Smoke and Mist (Argentine Ants)

Author: Italo Calvino (Italy)
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. But what is this inner peace? I toss and turn unable to sleep. This room seems quiet, but at night it is troubled by a noise that I later understood: intermittent bursts of loudspeaker sound, as if to attract attention but unclear. 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 the train station. I listen carefully and then hear clearly, "Two dumplings, one with sauce, one roasted 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 anyone get drunk late at night, knocking over tables and chairs or breaking cups and things. 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 a.m. The waiters all pull up the collars of their work uniforms to keep warm, enter the courtyard from the kitchen door, and leave chatting. Around 3 a.m., a series of metal drum collisions come from the courtyard, as the kitchen assistants drag heavy empty beer barrels out, dragging them sideways or letting them roll on the ground, then they need to be washed. They must be hourly workers, working unhurriedly and carelessly, whistling while kicking the barrels, and making a fuss until 5 a.m. At 6 a.m., the beer delivery truck arrives, bringing full barrels and taking away empty ones. At this time, the cleaning staff in the Umberto Rattazzi tavern begin their work, sweeping and mopping the floor, preparing to welcome a new day. During the intervals of various tasks, from Miss Margaret's dark room come, mixed with laughter, as if it were the voice of the same woman disguised, answering back and forth. Miss Margaret is deaf and cannot distinguish whether she is meditating silently or speaking loudly. Whether it is day or night, as soon as she gets lost 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 she doesn't hear, I have to enter her line of sight so she can realize my presence), I often find her smiling or making faces at the mirror, or sitting in a chair, staring forward, 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 didn't realize that her words were being overheard.