Table Of Content4
Servants with Torches
SERGIO was thinking.
I am tired of pigeons, he was thinking. I am tired of their
red feet and orange eyes. I am tired of their feathers blowing
about the court every afternoon. I am bored.
He was standing guard at the entrance of the court to the
caserma. The caserma was a pink building on a side street.
The court, which was paved with stones, had a white marble
well head in the centre, but nothing else. At the far end,
after lunch, Pancrazio had amused himself by tying a wad
of paper to the eat's back leg with a string and watching the
cat run and roll on its back, playing with the paper ball.
And Luigi and Rosario had amused themselves by hanging
a piece of paper on Pancrazio's back while he was absorbed
with the kitten and then igniting the paper. Everyone, except
Sergio, had been amused with the results. He had seen them
do the same thing too many times. He was bored.
I may as well be a portiere, he thought. I did not become
a carabiniere to stand in a doorway all afternoon, or to sit at
a table tearing pieces of paper in half and then tearing the
halves in quarters as I did all morning. I would like to do
something important, or I would like at least to walk up and
down the streets where I can see and be seen.
The court in which he was standing guard was deserted,
but only a few feet away Pancrazio, who was standing guard
with him, was sitting in the small dark entrance to the office.
Very few people came to the caserma except the carabinieri
who worked there. Sometimes however, tourists who had
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been robbed came, and Sergio wished that one would come
now. He would ask her as many questions, talk to her as long
and find out as much as possible before he let her go inside
to see an officer who could help her. Pancrazio would not
interfere; Pancrazio would only stand and listen. Besides, if
the tourist spoke English he would speak English to her and
Pancrazio would not understand. But I, Sergio thought, I
was a prisoner in an American army camp in North Mrica,
and I can understand and speak English, which is more
than most of the officers can do.
Walking to the small mirror which was stuck on the wall
by the door, half concealed by the moulding, he looked at his
reflection. In the light of the setting sun which poured
through the portal, his skin glowed as though he were made
of pink Venetian glass and his small black moustache was
very black and elegant over his mouth. He took off his cap,
with its silver insignia of globe and flames, and holding it
in one hand he ran his other hand gently over the surface of
his black hair and watched its reflection in the mirror. Then
he frowned and thought: The one thing I like about work
ing in the office is that I do not have to wear my cap there.
And what I would not like about it if I were stationed out
side is that I would have to wear my cap all the time.
He put his cap back on, walked to the portal again and
looked out. Maybe someone interesting was coming toward
the caserma now. But only a group of boys passed, their arms
about each others' waists, and a pigeon at his feet scurried
a little distance away and then looked back expectantly. The
street was almost dark, and Sergio felt the beginning of the
restlessness which always rose in him as, from pastel day, the
city sank to dark and brilliant night.
"Sergio."
Pancrazio, who had gone into the building and returned,
was calling him.
"What do you want?"
"The commissario has just spoken to me. You and I are to
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stand duty tonight in Campo Sant' Angelo, where there is
to be the outdoor opera. Let's go, we must get ready."
When it was dark, the half moon over San Giorgio silvered
the whole sky as though it were a great blue mirror sus
pended behind the city, and the lights above the piazza
were like the many coloured threads of an agate curving
across the mirror's surface.
This is the kind of world men should live in, Sergio thought
as he stood in the entrance to the crowded square. From
the women about him came the luxurious odour of perfume,
making him visualise little glass bottles filled with liquids
the tints of the lights in the sky, and on the men and women
ornaments of gold flashed like the gold ornaments of gon
dolas. Nowhere did he see any of the poor or even any of the
ordinary people of the city; here were only the rich and
among the rich there was nothing to do but to stand and wait.
Pancrazio had bought an ice cream and offered one to
Sergio, but he had refused. Even though there was nothing
for them to do, until the opera began he felt that it was their
duty to stand at attention; so while Pancrazio retired into a
corner and ate his ice cream with the firemen who were on
duty there as they would have been in a theatre, although
there did not seem to be much in the square which could
bum, Sergio stood as near to the entrance as he could. The
women brushed past him as they entered, some of them
wearing jackets of fur, although their arms were bare and
white, most of them talking and laughing, their voices as
clear and light as the moonlight, and all of them so oblivious
of him that he could not help thinking of the pleasure it
would be to catch their elbows in his hand, turn them to
ward him and smother their laughter, or at least demand,
first roughly and then tenderly, why they were laughing.
But the idea of disrespect to people of a better class appalled
him as much as the other idea pleased him, and he watched
silently until the lights dimmed for the opera to begin.
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Then Pancrazio came up to him and took his arm, saying:
"Quick, let's go and find a seat before they are all taken."
The opera was Otello, the story of a dark man loved by a
fair woman. Sergio was extremely fond of it, and he hurried
with Pancrazio and climbed toward the back benches near
the electricians' booth where the remaining free space was
rapidly filling with sellers of drinks and candies. But he kept
his eyes open for anyone slipping in, and even before they
sat down he was watching a boy who had entered and was
wandering back and forth through the seats below them.
