Tales of Madness Read Free

would be impossible to repeat what he told me word for word; but you can easily understand that certain ideas can't be produced by my mind, because Jacopo Sturzi, though quite an intemperate man, was a true philosopher, a most original philosopher, and he spoke to me with the wisdom of the dead.
    I caught up with him while he was already about to place his small, trembling hand on the handle of the glass door of a tavern. He swung around, took hold of my arm, and, dragging me over into the shady darkness, said:
    "Luzzi, for heaven's sake, please don't say I'm alive!"
    "Why, how... you?" I stuttered.
    "Yes, I'm dead, Luzzi," he added, "but my bad habit, you understand, is stronger! I'll explain right away. There are those who, when they die, are mature for another life, and those who are not. The former die and never again return, because they have succeeded in finding their way... The latter instead return, because they were unable to find it; and naturally they seek it right where they lost it. For me, that's here, in the tavern. But it's not like you think. It's my punishment. I drink, and it's as if I'm not drinking, because the more I drink, the thirstier I become. And then, as you can readily understand, I can't afford to treat myself too lavishly."
    And, rubbing together the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, he contracted his face into a grimace, intending to signify with that gesture: I don't have any money.
    I looked at him, stupefied. Was I dreaming? And this foolish question came to my lips:
    "Oh, of course! And how do you get by?"
    He smiled and then, placing a hand on my shoulder, answered:
    "If you only knew!... The very day after my burial, I began by selling back the beautiful porcelain plaque that my wife had ordered placed on my tomb. In the center it bore the inscription 'To my adored spouse.' Now, we, the dead, cannot stand certain lies, so I sold it back for a few lire. In that way I managed to get along for a week. There's no danger that my wife might come to pay me a visit and notice that the plaque is no longer there. Now I play cards with the customers, and since I win, I drink at the loser's expense. In short... it's an enterprise. And what do you do?"
    I was unable to answer him. I looked at him for a moment, then, in an outburst of madness, I seized him by the arm.
    "Tell me the truth! Who are you? How is it that you're here?"
    He didn't lose his composure, but smiled and said:
    "But if it was you yourself who recognized me!... How is it that I'm here? I'll tell you, but first let's go in. Can't you see? It's raining."
    And he coaxed me into the tavern. There, he forced me to drink and drink again, certainly with the intention of getting me drunk. I was so astonished and dismayed that I was unable to put up a struggle. I don't drink wine, and yet I drank I no longer recall how much of it. I remember a suffocating cloud of smoke, the acrid stench of wine, the dull clatter of dishes, the hot and heavy smell of the kitchen, and the subdued mumbling of hoarse voices. Hunched over-- almost as if wanting to steal each other's breath, two old men were playing cards nearby, amid the angry or approving grunts of the spectators who crowded at their backs, absorbed in the game. A lamp, hanging from the low ceiling, diffused its yellow light through the dense cloud. But what astonished me more was seeing that, among the many people there, no one suspected that someone no longer living was in there. And looking now at one person, now at another, I felt the temptation to point to my companion and say: "This fellow is a dead man!" But then, almost as if he had read this temptation on my lips, Jacopo Sturzi, his shoulders propped against the wall and his chin on his breast, smiled without taking his eyes off me. His eyes were inflamed and full of tears! He continued looking at me, even as he drank. All of a sudden he stirred and began to speak to me in a low voice. My head was already spinning from the effect