A Soldier of the Great War (2 page)

"It's disgusting."

"No it isn't. You're jealous of their bliss because in our day such things were hardly possible."

"Yes, but at their age I drove mules, real mules!"

Alessandro awaited the connection.

"I pushed mule trains over the passes in the middle of winter. The animals were so heavily laden and the ice so hard and smooth that we would lose them. They would vanish from us and fall great distances, always silently, but we went on. The snow was blinding and the ice-clad walls of rock towered over us, streaming mist for a thousand meters."

"What has that to do with them?" Alessandro asked, glancing at the Danes.

"They don't know such things, and I resent it. I envy them, yes, but I'm proud."

"If you were one of the mule drivers," Alessandro said, "I may have seen you. I may have spoken to you, half a century ago."

They let the subject drop, but certainly they had been in the same places: the front line in the north had stretched for only several hundred kilometers. Doubtless they would have been able to reconstruct in conversation a little of what it had been like, but they knew that to do so in a few idle words while waiting for a trolley would not be right.

"Someday we'll talk," the proprietor said, "but..." He hesitated. "I don't know. These things are like the things of the Church."

"I understand. I never speak of them either. I want to buy some food before the trolley comes. Can you get it for me?"

The proprietor shuffled back and forth between the cases and counters, and as the wires began to sing and the people outside touched their luggage to make sure that it hadn't walked away on its own or been taken by short or invisible thieves, Alessandro Giuliani was presented with half a dozen neat packages, which he slipped into his small leather briefcase.

The wires were singing like afternoon locusts. Every now and then one of them would be drawn down so tightly that it would begin to shriek like the worst soprano in the hottest town in Italy.

"How much?" Alessandro asked. He was anxious because he knew he would have difficulty mounting the high step of the streetcar, and would have to fumble for money while supporting himself with his cane and balancing the briefcase and wallet as the car lurched from side to side.

The proprietor didn't answer. The streetcar was grinding around the bend. It sounded like a traveling machine shop. "How much?" Alessandro asked once again. The people outside had arisen and were waiting by the side of the tracks.

The proprietor held up his right hand as if to stop traffic.

"What? Again?" Alessandro asked.

The proprietor shook his head back and forth.

"We're no longer soldiers," Alessandro said quietly. "That was a lifetime ago. Everything has changed."

"Yes," said the proprietor, "but once, a lifetime ago, we were, and sometimes it all comes back, and moves my heart."

 

T
HE FARE
to Monte Prato had risen from 1900 lire to 2200, which meant that Alessandro could hot merely give over two 1,000-lire notes, pocket the change, and walk away in balance, as he had planned. Instead, he found himself holding on to many things at once while the airy streetcar swayed violently and the sun flashed through the trees. Trying to withdraw a 500-lire note from his wallet was difficult, but it would have been worse had not the young Dane separated himself for a moment from his sunburnt and beautiful lover to hold Alessandro's briefcase and take his arm as a son might have done for a father.

Alessandro thanked the boy, pleased that lack of decorum did not necessarily imply lack of courtesy.

The best seat was next to the man with the newspaper hat and the squid. "Good day," Alessandro said, addressing both man and squid. Sensing mischief, the construction worker looked away sullenly.

A few minutes later he peered into the bucket and poked the squid with his finger. Then he lifted his eyes and stared at Alessandro as if Alessandro were to blame. "Dead," he said, accusingly.

Alessandro shrugged his shoulders. "Not enough oxygen in the water."

"How do you mean?"

"He needed oxygenated water to breathe."

"That's crazy. Fish don't breathe. They live under water."

"But they do, they do. There's oxygen in the water, and they extract it with their gills."

"So why didn't this one?"

"He did, until there was no more left, and then he passed away."

The construction worker preferred to believe otherwise. "The bastards at Civitavecchia sold me a bad squid."

"As you wish."

The construction worker thought for a moment. "Would he have lived if I had blown into the water with a straw?"

"Probably not, since you would have been blowing in more carbon dioxide than oxygen. How far are you going?"

