The Tartar Steppe. Dino Buzzati

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СКАЧАТЬ sun-beaten road. Giovanni and Francesco were old friends, having lived together for years on end, with the same enthusiasms, the same friendships; they had seen each other every day, then Vescovi had got fat but Drogo had become an officer and now he saw how far apart they were. All that easy elegant life was his no longer; what lay in wait for him was serious and unknown. It seemed to him that his horse and Francesco’s had already a different gait, that the hoof-beats of his own were less light, less lively, with a suggestion of anxiety and fatigue, as if even the animal felt that life was going to change.

      They had reached the brow of a hill. Drogo turned to see the city against the light; the morning smoke rose from the roofs. He picked out the window of his room. Probably it was open. The women were tidying up. They would unmake the bed, shut everything up in a cupboard and then bar the shutters. For months and months no one would enter except the patient dust and, on sunny days, thin streaks of light. There it was, shut up in the dark, the little world of his childhood. His mother would keep it like that so that on his return he could find himself again there, still be a boy within its walls even after his long absence – but of course she was wrong in thinking that she could keep intact a state of happiness which was gone for ever or hold back the flight of time, wrong in imagining that when her son came back and the doors and windows were reopened everything would be as before.

      At this point his friend Vescovi took an affectionate farewell and Drogo went on alone, drawing nearer to the mountains. The sun stood overhead when he reached the mouth of the valley leading to the Fort. On the right he could see on a mountain top the redoubt Vescovi had pointed out. It couldn’t be very much further.

      In his anxiety to come to the end of his journey Drogo did not stop to eat, but pushed his already tired horse on up the road, which was becoming steeper and was walled in between precipitous banks. Fewer and fewer people were to be met on the way. Giovanni asked a carter how long it took to reach the Fort.

      ‘The Fort?’ answered the man. ‘What fort?’

      ‘Fort Bastiani,’ said Drogo.

      ‘There aren’t any forts in these parts,’ said the carter. ‘I never heard speak of one.’

      Evidently he was ill-informed. Drogo set off again and as the afternoon advanced became aware of a subtle uneasiness. He searched the topmost rims of the valley to discover the Fort. He imagined a sort of ancient castle with giddy ramparts. As the hours passed he became more and more convinced that Francesco had misinformed him; the redoubt he had pointed out must already be far behind. And evening was coming on.

      Look how small they are – Giovanni Drogo and his horse – how small against the side of the mountains which are growing higher and wilder. He goes on climbing so as to reach the Fort before the end of the day, but the shadows rising from the depths where the torrent rushes are quicker than he is. At a certain moment they are level with Drogo on the opposite side of the ravine, seem to slacken pace for a minute as if not to discourage him, then glide up the hillside and over the boulders and the horseman is left behind.

      All the valley was already brimful of violet shadows – only the bare grassy crests, incredibly high up, were lit by the sun when suddenly Drogo found himself in front of what seemed – it was black and gigantic against the intense purity of the evening sky – a military building with an ancient and deserted look. Giovanni felt his heart beat, for that must be the Fort; but everything, the ramparts, the very landscape, breathed an inhospitable and sinister air.

      He circled it without finding the entrance. Although it was already dark there was no light in any window nor were there any watch-lights on the line of the ramparts. There was only a bat swinging to and fro against the white cloud. At last Drogo tried a shout.

      ‘Hallo,’ he cried, ‘is anyone there?’

      Then a man rose from the shadows which had gathered at the foot of the walls, a poor beggar of some sort with a grey beard and a little bag in his hand. In the half-light it was difficult to make him out; only the white of his eyes glinted. Drogo looked at him with gratitude.

      ‘Who are you looking for, sir?’ the man asked.

      ‘I’m looking for the Fort. Is this it?’

      ‘There isn’t a fort here any more,’ said the stranger in a good-natured voice. ‘It’s all shut up, there hasn’t been anyone here for ten years.’

      ‘Where is the Fort then?’ asked Drogo, suddenly annoyed with the man.

      ‘What Fort? Is that it?’ And so saying the stranger stretched out his arm and pointed.

      In a gap in the nearby crags (they were already deep in darkness), behind a disorderly range of crests and incredibly far off, Giovanni Drogo saw a bare hill which was still bathed in the red light of the sunset – a hill which seemed to have sprung from an enchanted land; on its crest there was a regular, geometric band of a peculiar yellowish colour – the silhouette of the Fort.

      But how far off it was still! Hours and hours yet on the road and his horse was spent. Drogo gazed with fascination and wondered what attraction there could be in that solitary and almost inaccessible keep, so cut off from the world. What secrets did it hide? But time was running short. Already the last rays of the sun were slowly leaving the distant hill and up its yellow bastions swarmed the dark hordes of encroaching night.

       Chapter Two

      Darkness overtook him on the way. The valley had narrowed and the Fort had disappeared behind the overhanging mountains. There were no lights, not even the voices of night birds – only from time to time the noise of distant water.

      He tried to call, but the echoes threw back his voice with a hostile note. He tied his horse to a tree trunk on the roadside where it might find some grass. Here he sat down, his back to the bank, waiting for sleep to come, and thought meanwhile of the journey ahead, of the people he would find at the Fort, of his future life; but he could see no cause for joy. From time to time the horse pawed the ground with its hooves in a strange, disturbing manner.

      When at dawn he set off again he noticed that on the other side of the valley, at the same height, there was another road, and shortly after made out something moving on it. The sun had not yet reached so far down and the shadows lay heavily in the angles of the road, making it difficult to see clearly. But by quickening his pace Drogo contrived to draw abreast and saw that it was a man – an officer on horseback.

      A man like himself at last – a friendly being with whom he could laugh and joke, talk of the life they were going to share, of hunting expeditions, of women, of the city; of the city which to Drogo now seemed to have become part of a distant world.

      Meanwhile the valley grew narrower and the two roads drew closer, so that Giovanni Drogo saw that the other was a captain. At first he did not dare to shout – it would have seemed silly and disrespectful. Instead he saluted several times, raising his right hand to his cap, but the other did not respond. Evidently he had not noticed Drogo.

      ‘Captain,’ Giovanni cried at last, overcome by impatience, and he saluted again.

      ‘What is it?’ a voice replied from the other side. The captain had halted and saluted correctly and now asked Drogo to explain his cry. There was no severity in the question, but it was evident that the officer was surprised.

      ‘What is it?’ the captain’s voice echoed again, this time slightly irritated.

      Giovanni СКАЧАТЬ