A Tranquil Star Read online

  “Seen from the outside it doesn’t look like much, but you should see the inside. I’ve been there for a few small jobs—as I told you, plumbers are scarce, so I do my best—and I could tell you some stories. Do you know, the management has been trying to please the proprietress for six hundred years, without success? Only now, with modern technology…”

  “Excuse me,” Antonio interrupted, a bit annoyed, “but if you told me who the proprietress is, don’t you think I would enjoy your discourse more?”

  “Oh, I thought I’d told you. It’s Beatrice, damn it. The angelic, monstrous Beatrice, who wants everyone at her service, never goes out, speaks to no one, eats only pre-frozen nectar and ambrosia, and, with the protection that she enjoys, there is no hope of getting rid of her, not now or in the foreseeable future. As I was just saying, only now, with the advent of plastics and electronics, have the directors managed to satisfy some of her whims. Look inside: it’s a concentrated version of the Fair of Milan, without all the commotion, of course. She walks only on polyurethane foam, a meter thick, like a pole vaulter: barefoot, naturally, and swathed in nylon veils. No daylight: only neon, in pink, purple, and sky-blue; an orgy of false skies made of methacrylate, false fixed stars made of hastelloy, false music of the spheres performed on an electronic organ, false closed-circuit TV visions, false pharmacological ecstasies, and a Prime Mover of Pyrex that cost three million lire a square meter. In short, she is unbearable. But when you’re a character from Dante, you’re untouchable here. In my opinion, it’s a typical Mafioso set up: why should Paolo and Francesca continue to make love undisturbed (and not only in the whirlwind, believe me), while the Poor Lovers* have endless difficulties with the park guards? Why is Cacciaguida† in the chalet at the top of the hill and Somacal,‡ who’s been through so much, down in the hut that never gets the sun?”

  Because he was so busy talking, James had lost his breath, and also the way. “We’ll have to ask someone.”

  “Do you know everyone here?”

  “We almost all know each other. Basically, there aren’t so many of us.”

  He knocked at the door of a wooden hut and went in. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and through the walls a strongly rhythmic martial song could be heard, but he came out again shortly. “They’re nice, but they never leave home, and they couldn’t give me any directions. They’re also a bit timid. Who are they? The little Germans of All Quiet on the Western Front: Tjaden, Kat, Leer, and all the others; also Paul Bäumer, naturally. I often go and visit them—what fine boys! They were lucky to come here as young men; otherwise, who knows how many of them would have had to take up arms again twenty years later, and lose either their skin or their soul.”

  Fortunately, soon afterward they met Babalaci, who knew everything: where François’s chalet was, that there was in fact an empty bed, how long it had been empty, why and how, all those with whom François had quarreled recently, and all the women he had received.

  In that area the sky was the color of lead; a damp angry wind blew, howling around the corners like a wolf, and in fact when the chalet came into view snow began to fall: dirty snow, gray and sooty, which came down at a slant, got in your eyes, and took your breath away. Antonio couldn’t wait to get inside, but James told him it would be better if he waited a little distance away: François was a lunatic type, and James preferred to knock on the door alone; a new face might set him off.

  Antonio took cover as well as he could; there was a pile of broken barrels nearby, and he got into a tub and huddled inside to wait for James to return. He saw him knock, wait a good two minutes, knock again: the shutters were closed, but thick smoke was rising from the chimney so there must be someone home.

  James knocked a third time, and finally the door was opened. James disappeared inside, and Antonio realized that he was very tired, and began to wonder if it would be possible to have a warm bath: on the banks of the Congo he had sweated a lot, the dust had stuck to his clothes, and now the sweat was cooling on him unpleasantly. But he didn’t have long to wait: the door burst open as if someone inside had fired a cannon, and the worthy and dignified James shot out like a meteor, and landed among the barrel staves, not far from Antonio’s temporary abode. He got up and quickly brushed himself off:

  “No, no, please don’t be upset. I happened in at a bad moment—he was with some friends who needed to be handled with care. There was also Marion I’Ydolle, La Grosse Margot, Jehanne di Bretaigne,* and two or three other girls; one it seemed to me was the Maid of Orleans. Listen, for the future we’ll see, but tonight come and sleep with me: there’s not much room, but I’ll happily give you the bed, and for me a mattress on the floor is just fine.”

