“‘A bat?’ I asked stupidly, hoping to please my aunt.
“‘Yes,’ she said, smiling rather sadly. ‘Such a sweet little thing!’
“Meanwhile the bat (as I may as well call it) continued its delicate crab-like leaping: it was gradually coming closer to me, swaying languidly, almost flirting. At one of its more determined leaps in my direction I couldn’t control a movement of disgust and drew back.
“‘Oh, dear!’ hummed my aunt mellifluously, as if I’d disappointed her. ‘Now, what harm could it do you?’
“But the bat had noticed my movement and had drawn back itself with a graceful leap, for all the world as though it were offended. It withdrew to the middle of the table, where the collection of glasses, flasks and bottles was thickest, picking its way among them with extraordinary delicacy, without so much as brushing them.
“Not only my aunt but her friends too were smiling in a pleased, hopeful, expectant manner—like a mother whose child is about to recite a much talked-of poem to a guest—and were glancing first at me, then at the bat. Were they expecting me to take it on my lap and stroke it? I was well aware of their ridiculously anxious glances but I didn’t dare return them. Were they somehow in awe, in fear of the hateful little thing? Worried that I might maltreat it? Or did they expect me to join in their abject admiration? By now I was convinced of one thing: the feeling of expectancy I’d noticed on coming into the room was in some way connected with the presence and behavior of the bat. ‘Just look at the sweet thing,’ murmured my aunt, no longer able to contain herself.
“Its webbed feet were at that moment carrying out a series of mysterious maneuvers among the bottles. Incredible though it may seem, I had to admit to myself that it was plainly trying to lift one of the glass stoppers of a Louis XV decanter half-full of a thick raspberry-colored liquid.
“‘Maria,’ said my aunt nervously, nodding with great affection at the efforts of the abominable creature, ‘would you like a glass of Prunella Ballor?’
“Prunella Ballor? I wanted to laugh. Could that revolting concoction really be an expensive liqueur?
“But my aunt didn’t move to pour it for me. She was watching the antics of the bat. I was about to murmur vague thanks when I understood: the creature itself was to pour my drink.
“‘Will you have one, Maria?’ pressed my aunt.
“‘You really must,’ interposed the man with glasses.
“You’d have thought their whole life depended on my answer. They stared at me fixedly, they seemed to be imploring. If only to goodness I would accept, would allow the bat to perform this singular feat, be pleasant to it, not annoy it, they seemed to be saying.
“‘No thank you,’ I answered firmly. ‘Honestly, I never drink anything in the evening.’
“A querulous voice came from the shadows (it must have been the young woman): ‘Come come, don’t feel you have to refuse just out of politeness.’
“‘Please, Maria,’ insisted my aunt. ‘Just a little, one drop.’” She was behaving as though her life was at stake, her voice trembling with emotion.
“What does this absurd pantomime mean, I wondered. To please them, must I bow down to this wretched creature?
“I answered firmly, ‘No thank you, Aunt, I won’t have anything, please don’t press me.’ And without really knowing why, I stood up to go.
“At my words, an inexplicable look of horror appeared on the faces of my aunt and her friends.
“‘Oh, God, what have you done!’ exclaimed my aunt, her eyes wide with fear.
“Meanwhile the bat, turning its little face toward me for the last time, suddenly moved away from the bottles and leapt lightly onto the handle which protruded from the lamp; with a sudden angry movement, perhaps in retaliation to the insult, it gave the lever a push.
“Instead of going upward, as I’d imagined, the lamp swung around on itself and the light suddenly fell.
“At the same time there was a violent series of tremendous explosions and the distant crash of bombs echoed through the whole city, shaking the houses: the air was filled with the roar of a thousand planes.”
And Yet They Are Knocking at Your Door
SIGNORA MARIA GRON ENTERED THE GROUND-FLOOR drawing room with her workbasket. She glanced around to see that everything was exactly as usual, put the workbasket down on a table and went up to a vase of roses, sniffing delicately. The other people in the room were her husband, Stefano, her son, Federico, known as Fedri, both sitting by the fireplace, her daughter, Giorgina, who was reading, and an old friend of the family, Eugenio Martora, who was concentrating on his cigar.
“They’re all fanées, finished,” she murmured to herself, drawing one hand lovingly over the flowers. Several petals fell on the table.
“Mother!” called Giorgina from the armchair where she was sitting reading.
It was already evening, and the great shutters had been bolted as usual. Yet the sound of the heavy endless rain could still be heard. At the back of the room, toward the hall, an impressive red curtain hung from the wide arch that formed the entrance: at that time of day there was so little light that it looked black.
“Mother!” said Giorgina. “You know those two stone dogs at the bottom of the avenue of oaks, in the park?”
“Well, what about them, my dear?” replied her mother, politely uninterested, taking up her basket and sitting down in her usual place near a shaded lamp. “This morning,” the young girl went on, “when I was coming back in the car, I saw them on a peasant’s cart, just near the bridge.”
Giorgina’s slight voice
