At once, with lightning speed, conscious of their social position, two or three saints called on Gancillo and very politely gave him to understand that he had better desist—there was nothing wrong in it, but that kind of miracle, on account of its frivolity, was not approved of in high places. They told him this without a trace of malice, but it is possible that they were disconcerted by this latest arrival who could perform with the greatest ease miracles that cost them a lot of cursed hard work.
St. Gancillo naturally desisted, and down below, the people, attracted by the half-wit’s cries, examined the portrait for a long time without noticing anything out of the ordinary. Whereupon they went away disillusioned and Memo Tancia escaped a beating by the skin of his teeth.
Then Gancillo thought to draw attention to himself by a smaller, more poetical miracle. So he caused a beautiful rose to blossom from the stone of his ancient tomb, which had been restored for the beatification, but which was now once more in a state of neglect. However, fate decreed that he was not to make himself understood. The chaplain of the cemetery, as soon as he noticed it, hurried off to the sexton and gave him a good scolding. “Couldn’t you even tend the grave of St. Gancillo? It’s scandalous, you good-for-nothing, for that’s what you are. I have just walked past and found it covered with weeds.” And the sexton hurried off to dig up the little rosebush.
To make sure, Gancillo then had recourse to one of the more traditional miracles and restored the sight of the first blind man to pass his altar—just like that!
But it didn’t come off, even now. Because no one suspected that this wonder was the work of Gancillo—everyone attributed it to St. Marcolino, whose altar was next to his. Such was their enthusiasm that they took the statue of Marcolino (which weighed at least two hundredweight) and as the church bells rang out bore it in triumphal procession through the streets of their town. And the altar of St. Gancillo remained more neglected and forgotten than ever.
At this point Gancillo said to himself, “I had better resign myself to the fact that no one wants to remember me.” And he sat down at his balcony and looked out at the sea, in which he found great solace.
It was while he was contemplating the waves that he heard someone knocking at his door, ratatat! He went to open it. There stood none other than Marcolino himself, who had come to apologize.
Marcolino was a magnificent specimen of manhood, exuberant and full of high spirits.
“What can one do, my dear Gancillo? It really isn’t my fault. I’ve called, you know, because I wouldn’t like you to think . . .”
“Really?” said Gancillo, greatly comforted by this visit and smiling back.
“You see,” continued Marcolino. “I’m a pretty poor type, yet they pester me from morning to night. You are much more saintly than me, yet everyone ignores you. You must be patient, my brother, with the dogs of this wicked world,” and he gave Gancillo a friendly clap on the shoulder.
“Why don’t you come in? It will soon be dark and it’s beginning to grow cold, we can light the fire and then you shall stay to supper.”
“With pleasure, with the greatest of pleasure,” replied Marcolino.
They went in, cut a little wood and lit the fire with some difficulty because the wood was still damp, but by blowing and blowing a bright flame sprang up at last. Then Gancillo put a pot of water over the fire for the soup, and while waiting for it to boil they both sat on the bench warming their knees and chatting away happily. Then from the chimney there issued a thin column of smoke, and that smoke too was God.
About the Author
DINO BUZZATI was an internationally known Italian novelist, short story writer, and journalist for Corriere della Sera. He is the author of novels including The Tartar Steppe, Larger Than Life and A Love Affair, as well as short story collections including Sixty Tales and The Seven Messengers. Buzzati died in Milan in 1972.
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Also by Dino Buzzati
The Tartar Steppe
The Bears’ Famous Invasion of Sicily
Poem Strip
Copyright
All the stories in this volume translated by Judith Landry and first published in Catastrophe and Other Stories (London: Calder & Boyars Ltd, 1965), except for: “The Scala Scare,” translated by Cynthia Jolly and first published in New Writers 1 (London: John Calder Publishers UK Ltd, 1961); “The Egg,” “The Enchanted Coat” and “The Saints,” translated by E. R. Low and first published in New Writing and Writers 14 (London: John Calder Publishers UK Ltd, 1978).
CATASTROPHE. Copyright © 2018 by Zelda Buffoni. English translation © 1965 by Calder and Boyars Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
English translation © Calder Publications, an imprint of Alma Books Ltd, 1965, 2018.
Cover design by Allison Saltzman
Cover art © Nicole Natri
Originally published in Great Britain in 1965 by Calder and Boyars Ltd.
FIRST ECCO PAPERBACK EDITION
Digital Edition MARCH 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-274274-2
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-274273-5
Version 02232018
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