Smoke and Mist · Argentine Ants

Author: (Italian) Italo Calvino
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-09-01
Features: About his life, Calvino wrote, "I still belong to those like Croce who 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 loudspeaker announcements, as if urging people to pay attention but the words were unclear. If I had fallen asleep then, I would have been woken up by the sound, mistaking myself for being on a train. The timbre and rhythm of the sound were exactly like the announcements heard by drowsy passengers at a train station. I strained to listen and finally made 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 relay orders from the counter to the chefs, and the conversations of the customers are sometimes mixed with singing, filtering through that same channel. The food there is quite good, a bit expensive, and the regulars are not vulgar; rarely do I hear anyone get drunk late at night, knocking over tables or cups and glasses. 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 could be faintly discerned: "Are the French fries and dumplings ready?" The Umberto Rattazzi tavern closes around 2:30 AM. The waiters, each pulling up the collar of their aprons to keep warm, enter the courtyard from the kitchen door, chatting as they leave. Around 3:00 AM, the sound of metal buckets colliding comes from the courtyard. That's the kitchen assistant dragging heavy empty beer barrels out, either tilting them or letting them roll on the ground, then cleaning them. They must be hourly workers, working unhurriedly and carelessly, whistling as they kick the barrels, until 5:00 AM. At 6:00 AM, the beer delivery truck arrives, bringing full barrels and taking away empty ones. Meanwhile, the cleaning staff in the Umberto Rattazzi tavern begin their work, sweeping and mopping the floors, preparing for the new day. During the intervals between various tasks, from Miss Margaret's dark room come, interspersed with laughter, as if coming from the same woman pretending to be different people, answering herself. Miss Margaret is deaf and cannot distinguish between silent contemplation and loud speech. Whether day or night, as soon as she gets lost in thought, recalling happy or sad memories, she cannot help but start talking to herself, mimicking the voices of others. Fortunately, her monologues are brief and incomprehensible to others. However, this makes me feel as if I have touched her privacy, leaving me uneasy. In the morning, when I go to the kitchen for 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)—though she doesn't realize that her words are being overheard.