All the lower seats were taken, and as the boy mounted
nearer Sergio saw that he was well dressed, probably a
foreigner, and in any case no one for him to question. He
turned his attention to the stage where, there before him,
was the Isle of Cyprus with the sail of a Venetian ship in the
background.
He was aware, however, when the boy sat beside him,
for the undivided wooden bench was crowded and the empty
space beside Sergio would not comfortably have accom
modated even a small child. But he did not object. He
wanted to keep his attention on the stage and he supposed
that the boy had paid for a ticket and had more right to the
space than he had.
There was no back to the seat and after a while the boy,
leaning back, spread himself out so that one of his hands
was beneath Sergio's leg. Sergio had not objected to the boy's
crowding him, but he was nevertheless determined not to
give up his own space and he did not move. Apparently the
boy also was determined, for though he removed his hand
several times he replaced it always in the same position, and
it at last occurred to Sergio, in a sensation received together
with the swell of the music, that the boy was touching him
deliberately, for the pleasure of it. The idea rose in his mind
without in the least distracting him from the music. In fact,
he was so intent on the opera that it seemed to lessen his
feeling of separation from the drama and to bring the music
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closer to him; and while he sat listening as though he were
in the centre of the stage itself, his emotions rising and fall
ing with Verdi's notes, he acted to discover if his idea were
true. Not only did he refuse to make room but he pressed
back, asserting his presence immovably. Then he turned his
head and looked defiantly into the boy's face.
The boy was fair and blue-eyed, his face colder and calmer
than an Italian's. But the boy showed no awareness of Ser
gio, and without removing his eyes from the stage concealed
whatever surprise Sergio had given him by taking a package
of cigarettes from his pocket. For a moment Sergio thought
that the boy was going to offer him a cigarette. But he did
not. Mter taking one for himself, the boy returned the pack
age to his pocket; and Sergio, seeing that the cigarettes were
English, turned away with contempt. The English tourists
since the war were notoriously stingy and he had no use for
them. He even thought of telling the boy that smoking was
forbidden; but people were smoking all about them, so he
turned his attention back to the stage where Desdemona and
the Moor were beginning their duet. Then the boy replaced
his hand on the seat, and Sergio, swept away from himself
by the music, was brought back again with his realisation of
the hand's pressure.
This boy probably has a sister like Desdemona, he thought,
only she would be feelingless, the way foreigners are, and
would not deign to notice the people her brother comes and
sits next to and touches. Or maybe he is travelling with his
mother, who would still be young, and she is looking for
another husband because his father has died. And if I should
marry her and be his father, then I would put the fear of me
into him. I would make him tell me what he means, and if
he often does this sort of thing when he goes out in the even
ing, and I would threaten to beat him if I found him among
people of whom I did not approve. I would tie him in a chair
for three days and give him only bread and water to eat. But
even as it is, he remembered, I am a carabiniere and I can
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tell him that he cannot act in this manner in my country,
that he must be careful how he acts with me.
For despite the ecstasy of the music, Sergio's awareness of
the boy had increased and it seemed to him that the very
palm of the boy's hand was beneath his leg, motionlessly,
almost tenderly waiting. The boy was touching him, yet like
all foreigners who do not speak and assert themselves, the
boy would not acknowledge Sergio and put himself under
obligation to him.
Suddenly, Sergio hissed in a whisper:
"What do you want?"
The boy made no sign that he knew Sergio had spoken;
but as low as Sergio's voice had been, Pancrazio on the other
side of him had heard and asked:
"What, Sergio? What?"
Sergio shushed him and pointed to the stage. But he could
not give all of his attention to the music now, as the boy
seemed to be doing. If I had touched his sister or mother
like that, he thought, when I was a soldier or before when
I was a boy like him, they would not have allowed me simply
to look as though nothing had happened. Not if I had put
my hand on her white thigh. And she would be embarrassed
to know that he has put his hand on mine, for I would show
her just how he did it. He touched me here, I would say and
touch myself, looking at her. She would have to commit her
self then, as he has not. She would have to say: But you are
handsome and because of this you must excuse him. He is
a bad boy and I shall send him to bed. But you must under
stand that this has happened because you are handsome and
you must excuse him. You must stay and have a glass of wine
with me.
As the music ended and the applause drowned out his
thoughts, he knew that that was not the way it would happen.
But she would think of it, as he had thought of it, and that
would please him.
"What did you say?" Pancrazio was asking.
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But Sergio did not look at Pancrazio.
"Here," he said, taking the boy's arm. "You will have to
come with me."
The boy looked at him indignantly and tried to pull away.
Then he said something which Sergio did not understand.
But Sergio held on to his arm and repeated his own state
ment in English.
'Why?" the boy demanded.
"Because I have said so," Sergio responded. "And I am a
carabiniere."
And, turning to Pancrazio, he added in Italian:
"Take his other arm."
"Why?" Pancrazio asked.
"Do as I tell you," Sergio told him. "This is important."
His tone was authoritative and Pancrazio obeyed. Awk-
wardly, the three of them started down the steps, the boy
in the middle, not resisting but not easily able to step from
tier to tier of the seats with Sergio holding him in front and
Pancrazio behind. When they reached the level of the piazza,
Sergio said in English:
"Show me your documents."