  ANTONIO SETTLED in to the park with surprising ease. In a few weeks, he had made friends with his neighbors, all cordial people, or at least varied and interesting: Kim with his sword, Iphigenia in Aulis, Ettore Fieramosca, Tommasino Puzzilli, who was engaged to Moll Flanders, Holden Caulfield, Commissioner Ingravallo, Alyosha with the Pious One, Sergeant Grisha with Lilian Aldwinkle, Bel Ami, Alberto da Giussano, who was with the Virgin Camilla, Professor Unrat with the Blue Angel, Leopold Bloom, Mordo Nahum, Justine with Dracula, St. Augustine with the Novice, the two dogs Flush and Buck, Baldus who couldn’t get through doors, Benito Cereno, Lesbia living with Hot-Blooded Paolo,* Tristram Shandy who was still only two and a half, Thérèse Raquin and Bluebeard. At the end of the month Portnoy arrived, crass and complaining: no one could bear him, but in the space of a few days he had settled in Semiramis’* house, and the rumor went around that things between them were steaming right along.

  Antonio moved in with Horace, and was very comfortable there: he had different habits and hours, but he was clean, discreet, and tidy, and he had welcomed him gladly; furthermore, he had a lot of odd stories to tell, and he told them with an enchanting enthusiasm. And, in turn, Horace never seemed to tire of listening to Antonio: he was interested in everything, and up to date even on the most recent events. He was an excellent listener: he seldom interrupted and only with intelligent questions.

  Some three years after his arrival, Antonio noticed a surprising fact. When he raised his hands, as a shield against the sun, say, or even against a bright lamp, the light filtered through them as if they were wax. Some time later, he observed that he was waking earlier than usual in the morning, and he realized that this was because his eyelids were more transparent; in fact, in a few days they were so transparent that even with his eyes closed Antonio could distinguish the outlines of objects.

  At first he thought nothing of it, but toward the end of May he noticed that his entire skull was becoming diaphanous. It was a bizarre and alarming sensation: as if his field of vision were broadening, not only laterally but also up, down, and backward. He now perceived light no matter what direction it came from, and soon he was able to distinguish what was happening behind him. When, in mid-June, he realized that he could see the chair he was sitting on, and the grass under his feet, Antonio understood that his time had come: the memory of him was extinct and his testimony complete. He felt sadness, but neither fear nor anguish. He took leave of James and his new friends, and sat under an oak to wait for his flesh and his spirit to dissolve into light and wind.

  PART II

  LATER STORIES

  The Magic Paint

  For many years now I have been engaged in the manufacture of paints and, more precisely, their formulation: from this art I earn my sustenance and support my family. It’s an ancient and noble art: the earliest reference appears in Genesis 6:14, where it is related how, in obedience to an exact specification on the part of the Almighty, Noah (probably using a brush) covered the Ark, inside and out, with pitch. But it’s also a subtly fraudulent art, which tends to hide the substratum, endowing it with the color and the appearance of what it is not: in this it is related to the arts of makeup and costume, which are equally equivocal and equally ancient (Isaiah 3:16 ff).

  The most varied demands are constantly bei
ng made on those who practice this profession of ours: paints that do not conduct electricity and paints that do, paints that transmit heat or reflect it, that keep mollusks from adhering to hulls, that absorb sound, or that can be removed from a surface like a peel from a banana. People require paints that keep feet from slipping, as for airport steps, and others as slippery as possible, as for the bottoms of skis. We are therefore a versatile people, with vast experience, who are accustomed to both success and the lack of it, and are difficult to surprise.

  Nonetheless, we were surprised by a request that came from our agent in Naples, Signor Amato Di Prima: he was pleased to inform us that an important client in his area had experimented with a paint that provided protection from misfortune, and would profitably replace horn amulets, hunchbacks, four-leaf clovers, and charms in general. It had not been possible to glean other information, except for the price, which was very high; he had, however, managed to obtain a sample, which he had already sent by mail. Given the exceptional interest of the product, he urgently beseeched us to devote the greatest attention to the problem, declared his faith in a quick response, and extended his most sincere greetings.

