Versione Italiana | Nota biografica | Versione lettura |
‘Ntoni collapsed against the tunnel wall, and pressed a hand to his bleeding neck. The basket lay in the shadows where he dropped it. A few scattered sulphur rocks rested in the pool of gray lamplight that gathered at his feet. The mere thought of recovering them all from the surrounding darkness exhausted him. But to do otherwise would ensure a beating from Sciavelli, the miner ‘Ntoni assisted. He rubbed a hand along his ribs and stomach where a deep, tender burn extended from his arms. Another week in the Miniera Cozzo Disi might kill him. He knew this with the same raw certainty that there’d been no mistake: Matri was not coming back for him.
‘ The clink and scrape of shovels and picks from miners in nearby pits burrowed into his muscles, and he steadied his breath against its rhythm. A strange heat emitted from the surrounding walls, making the subterranean air thick. It became so hot underground that some of the men worked naked, though ’Ntoni kept a rag secured around his groin. With slow, careful movement, he felt for the basket and began to load the rubble back, piece by piece. He was to transport the basket of rocks above ground to the calcaroni, the fat stone furnaces where the sulphur was melted and refined. He’d transported dozens of loads throughout the past week, his first as a caruso, but his body was unable to get used to the strain. Sciavelli instructed that each basket be filled to the top with rocks--thirty kilos per load.
‘The indigestible thought of seven years stuck inside of ‘Ntoni as he gathered the rocks. His ten-year-old mind couldn’t comprehend working underground in the mines for such an amount of time. Perhaps his mother understood. She’d sent him here to work for the family, as his father had. Patri, who spent his entire adult life mining, right through the second world war, until the explosion took his life less than a month ago. It’d been an accident with one of the acetone lamps. Accidents were common in the mines.
‘ When the basket was full, ‘Ntoni lifted it a few inches off the ground before setting it down again. The throb in his arms was immediate, almost dizzying. He breathed hard, resisting the sudden impulse to cry. Then he reached again for the basket and secured it between his shoulder blades. A white-hot pain streaked down the length of his spine. The bottom ridge of the basket cut again where it wounded his neck, but ‘Ntoni continued moving forward.
‘ The underground tunnels narrowed as he distanced himself from the pit that Sciavelli mined. It was no longer possible to walk without hunching over. At certain points, the ceiling came down so low that ‘Ntoni found himself scraping along the gravel floor on his elbows and knees. Then, moving up a trio of steps, the ceilings widened and allowed for more light; some fine sediment of the walls glittered in the warm amber glow. Clusters of men and carusi worked in isolated pits leading off from the main tunnel artery. ‘Ntoni saw glimpses of them as he moved past. They clawed at the walls with picks and shovels, wearing nothing to protect them except the caps on their heads.
‘ At last, ‘Ntoni reached the long stairway that led to the surface. Other carusi climbed and descended the steps; each boy walked with his head bent and a basket atop his neck. There was only one elevator, and that was to take the miners down. The carusi were allowed only the long passage of stairs. Perhaps the carts would soon come to replace them. Already a strip of two by four tracks had been built through part of the tunnels. Sometimes, ‘Ntoni could hear the distant thunder of a cart full of rumble being pushed through some part of the mines. But until there were more carts built, the carusi would continue to transport sulphur from one end of the mines to the other.
‘ Rivulets of sweat tickled his face and neck as ‘Ntoni labored up over each step. His legs stiffened like cement; the weight of the basket flattened his spine. He moved, though his body remained wrecked with a pain and exhaustion he’d never known before. He’d entered into a slow-moving cloud with the others, one of shared, fleeting intimacies--the pungent whiff of body odors, the grunts and moans escaped under the strain of labor, the passing conversations. One boy told another of the prostitute he visited each weekend, when the miners and carusi were allowed to return home for the weekly visit to see family and attend church. It’d be ‘Ntoni’s first visit back. He thought of his father soaking in the tub, how that was the first thing he’d do as soon as he set foot in their house. Matri had the hot water ready on the stove. Patri bathed for over an hour, sloughing off the skin that was crusted with dirt and embedded with bits of sulphur. Then he’d sit in the garden where Matri gathered dandelions to make soup. ‘Ntoni understood now why his father sat alone outside, on the one free day he had to share with his family. Why it was so cleansing to be away, far away from people and noise. To smell and taste something other than sulphur.
