The Skin (10 page)

I saw that he was crying as he spoke. He was crying, and it seemed that the tears were not his own, but those of someone else close by. It seemed that he did not realize he was crying, that he was sure that there was someone else beside him who was crying for him.

I said to him: "Why are you crying? It's no good."

"It's my only amusement, crying," said the engineer.

"Amusement? You mean consolation."

"No, I mean amusement. Even we have a perfect right to amuse ourselves every now and again," said the engineer, and he began to laugh. "Why don't you try it too?"

"I can't. When I see some things I want to be sick. My amusement is being sick."

"You're luckier than I am," said the engineer. "Being sick relieves the stomach. Crying doesn't. I wish I could be sick too!" And he moved off, elbowing his way through the crowd, who were yelling and cursing in menacing tones.

Meanwhile, summoned by the appalling news of the mass-burial at Santa Lucia, hordes of women and boys were arriving from the outlying parts of the city, from Forcelia, the Vomero and Mergellina, dragging behind them conveyances of every sort, even wheelbarrows, on which they heaped the dead and the injured without distinction. The procession finally moved off, and I followed in its wake.

Among those unfortunates was poor Cannavale, and I hated the idea of leaving him all alone in the midst of that heap of dead and and injured. He was a splendid fellow, Cannavale, he had always had a great liking for me, and he had been one of the few to come to meet me and publicly shake me by the hand when I returned from the island of Lipari. But now he was dead; and can one ever know how a dead man looks at things? He might have borne me a grudge for all eternity if I had deserted him, if I had not stayed near him now that he was dead, if I had not accompanied him to the hospital. Everybody knows what a race of egoists the dead are. They are the only people in the world, no one else counts. They are jealous, and full of envy, and they forgive the living everything save the fact that they are alive. They would like everybody to be like themselves— full of worms, with empty eye-sockets. They are blind, and do not see us; if they were not blind, they would see that we also are full of worms. Ah, the blighters! They treat us like slaves, they would like us to be alongside them, at their beck and call, always ready to be of service to them, to satisfy all their whims, to bow and raise our hats, to say, "Your most humble servant." Try to say "No" to a dead man, try to tell him that you have no time to waste on the dead, that you have other things to do, that the living have their own affairs to settle, that they have duties to perform towards the living too, and not merely towards the dead, try to tell him that in these days the dead are dead and the living soon console themselves for their absence. Try to tell a dead man this, and see what happens to you. He will round upon you like a savage dog, and will try to bite you and tear your face with his nails. The police ought to handcuff the dead instead of being in such a frantic hurry to handcuff the living. They ought to shut them up in their coffins with irons on their wrists, and get a strong force of thugs to follow every funeral procession, in order to protect honest citizens from the fury of those savage blighters; for they have a terrible strength, the dead, and they might burst their irons, smash their coffins, and break out and bite and tear the faces of all and sundry, relations and friends. The police ought to bury them with handcuffs on their wrists and, having nailed up the coffins securely, lower them into very deep, specially dug holes, and then tread down the earth above the grave, to prevent those blighters from coming out and biting people. Ah, sleep in peace, you blighters! Sleep in peace if you can, and leave the living undisturbed!

Such were my thoughts as I followed the procession up through Santa Lucia, through San Ferdinando, Toledo and the Piazza della Carita. A pale, ragged crowd of people brought up the rear, weeping and cursing. The women tore their hair and dug their nails into their faces; baring their breasts, they raised their eyes to heaven and howled like dogs. Those whose sleep had been rudely shattered by the uproar appeared at the windows, waving their arms and shouting, and everywhere people were weeping, swearing and-calling upon the Virgin and St. Januarius. All were weeping, for in Naples a death is lamented by all, not by one, nor by a few, nor by many, but by everybody, and the grief of the individual is the grief of the entire city, the hunger of one man is the hunger of all. In Naples there is no private grief, no private misery. Every man suffers and weeps for his neighbour, and there is no anguish, no hunger, no outbreak of cholera, no massacre which these good-hearted, unhappy, generous people do not regard as a common treasure, a common legacy of tears. "Tears are the chewing-gum of Naples," Jimmy had said to me one day. Jimmy did not know that if tears were the chewing-gum not only of the Neapolitans, but also of the American people, America would be a truly great and happy nation, a great nation of human beings.

