some nasty sign: the stem of one leaf drooped as if it could no longer support the weight, another leaf was becoming spotted like the cheek of a child with measles, the tip of a third leaf was turning yellow; until, one or the other, plop!, was found on the floor. Meanwhile (what most wrung his heart) the plant's stalk grew taller, taller, no longer making orderly fronds, but naked as a pole, with a clump at the top that made it resemble a palm-tree.
Marcovaldo cleared away the fallen leaves, dusted the healthy ones, poured at the foot of the plant (slowly, so the pot wouldn't spill over and dirty the tiles) half a watering can of water, immediately absorbed by the earth in the pot. And to these simple actions he devoted an attention he gave no other task of his, almost like the compassion felt for the troubles of a relative. And he sighed, whether for the plant or himself: because in that lanky, yellowing bush within the company walls he recognized a companion in misfortune.
The plant (this was how it was called, simply, as if anymore specific name were useless in a setting where it alone had to represent the vegetable kingdom) had become such a part of Marcovaldo's life that it dominated his thoughts at every hour of the day and night. When he examined the gathering clouds in the sky, his gaze now was no longer that of a city-dweller, wondering whether or not he should wear his raincoat, but that of a farmer expecting from day to day the end of a drought. And the moment when he raised his head from his work and saw, against the light, beyond the little window of the warehouse, the curtain of rain that had begun to fall, thick and silent, he would drop everything, run to the plant, take the pot in his arms, and set it outside in the courtyard.
The plant, feeling the water run over its leaves, seemed to expand, to offer the greatest possible surface to the drops, and in its joy it seemed to don its most brilliant green: or at least so Marcovaldo thought, as he lingered to observe it, forgetting to take shelter.
They stayed there in the courtyard, man and plant, facing each other, the man almost feeling plant-sensations under the rain, the plant-no longer accustomed to the open air and to the phenomena of nature-amazed, much like a man who finds himself suddenly drenched from head to foot, his clothes soaked. Marcovaldo, his nose in the air, sniffed the smell of the rain, a smell-for him-already of woods and fields, and he pursued with his mind some vague memories. But among these memories there surfaced, clearer and closer, that of the rheumatic aches that afflicted him every year; and then, hastily, he went back inside.
When working hours were over, the place had to be locked up. Marcovaldo asked the warehouse foreman: 'Can I leave the plant outside there, in the courtyard?'
The foreman, Signor Viligelmo, was the kind of man who avoided burdensome responsibilities: 'Are you crazy? What if somebody steals it? Who'll answer for that?'
But Marcovaldo, seeing how much good the rain did the plant, couldn't bring himself to put it back inside: it would mean wasting that gift of heaven. 'I could keep it until tomorrow morning…' he suggested. 'I'll load it on the rack of my bike and take it home… That way it'll get as much rain as possible.'
Signor Viligelmo thought it over a moment, then concluded: 'Then you're taking the responsibility.' And he gave his consent.
Under the pouring rain, Marcovaldo crossed the city, bent over the handle-bars of his motorbike, bundled up in a rain-proof wind-breaker. Behind him, on the rack, he had tied the pot; and bike, man, and plant seemed a sole thing; indeed the hunched and bundled man disappeared, and you saw only a plant on a bicycle. Every now and then, from beneath his hood, Marcovaldo looked around until he could see a dripping leaf flapping behind him: and every time it seemed to him that the plant had become taller and more leafy.
At home, a garret with its window-sill on the roof, the moment Marcovaldo arrived with the pot in his arms, the children started dancing around it.
'The Christmas tree! The Christmas tree!'
'No, no, what are you talking about? Christmas is a long way off yet!' Marcovaldo protested. 'Watch out for those leaves, they're delicate!'
'We're already like sardines in a can, in this house,' Domitilla grumbled. 'If you bring a tree in, too, we'll have to move out…'
'It's only a plant! I'll put it on the window-sill…'
The shadowy form of the plant on the sill could be seen from the room. Marcovaldo, at supper, didn't look at his plate, but beyond the window-panes.
