Smoke and mist Argentine ants

Author: None
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-08-01
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 quiet, but at night it is troubled by a noise that I later understood: intermittent bursts of loudspeaker sound, as if demanding attention but indistinct. If I had fallen asleep then, I would have been woken up by that sound, mistaking myself for being on a train. Because the timbre and rhythm of the sound were exactly the same as the loudspeaker announcements heard by drowsy passengers at a train station. I strain my ears to listen and finally make out the words: "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 orders from the counter to the chefs, and the conversations of the customers, sometimes mixed with singing, also come through that 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 or cups and dishes. The laughter of the customers reaches my bed, as if passing through a mist, losing its original joy and color, becoming blurred. Only the low nasal voice from the megaphone is still recognizable: "Are the french fries and dumplings ready?" The Umberto Rattazzi tavern closes around 2:30 AM. The waiters, each rolling up the collar of their work uniforms to keep warm, enter the courtyard from the kitchen door, chatting as they leave. Around 3:00 AM, a series of metal bucket collisions are heard in 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 floors, preparing to welcome a new day. During the intervals of various tasks, from Miss Margaret's dark room come, mixed with laughter, as if the voice of the same woman is disguised, answering back and forth. Miss Margaret is deaf and cannot distinguish whether she is meditating silently 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 or making faces at the mirror, or sitting in a chair, staring ahead, telling herself stories. The moment 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.