_THE RETURN OF TURLENDANA_
The group was walking along the seashore. Down the hills and over the
country Spring was coming again. The humble strip of land bordering the
sea was already green; the various fields were quite distinctly marked
by the springing vegetation, and every mound was crowned with budding
trees. The north wind shook these trees, and its breath caused many
flowers to fall. At a short distance the heights seemed to be covered
with a colour between pink and violet; for an instant the view seemed
to tremble and grow pale like a ripple veiling the clear surface of a
pool, or like a faded painting.
The sea stretched out its broad expanse serenely along the coast,
bathed by the moonlight, and toward the north taking on the hue of a
turquois of Persia, broken here and there by the darker tint of the
currents winding over its surface.
Turlendana, who had lost the recollection of these places through a
long absence, and who in his long peregrinations had forgotten the
sentiments of his native land, was striding along with the tired,
regular step of haste, looking neither backward nor around him.
When the camel would stop at a tuft of wild grass, Turlendana would
utter a brief, hoarse cry of incitement. The huge reddish quadruped
would slowly raise his head, chewing the morsel heavily between his
jaws.
“Hu, Barbara!”
The she-ass, the little snowy white Susanna, protesting against the
tormenting of the monkey, from time to time would bray lamentingly,
asking to be freed of her rider.
But the restless Zavali gave her no peace; as though in a frenzy, with
quick, short gestures of wrath, she would run over the back of the
beast, jump playfully on her head, get hold of her large ears; then
would lift her tail and shake the hairs, hold it up and look through
the hairs, scratch poor Susanna viciously with her nails, then lift
her hands to her mouth and move her jaws as though chewing, grimacing
frightfully as she did so. Then suddenly, she would jump back to her
seat, holding in her hands her foot, twisted like the root of a bush,
and sit with her orange coloured eyes, filled with wonder and stupor,
fixed on the sea, while wrinkles would appear on her head, and her thin
pinkish ears would tremble nervously. Without warning she would make a
malicious gesture, and recommence her play.
“Hu, Barbara!”
The camel heard and started to walk again.
When the group reached the willow tree woods, at the mouth of the River
Pescara, figures could be seen upon its right bank, above the masts of
the ships anchored in the docks of Bandiera. Turlendana stopped to get
a drink of water from the river.
The river of his native place carried to him the peaceful air of the
sea. Its banks, covered with fluvial plains, lay stretched out as
though resting from their recent work of fecundity. The silence was
profound. The cobwebs shone tranquilly in the sun like mirrors framed
by the crystal of the sea. The seaweed bent in the wind, showing its
green or white sides.
“Pescara!” said Turlendana, with an accent of curiosity and
recognition, stopping still to look at the view.
Then, going down to the shore where the gravel was clean, he kneeled
down to drink, carrying the water to his mouth in his curled up palm.
The camel, bending his long neck, drank with slow, regular draughts.
The she-ass, too, drank from the stream, while the monkey, imitating
the man, made a cup of her hands, which were violet coloured like
unripe India figs.
“Hu, Barbara!” The camel heard and ceased to drink. The water dripped
unheeded from his mouth onto his chest; his white gums and yellowish
teeth showed between his open lips.
Through the path marked across the wood by the people of the sea,
the little group proceeded on its way. The sun was setting when they
reached the Arsenale of Rampigna. Turlendana asked of a sailor who was
walking beside the brick parapet:
“Is that Pescara?”
The sailor, astonished at the sight of the strange beasts, answered
Turlendana’s question:
“It is that,” and left his work to follow the stranger.
The sailor was soon joined by others. Soon a crowd of curious people
had gathered and were following Turlendana, who went calmly on his
way, unmindful of the comments of the people. When they reached the
boat-bridge, the camel refused to pass over.
“Hu, Barbara! Hu, hu!” Turlendana cried impatiently, urging him on, and
shaking the rope of the halter by which he led the animal. But Barbara
obstinately lay down upon the ground, and stretched his head out in the
dust very comfortable, showing no intention of moving.
The people jesting gathered about, having overcome their first
amazement, and cried in a chorus:
“Barbara! Barbara!”
As they were somewhat familiar with monkeys, having seen some which
the sailors had brought home, together with parrots, from their long
cruises, they were teasing Zavali in a thousand different ways, handing
her large greenish almonds, which the monkey would open, gluttonously
devouring the sweet fresh meat.
After much urging and persistent shouting, Turlendana succeeded
in conquering the stubbornness of the camel, and that enormous
architecture of bones and skin rose staggering to his feet in the midst
of the instigating crowd.
From all directions soldiers and sailors flocked over the boat bridge
to witness the spectacle. Far behind the mountain of Gran Sasso the
setting sun irradiated the spring sky with a vivid rosy light, and
from the damp earth, the water of the river, the seas, and the ponds,
the moisture had arisen. A rosy glow tinted the houses, the sails,
the masts, the plants, and the whole landscape, and the figures of the
people, acquiring a sort of transparency, grew obscure, the lines of
their contour wavering in the fading light.
