Suicido al parco 'Suicide In Park"

Suicido al Parco

By Dino Buzzatti

“SUICIDE IN PARK”: A Translation

Nine years ago, Stefano, my friend and colleague, thirty-four-years old, contracted automobile disease. He owned a 1960 model, but until that time he had never shown any symptoms of this terrible illness. Its course was rapid. Like great and fatal loves that overpower men, within a period of only a few days, Stefano became a slave to the idea of owning a luxury car, and he could talk of nothing else.

The automobile! Not the usual everyday vehicle that needs only to travel from one place to another, but the car of cars, the symbol of success, the statement of personality and command over the world, the extension of oneself, the instrument of adventure; in short, the modern symbol of encoded happiness.

The desire, therefore, the obsession, the craving for an automobile of the elite—extremely beautiful, strong, sleek, difficult, super human—to make the masses turn their heads as it drove past them down the street. Was it a fatuous sentiment? Childish? Idiotic? I don’t know. I didn’t experience it, and it is never wise to judge other people’s hearts.

In today’s world, thousands are infected with the illness. Their goal isn’t the happiness of their families, a profitable and satisfying career, the conquest of riches or power, the ideal of art, or the attainment of spirituality. No. For them the ultimate dream is a one-of-a-kind such-and-such car about which all the sun-tanned sons of successful industrialists make up stories in the fashionable cafés. However, Stefano earned very little, and the object of his daily raptures remained at a tremendous distance. Stefano tormented himself with this obsession, infected his friends, and distressed his wife Faustina, a kind and gracious creature too much in love with him. How many evenings she endured his long and painful discourse!

“Do you like it?” he would ask anxiously handing Faustina an advertisement for some incredible car.

She would just glance at it. In any case, she already knew the scenario. “Of course I like it,” she would answer.

“Do you really like it?”

“But, of course.”

“Do you really like it very much?”

“Please, Stefano,” and she would smile at him as one smiles at a sick person who can’t help himself.

And then after a long silence, he would say, “Do you know how much it costs?”

Faustina would try to joke, “I think it’s better not to know.”

“Why?”

“You know better than I do, sweetheart; because we could never afford to satisfy such a whim.”

Stefano would become angry. “Sure, you . . . just to oppose me . . . even before you know . . . .”

“Me? Oppose you?”

“Yes. You seem to do it on purpose. You know this is my passion, you know how important it is to me, you know it would be my greatest joy. And you . . . instead of giving me hope, all you can do is make fun of me.”

“Now, you’re not being fair, Stefano. I never make fun of you.”

“You . . . even before you know how much the car costs, right away, you’re against me.”

And so on, for hours.

I remember that one day when her husband wasn’t within earshot, Faustina said to me: “Believe me, this fuss about a luxury car has become a real cross for me to bear. From morning till night all he talks about is Ferrari, Maserati, Jaguar—may the devil take them—as if he had to have one tomorrow. And I don’t know what to think; I don’t recognize him anymore. Even you remember how wonderful Stefano was in the good old days. Sometimes I wonder if he’s lost a screw. Do you think it’s possible? We’re young. We love each other. We have something to live for. Stefano is doing very well at work, his co-workers like him very much. Why do we have to poison life? I swear, just to see this over with, just to see him happy with his damned ‘one-of-a-kind,’ I swear I’d even be willing to . . . don’t let me say any more.”

And she burst into tears.

Crazy? Deranged? Who knows? I liked Stefano very much. Perhaps his dream car was something that we couldn’t understand, something beyond the beauty and perfection of a vehicle, like a talisman, like a key opening the greedy doors of destiny.

I’ll never forget the day Stefano showed up at the wheel of a car that I had never seen before. It was blue, it was long, it was low, it was new, it was a flowing and sinuous two-seater, all stretched out in the front. At a rough guess, I would say it cost at least five million lire; who knows how Stefano had been able to dig up that kind of money.

“It’s yours?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Good Heavens. Congratulations. You finally did it.”

