My First Seven Years (Plus a Few More)

CHAPTER 21. Physical Harmony

For us children who lived along the lakeside, what game could rival splashing about in the water, diving from rocks and rowing on any kind of craft? We did not view any of these activities as sports or organised disciplines but as enjoyable pastimes in which we challenged each other to see who was fastest, most agile or most daring. Our life was one long wallow in water.

On the beach, we took note of how the older boys swam, especially if they showed signs of possessing experience and style. Often we took our courage in both hands and asked them for a few hints, in other words, asked them to be to some extent our masters.

Thus I learned that in swimming the most important thing is not strength but harmony: everything, every part of the body, every limb must glide smoothly, without upsetting the delicate balance between movement and breathing. Working in the theatre a dozen or so years later, I discovered that producing the maximum impact with the minimum of effort and gesture was the principal rule for every mime and every actor worth his salt. It was not a particularly stunning discovery. Shakespeare himself, through the words of Hamlet, advised actors to move and perform with intensity and ‘temperance’, rather than with any useless waste of energy.

But let us go back to swimming. I felt in my element in the water, even if, as happens with all boys who are passionate about a game but lack discipline and measure, I tended to go over the score. Often, even when the sun was shining, my companions and I came out of the lake blue and trembling with the cold. There was the danger of getting caught by icy currents which could easily cause painful cramps, and which could have dire consequences. Since we always went swimming in groups, we were in a position to help one another. If one of us was seized by spasms of crampul, we knew how to massage the muscle affected back to life.

Our second great passion was rowing. The dream of each of us was one day to acquire a boat of his own, but our limited resources made this dream almost unachievable. Occasionally, we were able to take advantage of the generosity of some holiday-maker who allowed us to play about in their boat, and more frequently we were able to go out on the boats of the fishermen, but to sit behind an oar was for us a driving need: breathe in, arch, take the strain, rise, breathe out, stretch, release, bend, and back to the beginning, all the while dipping oars in water. I had discovered that, as with swimming, perfect coordination of movement ensures maximum speed with minimum effort. The key to progress, however, was the ability to train constantly, but with no boat of my own, how was this to be done? The solution to the problem lay in Milan.

* * *

Every year in Milan, those who studied at the Brera were taken on to set up exhibitions at the Fiera Campionaria, the Trade Fair. The pay was reasonably good, but the work was murderous. It involved developing projects, completing decorations by painting or erecting models, putting up various plastic books, scribbling out gigantic letters or improvising at the last minute solutions to publicity difficulties.

I was not yet seventeen when I was employed to prepare an enormous stand which should have taken at least a month. At the inauguration of the fair, I was totally exhausted. I had spent the previous two nights without a wink of sleep, and when I got home it was already daybreak. Before leaving the fair, I crossed the entire pavilion where the prototypes of canoes and competition-class rowing boats with a mobile rowing mechanism were on display. There was one which had fascinated me, a ‘one-off’ with ash-wood hull and sliding-seat.

When I got to my bed, I slept uninterruptedly for twenty hours. Just before waking up, I dreamt of that racing skiff skimming lightly over the water, and it was me who, with a casual touch of the oars, made it go. After a while, the boat took off into the air and I was in flight. I passed over the wharf, flew over the great harbour, touched the top of the church tower and glided through the clouds back down to the lake …

At the end of the week, I was back at the Fiera to draw my wages for the installation work, a decent sum of money. I went into the pavilion where my boat was on display and asked if I could have a closer look at it, to examine it properly. The attendant stared at me with ill-disguised, annoyed condescension and said: ‘But please, don’t touch!’

I looked back at him with a malicious smile and then asked: ‘Can I at least give it a little lick?’ The attendant gazed at me in surprise and then burst out laughing, but from that moment he relaxed. He helped me to lift it, weigh it and contemplate its design from all angles, both right way up and upside down. It was a masterpiece, as beautiful and elegant as a dolphin … no, even more beautiful: it was a mermaid fit to win any competition!

I bought it. I put nearly all my capital into it, but it was by any standards worth every penny. To keep a close eye on the carrier who would be transporting it to the lake, I oversaw in person the packaging and loading, and then, so as not to let it out of my sight, I climbed into the cabin beside the lorry driver.

For the launch, I was down at the quay at seven o’clock in the morning. Almost all my friends in the gang came along to give a hand in lowering the skiff into the water. Each one had his own enthusiastic comments to make.