Under the weight of the caravan the bridge creaked on its tar-smeared
boats like a very large floating lighter. Turlendana, halting in the
middle of the bridge, brought the camel also to a stop; stretching
high above the heads of the crowd, it stood breathing against the wind,
slowly moving its head like a fictitious serpent covered with hair.
The name of the beast had spread among the curious people, and all of
them, from an innate love of sensation, and filled with the exuberance
of spirits inspired by the sweetness of the sunset and the season of
the year, cried out gleefully:
“Barbara! Barbara!” At the sound of this applauding cry and the
well-meant clamour of the crowd, Turlendana, who was leaning against
the chest of his camel, felt a kindly emotion of satisfaction spring up
in his heart.
The she-ass suddenly began to bray with such high and discordant
variety of notes, and with such sighing passion that a spontaneous
burst of merriment ran through the crowd.
The fresh, happy laughter spread from one end of the bridge to the
other like the roar of water falling over the stones of a cataract.
Then Turlendana, unknown to any of the crowd, began to make his way
through the throng. When he was outside the gates of the city, where
the women carrying reed baskets were selling fresh fish, Binchi-Banche,
a little man with a yellow face, drawn up like a juiceless lemon,
pushed to the front, and as was his custom with all strangers who
happened to come to the place, offered his services in finding a
lodging.
Pointing to Barbara, he asked first:
“Is he ferocious?”
Turlendana, smiling, answered, “No.”
“Well,” Binchi-Banche went on, reassured, “there is the house of
Rosa Schiavona.” Both turned towards the Pescaria, and then towards
Sant’ Agostino, followed by the crowd. From windows and balconies
women and children leaned over, gazing in astonishment at the passing
camel, admiring the grace of the white ass, and laughing at the comic
performances of Zavali.
At one place, Barbara, seeing a bit of green hanging from a low loggia,
stretched out his neck and, grasping it with his lips, tore it down.
A cry of terror broke forth from the women who were leaning over the
loggia, and the cry spread to other loggias. The people from the river
laughed loudly, crying out, as though it were the carnival season and
they were behind masks:
“Hurrah! Hurrah!”
They were intoxicated by the novelty of the spectacle, and by the
invigourating spring air. In front of the house of Rosa Schiavona, in
the neighbourhood of Portasale, Binchi-Banche made a sign to stop.
“This is the place,” he said.
It was a very humble one-story house with one row of windows, and the
lower walls were covered with inscriptions and ugly figures. A row of
bats pinned on the arch formed an ornament, and a lantern covered with
reddish paper hung under the window.
This place was the abode of a sort of adventurous, roving people. They
slept mixed together, the big and corpulent truckman, Letto Manoppello,
the gipsies of Sulmona, horse-traders, boiler-menders, turners of
Bucchianico, women of the city of Sant’ Angelo, women of wicked
lives, the bag-pipers of Atina, mountaineers, bear-tamers, charlatans,
pretended mendicants, thieves, and fortune-tellers. Binchi-Banche acted
as a go-between for all that rabble, and was a great protégé of the
house of Rosa Schiavona.
When the latter heard the noise of the newcomers, she came out upon the
threshold. She looked like a being generated by a dwarf and a sow. Very
diffidently she put the question:
“What is the matter?”
“There is a fellow here who wants lodging for his beasts, Donna Rosa.”
“How many beasts?”
“Three, as you see, Donna Rosa—a monkey, an ass, and a camel.”
The crowd was paying no attention to the dialogue. Some of them were
exciting Zavali, others were feeling of Barbara’s legs, commenting
on the callous spots on his knees and chest. Two guards of the salt
store-houses, who had travelled to the sea-ports of Asia Minor, were
telling in a loud voice of the wonderful properties of the camel,
talking confusedly of having seen some of them dancing, while carrying
upon their necks a lot of half-naked musicians and women of the Orient.
The listeners, greedy to hear these marvellous tales, cried:
“Tell us some more! Tell us some more!” They stood around the
story-tellers in attentive silence, listening with dilated eyes.
Then one of the guards, an old man whose eyelids were drawn up by the
wind of the sea, began to tell of the Asiatic countries, and as he went
on, his imagination became excited by the stories which he told, and
his tales grew more wonderful.
A sort of mysterious softness seemed to penetrate the sunset. In the
minds of the listeners, the lands which were described to them rose
vividly before their imaginations in all their strange splendour.
Across the arch of the Porta, which was already in shadow, could be
seen boats loaded with salt rocking upon the river, the salt seeming to
absorb all the light of the evening, giving the boats the appearance of
palaces of precious crystals. Through the greenish tinted heavens rose
the crescent of the moon.
“Tell us some more! Tell us some more!” the younger of those assembled
were crying.
In the meanwhile Turlendana had put his beasts under cover and
supplied them with food. This being done, he had again set forth with
Binchi-Banche, while the people remained gathered about the door of the
barn where the head of the camel appeared and disappeared behind the
rock gratings.
On the way Turlendana asked:
“Are there any drinking places here?”
Binchi-Banche answered promptly:
“Yes, sir, there are.” Then, lifting his big black hands he counted off
on his fingers:
“The Inn of Speranza, the Inn of Buono, the Inn of Assau, the Inn of
Zarricante, the Inn of the Blind Woman of Turlendana....”
