John Berger - Once in Europa

The men lay on the grass and looked up at the sky, where the first stars were appearing. They could feel the warmth of the earth through their shirts.

Would you like some more tart?

It was so good.

I made two, replied Danielle proudly and went indoors to fetch the second.

Next week the helicopter, said Virginio.

I’ve never seen a helicopter getting out the wood, said the boy.

Lifts pines like matches.

You look up and you feel as small as a frog, said Alberto the Sicilian.

Do you know how much it costs them to hire a helicopter for an hour?

No idea.

Two hundred thousand. In an hour it uses two hundred litres of petrol.

Here, Pasquale, take your tart, said Danielle. The other men were scarcely visible but she recognised their voices.

Helicopter pilot killed himself near Boege last year.

They were passing round a wine bottle.

Forgot his cables, didn’t look down.

They’re forbidden by law to do more than four hours’ flying a day, said Father. In four hours they can get eighty trees off a mountain.

If one of his cables gets entangled, said Alberto, miming with his hands, it pulls him out of the sky. Plouff!

Next century we’ll do everything in the sky, said the boy.

Nobody’ll work like us, next century.

Pasquale’s packing it in next year, isn’t that right?

I haven’t decided yet, said Pasquale.

You won’t make it. You can’t take on the supermarkets single-handed, said Virginio.

With fruit and vegetables you can, insisted Pasquale.

No, said Father, you can’t compete with their prices or their publicity.

I’m going to make my own publicity!

The other men laughed. A jet airliner crossed the sky, they could see its lights.

I’m going to get a bird, a Blue Rock Thrush.

He’s out of his mind, our Pasquale!

You can teach a Blue Rock Thrush to talk.

So?

Every time a customer comes into the shop the bird’ll talk. Pasquale recited a saleman’s patter which, under the stars, sounded more like a prayer:

Guarda quanto è bella ’sta mela

quanto è bellissima e cotta!

Turning to Danielle, he translated the words for her: Look at the lovely apples, ripe and lovely apples!

The boy giggled. A good idea, said Father, but you need to give it a twist, make it unforgettable. Teach your bird to insult your customers. Stronzo ! for the husband! Fica for the wife. They’ll adore it, they’ll adore it in Bergamo.

Are you sure?

I’ll train the bird for you, said the Sicilian.

The moon was rising to the right of St. Pair. They watched a pink halo slowly changing into a white mist and then, suddenly, the bone-white incandescence of the first segment of the moon. Danielle sat down on the grass beside Pasquale.

When are you going to pack it in, Father?

Next year, sometime, never, sometime … I’ve no choice, I don’t want to drop dead.

The head of the moon was now free in the sky, enormous and close-up like everything newborn.

Do you know who dropped dead last Tuesday? asked Virginio. Our friend Bergamelli — had his throat cut in prison.

Who did it?

The Brigade Rouge.

Bastards!

Bergamelli? Danielle whispered.

A gangster from Marseille … Virginio knew him when he was in prison, said Pasquale.

In the moonlight which became brighter as the moon grew smaller, Danielle could see Virginio’s face, pillowed on his arms, gazing into the firmament.

He reminded me of my father, Virginio went on, Bergamelli had the same truculence, the same dark look when he was crossed, the same smile when something pleased him … He was killed when I was twelve, fell off a roof, my father.

Virginio took off his glasses and stared at the moon.

He was a mason, your father?

He built chimneys … The day they carried him home, I opened the veins on my wrists … they found me too soon. They carted me off to hospital, him down to the cemetery.

Shit! muttered Alberto.

From that day on I knew something, said Virginio; in this god-forsaken life everyone is abandoned sooner or later. Father did everything with me. He taught me to cook, he showed me how to catch frogs, hundreds a night, he saw to it I knew how to pick locks, he was my music teacher, he told me about women, when he got drunk in the café by the big fountain he stood me on the table and I danced whilst he sang — and then one Wednesday morning, dry weather, sober week, clean shirt, good boots, one godforsaken Wednesday morning — pfft! like that, he fell off a roof. I used to go and look at the mark on the pavement where he landed.

From the stable came the muffled sound of goat bells. Sometimes at night their bells sound oleaginous, like the light on the surface of water in a deep well.

I can see him up there. He can’t see us. If we all shouted together he wouldn’t hear us. The dead are deaf to all the dynamite of the world.

A long silence followed, as if each one of them were thinking about the deafness of the dead.

It’s hard to lose a father, said the Sicilian.

Harder than losing a mother?

When you lose your father you know there’ll be no more miracles.

I never knew any miracles, said Pasquale beside Danielle on the grass. My father disappeared like a stone into a well before I knew him … so I never knew that loss.

The galaxies were visible at Peniel, as they never are on the plain. More than alcohol their silence makes people talk.

Is your father alive, Danielle? asked the boy.

He’s alive … I don’t know him like Virginio knew his father. He doesn’t talk to me much. All he says to me is: You’ll never make a wife, Danielle, like your mother was, you’re not modest enough to make a man happy, my girl.

Perhaps your Papa doesn’t see you as you are, said Pasquale, as if each of his words were a button he was pushing through a buttonhole.

Pasquale should know, declared Virginio, suddenly jubilant, for our Pasquale has eyes only for you!

The men, except Pasquale, laughed and the boy chanted:

Guarda quanto è bella ’sta mela

quanto è bellissima e cotta!

A few days later I climbed up to the pass with the idea of paying Marius a visit. I looked down and saw his herd grazing by the stream. Then I heard his voice.

Marius à Sauva!

This time there was no doubt. Each syllable was distinct and each syllable could be heard twice as it echoed off the Tête de Duet. I crouched down on the ground and protected my head with my arms as you do when lightning is near. Let no more words be said, I prayed. Let him be quiet.

Marius à Sauva!

I crept forward on my stomach. He was standing by the first boulder below. His arms were outstretched.

For your slope I have legs! he shouted.

The words still sounded like an order. What did he expect to happen? What did he hope to see change among the crags?

For your slope I have my old legs!

The first time he had said nothing about his age. Now he was shouting about being old.

For your peak I have eyes!

He covered his eyes with his hands as if weeping.

The echo of each word made the silence which followed more terrible.

For your trees I have arms!

It would have been like a reply if something had moved. Everything remained motionless. Even I was holding my breath.

For your trees, my faithful arms!

Johnny was standing a little distance away from Marius, his tail between his legs.

For your load I have a back!

Not even the shape of a cloud changed. The old man was on his knees, looking up at the rockface.

For braking your sledge I have heels!

He was banging his feet on the earth and leaning his weight backwards as if bringing a charged sledge down a slope.