‘Thoughts of Patri carried him to the door at the top of the stairs. ‘Ntoni entered through a blinding light that emptied into a dust bowl infested with men. Dozens of workers passed before him, some pushing half-ton carts full of rocks along the two-by-four tracks wound around the camp in black cords that led to the calcaroni. Charcoal veins of smoke filled the air with rot. Built into the earth were shafts with stairways leading into darkness. Half-naked young boys emerged and descended through these stone portals built into the sides of the dust bowl. They carried baskets between their shoulder blades and walked hunched, with faces twisted sideways, arched for the sky.
‘ “Antonino, come with me to Agrigento this weekend,” a voice said.
‘Ntoni rested the basket down. His arms filled with a buoyancy that made the whole of him light and floatable. He turned to see Malpelo with the wild red hair. A fresh welt divided the side of his friend’s cheek, but the boy continued to smile. He was only a few years older, but expressed the will of a man who’d survived much.‘ “What happened to you?” ‘Ntoni said, though he knew it could only be the doings of the miner Malpelo assisted.
‘ “Old man Vanni took his belt to me is what. He says I don’t work fast enough, but the stupid bastard is so slow with his pick axe, that I got to wait around all day just to fill a basket. Forget him. Listen, the best girls are in the city. My brothers and I are going to have a time of it. We’re leaving Saturday at dawn,” Malpelo said.
‘ “I was supposed to travel back with some other men to Comitini. My mother and sisters have never attended church without me,” ‘Ntoni said.
‘ Malpelo smirked as if he’d been told a joke. “You have to come with us. Your first week in the mines deserves a celebration. Everyone knows that,” he said.
‘A patch of sky opened inside ‘Ntoni’s chest. Everything seemed possible again somehow. Agrigento was not the small, suffocated world of Comitini. Men could come and do as they pleased and not be gossiped about. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to come back if they didn’t want to. Perhaps ‘Ntoni himself could stay behind. He might find a better job in the city. The thought of escape being a possible, perhaps even a practical option didn’t strike him until now. Carusi who ran away were never permitted to work in the mines again, and their families were forced to repay the money given on loan. It was customary to loan out a caruso’s earnings of seven years worth of work all at once. A caruso paid that loan back through the time he gave to the mines. It’d all been explained to ‘Ntoni before, but only now could he begin to understand the reality of this arrangement. Seven years of a life in the mines. How could he survive it that long? No, he’d have to find something else. Malpelo was inadvertently giving him the chance.
‘ “Where should I meet you and your brothers tomorrow?” ‘Ntoni said.
‘ They sat together the next morning in the back of an old pickup truck, one of the few times ‘Ntoni rode in a motorcar. Most men relied on donkey-driven carts, especially if traveling good distances. Malpelo had four older brothers. Three sat up front with the driver, while the other one, Cosmo, sneered at ‘Ntoni.
‘ “You’re so young, I bet you never had a girl before,” he said.
‘ ‘Ntoni ignored him and gazed at the stretch of dirt road trailing behind them. The sand mounds and furnace smoke that distinguished the mines from a distance, became smaller, then impossible to see. His stomach knotted itself in anxiety at the thought of his mother and sisters. Certainly they’d come to understand, even forgive, his absence once he found a job in Agrigento. He’d pay back the loan himself if that’s what it took.
‘ “We’ll get him ten girls then. One girl for each year of his life,” Malpelo said, laughing.
‘ ‘Ntoni smiled at them, but his gaze lingered above their heads, and clung to the sparse pines in the distance. Thin, starving trees with leaves dried out by the sun.