"What?"
"Your documents. Documents.''
"I don't have any documents," the boy said. "I'm not an
Italian."
"Then show me your passport."
"I don't have my passport with me. Why should I?"
The boy tried to pull his arm away again, but Sergio held
on to him.
"Where is your passport?" he asked.
"At the hotel."
"What hotel?"
"I don't remember the name."
Sergio became indignant.
"Do you tell me that you do not know where you live?"
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"Certainly I know where I live," the boy said. "I can find
my way there, but I do not remember the name."
"With whom do you live in the hotel?" Sergio asked. "Your
father and mother?"
"I don't have to tell you all these things," the boy replied.
"What have I done that's wrong? You have no right to treat
me this way."
"Perhaps you are staying with your sister," Sergio
suggested.
"I don't have to tell you with whom I am staying," the
boy insisted. "What have I done that's wrong?"
Nearly everyone in the crowd was pouring obliviously
toward the exit, but a few people around them were watch
ing and Sergio thought: This will be a good thing for me
to report. If the commissario is here he will be pleased. He
does not like foreigners who get in trouble like this, even
with boys of the streets, and if they come to the casenna he
laughs at them behind their backs. But I must do everything
correctly.
"You watch him while I go and see if the commissario
is on duty here," he said to Pancrazio. "I will be back
soon."
"Very well," Pancrazio answered.
But Sergio had gone only a few steps when he heard Pan
crazio shout, and turning around he saw that the boy had
broken away and was running through the crowd toward
the exit. He began to run also, knocking people from his path,
and before the boy managed to reach the exit Sergio over
took him and grabbed hold of the arm of his jacket. The
jacket tore and the boy, the momentum of his run broken
by the carabiniere's sudden grasp, swung around toward
him with his feet completely off the ground and crashed
against his body. The two of them stood close together and
gasping. Pancrazio ran up and jerked the boy out of Sergio's
grasp.
"Idiot I" Sergio cried and slapped Pancrazio's hand from
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the boy's arm. "If it had been up to you the boy would have
escaped. I will take care of him from now on."
Dragging the boy with him, he started toward the exit.
But the boy fought back with anger.
"Look what you have done to my coat," he shouted.
"You've torn my coat. What right have you to tear my coat?
I haven't done anything wrong."
Sergio stopped, also angry at the unfavourable attention
which was beginning to centre on them, and demanded :
"No? If you had not done anything wrong, then why did
you run?"
"Who wouldn't run," the boy demanded, "with a lot of
carabinieri dragging him around and threatening to arrest
him?"
"Very well," Sergio said. "But you must show your pass
port to a carabiniere when he asks to see it."
The boy said nothing more; and Sergio, motioning for
Pancrazio to follow, led the way alongside the strip of rough
white cloth which was stretched at the back of the seats to
screen off the view of the opera from passersby, and out into
the narrow space between the cloth and the iron railing of
the bridge which ran up and down several steps into a
narrow street of closed shops. For a moment the three of
them were only three more dark shapes in the crowd jam
ming its way through the narrow passage. Then, they passed
the aromatic stream of light from the open door of a pastry
shop on the sill of which a white cat was sitting, and came
out into a long bright square Riled with cafes and hung with
paper lanterns. Sergio looked at the boy again, and even in
the reflection of the coloured lanterns, curved in bright agate
lines across the blue glass sky which roofed the crowded
cafes, he could see that the boy was frightened and pale.
He appeared even younger than Sergio had thought
him, and despite his rather haughty coldness he had
an air of nurtured innocence. Even with his jacket torn
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he looked rieh. He was wearing a beautiful shirt and
tie.
They were almost to the middle of the square when some
one called and the boy stopped. Sergio was alert, ready to
grab the boy if he tried to escape again. But the boy merely
stood where he was.
"Where are you going?" a man seated at an outdoor table
of a cafe called to him.
"To the hotel with these carabinieri," the boy replied.
"They say they are going to arrest me."
"Oh, Christ, how stupid," the man said. ''I'll come with
you."
And, turning to the other person at the table, he added:
"You pay, please, I'm going with him."
Hurriedly, the man rose from the table and joined them.
He walked on the outside of Sergio and spoke across him to
the boy. They spoke so rapidly that Sergio could not under
stand what they were saying, and he did not like the man's
coming with them. The man was not old enough to be the
boy's father, and it was the boy's family that he wanted to
encounter.
At the middle of the square they turned into another dark
passage which led up and down over several bridges. The
man, who spoke fair Italian, demanded of Sergio :
"What has my friend done that is wrong?"
"He behaved to me in a most insulting manner," Sergio
replied. "He touched my leg with his hand."
"Yes, but that is only an accident," the man said. "What
is wrong with that?"
''You do not understand," Sergio replied indignantly. "He
felt my leg, like this."
And he improvised the most indecent gesture he could
conceive.
"He says that you groped him," the man said across Sergio
to the boy.
"Then he's a liar," the boy replied.
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