Seiobo There Below (26 page)

No matter how much they were jolted, for a while it was not the terrible bumpiness of the road that made them suffer, but that contrary to expectations they only reached, before Pontassieve, the hills of Valdarno very slowly, which also meant that they did not hesitate even for a second when they glimpsed the first vineyard; they immediately instructed the coachman to head that way, and they were already turning down to the left off the main road, and so they left the Cassia Vetus as if they had never even been on it, they turned off, they stopped the cart in the shadow of a large olive grove, and leaving the coachman there to watch over the cart and get water for the horses to drink, they immediately climbed up the gently sloping hill, looking for the first cellar entrance; they knocked back the vintner’s wine so impetuously, that it was as if they were not coming from Florence, but rather from some Arabian desert, already completely tortured by thirst, with leathery tongues and bone-dry throats; they simply dashed back the young wine from the tiny glasses, tastier with every sip, and for a good few minutes they didn’t even ask the price, they just poured it down their throats, one after the other, they just panted and sipped and swallowed, and the vintner watched them, wondering what madhouse they had come from, and just where they had gotten so thirsty, and, well, what kind of master it was who, as he found out, locked away his own assistants, so that they could only drink just a little bit on occasion, ah, he doesn’t let us do anything, they told him, lying nonsensically, just a tiny little drop of wine and he kicks you out of the workshop, once they had caught their breath, they went on saying things like that, and they went on to tell him just who they were, where they had come from, and where they were trying to get to, by God, Francesco fixed his gaze on the vintner, their master was so dreadfully strict that one little drop was too much, he never even permitted that much ever, just because he himself refrained from drinking any sort of liquor, like someone who had taken a vow, although none of them would have been able to say why they were babbling so much nonsense, namely things that were not true, namely, that the maestro really didn’t like it if his assistants drank, moreover strictly regulating, as long as they were within view of him, just how much they could drink; accordingly they themselves didn’t even understand why they were babbling such idiocies to this total stranger, maybe because the speed with which they were drinking compelled them to make up some kind of explanation, in any event they drank for about one half hour continuously, all the while just talking and talking, the words flowed out of them, just as the wine flowed down their throats, but by that point all four of them were so drunk, that the vintner just pointed at the entrance of the cellar, where a few sheepskins were spread out on the hard-packed earth, and already they were falling over in a row, and already they were snoring; the coachman was still waiting for them down there below in the shade of the olive grove, that is, he waited for as long as he could stand it, because as the sun began to rise and it became warmer and warmer, he had no desire to miss out on anything good, so, well, he tied up the two horses, and reassuring himself that there was not a single soul anywhere nearby — he could leave the carriage for a little while — he set off in the direction he had seen them going earlier, but by the time he, too, found the cool cellar, they were already snoring deeply and regularly so that he just pointed at them, indicating that the gentlemen would pay, and ordered a jug of wine for himself, and began to chat with the vintner, and time passed very pleasantly, but, however, it also really passed in actuality, the coachman kept looking with ever growing disquiet at the four figures sleeping on the sheepskins, because he remembered the unattended carriage and the unattended horses, as well as the warnings the maestro had issued at dawn, and what was going to happen if there would be a problem, and what would happen if he found out somehow — the thought arose within him — which was anyway altogether unlikely, but still, who knows, and he began to awaken the assistants, who awoke with great difficulty, but only so that they could order some more jugs from the vintner, well, the coachman couldn’t really understand how they could be so bold, because this maestro, or whatever they call him, he explained to the vintner, seemed like a great lord, so, he convinced them to fill up a few flasks to take along on the road, for now the best thing would be, he said very uncertainly, crumpling up his cap, the best thing would be . . . because, well, even these assistants were kind of gentlemen-like themselves, to go now, because the maestro had said that they had to be in Loro by the evening, of course we’ll get there, they shrugged their shoulders, don’t be afraid, just you have one last glass with us, and they drank one last glass, and then one more, and then one really last one, after which they made their way down the hill toward the grove, all four