“You know, save, save, save . . . .”

I walked around the vehicle to look. I didn’t recognize the make. On the top of the hood there was a sort of coat of arms with a complicated interweaving of initials.

“What sort of car is this?”

“English,” he said. “A limited edition. An almost secret make of car; it must be from a branch of Daimler Corporation.”

It was completely marvelous, even for me, who doesn’t make a big fuss about cars. The line, the compactness of the body, the arrogant spring of the tires, the precision of the instrument panel, the dashboard that looked like an altar, the thick black leather seats, soft as an April wind.

“Come on, get in so I can show you,” he said.

It didn’t roar, it didn’t make a lot of noise; it only took some breaths, some athletic breaths, delicious to hear, and with every breath, the houses on each side of the road flashed wildly backwards.

“What’d you say?”

“Stupendous!” I answered, not finding a better word. “And, tell me, what does Faustina think of it?”

His face darkened for a second. He was silent.

“Why? Faustina doesn’t approve?”

“No,” he answered.

“So?”

“Faustina left.”

Silence.

She left. She said she couldn’t live with me anymore.”

“For what reason?”

“You go figure out these women.” He lit a cigarette. “And I thought that she loved me.”

“The hell she didn’t.”

“Well, she left all the same.”

“Where? Back to her family?”

“Her family doesn’t know anything. She’s gone. I haven’t heard a word.”

I looked at him. He was a little pale. But he gripped the steering wheel sensually, caressing the swollen skin of the gear shift. His foot pumped the accelerator up and down with the tenderness of a man pressing against his lover’s flesh. And, with each touch, the car palpitated, quivering like a young girl.

We left the city and Stefano turned on to the Autostrada for Torino, where we arrived in less than a quarter of an hour. A wild ride; yet, strangely, the machine had such a sense of domination that I wasn’t afraid. What’s more, it seemed that the car had given itself up to Stefano’s will, interpreting and anticipating his secret desires. Yet, Stefano was making me angry. It was all well and good that he had a car, that he had satisfied his frenetic desire, but Faustina, that adoring woman, had left him. And he was completely indifferent.

Some time after this, I had to leave the area for a long absence. When I returned, as happens, my life took another road. I saw Stefano, yes, but not often as I had before. In the meantime, he had found a new job, he was doing very well, and traveled about in his formidable machine. And he was happy.

The years passed, Stefano and I would see each other on occasion and I always asked after Faustina, and he would say that Faustina had really disappeared for good. I would ask about the car and he would say that the car, yes, was still a great vehicle of course, but it was beginning to show its age, it was in the machine shop every minute, and few mechanics were capable of handling it, a difficult and foreign motor that almost no one understood.

Then I read that news item in the paper:

STRANGE ESCAPE OF AUTOMOBILE

Yesterday, at 5 PM, a blue coupe, which had been left unattended for a moment in front of a cafe on 58 Moscova Street, shifted into gear of its own accord. Crossing the intersections along Garibaldi and Montello Avenues with ever-increasing speed, the car turned to the left and then to the right, turned on to Elvezia Avenue, and finally smashed against the ruins of the ancient fortress outside the park, where it caught fire and was destroyed.

It is difficult to explain how the car, left by itself, was able to zigzag along the stretch of road without encountering any obstacles, despite the heavy traffic, and how it was able gradually to accelerate its speed.

Few of those present paid attention to the car traveling by itself. They imagined that the driver was playing a joke, scrunching down under the steering wheel and watching the road with a mirror. In fact, their statements concur: it didn’t seem to be a driverless car, but a car driven with great ability and decision. What’s more, when a motorbike turned into the traffic from Canonna Street, the car swerved frantically and avoided hitting it by a hair.

We report these details purely for the record. Many episodes of this sort have already occurred, even in our city. And there is no need to resort to supernatural hypotheses.