When the funeral procession finally reached the Ospedale dei Pellegrini the dead and the injured were unloaded haphazard in the courtyard, which was already thronged with tearful people (the relatives and friends of the dead and injured whose homes were in other districts of the city); and from there they were carried bodily into the corridors.

Dawn was already breaking, and a light green mist was forming on the skin of the mourners' faces, on the plaster of the walls, and on the grey blanket of the sky, in which gaps had been torn here and there by the bitter wind of early morning; and through the rents a pinkness was visible, like the new flesh that forms over a wound. The crowd continued to wait in the courtyard, praying aloud, and every so often interrupting its prayers to give expression to its grief.

At about ten in the morning pandemonium broke loose. Weary of the long wait, impatient to have news of their dear ones, to know if they were really dead of if there was any hope of saving them, and fearful of being betrayed by the doctors and orderlies, the crowd began yelling, cursing and hurling stones against the window-panes; and finally, by sheer weight of numbers, they broke open the doors. As soon as the heavy portals yielded the deafening, ferocious clamour died down as if by magic; and silently, like a pack of wolves, panting, gritting their teeth, every so often peering through doorways, running with lowered heads through the passages of the ancient building, made fetid and filthy by time and neglect, the crowd invaded the hospital.

But having reached the entrance to a cloister, from which dark corridors radiated in every direction, they burst into a terrible cry, and halted, petrified with horror. On the floors, piled up on heaps of garbage, blood-stained garments and damp straw, lay hundreds and hundreds of disfigured corpses, their heads enormous, swollen through suffocation and blue, green and purple in colour, their faces crushed, their limbs truncated or torn right off by the violence of the explosions. In a corner of the cloister stood a pyramid of heads with wide-open eyes and gaping mouths. With loud cries, frantic wails and savage laments the crowd threw themselves on the dead, calling them by name in voices that were terrible to hear, fighting for possession of those headless trunks, those torn limbs, those severed heads, those miserable remains which deluded pity and love seemed to recognize.

Surely no human eye ever witnessed a struggle so fierce, nor yet so pitiful. Every scrap of flesh and bone was fought for by ten or twenty of those demented creatures, who were maddened by grief and even by the fear of seeing their own dead carried off by others, of seeing them stolen by their rivals. And that which the raid had failed to do was finally accomplished by their macabre fury, their mad pity; for every corpse, torn, truncated, rent asunder, ripped to pieces by a hundred eager hands, became the prey of ten or twenty demented creatures, who ran off, pursued by hordes of yelling people, hugging to their breasts the miserable remains which they had succeeded in rescuing from the fierce pity of their fellows. The wild affray spread from the cloisters and corridors of the Ospedale dei Pellegrini into the streets and alleys, and finally spent its fury in the cellars of the city's slums, where the people would at least find an outlet for their pity and love in tears and in the payment of their final homage to the mangled corpses of their dear ones.

*       *       *       *

The
cortege
had already vanished into the dark labyrinth of the alleys of Forcella, and by now the lamentations of the family mourners who followed in the wake of the death-cart were fading away in the distance. Negro soldiers glided along beside the walls or loitered in the doorways of the
bassi,
comparing the price of a girl with that of a packet of cigarettes or a tin of corned beef. The shadows were filled with whispers and hoarse voices and sighs, and the sound of stealthy footsteps. The moon lit up the edges of the roofs and the railings of the balconies with its silvery beams, though it was still too low to illuminate the depths of the alleys. Jimmy and I walked in silence through the dense and fetid gloom until we arrived outside a half-closed door. Pushing it open, we halted in the entrance.