Ever since they had left the half-basement for the garret, the life of Marcovaldo and family had greatly improved. However, living up under the roof also had its drawbacks: the ceiling, for example, leaked a little. The drops fell in four or five distinct places, at regular intervals; and Marcovaldo put basins under them, or pots. On rainy nights when all of them were in bed, they could hear the tic-toc-tuc of the various drips, which made him shudder as if at a premonition of rheumatism. That night, on the contrary, every time Marcovaldo woke from his restless sleep and pricked up his ears, the tic-toc-tuc seemed cheery music to him: it told him the rain was continuing, mild and steady, and was nourishing the plant, driving the sap up along its delicate stalks, unfolding the leaves like sails. Tomorrow, when I look out, I'll find it has grown! he thought.
But even though he had thought about this, when he opened the window in the morning, he couldn't believe his eyes: the plant now filled half the window, the leaves had at least doubled in number, and no longer drooped under their own weight, but were erect and sharp as swords. He climbed down the steps, with the pot clutched to him, tied it to the rack, and rushed to work.
The rain had stopped, but the weather was still uncertain. Marcovaldo hadn't even climbed out of his seat when a few drops started falling again. 'Since the rain does it so much good, I'll leave it in the courtyard again,' he thought.
In the warehouse, every now and then he went to peek out of the window onto the courtyard. His distraction from work did not please the foreman. 'Well, what's wrong with you this morning? Always looking out of the window.'
'It's growing! Come and see for yourself, Signor Viligelmo!' And Marcovaldo motioned to him, speaking almost in a whisper, as if the plant were not to overhear. 'Look how it's growing! It really has grown, hasn't it?'
'Yes, it's grown quite a bit,' the boss conceded, and for Marcovaldo this was one of those satisfactions that life on the job rarely grants the personnel.
It was Saturday. Work ended at one and they were all off until Monday. Marcovaldo would have liked to take the plant home with him again, but now, since it was no longer raining, he couldn't think of any pretext. The sky, however, was not clear: black cumulus clouds were scattered here and there. He went to the foreman, who, a meteorology enthusiast, kept a barometer hanging over his desk. 'What's the forecast, Signor Viligelmo?'
'Bad, still bad,' he said. 'For that matter, though it's not raining here, it is in the neighborhood where I live. I just telephoned my wife.'
'In that case,' Marcovaldo quickly proposed, 'I'll take the plant on a little trip where it's raining,' and, no sooner said than done, he fixed the pot again on the rack of his bike.
Saturday afternoon and Sunday Marcovaldo spent in this fashion: bouncing on the seat of his motorbike, the plant behind him, he studied the sky, seeking a cloud that seemed in the right mood, then he would race through the streets until he encountered rain. From time to time, turning around, he saw the plant a bit taller: high as the taxis, as the delivery trucks, as the trams! And with broader and broader leaves, from which the rain slid onto his rain-proof hood like a shower.
By now it was a tree on two wheels, speeding through the city, bewildering traffic cops, drivers, pedestrians. And the clouds, at the same time, sped along the paths of the wind, spattering a neighborhood with rain, then abandoning it; and the passers-by, one after another, stuck out their hands and closed their umbrellas; and along streets and avenues and squares, Marcovaldo chased his cloud, bent over his handle-bars, bundled in his hood from which only his nose protruded, his little motor putt-putting along at full tilt, as he kept the plant in the trajectory of the drops, as if the trail of rain that the cloud drew after itself had got caught in the leaves and thus all rushed ahead, drawn by the same power: wind, cloud, rain, plant, wheels.
On Monday Marcovaldo presented himself, emptyhanded, to Signor Viligelmo.
'Where's the plant?' the foreman asked at once.
'Outside. Come.'
'Where?' Viligelmo said. 'I don't see it.'
'It's that one over there. It's grown a bit…' and he pointed to a tree that reached the third floor. It was no longer planted in its old pot but in a kind of barrel, and instead of using his bike Marcovaldo had had to borrow a little motor-truck.
'Now what?' The boss was infuriated. 'How can we get it into the entrance hall? It won't go through the doors
