Tales of Madness Read Free Page A

of the wine, but those strange words of his about matters of life and death made it spin even more. He noticed that and, laughing, concluded:
    "They're not matters for you. Let's talk about something else. Tuda?"
    "Tuda?" I uttered. "Don't you know? It's all over..."
    He nodded his head affirmatively several times but then instead said:
    "I didn't know that, but you did well in breaking off the relationship. Tell me, it was on account of her mother, right? My wife, Amalia Noce, is the worst sort of creature! She's like all the Noces! Listen, I..."
    He took off his hat and put it on the little table. Then, slapping his high forehead with his hand, and winking, he exclaimed:
    "Twice, the first time in 1860, and then in '75. And you must realize that she was no longer fresh, though still quite beautiful. But I can't complain about this any longer. I forgave her and that's that. My son — may I call you that? — my son, believe me, I began to breathe only the moment after I had died. In fact, do you think I still look after them? No, neither the mother nor the daughter. I don't even look after the daughter, because of her mother. I want to tell you everything. I know how they live. Listen, I could do as many others do in my state. From time to time I could go to their home, unseen by them, and secretly pilfer a little money. But I don't. I won't steal any of that money! Do you know, do you know how they live?"
    "How?" I answered. "I've stopped asking about them."
    "Come on, you know," he continued. "They told you last night."
    Hesitating, I made an inquisitive gesture with my eyes.
    "Yes, where you wanted to go before you saw me!"
    I jumped to my feet, but couldn't stand, and falling onto the little table with my elbows, I shouted at him:
    "Is it they? Tuda? Tuda and her mother?"
    He seized me by the arm and brought his forefinger to his lips.
    "Quiet! Quiet! Pay and then come with me. Hurry and pay."
    We left the tavern. It was raining even harder. The wind which had grown in intensity slung water in our faces almost prevented us from walking. But the man dragged me away, away, against the wind, against the rain. Staggering, drunk, my head burning and heavier than lead, I moaned, "Tuda? Tuda and her mother?" In the violent shadow his cloaked figure became confused with the umbrella he carried high against the rain, and to my eyes it became huge. It was like a ghost in a nightmare, dragging me towards a precipice. And there, with a powerful shove, he thrust me into the small dark doorway, shouting into my ear, "Go, go visit my daughter!"
    Now I have here, here in my head, only the screams of Tuda as she clung to my neck, screams that had pierced my brain... Oh, it was he, I swear it again, it was he, Jacopo SturziL. He, he strangled that witch who was passing herself off as an aunt... But if he had not done it, I would have. But he choked her, because he had more of a reason to do so than I.

If...
    Is it departing or arriving? Valdoggi wondered as he heard a train whistle, and looked towards the train station from his table outside the chalet-style cafe in Piazza delle Terme.
    He had fixed his attention on the train's whistle, as he would have fixed his attention on the continuous, dull buzzing of the electric light bulbs, in an effort to divert his eyes from a customer sitting at an adjacent table who stared at him with irritating stillness.
    For some minutes he managed to distract himself. In his mind he pictured the interior of the train station, where the opaline brilliance of the electric light contrasts with the dismal and gloomily resounding emptiness under the immense, sooty skylight. And he began to imagine all the nuisances that a traveler encounters when he is departing or arriving.
    Unwittingly, however, he again found himself gazing at that customer at the adjacent table.
    The man, dressed in black, was about 40 years old. His thin, drooping hair and small moustache were reddish, his face was pale, and his