Smoke and Mist. Argentine Ants

Author: Italo Calvino
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-09-01
Features: About his life, Calvino wrote, "I still belong to those who, like Croce, believe that only a writer's works have value, so I am not providing biographical information. I will tell you what you want to know, but I will never tell you the truth." I am willing to let everything around me be temporary, only then can I feel at peace in my heart. So what is this inner peace? I toss and turn unable to sleep. This room seems very quiet, but at night it is troubled by a noise that I later understood: intermittent bursts of loudspeaker sounds, as if to attract attention but indistinct. If I had fallen asleep then, I would have been woken up by the sound, confused and thinking I was on a train. Because the timbre and rhythm of the sound were exactly the same as the loudspeaker sounds heard by drowsy passengers at a train station. I listened intently and finally made out the words: "Two dumplings, one with sauce, one roast beef, one pork rib." Below my room is the kitchen of the Umberto Rattazzi tavern, where dishes are often cooked after midnight. Waiters use walkie-talkies to convey customers' orders from the counter to the chefs, and the conversations of the customers are sometimes mixed with singing, also passing through that information channel. The food there is quite good, a bit expensive, and the regular customers are not vulgar. It's rare to hear someone drunk and rowdy late at night, knocking over tables and chairs or breaking cups and the like. The laughter of the customers reaches my bed, as if passing through a layer of mist, losing its original joy and color, becoming blurred. Only the low nasal voice from the megaphone is faintly recognizable: "Is the plate of French fries with dumplings ready?" The Umberto Rattazzi tavern closes around 2:30 AM. The waiters, each turning up the collars of their aprons to keep warm, enter the courtyard from the kitchen door, chatting as they leave. Around 3:00 AM, a series of clanking sounds of metal buckets hitting each other come from the courtyard. That's the kitchen assistant dragging heavy empty beer barrels out, dragging them sideways or letting them roll on the ground, then cleaning them; they must be hourly workers, working unhurriedly and carelessly, whistling while kicking the barrels, until 5:00 AM. At 6:00 AM, the beer delivery truck arrives, bringing full barrels and taking away empty ones. At this time, the sound of the cleaners working in the Umberto Rattazzi tavern can be heard, they have already started sweeping and mopping the floor, preparing to welcome a new day. In the intervals between various tasks, from Miss Margaret's dark room come, mixed with laughter, as if it were the voice of the same woman pretending to be different people, answering back and forth. Miss Margaret is deaf and cannot distinguish whether she is silently reflecting or speaking loudly. Whether it's day or night, as long as she is immersed in some thought, recalling happy or sad memories, she can't help but start talking to herself, imitating the voices of various people. Fortunately, her monologues are brief and incomprehensible to others. However, this makes me feel as if I have touched her privacy, and my heart is uneasy. In the morning, when I go to the kitchen to get hot water to shave (knocking on the door doesn't work, I must enter her line of sight so she can recognize my presence), I often find her smiling at her reflection in the mirror or making faces, or sitting in a chair, staring ahead, telling herself stories. As soon as she notices me, she pretends to say, "Ah, I'm talking to the cat!" or "Sorry, I didn't see you, I was praying!" (she is a devout Christian)! But she doesn't realize that her words are being overheard.