"Monte Prato."

"Impossible," Alessandro said, briefly shutting his eyes for emphasis. "It's far too warm. The bucket should have been half full of ice."

"How do you know these things? I think you're wrong."

"I know them because they're obvious."

"Do you have a fish market?"

"No."

The construction worker was tremendously suspicious. "If you don't have a fish market, what do you do?"

"I'm a professor."

"Of fish?"

"Of chicken," Alessandro answered.

"Then you don't know enough to talk."

"Ah," said Alessandro, holding up his finger. "A squid is not a fish."

"It isn't?"

"No."

"What is it?"

"It's a type of chicken, a water chicken."

The construction worker looked abject. Feeling sorry for him, Alessandro said, "I'm not a professor of chicken, and as far as I know, there is no such thing, but the part about the oxygen is true. I regret that your squid died. He had already come all the way from
Civitavecchia, and before that he had been pulled from the sea, which was his home, and he suffered many hours in the hold of a fishing boat as it worked its way back to land in the August heat. The journey was too much."

The construction worker nodded. "But of what are you a professor?"

"Aesthetics."

"What are aesthetics?"

"The study of beauty."

"Beauty? What for?"

"Beauty. Why not."

"Why do you have to study it?"

"You don't. It's everywhere, in great profusion, and always will be. Were I to cease studying it, it would not go away, if that's what you mean."

"Then why do you?"

"It entrances me, it always has, so it's what I do—despite occasional ridicule."

"I'm not ridiculing you."

"I know you're not, but others say that mine is an effeminate or a useless calling. Well, for some it is. Not for me."

"Don't get me wrong; I don't think you look effeminate."

The construction worker drew back to study him. "You're a tough old bastard, I think. You remind me of my father."

"Thank you," Alessandro replied, slightly alarmed.

Now the way to Monte Prato was clear. He had only to fall into the pleasant hypnosis of travel; to watch the long ranks of trees as they passed; to view the mountains when they first rose over the fields; to observe the great round moon and its attendant bright stars shining through the streetcar's glassy walls; to match the whirring of the engines with the mad chorus of the cicadas; to be comfortable, and old, and content with small things. He assumed that the remaining hours would pass without incident, that he
would rest, and that he would be alone—free of memories too great for the heart to hold.

 

B
EFORE IT
came to the edge of the city, where it would pick up speed, the trolley wound through many small streets not as congenial as the one on the side of the hill where Alessandro Giuliani had embarked. It crossed and recrossed the river Aniene, and rattled down desolate boulevards scored by the patterned shadows of iron fences and trees. At every church, the sweeper ladies crossed themselves, and now and then the squad of truck drivers noticed a new German truck, or a piece of construction machinery, and turned their heads to look at it while one of them told how much it cost or how many horsepower it had.

At each stop the driver looked up into his mirror to scan both the interior of the car and the street, to see if anyone would insult and delay him by wanting to get on or off. Though no one had a short ticket, people sometimes changed their minds about how far they wanted to go, and he had to be alert: but Rome hardly stirred, offering not a soul to slow his progress. The streetcar made excellent time, and when it reached the edge of the city it was running ahead of schedule, This delighted the driver. If he beat his fares to a stop he could hurl himself forward and arrive even earlier at the next stop, where he would be less likely to encounter someone else. In this way he was able to convert his viscous long-distance local into the most ethereal express. He hated deceleration and he hated to make change, but he did like to drive, and each stop that he could pass at speed was for him the partial satisfaction of his long-standing dream of riding in the steeplechase as a jockey or even as a horse.

At a place that was neither Rome nor the countryside, where fields of corn and wheat alternated with lumber yards and factory compounds, and where a distant highway was visible, sparkling
like a stream as its traffic beat against the sunlight, they made an insincere lurch at an empty stop, and started off again as usual. Alessandro had begun to dream, but was pulled from his reverie by the insistent and conscientious action of the corner of his eye. Off to the right was a slightly sloping dirt road littered with potholes. A little way down this road, someone was running desperately, leaping the potholes and waving his arms.

