Numbers in the Dark and Other Stories - Italo Calvino [22]
Colonel Clelio Leontuomini had to admit he was lost. He leaned down from his horse toward a passer-by and asked:
‘Excuse me, but do you know the shortest way to the main square?’
The passer-by, a small fellow with glasses, stood for a moment in thought:
It's complicated; but if you let me show you the way I'll take you through a courtyard into another street and you'll save at least a quarter of an hour.’
‘Will the whole regiment be able to get through this courtyard?’ the colonel asked.
The man shot them a glance and made a hesitant gesture:
‘We-ell! We can try?’ and he led them through a big door.
Lined up behind the rusty railings of the balconies, all the families in the building leaned out to look at the regiment trying to get into their courtyard with their horses and artillery.
‘Where's the door we go out through?’ the colonel asked the small fellow.
‘Door?’ the man asked. ‘Perhaps I wasn't very clear. You have to climb to the top floor, from there you get through to the stairs in the next building and their door goes through to the other street.’
The colonel wanted to stay on his horse even up those narrow stairs, but after two landings he decided to leave the animal tied to the banister and proceed on foot. The cannons too, they decided, would have to be left in the courtyard where a cobbler promised he would keep an eye on them. The soldiers went up in single file and at every landing doors opened and children shouted:
‘Mummy! Come and look. The soldiers are going by! The regiment is on parade!’
On the fifth floor, to get from this staircase to another secondary one that led to the attic, they had to walk outside along the balcony. Every window gave on bare rooms with lots of pallet beds where whole families full of children lived.
‘Come in, come in,’ said the dads and mums to the soldiers. ‘Rest a while, you must be tired! Come through here, it's shorter! But leave your rifles outside; there are kids here, you understand…’
So the regiment broke up along the passageways and corridors. And in the confusion, the small fellow who knew the way could no longer be found.
Came the evening and still companies and platoons were wandering through stairways and balconies. At the top, perched on the roof coping, was Colonel Leontuomini. He could see the city spread beneath him, spacious and sharp, with its chequer-board of streets and big empty piazza. Beside him, on their hands and knees on the tiles, were a squadron of men, armed with coloured flags, flare pistols and drapes with flashes of colour.
‘Transmit,’ said the colonel. ‘Quick, transmit: Area impracticable … Unable to proceed… Awaiting orders …’
Enemy Eyes
Pietro was walking along that morning, when he became aware that something was bothering him. He'd had the feeling for a while, without really being aware of it: the feeling that someone was behind him, someone was watching him, unseen.
He turned his head suddenly; he was in a street a little off the beaten track, with hedges by the gates and wooden fences covered with torn posters. Hardly anybody was around; Pietro was immediately annoyed that he had given way to that stupid impulse to turn round; and he went on, determined to pick up the broken thread of his thoughts.
It was an autumn morning with a little sunshine; hardly a day to make you jump for joy, but not one to tug the heartstrings either. Yet in spite of himself that uneasiness continued to weigh him down; sometimes it seemed it was concentrated on the back of his neck, on his shoulders, like eyes that never let him out of sight, like the approach of a somehow hostile presence.
To overcome his nervousness, he felt he needed people around him: he went towards a busier street, but again, at the corner, he turned and looked back. A cyclist went by, a woman crossed the road, but he couldn't find any connection between the people and things round about and the anxiety eating into him. Turning round, his eyes had met those of a man who was