The owner of the car was identified by the license plate. He is a 43-year-old advertising executive named Stefano Ingrassia, of 12 Manfredini Avenue. Ingrassia stated that he had left the car unattended in front of the cafe on Moscova Avenue, but denies that the motor was running.

As soon as I finished the article, I hurried to find Stefano and found him at home, very upset.

“Was it her?” I asked.

He nodded yes.

“It was Faustina?

“Yes, Faustina. My poor little star. You knew?”

“I wasn’t sure. Sometimes I had my doubts, but it seemed so absurd.”

“Absurd, yes,” he said covering his face with his hands. “But these miracles of love do happen in this world. One night, nine years ago; one night as I held her in my arms. A terrible thing. And wonderful. She began to cry, to tremble, and then her body became rigid and began to swell. And she did it just in time to make it out into the street; otherwise she never would have made it through the door. Luckily, no one was outside. It was a matter of two or three minutes. Then, there she was, waiting for me at the curb, new and gleaming. The paint smelled like Hélas, her favorite perfume. Remember how beautiful she was?

“And then?”

“And then, I’m a skunk, a scoundrel. And then she got old and the engine didn’t work anymore, and every day there was another ailment. And no one looked at her anymore when we drove down the street. And so I began to think maybe it was time to trade her in. I really couldn’t go on forever with that broken down old wreck. Do you know what a bastard, what a pig, I am? Do you know where I was going when I stopped on Moscova Avenue yesterday? I was taking her to sell. I wanted to buy another. It’s frightening. I was taking my wife, who had given her life for me, to sell her for 500,000 lire. Now you know why she killed herself.”

La giacca stregata: Translation of Dino Buzzatti's Story

La giacca stregata

THE ENCHANTED JACKET

a translation

Although I appreciate elegance of dress, I usually don’t pay attention to the perfection with which my acquaintances’ clothing is or is not cut. However, one evening, during a reception at a house in Milan, I met a man, about forty years old from the look of him, who literally glowed because of the definitive and utter beauty of his clothing.

I don’t know who he was. I was meeting him for the first time and, as often happens, it was impossible to understand his name when he was introduced. He seemed to be a polite and civil man, yet with an aura of sadness. With perhaps exaggerated familiarity—if God had only dissuaded me—I complimented him on his elegance, and I even dared to ask him who his tailor was.

The man had an odd smile, almost as if he had expected the question. “He’s not well known,” he said, “but he’s a great master. And he only works when he feels like it. For a few insiders.”

“So that I . . . .?

“Oh, do try, do try. His name is Corticella. Alfonso Corticella, Via Ferrara 17.”

“I suppose he must be expensive.”

“I assume so, but I swear that I don’t know for sure. He made this suit for me three years ago and he still hasn’t sent me the bill.”

“Corticella? Via Ferrara 17, you said?”

“Exactly,” the stranger responded. And he left me to chat with another group.

In Via Ferrara 17, I found a house like so many other houses; and Alfonso Corticella’s residence was like those of so many other tailors. He came to the door himself to let me in. He was an old man with black hair, obviously dyed.

To my surprise, he wasn’t at all difficult to work with. Indeed, he seemed anxious that I become his client. I explained to him how I had gotten his address; I praised his work and asked him to make me a suit. We selected a gray flannel, whereupon he took my measurements and offered to have the suit delivered to my house. I asked him the price. There was no hurry, he answered; we could always come to an agreement. What a nice man, I thought at first. Yet later, as I was returning home, I became aware that the old man had left an uncomfortable feeling inside me—perhaps too many insistent and effusive smiles. In short, I had no desire to see him again. But by now the suit had been ordered. And in three weeks, it was ready.

When they brought it to me, I tried it on for a few moments in front of the mirror. It was a masterpiece. But, I don’t really know why, perhaps because of the memory of the disagreeable old man, I didn’t feel at all like wearing it., and weeks passed before I decided to do so.

I will remember that day forever. It was a Tuesday in April. and it was raining. When I slipped into the suit—jacket, pants, vest—I noted with pleasure that it didn’t pull me or bind me anywhere, as almost always happens with new suits. Yet, I was dressed to perfection.

