"Dead, is he? What a pity."
"Yes; and what a nuisance. I promised to send him down some things by
the next man I came across. You would have been that man. I know you do
not carry much luggage, but you could have taken one or two trifles at
least. He wanted a respectable English telescope, I remember, to see the
stars with - a bit of an astronomer, you know. Chutney, too - devilish
fond of chutney, the old boy was; quite a gastro-maniac. What a
nuisance! Now he will be thinking I forgot all about it. And he needed a
clothes-press; I was on no account to forget that clothes-press. Rather
fussy about his trousers, he was. And a type-writer; just an ordinary
one. But I doubt whether you could have managed a type-writer."
"Easily. And a bee-hive or two. You know how I like carrying little
parcels about for other people's friends. What a nuisance! Now I shall
have to travel with my bags half empty."
"Don't blame me, my dear fellow. I did not tell him to die, did I?"....
It must have been about midnight as the train steamed into Levanto
station. Snow was falling; you could hear the moan of the sea hard by;
an icy wind blew down from the mountains.
Sunshine all the time!
Everybody scurried off the platform. A venerable porter, after looking
in dubious fashion at my two handbags, declared he would return in a few
moments to transport them to the hotel, and therewith vanished round the
corner. The train moved on. Lamps were extinguished. Time passed. I
strode up and down in the semi-darkness, trying to keep warm and
determined, whatever happened, not to carry those wretched bags myself,
when suddenly a figure rose out of the gloom - a military figure of
youthful aspect and diminutive size, armed to the teeth.
"A cold night," I ventured.
"Do you know, Sir, that you are in the war-zone - the zona di difesa?"
He began to fumble at his rifle in ominous fashion.
Nice, kindly people!
I said:
"It is hard to die so young. And I particularly dislike the looks of
that bayonet, which is half a yard longer than it need be. But if you
want to shoot me, go ahead. Do it now. It is too cold to argue."
"Your papers! Ha, a foreigner. Hotel Nazionale? Very good. To-morrow
morning you will report yourself to the captain of the carbineers. After
that, to the municipality. Thereupon you will take the afternoon train
to Spezia. When you have been examined by the police inspector at the
station you will be accompanied, if he sees fit, to head-quarters in
order that your passport may be investigated. From there you will
proceed to the Prefecture for certain other formalities which will be
explained to you. Perhaps - who knows? - they will allow you to return to
Levanto."
"How can you expect me to remember all that?" Then I added: "You are a
Sicilian, I take it. And from Catania."
He was rather surprised. Sicilians, because they learn good Italian at
their schools, think themselves indistinguishable from other men.
Yes; he explained. He was from a certain place in the Catania part of
the country, on the slopes of Etna.
I happened to know a good deal of that place from an old she-cook of
mine who was born there and never wearied of telling me about it. To his
still greater surprise, therefore, I proceeded to discourse learnedly
about that region, extolling its natural beauties and healthy climate,
reminding him that it was the birthplace of a man celebrated in
antiquity (was it Diodorus Siculus?) and hinting, none too vaguely, that
he would doubtless live up to the traditions of so celebrated a spot.
Straightway his manner changed. There is nothing these folks love more
than to hear from foreign lips some praise of their native town or
village. He waxed communicative and even friendly; his eyes began to
sparkle with animation, and there we might have stood conversing till
sunrise had I not felt that glacial wind searching my garments, chilling
my humanity and arresting all generous impulses. Rather abruptly I bade
farewell to the cheery little reptile and snatched up my bags to go to
the hotel, which he said was only five minutes' walk from there.
Things turned out exactly as he had predicted. Arrived at Spezia,
however, I found an unpleasant surprise awaiting me. The officer in
command, who was as civil as the majority of such be-medalled jackasses,
suggested that one single day would be quite sufficient for me to see
the sights of Levanto; I could then proceed to Pisa or anywhere else
outside his priceless "zone of defence." I pleaded vigorously for more
time. After all, we were allies, were we not? Finally, a sojourn of
seven days was granted for reasons of health. Only seven days: how
tiresome! From the paper which gave me this authorisation and contained
a full account of my personal appearance I learnt, among other less
flattering details, that my complexion was held to be "natural." It was
a drop of sweetness in the bitter cup.
No butter for breakfast.
The landlord, on being summoned, avowed that to serve crude butter on
his premises involved a flagrant breach of war-time regulations. The
condiment could not be used save for kitchen purposes, and then only on
certain days of the week; he was liable to heavy penalties if it became
known that one of his guests.... However, since he assumed me to be a
prudent person, he would undertake to supply a due allowance to-morrow
and thenceforward, though never in the public dining-room; never, never
in the dining-room!
That is the charm of Italy, I said to myself. These folks are reasonable
and gifted with imagination. They make laws to shadow forth an ideal
state of things and to display their good intentions towards the
community at large; laws which have no sting for the exceptional type of
man who can evade them - the sage, the millionaire, and the "friend of
the family." Never in the dining-room.
