A Private Affair by Beppe Fenoglio

Author:Beppe Fenoglio
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2023-03-28T00:00:00+00:00

9

From a promontory on the hill Milton looked down at Santo Stefano. The village, which was quite large, lay deserted and silent, even though the thick white smoke rising from the chimneys indicated that everyone was awake. The long straight stretch of road connecting the village to the railway station was also deserted, and so, on the other side, was the road that led directly to Canelli. The road was totally visible past the metal bridge, as far as the corner of the hill that hid Canelli.

He glanced at his wristwatch. It indicated a few minutes after five, but he was sure it had slowed down during the night. It must be at least six.

The earth was sodden and black, it was not very cold, and the sky, although grey, was brighter and clearer than it had been for several days. Milton’s trousers were spattered with mud up to thigh level, and his boots were two lumps of mud.

He moved down towards Santo Stefano, bypassing the skeletal thickets and aiming for where he knew there was a footbridge over the Belbo. When he was directly below the promontory, he glimpsed a few stretches of the stream. The water was dark and pasty, but still far from overflowing, and the footbridge was definitely still standing. The mere thought of having to ford the stream shook him like a fever. He felt ill, his lungs were especially painful, it was as if they were rubbing against each other with tips of metal cartilage, and it not only hurt him but also made him feel nauseous. With every step he took, the sensation of total weakness, total wretchedness, grew inside him. I can’t make it in these conditions, I can’t even try. I almost hope I don’t get the opportunity. But he continued his descent.

And yet he had slept wonderfully in the hayloft below the ridge. He had buried himself under the hay, leaving just a small tunnel clear in front of his mouth, and had fallen asleep immediately. The rain had drummed on the solid roof of the hayloft, heavily but gently. A leaden sleep, without dreams, without nightmares, without any intrusion of the difficult, terrible thing he would have to do in the morning. Then he had been woken by the crowing of a rooster, the whining of a dog down below, and the silence of the rain. He had immediately wriggled out from under the mound of hay, shifted on his buttocks to the edge of the hayloft, and sat there with his legs dangling in the air. It was only then that it all came flooding back to him: Fulvia, Giorgio, the war. He shivered, with a single, interminable shiver that went all the way down to his heels, and he prayed for the night to resist the day a little better than it was doing. But now the farmer was coming out of his house and splashing through the mud towards the barn, still ghostly in the light that was turning grey in patches.

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