As a rule I don’t put anything in the right-hand pocket of my jackets; I keep my cards in the left one. This explains why, after only a couple of hours in the office, casually slipping my hand into the right pocket, I noticed that there was a piece of paper inside. Perhaps a bill from the tailor?

No. It was a 10,000 lira note.

I was dumbfounded. I certainly hadn’t put it there. On the other hand, it was absurd to think that it was a joke played by the tailor Corticella. Much less, a gift from my housekeeper, the only person, besides the tailor, who had had occasion to be anywhere near the suit. Or could it be a counterfeit? I looked at it against the light, I compared others with it. It couldn’t be any better than this.

The only explanation possible was Corticella’s absent-mindedness. Perhaps a client had come to pay an installment on a bill, the tailor didn’t have his wallet with him at that moment and, rather than leave money lying around, he had slipped it into my jacket, which was hanging on mannequin. Things like this can happen.

I rang the bell to call the secretary. I wanted to write a letter to Corticella, returning the money that wasn’t mine. If only I hadn’t . . . and I don’t know how to explain why I did it, but I slipped my hand into my pocket again.

“What’s wrong, Doctor? Are you ill?” asked the secretary who had just come in. I must have turned pale as death. In my pocket, my fingers were touching the corners of another piece of paper, which hadn’t been there a few moments before.

“No, no, it’s nothing,” I said. “A little dizziness. It’s been happening for some time. Perhaps I’m a bit tired. Go ahead, Signorina; there’s a letter to dictate, but we’ll do it later.”

Only after the secretary had left did I dare extract the piece of paper from the pocket. It was another ten thousand lire note. Then I tried a third time. And a third bill appeared.

My heart began to pound. I had the feeling that, for some mysterious reason, I was caught up in a fabulous plot, like one of those children’s fairy-tales that no one ever believes to be true.

Using the excuse that I wasn’t feeling well, I left the office and returned home. I needed to be alone. Fortunately, the woman who cleans house for me had left. I shut the doors, lowered the shades. With the greatest haste, I began to extract, one by one, a seemingly inexhaustible supply of banknotes from my pocket.

I worked with spasmodic nervous tension, afraid that the miracle might stop at any moment. I wanted to keep going for the entire afternoon and night until I had accumulated a billion lire. But, at a certain point, the forces had dwindled.

Before me lay an impressive pile of banknotes. The important thing now was to hide them, that no one get wind of them. I emptied an old trunk full of rugs and on the bottom, I sorted the money into many little piles and counted it slowly. There was a good 58,000,000 lire.

I awoke the following morning after the cleaning woman had arrived, amazed to find me in bed, still completely dressed. I tried to laugh, explaining that I had drunk too much the pervious evening and had been suddenly overpowered by sleep.

A new worry: she asked me to take the suit off, so that she could at least give it a brushing.

I told her that I had to go out right away and that I didn’t have time to change. Then I hurried to a clothing store to buy a ready-made suit of similar material. I would leave this other one for the cleaning woman; “mine,” the suit that within in a few days would make me one of the most powerful men in the world, I would hide in a secure place.

I didn’t know if I was living in a dream, if I was happy or, instead, suffocating under the weight of too great a fate. On the street, I continually touched the magic pocket through my raincoat. With every touch, the reassuring crumple of paper money answered under the material. And I breathed a sigh of relief.

But a peculiar coincidence cooled my joyous delirium. The morning headlines announced news of a robbery that had taken place the day before. An armored truck belonging to a bank, having made the rounds of its branch offices, was carrying the day’s deposits to headquarters when it was attacked and robbed by four bandits on Viale Palmanova. As people began to arrive on the scene, one of the gangsters had started shooting in order to keep them away. And a passerby had been killed. But, I was struck, above all, by the sum of money stolen—exactly 58,000,000 lire.

