young couple, who could’ve been on their honeymoon, did nothing to ease one another’s anxiety. Everybody kept to themselves, sitting alone in their fears. Yet the plane was flying quickly and evenly over a bank of clouds; the muffled whine of the engines was unbroken by turbulence; the regularity of the voyage couldn’t have given rise to such dread. The aircraft tilted slightly on my side to correct its course, then returned immediately to its level position.
A shame the clouds prevented me from enjoying the scenery below. In the absence of any other diversions (I hadn’t bought a newspaper) I gave myself over to drowsiness: well justified, considering how I’d spent the night. I fell into a deep sleep, free of dreams.
When I reopened my eyes, I saw that the plane was still in the air; it hadn’t begun the landing preparations . . . I found this strange because I had a feeling I’d been sleeping for quite a while. I looked through the window and saw the sea below me, then another cloud bank, a rather large one, and then a flat, sandy landscape with no signs of habitation. The passengers didn’t seem astonished by what was happening and carried on staring into space. Their eyes were a bit goggly, but I would say it was less a look of fear than of capitulation. I tried asking my neighbor for an explanation, but he shrugged without saying a word. Now the plane was descending. Certainly the overhead signs were lighting up: FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELT—NO SMOKING . . . But did anyone fasten their belt? Was anyone smoking? Indeed, if I remembered properly, nobody had bothered with these precautions even during takeoff; I was the only one who’d observed them . . . As the plane’s altitude dropped, the sandy expanse revealed itself to be a desert of bumpy dunes. I thought we were making an emergency landing and assumed the fetal position in my seat; but since the other passengers kept leaning against their backrests, and since I didn’t want to be the only one crouching at that moment—or make my fear obvious—I went back to peering out the window. I could clearly see an airstrip now, and on it, the outline of another plane. A group of people huddled together beside the aircraft, and standing apart from them, in wondrous solitude, was an unmoving figure of exceptional height.
About twenty meters away from it there stood a second statue, equally motionless.
The plane landed and came to rest at the far edge of the runway—the extreme opposite of where the other DC-10 was settled. The usual voice recording invited us to disembark. When my feet touched the ground, I was stricken by a dreadful heat wave: there wasn’t a puff of cool air in this desert! Without being ordered by anyone, my fellow travelers arranged themselves in pairs, and with an unsteady, shuffling gait, like a bunch of slaves on a chain, they set off in the same direction . . . I lined up with them too, no longer oppressed by the heat, but by a sense of inevitability that prevented me from breaking away from the “straight-and-narrow path” . . . I held my recorder in my hands and remembered the smiles of the security officers at Caselle Airport. There were no airports here! The only building was a wooden shack where some uniformed men sat under a canopy with their legs crossed, watching the scene impartially . . . Just as we arrived some few meters away from a being wearing a gray mantle, who stood with his back turned to us on a pedestal, the air became charged with a frightening tension . . . A dark force was draining me from within . . . The other giant figure stood twenty paces away; he went and plucked someone out from the group beside him, grabbed him by the hocks and, spinning the human like a club, he let out a terrible scream . . . His rival turned toward us. I saw his senile face, the face of a biblical prophet, his hair and long beard corroded by a pervasive blight. He stared through eyes devoid of pupils as if scanning the abysses of the past . . . Out of instinct, I put my recorder against my lips, and for what little I knew, I began to play it. From the depths of blackest despair, perhaps I’d manage to dig out a sound capable of soothing these powers. I was clutching at my last straw.
The Prophet was drawing near. Very shortly, the duel would commence . . .
—October 1976