Innocence. Julian Barnes

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СКАЧАТЬ me that nothing could be more obvious, and yet I didn’t see it at that time.’

      ‘I don’t know how to answer you,’ said Domenico hesitantly. ‘This is my only son, my respect for you has never changed, I’ve come not only to see you once again but to ask about the things that still confuse me.’

      Salvatore continued to stare fixedly at the sick man, and now it seemed to him that he looked, in his crumpled suit, more like a squab or a fledgling bird, with large nocturnal eyes, disturbingly blue, and a beaked nose. On top of a cupboard full of medicine bottles there were three photographs, one of a girl, one of a boy, one of a woman with both the girl and the boy. These were evidently the prisoner’s children, and Salvatore, who pondered a good deal about such things, felt sick at the thought of how the hunchback could have managed to beget them. The height of his own ambition, at the moment, was to dive into the irrigation tank in Mazzata from the topmost height of the containing wall. Now he was looking at a fully-grown man whose body was of no practical use to him whatever.

      A change of tone, much like a change of temperature, told him that the discussion was now about himself. It continued as though, by some curious fiction, he was not in the room at all, and in accordance with the same fiction he pretended not to listen. His school work was mentioned. This, though in a way reassuring, was bitterly disappointing, worthy of his mother and her friends, not worth travelling to Rome for. He was ready to say, or to have it said for him, that he had passed the first of his junior intermediate exams. His father made nothing of that, but, trembling with urgency, passed rapidly on. His hands, hanging down loosely between his knees, pressed themselves together to emphasize every point.

      ‘Of all the truths I’ve learned from you, Comrade, whether I’ve heard them with my own ears or whether I’ve read them, I’ve been interested most of all in what you’ve had to say about education. Through the upbringing of our children we can begin, even today, to build the society of the future. My son here is intelligent, but he will stay with me in Mazzata, I shan’t lose him to the cities. He will be an intellectual for the people of Mazzata. When he goes to the Liceo, I shall prevent his learning Latin. Latin is still what it has always been, the means by which one class can overawe and humiliate another. I shall go to see the school authorities and insist that he is taught simply and naturally, through question and answer.’

      When he paused, awaiting for words of approval, Gramsci said: ‘Let him learn Latin.’

      He was speaking now with increasing difficulty.

      ‘Let him learn Latin. I learnt it. Education should never be acquired easily. Skill in a trade doesn’t come without work and suffering, and after all, learning is a child’s trade.’

      Slavatore saw that his father was disconcerted, and although this was nothing new, he was sorry.

      ‘And science?’

      ‘Of course, if you’re certain you can distinguish it from witchcraft.’

      ‘Nino, in Turin you advised both of us to read Rousseau.’

      ‘Who were “both of us”?’

      ‘Myself and Luca Sannazzaro, you remember Luca?’

      ‘Don’t try to make me infallible,’ said Gramsci, ‘you can see I have enough trouble without that. In 1927, when they moved me from Ustica to Milan, I was allowed to plant a few seeds of chicory, and when they came up I had to decide whether to follow Rousseau and leave them to grow by the light of nature, or whether to interfere in the name of knowledge and authority. What I wanted was a decent head of chicory. It’s useless to be doctrinaire in such circumstances.’

      Shuffling himself round into a new position, he looked directly at Salvatore.

      ‘If your father won’t let you learn what you want to, what will you do?’

      ‘I don’t know, sir.’

      Gramsci began to tell, in his shadowy voice, stories of his own elder brother, who had been defiant as a child and as a gesture had taken the family cat to the village baker and asked him to roast it. When his shoes were locked up to prevent his running away he blacked his feet with polish and went off just the same. The story began to steal in its own right into the hidden reaches of Salvatore’s mind. He forgot the hospital room for the moment and gave way to the charm of what had happened then to someone who was indisputably here now. Gramsci went on to say a little about himself, as a crippled child, whose mother had always kept a coffin and a white dress ready for him, as he wasn’t expected to last long. ‘However, I have lived for more than forty years.’ He, too, had felt that it might be necessary to escape from home, and with this in mind he had always kept some dry corn in his pockets, and a candle and a box of matches.

      ‘That’s enough about me,’ he added resolutely, with his hinged, toothless, tender smile. ‘What have you got in your pockets?’

      There was a silence. ‘Answer, boy,’ said Domenico, threatened with humiliation. He repeated the question in their own dialect. ‘Answer.’ Salvatore did not at all like this concentration on his own case. The smell in the room was, he thought now, of something gone bad, or at any rate of something on the turn. Even if he didn’t say anything, he could go some way towards pleasing everyone simply by putting his hands in his pockets and turning them out. But with all the force of his being he didn’t want to do so.

      ‘Bene, it doesn’t matter,’ Gramsci said. ‘How could it matter? Perhaps, anyway, you think I’m not strong enough to be a good friend for your father?’

      ‘No, sir, I don’t think that.’

      Now Gramsci moved again, sidling a little towards the right and establishing himself fairly securely against the washstand with its jug and basin of enamelled tin. There he held out his hand.

      ‘Children don’t like sick people. Are you afraid to touch me?’

      ‘I don’t want to touch you if I’m going to catch anything,’ Salvatore said. ‘With my cousins, there are seven of us in the house at home.’

      ‘Seven!’ shouted Domenico. ‘What has that to do with it, why do you mention that?’

      ‘You won’t catch anything,’ said Gramsci, and the child stepped forward and felt his hand crushed as though the bones were being ground together under the thin skin. When the travelling fair came round in autumn there was a machine called ‘The Initiation’ which gave you, as you gripped the handle, an electric shock. But that was not for anyone under the age of twelve.

      ‘Now it’s your turn. Since you didn’t answer, I’m doing you more than justice. You can ask me anything you like.’

      Another chance not to fail his father. It was a moment when he could do him real credit, and he knew very well what kind of credit was wanted. Immediately he could picture the two of them, their visit over, back in the station refreshment room where they had gone when they arrived, the street lights on by now, his father praising him for his good question while he himself melted a lump of sugar in a long-handled spoon, slowly, feeling satisfaction and pity.

      ‘Ask anything you want,’ Gramsci repeated. In his present position he could take out a cigarette, although his disease had eaten so far into the vertebrae that he had difficulty in balancing his head well enough to smoke it. Patiently Domenico struck match after match, trying to get the tobacco alight.

      Salvatore knew by now the question he ought to put. He regretted that he hadn’t wanted just now to say what СКАЧАТЬ