Between *** and SanDavide were five or six kilometers of uphill curves. This road wastaken, on Sunday afternoons, by the retired men; they would walk,playing bowls as they walked, take a rest, have some wine, play asecond game, and so on until they reached the sanctuary at thetop.
A few uphill kilometersare nothing for men who play bowls, and perhaps it's nothing tocover them in formation, rifle on your shoulder, eyes staringstraight ahead, lungs inhaling the cool spring air. But tryclimbing them while playing an instrument, cheeks swollen, sweattrickling, breath short. The town band had done nothing else for alifetime, but for the boys of the parish hall it was torture. Theyheld out like heroes. Don Tico beat his pitch pipe in the air, theclarinets whined with exhaustion, the saxophones gave strangledbleats, the bombardons and the trumpets let out squeals of agony,but they made it, all the way to the village, to the foot of thesteep path that led to the cemetery. For some time AnnibaleCantalamessa and Pio Bo had only pretended to play, but Jacopostuck to his role of sheepdog, under Don Tico's benedictive eye.Compared to the town band, they made not a bad showing, and Mongohimself and the other brigade commanders said as much: Good foryou, boys. It was magnificent.
A commander with a bluekerchief and a rainbow of ribbons from both world wars said:"Reverend, let the boys rest here in the town; they're worn out.Climb up later, at the end. There'll be a truck to take you back to***."
They rushed to thetavern. The men of the town band, veterans toughened by countlessfunerals, showed no restraint in grabbing the tables and orderingtripe and all the wine they could drink. They would stay therehaving a spree until evening. Don Tico's boys, meanwhile, crowdedat the counter, where the host was serving mint ices as green as achemistry experiment. The ice, sliding down the throat, gave you apain in the middle of your forehead, like sinusitis.
Then they struggled upto the cemetery, where a pickup truck was waiting. They climbed in,yelling, and were all packed together, all standing, jostling oneanother with the instruments, when the commander who had spokenbefore came out and said: "Reverend, for the final ceremony we needa trumpet. You know, for the usual bugle calls. It's a matter offive minutes."
"Trumpet," Don Ticosaid, very professional. And the hapless holder of that title, nowsticky with green mint ice and yearning for the family meal, atreacherous peasant insensitive to aesthetic impulses and higherideals, began to complain: It was late, he wanted to go home, hedidn't have any saliva left, and so on, mortifying Don Tico in thepresence of the commander.
Then Jacopo, seeing inthe glory of noon the sweet image of Cecilia, said, "If he'll giveme the trumpet, I'll go."
A gleam of gratitude inthe eyes of Don Tico; the sweaty relief of the miserable titulartrumpet. An exchange of instruments, like two guards.
Jacopo proceeded to thecemetery, led by the psychopomp with the Addis Ababa ribbons.Everything around them was white: the wall struck by the sun, thegraves, the blossoming trees along the borders, the surplice of theprovost ready to impart benediction. The only brown was the fadedphotographs on the tombstones. And a big patch of color was createdby the ranks lined up beside the two graves.
"Boy," the commandersaid, "you stand here, beside me, and at my order play Assembly.Then, again at my order, Taps. That's easy, isn't it?"
Very easy. Except thatJacopo had never played Assembly or Taps.
He held the trumpet withhis right arm bent, against his ribs, the horn at a slight angle,as if it were a carbine, and he waited, head erect, belly in, chestout.
Mongo was delivering abrief speech, with very short sentences. Jacopo thought that toemit the blast he would have to lift his eyes to heaven, and thesun would blind him. But that was the trumpeter's death, and sinceyou only died once, you might as well do it right.
The commander murmuredto him: "Now." He ordered Assembly. Jacopo played only do mi soldo. For those rough men of war, that seemed to suffice. The finaldo was played after a deep breath, so he could hold it, give ittime¡XBelbo wrote¡Xto reach the sun.
The partisans stoodstiffly at attention. The living as still as the dead.
Only the gravediggersmoved. The sound of the coffins being lowered could be heard, thecreak of the ropes, their scraping against the wood. But there waslittle motion, no more than the flickering glint on a sphere, whena slight variation of light serves only to emphasize the sphere'sinvariability.
Then, the dry sound ofPresent Arms. The provost murmured the formulas of the aspersion;the commanders approached the graves and flung, each of them, afistful of earth. A sudden order unleashed a volley toward the sky,rat-tat-tat-a-boom, and the birds rose up, squawking, from thetrees in blossom. But all that, too, was not really motion. It wasas if the same instant kept presenting itself from differentperspectives. Looking at one instant forever doesn't mean that, asyou look at it, time passes.
For this reason, Jacopostood fast, ignoring even the fall of the shell cases now rollingat his feet; nor did he put his trumpet back at his side, but keptit to his lips, fingers on the valves, rigid at attention, theinstrument aimed diagonally upward. He played on.
His long final note hadnever broken off: inaudible to those present, it still issued fromthe bell of the trumpet, like a light breath, a gust of air that hekept sending into the mouthpiece, holding his tongue between barelyparted lips, without pressing them to the metal. The instrument,not resting on his face, remained suspended by the tension alone inhis elbows and shoulders.
He continued holdingthat virtual note, because he felt he was playing out a string thatkept the sun in place. The planet had been arrested in its course,had become fixed in a noon that could last an eternity. And it alldepended on Jacopo, because if he broke that contact, dropped thatstring, the sun would