Could there be a relationship between my sudden riches and the almost simultaneous attack by the thieves? It seemed ridiculous to think so. And I’m not at all superstitious. Nevertheless, the incident left me very puzzled.

The more you get, the more you desire. I was already rich, considering my modest habits. But the mirage of a life of unlimited luxury impelled me. And that very evening, I began to work again. Now I proceeded with greater calm and with less torture to my nerves. Another 135,000,000 lire were added to my first treasure.

That night, I didn’t close an eye. Was it the presentiment of danger? Or was it the tormented conscience of someone who acquires a spectacular fortune without deserving it? Or was it a sort of confused remorse? At the first light of dawn, I jumped out of bed, dressed, and ran out in search of a newspaper.

As I read, I lost my breath. A terrible fire, started in a fuel oil refinery, had almost completely destroyed a warehouse in the center of the city on Via San Cloro. The flames had devoured, among other things, the safes belonging to a huge real estate company, which had contained over 135,000,000 lire in cash. Two firefighters had met their death in the blaze.

Must I now list my crimes one by one? Yes, because by this time I knew that the money bestowed on me by the jacket had come from crime, from blood, from desperation, from death. It had come from Hell. But my mind was still trying to justify everything and mockingly refused to admit that I was at all responsible. And then temptation conquered again. Then, my hand—it was so easy!—slipped into the pocket and my fingers, with intensely fleeting pleasure, grasped the corners of a continuous flow of new bills. Money, divine money!

Without giving up my old apartment (so as not to arouse suspicion), I soon bought a huge villa, owned a precious collection of paintings, drove around in luxury cars, and, having left my job “for reasons of health,” traveled around the world in the company of marvelous women.

I knew that every time I withdrew money from the jacket, something sinister and painful transpired in the world. But it was always a vague awareness, unsubstantiated by proven logic. Meanwhile, with every collection, my conscience sank lower, becoming increasingly vile. And the tailor? I telephoned him to ask for the bill, but no one answered. In Via Ferrara where I went to find him, they told me that he had emigrated overseas, they didn’t know where. Everything united, therefore, to show me that, without knowing it, I had made a pact with the devil.

Finally, one morning, in the building where I had lived for many years, they found a sixty-year-old retired woman asphyxiated by gas; she had committed suicide because she had lost her monthly pension of 30,000 lire, collected only the day before (which had ended up in my hand).

Enough. enough! In order not to plunge to the bottom of the abyss, I had to rid myself of the jacket. Not by surrendering it to others because the infamy would have continued. Who would ever be able to resist such enticement?. It was imperative to destroy it.

I reached a hidden valley in the Alps by car. I left the car in a grassy opening and walked up through a wood. There wasn’t a living soul around. Passing beyond the wood, I reached the stony ground of the moraine. Here, standing between two gigantic boulders, I pulled out the abominable jacket from the backpack, sprinkled it with gasoline, and lit it. In a few minutes, nothing remained but ashes.

But at the last flicker of flames, behind me—it seemed to be two or three meters away—a voice resounded. “Too late, too late!” Terrified, I turned in a flash like a serpent. But I didn’t see anyone. I searched, jumping from one rock to another, to flush out the scoundrel. Nothing. There was nothing but rock.

In spite of the fright I had experienced, I descended back to the bottom of the valley feeling a sense of relief. Free, finally. And, fortunately, rich.

But my car was no longer in the grassy opening. And, when I returned to the city, my sumptuous villa had disappeared; in its place an uncultivated field with some signs reading: “Municipal Property For Sale.” And my savings accounts, I don’t know how, completely wiped out. And disappeared from my numerous safe deposit boxes, the large bundles of stock certificates. And dust, nothing more, in the old trunk.

Now I have begun, with difficulty, to work again. I barely manage, and, what is even more extraordinary, no one seems to be surprised by my sudden ruin. And I know that it’s not over yet. I know that one day my doorbell will ring, I will go to answer it and I will find, standing before me, the accursed tailor with his nefarious smile, asking for the final payment of his bill.