‘ Agrigento thronged with people. ‘Ntoni followed Malpelo and his brothers down the main strip of Via Atenea, pushing past fish peddlers, textile merchants, and women donned in headscarves, carrying woven baskets full of items for the night’s meal. Buyers and sellers, the energy of the street. ‘Ntoni’s heart took on a violent pulse. He remembered walking this street with Patri, some years ago, on their way to see a moving picture show. A newsreel about the war. Black and white shots of Italian infantrymen marching through North Africa. Their long retreat into the desert, with the Allies closing in from behind, wasn’t shown. ‘Ntoni had to imagine that much for himself--lines of men marching toward one another and disbanding into clouds of fire. Many young men had left Comitini to enlist. Survival meant a pension and a life outside the mines. Patri had not known war. Somehow he’d managed to stay underground, mining the tunnels for Mussolini’s fuel until the explosion. Clouds of fire. There was no escaping them here or underground.
‘An old woman stopped ‘Ntoni, and waved a handful of plaited Ampelodesmos cores in his face.
‘ “They can be used for ropes. For saddlebags even. I give you a good price,” she said.
‘ ‘Ntoni moved around her. He realized in a panic that he’d lost the others in the crowd. Perhaps they’d gone down a side street, looking for prostitutes. He turned and pushed his way back past the people, scanning their heads for Malpelo’s red hair. A butcher shouted in his face something about fresh chicken breasts. Behind him was a little shop with the flanks of animals hung from hooks out in front. Several boys, some younger than ‘Ntoni, worked inside the shop, slicing up cuts of various meats and displaying them in trays of ice. A slight resemblance could be made out between them and the butcher. Of course, the probability that they were his sons was high. It could be said for most Sicilians that the course of their lives was already determined from birth. The lives of working men were akin to those acquiring an ancient trade, passed down from father to son, to follow without question or choice. ‘Ntoni felt stupid approaching the butcher for a job. Who was he, a sulphur miner’s son, to think that he could alter the course of his fate?
‘ He walked the length of the street, until Via Atenea emptied into the public gardens, where old men sat together on benches under the canopy of the trees. The thought of returning to Miniera Cozzo Disi made him weary. Escape remained a necessity fixed in his mind. But it would have to come at the right time, he knew only that much. Now he needed to return to Comitini. Matri waited for him there.
‘ It was luck that led him to a small group of miners in the park. They were smoking cigarettes, some already drunk and eager to have their fun before returning to their wives. ‘Ntoni asked if any of them were returning to Comitini for Sunday church in the morning. One of the miners recognized him.
‘ “You’re Giordano’s son,” he said, caressing the edges of his mustache with his forefinger and thumb. “I knew your father. What a terrible thing that happened to him.”
‘ ‘Ntoni tried to thank him, but was overcome with a violent sneeze.
“Cacciastruzzu!” the miner said.‘ ‘Ntoni brought his hands to his face to wipe the mucus away. A black, sticky substance webbed between his fingertips. He rubbed his hands against his pants, and sneezed again.
‘ “Cacciastruzzu!” Patri’s friend enjoyed saying this word. “It’s all the shit you been breathing up in the mines. Not so pretty when it comes out like that.”
‘ His laughter incited coughing, until he spat up something brown and evil into his handkerchief. Then he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lit up a smoke. “It goes away after a while. Your lungs get used to it,” he said.
‘ ‘Ntoni sneezed up more of the sulphur dust and grime that called his lungs home, and this time spoke Cacciastruzzu to himself. The word sounded chewed in his mouth.
‘ He arrived home in Comitini. Dawn was just breaking, and Matri stood alone at the front door. She was dressed in long gray skirts smudged with dirt fingerprints and grease cameos. She crossed her arms, kept her hands hidden in the crooks of her armpits. Her mouth formed a knot, a plug against emotions. ‘Ntoni remembered her screaming. That day when the miners arrived at their home with Patri--delirious, the entirety of him covered in blood and grime--carried between them.
‘ But she was calm now, approachable; her hair combed back into its usual tight bun. Black stones filled her eyes, hooded in their sockets of wrinkles and loose skin. When ‘Ntoni came close enough, Matri moved her hands up along his arms, caressing, then squeezing her shoulders. Her lips curved into a proud smile, and she blinked at him with wet, knowing eyes.
‘ “Ciao, Antonino. Welcome home,” she said.