of them were black and blue by the time they got to the cart, because they either kept tripping over their own legs, or they fell on top of each other laughing, or they tripped over a stone or the stump of some old grapevine stuck in the ground, so that when they were finally able with great difficulty to climb up onto the cart, and settle down there again, and the coachman, just to make sure that they were all hanging on properly, as they had up till now, looked back and he saw that the entire illustrious company in the bed of the cart looked like they had been attacked, or had gotten a good thrashing by a band of marauders — well, how the gentlemen looked there behind him was the least of his concerns, he muttered to the horses, snapping the reins, and already he had turned back onto the main road and there on the Via Cassia they continued their journey where they had left off, just that, well, the coachman looked up and to be sure the sun was already very high, so high, that to be sure he could tell that there was no way that they would get to Loro in time, so that as they left Pontassieve, every time it came into his head, he cracked his whip for the horses to move along, the result being that the illustrious company in the bed of the cart were only jolted around all the more, and how could it have been otherwise; they were continually being startled awake from their drunken stupor, and they upbraided him not to drive those poor horses so hard, didn’t he see that the sweat was pouring off of them, did he not remember that the maestro had said to drive carefully and not hound them, and mainly Giannicola raised his voice, he really shouldn’t be shaking the breath out of the travelers like this and shouldn’t be so worried, they’ll get there when they get there, Loro was not the most important thing, the most important thing was that they be in Perugia by the fourth day, and to be sure that was true, the coachman said to the horses, as it really turned out to be, he decided that tomorrow he would speed up a bit, there were hardly any other travelers and as he recalled, from Loro onward, things would be a bit better for a while, but he did not remember well, or he was just deluding himself, because to be sure, after they arrived, late that evening, at Loro, installed themselves at the inn, unloaded the chests, washed themselves off, gave the horses water and provisions, and then started off again, that accursed Via Cassia, to be sure, was not even a tiny bit better, so that just as before they could only make progress at the price of painful tortures, the cart was jolting and rattling and getting stuck and coming to a dead halt so many times, and those four were constantly yelling at the coachman that they couldn’t sleep because there was so much jolting and rattling and getting stuck and coming to a dead halt and what was true was true, it was jolting and rattling and getting stuck and coming to a dead halt, the coachman acknowledged to the horses, well, but Arezzo is still far away, namely Arezzo was his goal for that evening, as the day after tomorrow, in the evening they had to be in Perugia, this maestro, back there in Florence, when he bargained with him, seemed to be a very strict person, all he needed now was to know that they were late, under no circumstances whatsoever, said the coachman to the horses, and he cracked the whip over their haunches, upon which of course they again jumped, the four assistants at this began to yell again, and that is how they went, how the cart went along the Via Cassia; sometimes the coachman had to turn off the road if a horseman or another carriage was coming from the opposite direction, and sometimes just gently prodding on the two horses, the assistants were jolted awake, and began to yell at him again, at which point he once again slowed down the cart, then the road began to get a bit better, the assistants fell into a deep sleep, so that with Loro behind them they passed Terranuova, and even crossed the famous Ponte Buriano and reached the opposite bank of the fairly wide Arno, he didn’t have to wake them up, because most likely due to the unusually small amount of travelers, nobody was standing there at the bridgehead, so there was no question of a toll, the assistants were completely still, they didn’t even take the slightest notice of this crossing, indeed, the road after the bridge remained smoother, and so they proceeded onward in a more tranquil fashion, of course just for a while, because then afterward, once again, came all the bumps and potholes, the large stones half turned over on their sides, the treacherous ditches of the hollowed out wheel tracks; the assistants woke up irritated, and began to yell, but they had to slow down anyway, as the two horses couldn’t really take it anymore, in consequence of which the coachman was forced to acknowledge that they were proceeding toward Arezzo too slowly, so that in the middle of that afternoon even the four assistants, who were coming back to their senses somewhat, realized that it would look better if they did not stop at every single turn to attend to their personal needs, or to rest the horses and let them drink at every single watering place, namely they too