  This business, of the miraculous sample that arrives in the mail, along with an urgent prayer to devote et cetera (that is, without resorting to euphemism, to copy it), is part of our work, and constitutes perhaps its most obscure aspect. We would like to do things our own way: make our own choice, of a refined and elegant problem, take off on the hunt, sight the solution, pursue it, corner it, spear it, strip it of everything inessential, make it in the laboratory, then manufacture it on a small scale, and finally go into full production and get money and glory from it. But that almost never happens. There are many of our kind in this world, and our colleagues and rivals in Italy, in America, in Australia, in Japan are not exactly dozing. We are awash in samples, and we would happily yield to the temptation to throw them away or return them to the sender, were it not for the consideration that our own products suffer the same fate, becoming, in their turn, marvelous, being shrewdly seized and smuggled out by the agents of our competitors, scrutinized, analyzed, and copied: some badly, others well—by the addition, that is, of a particle of originality and genius. Thus begins an endless network of espionage and cross-fertilization, which, illuminated by solitary creative flashes, constitutes the foundation of technological progress. In short, the samples of the competition cannot be thrown out with the dregs: one must see what’s there, even if the professional conscience puts up a struggle.

  The paint that came from Naples, at first glance, did not display any special property: appearance, odor, drying time were those of a common clear acrylic enamel, and the whole business stank of a hoax. I telephoned Di Prima, who was indignant: he was not the type to send samples around just for fun, and that one in particular had cost him time and trouble—the product was extremely interesting and in his market he was having incredible success. Technical documentation? It didn’t exist, there was no need for it, the effectiveness of the product spoke for itself. A fishing boat had been coming back with empty nets for three months—they had painted its hull and ever since it had been netting spectacular catches. A typographer had mixed the paint with printing ink: the ink didn’t go as far, but the typographical errors had disappeared. If somehow we were unable to use it, we should tell him immediately; otherwise, we should get busy with it. The price was 7,000 lire a kilo, which seemed to him a good profit margin, and he would undertake to sell at least twenty tons a month.

  I talked about it with Chiovatero, who is a serious and capable fellow. At first he turned up his nose, then he thought about it, and proposed starting simply; that is, trying the paint on cultures of E. coli bacteria. What did he expect? That the cultures would multiply more than the controls or less? Chiovatero was annoyed, and told me that it was not his habit to put the cart before the horse (implying, by this, that it was my habit, which, for goodness’ sake, is absolutely not true), that it remained to be seen, that you had to start somewhere, and that “the load adjusts along the way.” He obtained the cultures, painted the outside of the test tubes, and we waited. None of us were biologists, but no biologist was needed to interpret the results. After five days, the effect was obvious: the protected cultures had developed in size at three times the rate of the controls, which we had coated with an acrylic ostensibly similar to the one from Naples. We had to conclude that this paint “brought good luck” even to microorganisms: an irritating conclusion, but, as has been authoritatively stated, facts are obstinate. A more thorough analysis was required, but everyone knows what a complex and uncertain enterprise the examination of a paint is: almost like that of a living organism. All those fantastic modern devices—the infrared spectrum, the gas chromatograph, NMR—are helpful to a point but leave many angles unexplored; and if you aren’t lucky enough to have a metal as the key component, all you can do is use your nose, like a dog. But in this case there was a metal: an unusual metal, so unusual that no one in the laboratory knew from experience how it reacted. We had to burn almost the entire sample to obtain a quantity sufficient for identification; but finally we did and it was duly confirmed, with all its characteristic reactions. It was tantalum, a very respectable metal, with a name full of meaning, never before seen in paint, and thus surely responsible for the property that we were looking for. As always happens once you’ve made a finding and confirmed it, the presence of tantalum, and its specific function, began to seem gradually less strange, and, finally, natural, just as no one is surprised anymore by X rays. Molino pointed out that the most acid-resistant reaction vessels are made with tantalum; Palazzoni recalled that tantalum is used to make surgical prostheses that absolutely can’t be rejected; and so we concluded that it is an obviously beneficial metal, and that we had been foolish to waste so much time on analyses. With a little common sense we should have been able to think of it right off.