A long moment passed during which Alessandro begged to remain at rest but was again overruled by the corner of his eye. He turned his head for a full view. Whoever it was, he wanted to get on the streetcar, and was screaming for it to stop. Although he could not be heard, what he said was apparent in the movement of his arms as they jolted slightly at each shout.

"There's someone," Alessandro said weakly. Then he cleared his throat. "There's a person!" he shouted. Because no one else had seen the runner no one knew what Alessandro meant. They were not surprised that an old man, even one as dignified as he, would blurt out something incoherent on a hot afternoon. Except for one sweeper woman, who smiled idiotically, their reaction was to hold still and not look at him. The car was on a straightaway, accelerating to the southeast.

Alessandro jumped to his feet. "Driver!" he screamed. "There's a person who wants to catch the streetcar!"

"Where?" the driver shouted, without taking his eyes from the road.

"Back there."

The driver turned his head. No one was visible. "You're mistaken," he said. They were far away now from the corner of the dirt road. "Besides," the driver continued, "I can't pick anyone up between stops."

Alessandro sat down. He looked back, and saw no one. It was not fair for the driver to race through the stops, especially because this was the last car of the day.

Alessandro began to compose a
letter of protest. It was short, but he rephrased it repeatedly. During this time the streetcar traveled a kilometer or two and was forced to slow down behind a huge truck that was hauling an arcane piece of electrical equipment almost as big as a house.

"Hey, look," the construction worker said to Alessandro.

Alessandro turned to see where the construction worker was pointing. Far behind them on the road, the slight figure from the dirt track was chasing them, after having run for two or three kilometers without flagging. No longer was he begging, and he had stopped waving his arms, as if he had decided that since the streetcar would give him nothing he would save his strength so he could get what he wanted himself.

"I'll tell the driver," Alessandro said to the construction worker. He rose and made his way to the front. "Signore," he implored the driver, "look in back of us. Someone is chasing."

The driver glanced up into his mirror. He saw the runner. "It's too late," he said. "The next stop is fifteen kilometers away. He'll never make it."

"Why don't you let him on?" Alessandro demanded, his voice rising.

"I told you. We don't pick up passengers between stops. Please sit down."

"You sped right by the last stop, early. That's why he's running."

"Please sit down."

"No," Alessandro said. "I want to get off."

"You get off in Monte Prato."

"I want to get off here instead."

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Here? There's nothing here! We don't let people off here."

"These are my fields. All these fields are mine. I want to check the wheat."

The streetcar rolled to a stop and the doors were thrown open.
"Okay, then," the driver said, glancing at the mirror, "check the wheat."

"Just a minute," Alessandro answered. "I have to get my briefcase." He began to walk back to his seat, very slowly.

The driver was angry. "Come on!" he screamed. "You're holding us up."

"Just a moment, just a moment," Alessandro said, and, upon reaching his seat, he added, "I dropped something."

The driver closed the door and started up again, but the persistent runner was gaining. Alessandro looked back, and saw a boy of eighteen or nineteen sprinting behind the bus. He was wearing heavy leather work shoes, and he looked as if he were about to die from overexertion. His hair was plastered by sweat onto the sides of his forehead. He breathed hard through an open mouth. He was the color of a ripe pepper.

"He's here!" Alessandro shouted.

The driver looked stonily ahead, but the boy put on a final burst of speed and ran up to the door, where he hopped onto the step and held on. He was heaving, dripping sweat, and his head was bowed.

Alessandro, briefcase under his arm, tapped his way to the front of the streetcar and hit the roof with his cane. "Signore," he said in a surprisingly deep and powerful voice, "I believe you have a passenger." At this very moment the boy, who looked like someone from a wild valley in Sicily, began to beat furiously on the glass. The way he hung on the door and pounded with his fists reminded Alessandro of his own tenacity in other times, and he was filled with affection and pride, as if the boy had been his son.