began to restrain themselves, and as for eating and drinking, they ate and drank on the road, and it was only in this way that they were able, on the second day — although it was already late in the evening — to reach Arezzo; they bargained for lodgings at the postal station, they unloaded the chests, they got water and fodder again, and they ordered something for themselves as well, they consumed a warm meal, but they were so tired, all five of them were so exhausted that they didn’t even really know what they were eating, they just chewed and swallowed, then the five of them were already asleep, the four assistants inside, the coachman in the shed next to the horses, so that when on the morning of the third day they set off yet again they could not imagine how they would be able to withstand this all the way to Passignano, because that was the third goal in their journey, the northwestern tip of Lake Trasimeno, if the horses could bear all of this — the degree to which the journey was wearing the horses out was quite visible, as well as how much the coachman was worried about them, although of course he did not only have just these two horses, he explained as he kept turning his head back toward Aulista, who was just then watching him — but look at them, the coachman motioned with his head, look at the light in the eyes of these two, he would not be separated from them for any money in the world, no matter how much anyone might offer him, he would not just give them over to any human being whatsoever, he knew every single one of their movements, he could tell just from their gait if it was going to rain in the next half-hour, or which one’s tooth was hurting just at that moment, he knew everything, just everything that you could know about them, of course he wouldn’t deny it, part of it was that these two also knew him, the gentleman assistant won’t believe me, said the coachman, but if he was in a bad mood, these two just hung their heads as if they understood exactly what the problem was, there were no two horses like them in all of Florence, yes, he nodded toward them, turning toward the horses now, and looking at the road, yes, they’re getting on, you can’t deny that, but well, as for him, wasn’t he too? — he’d passed his forty-ninth, too, after Carnival, although he knew that he didn’t look it, in a word the three of them here were just made for each other, the gentleman could see it for himself, that maestro there in the city had a good eye to pick him out from all the other drivers, because he had a sharp eye — the coachman turned again for a moment to Aulista — and he immediately knew that he could trust him and that he could trust these two horses, but at that point the coachman had to leave off because although the landscape had become more even, another very difficult section of the journey came, where the old Roman stones were nearly completely turned out of the surface of the road, he had to watch very closely if he did not want the cart’s axle to snap in two, or some other huge problem to develop, he turned here, he turned there, and now not a living soul was coming from the other direction, or from behind — no nobleman, noted the coachman to the horses, or courier, delegation, or anyone, either from Arezzo or Trasimeno, as if everyone, he muttered to the horses, wanted to bypass this section of the road, but the horses said nothing in reply, they just suffered on with the whip cracking above their backs and the wheels always getting stuck, they tried to haul them out before the whip lashed yet more strongly, and nothing meant anything to any one of them in this continual torture, not to the horses, nor to the apprentices, nor to the coachman; and it was perhaps just some obscure mitigation that above them the sun shone, that the warm April breeze played up and down across the land, that the gently sloping hillsides of the Val di Chiana, and the general dominion of all things fresh and green in the entire springtime realm of Tuscany radiated such peace and tranquility, that nothing at all was lacking, in which already nothing else was necessary for someone to become conscious of this, a profound peacefulness, and a kind of unperturbedness that was not of this world: in this peacefulness and unperturbedness stood immersed the olive groves and the vineyards, the hills and the roads winding among the hills, even the undulating flocks of
starlings — as again and again they furrowed through the rows of the grapevines amid the playful breezes — they were refined into an entrancing motionlessness, as if they had just stopped in midair in utter silence, or as if everything — the dense fragrance of the noble rot of the grapes, the silvery green of the olive groves and the vegetable gardens, the shimmerings and shadows of the gently sloping hills of the Val di Chiana — as if everything were just watching the silence, the silence created precisely by this attention — and all the while a weak little noise was a part of the silence too, bumping along in the little full-laden canvas-covered cart with its iron-girded wheels clattering on the stones, as slowly, with difficulty, past the villages of L’Olmo, Puliciano, Rigutino, toward Passignano, it proceeds.