There followed the most terrifying crash, as if hundreds of Liberators had released their bombs simultaneously. The ground shook, and a great cloud of yellowish dust immediately rose to hide the immense tomb.
The next thing I remember is that I was on my way home, in a desperate attempt to escape from that wretched place; the news had spread with astonishing rapidity, and the gathering crowds stared at me in horror, perhaps because my clothes were thick with dust. But most memorable of all were the horrified, the pitying glances of my brother-in-law and his children. In silence they stared at me as one might stare at a condemned man (or was this all my imagination?).
When I reached home and when it became known what I had seen, no one was surprised at my state; nor did it seem unnatural that I should shut myself in my room for several days, refusing to talk to anyone or even to read the papers (I did catch sight of one, against my will, which my brother-in-law was holding when he came to see how I was; on the front page there was a huge photograph showing an endless stream of black trucks).
Had I been the cause of that massacre? Had the snapping of that iron spike, by some monstrous pileup of cause and effect, actually precipitated the collapse of that hulk of a fortress? Or perhaps the original builders themselves, with diabolical cunning, had organized a secret play of balance so that one needed only to remove that one insignificant spike in order to send the whole structure hurtling to the ground? But my brother-in-law, his children, Scavezzi—had they noticed what I’d done? And if they hadn’t, why from then on did Giuseppe seem to try to avoid meeting me? Or was it myself who, for fear I’d give myself away, unconsciously tried to avoid him?
And, conversely, isn’t it rather worrying that Scavezzi is so insistent on seeing so much of me? He’s not very well off financially, but since that day he must have ordered a dozen suits from me. When he comes for a fitting he always has his unctuous little smile and he never takes his eyes off me. Furthermore he is maddeningly pedantic about the whole thing: a crease here, an ill-fitting shoulder there; or the buttons on the sleeves, the width of the lapels, there’s always some alteration. He has six or seven fittings for each suit. And every so often he says, “Do you remember that day?”
“What day?” I ask.
“That day at the Baliverna, of course.” He seems to wink, slyly.
“How could I ever forget?” I reply.
He shakes his head: “Ah, quite . . . how could you?”
Naturally I give him exceptional discounts, indeed I am resigned to making a loss on the whole business. But he pretends not to notice. “Oh, yes,” he says, “you’re not cheap by any means, but I admit it’s worth it.” Honestly, is he a complete idiot or does he enjoy this mean variety of blackmail?
Yes, he certainly could have seen me break that fatal iron spike. Perhaps he knows it all, he could report me, unleash the hatred of the whole town upon me. But he’s treacherous and says nothing. He comes and orders a new suit, stares at me, enjoys coming up on me when I least expect it. He is the cat and I the mouse, and I suppose finally he’ll pounce. He’s waiting for the inquiry, preparing his dramatic denunciation. At the crucial moment he’ll rise to his feet: “I alone know who caused the collapse of the Baliverna,” he’ll shout, “I saw it with my own eyes.”
Today he came to order a flannel suit, more honey-tongued than ever. “Well, this is almost it!”
“What do you mean, it?”
“The inquiry, of course. The whole town’s talking about it. You seem to live in another world!”
“Do you mean the Baliverna?”
“Precisely, the Baliverna . . . I wonder whether they’ll find who was really responsible?”
He bade me an elaborately ceremonious goodbye and away he went. I went with him to the door and waited till he had gone down one flight of stairs before closing it. Silence; but I am terrified.
Catastrophe
THE TRAIN HAD GONE ONLY A FEW MILES (AND IT WAS a long journey, we were to arrive at our distant destination after a nonstop run of ten hours) when I looked out of a window at a railroad crossing and saw a young woman. It was sheer chance, I could have looked at a hundred other things but my eyes happened to light on her, though neither her face nor her figure were particularly attractive; in fact there was nothing extraordinary about her at all, I can’t imagine why I looked at her. She was obviously leaning on the gates to gaze at our train, which was a very fast one, the northern express and the symbol, for the inhabitants of those uncivilized parts, of immense riches; the easy life, magnificent leather cases, of adventurers, celebrities, film stars; a wonderful daily spectacle, and absolutely free to boot.
But as the train passed her she didn’t even look in our direction (and yet she might have been waiting there for as much as an hour) but turned her head to listen to a man who had come rushing up the lane and was shouting something which we, of course, couldn’t hear: he seemed to be warning the woman of some imminent danger. This all took place
