Behind the Door by Giorgio Bassani

Author:Giorgio Bassani
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141938875
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2017-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

8

That evening Cattolica and I parted brusquely, or rather it was him who uttered a terse ‘goodbye’, turned his back, and hurried off towards Corso della Giovecca. But, the morning after, he returned determinedly and insistently to the fray. Without once alluding to the strange conversation we’d had, he did his utmost, I couldn’t help noticing, to remove the invisible barrier that had separated us till then.

It wasn’t as if he ever turned round during lessons. His gaze, as ever, fixed immovably on the teacher seated in front of the class, he continued to show me his finely carved profile, covering his mouth with his hand opened like a fan, whispering under the shadow of his fingers. He was too zealous and disciplined, too attached to his reputation as a model pupil – in regard to behaviour as well – to dispense with these basic precautions. And yet I realized that the perfect straightness of his neck and body, which I effortfully tried to imitate, was dedicated not as much to the eyes in front of him as to the more dangerous eyes, because they lay outside his control, of whoever was behind him. If Luciano, back there from his desk by the wall, had realized that there was no longer the former coldness between me and Cattolica, and that we even spoke to each other, continuously, he would perhaps have been able to guess the topic of our whispering. It was absurd from my perspective. I certainly felt guilty enough towards Luciano to sense, almost physically, the icy touch of his blue, interrogating irises on the back of my neck.

Imagine my astonishment the morning that Guzzo himself turned in surprise towards Cattolica.

He was scanning aloud a Catullus poem, the one that begins: ‘Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus …’fn1

He stopped suddenly, and in a muted tone gave the order:

‘Cattolica, continue.’

‘Me?’ asked Cattolica, astonished, touching his chest.

‘Indeed. None other,’ confirmed Guzzo, whom anger generally induced to slip into Tuscan dialect. ‘Carry on scanning the line, my dear chap. Let’s see how you manage.’

Cattolica began, breathlessly, to flick through the book, which was open, but not at the right page. Who knows how long his torment would have lasted – motionless at the far side of the desk I didn’t dare help him – if, at last, from behind, Malagù’s raised hand hadn’t come to his aid. ‘Well done, Malagù,’ Guzzo remarked. ‘I’m delighted that you are following, that the good Catullus is of interest even to you … But you, Cattolica, tell me: does he not interest you, is he not to your taste, perhaps?’

‘No … it’s not …’ stammered Cattolica, very pale in the face, slowly getting to his feet.

‘No?’ Guzzo responded, with a grin.

He arched his thick eyebrows which stood at the base of his vast, Wagnerian forehead like two grey circumflexes – being an atheist, a ‘pagan’, as he had boasted on innumerable occasions, he never lost the chance to make fun of those whom, like Camurri, or indeed Cattolica, he suspected of belonging to clerical families.

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