  In a few days we got a soap of tantalum, put it in some paint, and tried it on the E. coli: it worked, the goal was achieved.

  We, in turn, sent a large sample of paint to Di Prima, so that he could distribute it to his customers and give us an opinion. The opinion arrived two months later, and was highly favorable: he, Di Prima, had painted himself from head to foot, and then had spent four hours under a ladder, on a Friday, in the company of thirteen black cats, without coming to any harm. Chiovatero also tried it, albeit reluctantly (not because he was superstitious; rather because he was skeptical), and he had to admit that a certain effect was undeniable: in the two or three days after the treatment, all the traffic lights he came to were green, he never got a busy signal on the telephone, his girlfriend made up with him, and he even won a modest prize in the lottery. Naturally it all came to an end after he took a bath.

  As for me, I thought of Michele Fassio. Fassio is an old schoolmate of mine to whom mysterious powers had been attributed since adolescence. He was blamed for endless disasters, from failed exams to a bridge collapse, an avalanche, even a shipwreck: all due, in the stupid opinion of, first, his fellow-students and, later, his colleagues, to the penetrating power of his evil eye. I, of course, didn’t believe this nonsense, but I confess that I often tried to avoid running into him. Fassio, poor fellow, ended up believing it himself, in a way; he never married and he led an unhappy life, of privation and solitude. I wrote to him, with all the delicacy I was capable of, that I didn’t believe in this type of foolishness, but that he might; that, as a result, I couldn’t believe in the remedy I was proposing, but it seemed to me that I owed it to him to mention it just the same, if only to help him recover his self-confidence. Fassio answered that he would come as soon as possible: he was willing to submit to a trial. Before proceeding with the treatment, and at the urging of Chiovatero, we tried to understand in some degree Fassio’s powers. We managed to ascertain that in fact his gaze (and only his gaze) possessed a specific effect, noticeable under certain conditions even in the case of inanimate objects. We asked him to stare f
or several minutes at a particular point on a steel plate, which we then placed in the salt-spray chamber; after a few hours we noted that the point Fassio had stared at was clearly more corroded than the rest of the surface. A polyethylene thread, stretched tight, consistently broke at the point where Fassio’s gaze hit it. To our satisfaction, both results disappeared when we coated the plate and the thread with our paint, or when we interposed between subject and object a glass screen previously coated with it. We were further able to ascertain that only Fassio’s right eye was active: the left, like both of my eyes, and like Chiovatero’s, exercised no measurable action. With the means at our disposal, we were unable to carry out a spectral analysis of the Fassio effect except in a crude way; it is probable, however, that the radiation under examination has a maximum in the blue, with a wavelength of around 425 Nm. Our exhaustive paper on the subject will be out in a few months. Now, it is known that many of those who wish to cast the evil eye wear blue-tinted lenses, and not dark ones, and this can’t be a coincidence but must, rather, be the fruit of long experience absorbed perhaps unconsciously and then handed down from generation to generation, as in the case of certain folk remedies.

  Considering the tragic conclusion of our tests, I have to explain that the idea of painting Fassio’s eyeglasses (they were ordinary reading glasses) was neither mine nor Chiovatero’s but came from Fassio himself, who insisted that the experiment be made right away, without even an hour’s delay: he was very impatient to be released from his grim power. We painted these glasses. After thirty minutes the paint was dry: Fassio put them on and immediately fell lifeless at our feet. The doctor, who arrived soon afterward, tried in vain to revive him, and spoke vaguely of embolism, heart attack, and thrombosis: he couldn’t have known that the lens over Fassio’s right eye, concave on the inside, must have instantaneously reflected that thing which he could no longer transmit, and must have concentrated it, as if with a burning glass, on a point situated in some unspecified but important corner of the right cerebral hemisphere of the unhappy and blameless victim of our experiments.