“Ah!” exclaimed the other calmly.
Binchi-Banche raised his big, sharp, greenish eyes.
“You have been here before, sir?”
Then, with the native loquacity of the Pescarese he went on without
waiting for an answer:
“The Inn of the Blind Woman is large, and they sell there the
best wine. The so-called Blind Woman is a woman who has had four
husbands....”
He stopped to laugh, his yellowish face wrinkling into little folds as
he did so.
“The first husband was Turlendana, a sailor on board the ships of the
King of Naples, sailing from India to France, to Spain, and even as
far as America. He was lost at sea, no one knows where, for the ship
disappeared and nothing has ever been heard from it since. That was
about thirty years ago. Turlendana had the strength of Samson; he could
pull up an anchor with one finger ... poor fellow! He who goes to sea
is apt to have such an end.”
Turlendana was listening quietly.
“The second husband, whom she married after five years of widowhood,
was from Ortona, a son of Ferrante, a damned soul, who was in
conspiracy with smugglers in Napoleon’s time, during the war with
England. They smuggled goods from Francavilla up to Silvi and
Montesilvano—sugar and coffee from the English boats. In the
neighbourhood of Silvi was a tower called ‘The Tower of Saracini,’ from
which the signals were given. As the patrol passed, ‘Plon, plon, plon,
plon!’ came out from behind the trees....” Binchi-Banche’s face lighted
up at the recollection of those times, and he quite lost himself in the
pleasure of describing minutely all those clandestine operations, his
expressive gestures and exclamations adding interest to the tale.
His small body would draw up and stretch out to its full height as he
proceeded.
“At last the son of Ferrante was, while walking along the coast one
night, shot in the back by a soldier of Murat, and killed.
“The third husband was Titino Passacantando, who died in his bed of a
pernicious disease.
“The fourth still lives, and is called Verdura, a good fellow who does
not adulterate the wine of the inn. Now, you will have a chance to try
some.”
When they reached the much praised inn, they separated.
“Good night, sir!”
“Good night!”
Turlendana entered unconcernedly, unmindful of the curious attention of
the drinkers sitting beside the long tables. Having asked for something
to eat, he was conducted to an upper room where the tables were set
ready for supper.
None of the regular boarders of the place were yet in the room.
Turlendana sat down and began to eat, taking great mouthfuls without
pausing, his head bent over his plate, like a famished person. He was
almost wholly bald, a deep red scar furrowed his face from forehead to
cheek, his thick greyish beard extended to his protruding cheek bones,
his skin, dark, dried, rough, worn by water and sun and wrinkled by
pain, seemed not to preserve any human semblance, his eyes stared into
the distance as if petrified by impassivity.
Verdura, inquisitive, sat opposite him, staring at the stranger. He
was somewhat flushed, his face was of a reddish colour veined with
vermilion like the gall of oxen. At last he cried:
“Where do you come from?”
Turlendana, without raising his head, replied simply:
“I come from far away.”
“And where do you go?” pursued Verdura.
“I remain here.”
Verdura, amazed, was silent.
Turlendana continued to lift the fishes from his plate, one after
another, taking off their heads and tails, and devouring them, chewing
them up, bones and all. After every two or three fishes he drank a
draught of wine.
“Do you know anybody here?” Verdura asked with eager curiosity.
“Perhaps,” replied the other laconically.
Baffled by the brevity of his interlocutor, the wine man grew silent
again. Above the uproar of the drinkers below, Turlendana’s slow and
laboured mastication could be heard. Presently Verdura again Ventured
to open his mouth.
“In what countries is the camel found? Are those two humps natural? Can
such a great, strong beast ever be tamed?”
Turlendana allowed him to go on without replying.
“Your name, Mister?”
The man to whom this question was put raised his head from his plate,
and answered simply, as before:
“I am called Turlendana.”
“What?”
“Turlendana.”
“Ah!”
The amazement of the inn keeper was unbounded. A sort of a vague terror
shook his innermost soul.
“What? Turlendana of this place?”
“Of this place.”
Verdura’s big azure eyes dilated as he stared at the man.
“Then you are not dead?”
“No, I am not dead.”
“Then you are the husband of Rosalba Catena?”
“I am the husband of Rosalba Catena.”
“And now,” exclaimed Verdura, with a gesture of perplexity, “we are two
husbands!”
“We are two!”
They remained silent for an instant. Turlendana was chewing the last
bit of bread tranquilly, and through the quiet room you could hear his
teeth crunching on it. Either from a natural benignant simplicity or
from a glorious fatuity, Verdura was struck only by the singularity
of the case. A sudden impulse of merriment overtook him, bubbling out
spontaneously:
“Let us go to Rosalba! Let us go! Let us go!”
Taking the newcomer by the arm, he conducted him through the group of
drinkers, waving his arms, and crying out:
“Here is Turlendana, Turlendana the sailor! The husband of my wife!
Turlendana, who is not dead! Here is Turlendana! Here is Turlendana!”