Tales of Madness (23 page)

All this fussy care turned his stomach. He felt that he was being treated this way to stop him from venting his feelings.

Could he ever complain before those three pairs of eyes melting with pity, or those three pairs of hands so anxious to minister to him?

And yet he felt the need to complain a lot, and about so many things! All he had to do was turn his head in any direction to find a reason for complaint which they could not even have imagined. For instance, that massive old kitchen table where they ate was hardly useful to him any more since he had been put on a bread and milk diet. And yet how that massive table smelled of fresh raw meat and beautiful dried onions with their golden skins! But could he reproach his daughters, who had no restrictions of diet, for eating the meat which their mother prepared so deliciously with those onions? Or could he reproach them for doing the laundry at home to save money, and then throwing the soapy, stinking water outside, thus depriving him of that breath of fresh air from the vegetable gardens which he enjoyed so much in the evenings?

Who knows how unjust such a reproach would have seemed to them who slaved from morning to night, always cooped up in there like prisoners, and perhaps never aware that, in other circumstances, each of them might have led a different sort of life?

Fortunately, his daughters were a bit slow-witted, like their mother. He pitied them, but even the pity he felt in seeing them reduced to a couple of old dust cloths, turned into bitter vexation.

Yes, he was bad. But he was also desperate, because he felt that before long he would probably be confined to a wheelchair, partially paralyzed and demented, and under the care of those three annoying women who gave him the urge to run away like a madman, now that there was still time.

Sure enough, that evening, madness, before entering his head, suddenly rushed to his hands and to one of his feet. It prompted him to place his foot on the step of the milkman's cart which stood there by chance at the corner of his street, and to grab hold of the seat and the shaft with both hands.

What? Him, Mr. Bareggi, a serious, sedate, respectable man, on the milkman's cart?

Yes. The impulse came to him on the spur of the moment when he spotted the milkman's cart through the fog, as he turned off the avenue onto his street. His nostrils had picked up the fresh smell of hay fermenting in the feedbag, and the goaty odor of the milkman's coat thrown upon the seat, both of which had suddenly reminded him of the countryside — far, far away, beyond the Nomentine gate, beyond Casal dei Pazzi—immense, self-forgetful, and liberating.

The horse, craning its neck and snatching the grass which grew freely at the roadside, must have wandered a step at a time away from the three small houses at the end of the street. The milkman was tarrying to chat with the women, as he habitually did at each of his stops, certain that his trusty horse would be waiting for him patiently in front of the door. But now, if he were to come out with the empty jugs and not find his horse, he would probably start running about, screaming and shouting. Therefore, Bareggi had to be quick. Excited by that sudden surge of madness which flashed from his eyes, he panted and quivered all over with pleasure and fear. At this point he did not stop to think what would happen to himself or to the milkman and the women on his route. In the confusion of thoughts already whirling through his troubled mind, he lifted the whip, gave the horse a mighty lash, and off they went!

Wasn't anyone running up to stop it, or coming out to call for help? Yet in the dark, that cart in flight must have seemed like a storm with all those containers bouncing around and clashing into one another. But perhaps there were no longer any people on the road, or else he was not hearing their shouts above the din. Meanwhile, the fog kept him from even seeing the electric streetlights which must have already been turned on.

In his desperate attempt to take hold of the seat with both his hands, he had even thrown away the whip. Aha, not only he, but the horse too, must have gone mad, either because it had never received such a powerful lash, or because it was glad that the route had ended so early that evening, or because it no longer felt bound by the reins! It neighed and neighed. Meanwhile, Mr. Bareggi became terrified as he saw the furious thrust of its flanks in a race that, at every lunge, seemed to acquire increased vigor.

At a certain point, when the thought flashed through his mind that he might crash into something at the turn of the road, he tried to stretch out his arm to retrieve the reins, but in the process was thrown off balance and jostled about. He bumped his nose against something or other and ended up with a bloody nose and a great deal of blood on his mouth, chin, and hand. He was unable to care for the wound he realized he had received,
having neither the time nor the means to do so. His only concern
was to brace himself firmly with both hands. Blood before and milk behind! Oh, God, how the milk swished and sloshed about in those cans and jugs, and splattered all over his back! Although fear gripped his innermost being, Mr. Bareggi laughed at that fear. He instinctively dismissed the idea of an imminent catastrophe — howsoever clearly it appeared to him — replacing it with the thought that, after all, this was nothing more than a fine prank, a prank he had wanted to play, and one that he would tell everyone about tomorrow. He laughed and laughed, as he desperately tried to recall the peaceful image of the farmer who watered his garden beyond the hedge on his street, as he had seen him every evening from his little balcony. He also thought of funny things. He thought, for instance, of the peasants whose old clothes are covered with patches which seem expressly chosen to proclaim their poverty, a poverty, however, rendered as cheerful as a flag, displayed there on their buttocks, elbows, and knees. Meanwhile, beneath these peaceful and amusing thoughts, there loomed a terrifying thought, one which was no less vivid than any of the others, namely, that of crashing, overturning, and ending up in a pile of wreckage. They flew across the Nomentine Bridge. They flew past Casal dei Pazzi, and away, away they went into the open countryside, already somewhat visible through the fog.

When the horse finally came to a halt in front of a small farmhouse, its cart battered and without a single can or jug left inside, it was already night.

Hearing the cart arrive at that unusual hour, the milkman's wife called out from the farmhouse. But no one answered. She then went out to her doorstep with an oil lamp, and saw the wreck. Again she called out, this time pronouncing her husband's name. But where was he? What had happened?

Of course, these were questions which the horse, still panting and happy after its marvelous gallop, could not answer.

Snorting and stamping, its eyes bloodshot, it only shook its head briskly.

She puffed and angrily shook her head.

Certain evenings, as she was undressing for bed, if she but thought of those things, or if their image would suddenly pop up in her mind, the anger and disgust she felt would increase so greatly that she would have liked to hurl her small shoes against the white lacquer wardrobe with its three mirrors, where she could see all of herself, half-naked as she was and with one leg flung somewhat indecently over the other. She would feel like biting and scratching herself, or like weeping incessantly. Then she would feel the urge to laugh, and would laugh uncontrollably through her tears. And if she thought about drying those tears, she would start crying again. Perhaps she was just a fool. It puzzled her that such a natural thing should appear so strange to her.

Already possessing the promptness women have in realizing from a single glance that someone is interested in them, she would immediately lower her eyes whenever a man on the street would look at her.

A moment later she would use both hands to gather the material of that little blouse on both sides, and would stretch it downwards so that it clung to her erect breasts. Then she would go and stand in front of the mirror, taking delight in the promising curve of her hips as well.

"Oh, what a fantastically seductive young lady you are!" And she would burst into laughter.

She heard the tiny, cantankerous voice of her grandmother, who was in the hall of the little villa, calling her down for her English lesson.

To make her angry, her grandmother usually called her Dreina and not Dreetta, as she herself wanted to be called. Fine, she would come down, but only when it would finally occur to her grandmother to call her Dreetta, and not Dreina.

"Dreetta! Dreetta!"

"Here I am , Grandmother."

"Oh, goodness gracious! You're keeping your teacher waiting."

"I'm sorry, but I just now heard you calling."