Angry though he was, Giovanni did not have the courage to approach him. “What did he mean?” he asked the least dense-looking of the laborers. “Ah,” replied the young man, “the usual business! Ah, I’m not saying a word! I don’t want no trouble! I don’t know nothing about nothing!”
“Are you afraid of him?” inquired another of the three, reprovingly. “You’re going to say nothing just because he’s a bad lot? Landslide? I’ll say there’s a landslide!”
And he began to explain the whole thing to Giovanni, who was breathless with excitement at the prospect of hearing all about it at last. That character had two houses for sale, just outside Sant’Elmo but the ground wasn’t safe there and sooner or later the walls would collapse—it would take a lot of hard work and expense to have it put right. Few people knew this, but rumors had spread and now no one wanted to buy. That was why the man was so insistent about scotching talk of landslides.
Did the mystery end here? O melancholy evening in the mountains, among stupid, devious people. It was getting dark and an icy wind was blowing. The men, faint shadows, faded away one by one, cottage doors creaking closed, the three laborers had tired of staring at the car and suddenly vanished.
There was no point in further questioning, Giovanni decided. Everyone would have a different answer, as had been the case until now, they would all take him to different places and it would all be quite fruitless as far as the article was concerned. (Everyone, in fact, has his own landslide—the hillside collapses over your field, your manure heap is crumbling or you come into personal contact with the slow but sure march of the invading scree; but it is never the landslide that matters to Giovanni, the big landslide that would warrant three columns and possibly make his fortune.)
The great silence was broken by the sound of a distant bell, then all was quiet again. Giovanni, who had climbed back into his car, turned on the engine and lights; discouraged, he started on his way back home.
What a wretched business, he thought to himself, and wondered how it had come about. The news of a mere nothing, possibly the landslide on the field of the irascible peasant, had somehow or other reached the city, becoming so exaggerated in the process as to constitute a full-scale tragedy. Such things were not rare, quite the reverse. But this time Giovanni was going to have to pay for it. It wasn’t his fault, admittedly, but he was coming back empty-handed and looking slightly ridiculous. “Unless . . . ,” he smiled, aware of the absurdity of the thought.
The car had now left Sant’Elmo; the road wound steeply down to the dark recess of the valley; not a soul in sight. It moved forward with a slight swish of gravel, the columns of brightness from the headlights searching the darkness and falling every now and again on the opposite wall of the valley, on the sinister crags and dead trees. It moved slowly, as if held back by some final glimmer of hope.
Until the engine was silent, or so it seemed, because behind him Giovanni heard something that might have been his imagination but might also very well not; behind him he heard the initial rumblings of an immense crash which seemed to shake the earth; and his heart was filled with an indescribable excitement strangely similar to joy.
Just the Very Thing They Wanted
IT WAS VERY HOT. AFTER A LONG TRAIN JOURNEY spent standing in the corridor, Antonio and Anna arrived in the big town where they were to spend the night in a state of exhaustion. There were no trains until the following morning.
They went out of the station into the scorching square. The boy held their small case in one hand and supported Anna with the other; she could hardly walk and her feet were swollen with tiredness. It was very hot. They must find a hotel immediately and get some rest.
There were plenty of hotels around the station. And they all looked empty, with their blinds down, no cars parked in front of them, no one visible in the entrance halls. They picked out one which looked reasonably cheap. It was called Hotel Strigoni.
There was no one in the entrance. The place was still and drowsy. Then they saw the porter, slouched in an armchair asleep behind the desk. “Excuse me,” said Antonio without raising his voice. The porter opened an eye effortfully and stood up slowly, becoming suddenly black and very tall.
Before Antonio could say a word, the porter shook his head; he stared at the two of them as one stares at an enemy. He pointed a thumb at the hotel plan on the top of the desk. “Full up,” he announced, “sorry, there’s absolutely nothing.” His extreme boredom implied that he was pronouncing a formula which he had repeated endlessly over the years.
Nor was there any room in the other hotels. Yet the entrance halls were all empty, there was no one coming in or going out, no sound of life from the stairs. Most of the porters were dozing, gloomy and perspiring. They too all pointed to the plan of the hotel to show that there wasn’t even an attic available. And they too stared at the couple suspiciously.
They wandered around the burning streets for an hour, becoming more and more exhausted.
At last, Antonio asked the seventh or eighth porter who said no whether at least they could have a bath. “A bath?” he replied. “If that’s what you’re looking for, why don’t you go the public baths, they’re very near.” He proceeded to give directions.
They set off. Anna’s expression had hardened and she was silent, a sure sign that she was exasperated. They came to a large colored notice at the door of the public