The interior of the hovel was illuminated by the blinding white light of an acetylene lamp which lay on the marble top of a chest of drawers. Two girls, clad in gleaming, gaudily-coloured silk, stood before the little table which was in the middle of the room. On the table lay a heap of what appeared at first glance to be wigs of every size and shape. They consisted of tufts of fair hair, carefully combed. Whether they were made of flax or of silk or actually of women's hair I cannot say. Each had a large satin eyelet in the middle, to which the hair was fastened. And some of the "wigs" were golden in colour, some ash-blonde, some rust-coloured, some of that fiery hue known as titian; and some were curly, others wavy, others yet adorned with ringlets, like the hair of a little girl. The girls were carrying on a lively discussion, uttering shrill cries, and as they talked they stroked those strange "wigs," passing them from one hand to the other.

They were a comely pair, those two girls. The darkness of their complexions was concealed beneath a thick layer of paint and snow-white powder, which made their faces stand out in relief against their necks, like chalk masks. Their hair was curly and lustrous, and of a yellowish colour which indicated the use of peroxide, but its roots, which could be glimpsed beneath the tinsel of the false gold, were black, as also were their eyebrows. Black too was the down which was visible here and there on their faces. Grey under the sprinkling of powder, it was thicker and darker on the upper lip and continued thus along the jawbone as far as the ears, at which point it suddenly assumed the colour of flax, blending with the false gold of the hair. The girls' eyes were bright and very dark, and though their lips were naturally the colour of coral, the rouge if anything detracted from their blood-red sheen, giving them a dull appearance. They were laughing, and as we came in sight they turned, dropping their voices as if ashamed; and letting the "wigs" fall from their hands, they at once assumed an air of studied indifference, smoothing the creases in their dresses with the flat of their hands; and with modest gestures straightening their hair.

A man was standing behind the table. As soon as he saw us enter he leaned forward, resting his two hands on the table and bearing upon them with all the weight of his body, as if to shield his wares. At the same time he raised his eyebrow as a signal to a fat, dishevelled woman who was sitting on a chair before a rough stove on which a coffee-pot was bubbling. Rising in ponderous haste, the woman with a quick movement gathered the heap of "wigs" into the edge of her skirt, went swiftly over to the chest of drawers and put them away.

"Do you want me?" asked the man, turning to Jimmy.

"No," said Jimmy. "I want one of those things."

"That's for women," said the man. "Only for women. Not for gentlemen."

"Not for what?" said Jimmy.

"Not for you. You American officers. Not for American officers."

"Get those things out," said Jimmy.

The man looked hard at him for a moment, passing his hand over his mouth. He was a small, thin man, dressed entirely in black, with dark, unwavering eyes set in an ashen face. He said slowly: "I am an honest man. What do you want from me?"

"Those strange things," said Jimmy.

"These bastards!" said the man in Neapolitan dialect, never moving his eyes, as though he were talking to himself. "These bastards!" Smilingly he added: "Well, I'll show you. I like Americans (Bastards, the lot of them!) I'll show you."

Up to that moment I had not said a word. "How's your sister?" I asked him at that point in Italian.

The man looked at me, recognized my uniform and smiled. He seemed glad and reassured. "She's quite well, thank God, Captain," he answered, smiling with a confidential air, as much to say "You aren't an American, you are one of us, and you understand me. But these bastards!" And he nodded to the woman, who had remained standing with her back against the chest of drawers, in a defensive attitude.

The woman opened the drawer, took out the "wigs," and arranged them carefully on the table. She had a plump hand, which up to the wrist was a bright yellow, saffron colour.

Jimmy took one of the "strange things" and examined it closely.

"They aren't wigs," said Jimmy.

"No, they aren't wigs," said the man.

"What are they for?" asked Jimmy.

"They are for your negroes," said the man. "Your negroes like blondes, and Neapolitan girls are dark." He displayed four long silk ribbons stitched at one end to the edge of the red satin eyelet, then turned to one of the girls and added: "You show this bastard."

Shrinking back with a false show of modesty, the girl took the "wig" which the man offered her and held it close to her body. She laughed, and so did her companion.

Jimmy lifted the "wig" by the four ribbons and held it against himself.

"I don't see what it can be for," said Jimmy, while the two girls laughed, pressing their hands to their lips.