As we raised the hull, my legs were shaking as though I were about to make love to it. The balance was so precarious that at every movement I risked keeling over, and I immediately shipped water, but as soon as I gripped the oars in my hands and began to move backwards and forwards on the sliding-seat, the boat surged forward smoothly, cutting through the small waves like a blade. The speed was impressive. The skiff seemed to be propelled by a silent, hidden engine. My friends applauded and all together implored: ‘Give us a shot, give us a chance as well!’

The right to use each other’s things, whether it was a bicycle or a boat, at least once, was a kind of iron rule among the lakeside clan. No, I was not keen on the idea. It was as though I were being forced to let them try my woman, one by one, but there was no escape. So I was compelled to halt my boat in the water and let them get in one after the other and, as if that were not enough, to teach each of them how to control it and make the seat move so as to obtain maximum advantage in rowing. To put up with their shouts of joy and to stand by as they inevitably overturned the boat, which had then to be lifted out of the water, emptied and dried out, was for me the equivalent of being scourged.

At the end of it all, I was left alone with my skiff once again in my arms. I lifted it up and, carrying it on my head like the god of the Amazons, I almost ran home, fearful that those idiots would follow me with shouts of: ‘Come back! Give us another shot!’

* * *

On the beach along from the bridge where we would go to bathe, there were whole family groups evacuated because of the bombing. Among that colony of strangers, it was impossible not to notice two stupendous girls, both more or less fourteen years old. The one had locks of dark, curly hair, the other had blonde, straight hair. The two friends ran and jumped about in and out of the water, laughing and showing off two elegant, slim bodies in a non-stop mannequin parade.

Each one of us gawked at them, alternating between moments of wonder and flushes of heat, but we were taken aback by their behaviour: it was as if we were not there. To get ourselves noticed, we threw ourselves off the mooring masts which jutted out of the water and made a flashy display with pirouetting dives, but those two strangers did not deign to pay us any attention. They were often on their own, especially in the water, where they swam with perfect style: arm and leg breast-stroke movements that would have graced any competition … that is, they dipped of sight under the water level to reappear with a scissors-kick of the legs.

We were not inferior as regards style, and in particular we knew perfectly well the movement of the currents and how to take advantage of them to have ourselves carried along more quickly.

Of the two, the one who attracted me more was Lucy, with her dark, curly hair. I managed to speak to her for a moment in the water. She and Jute, her friend of German origin, had ventured very far out. Taking advantage of a current parallel to the direction they had taken, I caught up with them and warned them: ‘Careful, you’re right in the middle of a cold current. You could get cramp. I’d advise you to shift over a few strokes in the direction of the mountain, where I’ve come from. The current there is warmer and it helps you to move more quickly.’

Both of them smiled and thanked me, especially Lucy, who came over to me and asked how to work out the direction and quality of the currents. I could not believe that I was being given the chance to display my knowledge as scientist of the lakelands. I felt like the complete master of the waters!

She even paid me a compliment: ‘You have a fine style of entry into the water. Who taught you?’

‘I learned here on the lake, watching those who are good at it.’ I would have liked to say something gracious to her as well, but I was as dumbstruck as a pickled perch.

Back on shore, we said goodbye to each other, and I did not see her for a week. Perhaps she had gone to a different beach, perhaps she had left. A few days later, I wandered along the pathway dug into the cliffside above the lime kilns further along the coast. Down below, in a kind of green harbour, there was someone playing in the water. I recognised her at once: it was her, in the company of young man with whom she was skylarking. He was diving under water and tossing her up in the air; both were laughing uproariously. A few paces more and I was standing on a kind of balcony above them. She caught sight of me, and gave me a faint wave. Her friend pushed her underwater, and she came bouncing back to the surface, but as she thrashed about, legs flailing, she unintentionally gave him a sharp kick on the male reproductive bits and pieces. The lad let out a piercing scream, and I could not help exploding in laughter. Lucy, too, burst out laughing, but he shot me a look of undying hatred.

A few days later, it was the feast of the Calend de Magg, May Day. On top of Mount Domo, the peasants had planted a flowering tree. It was an ancient rite, still called, in Tuscany, the Piantar maggio, the Planting of May. A long pole whose top was decorated with peach, apple and cherry shoots and covered with newly blossoming flowers was driven into the ground. The Fascists did not take kindly to this rite, in part because for almost half a century the Piantar maggio was also a celebration of Labour Day, but the regime turned a blind eye to it and let folk get on with it. It was a lovely day. There was not a ripple on the lake as I set off in my boat, pushing gently, with no great effort, towards the island of Cannero where stood the ruins of the Malpaga Castle, named after the famous pirate brothers who had built it in the sixteenth century. I was almost at the centre of the lake when I became aware of someone swimming a little ahead of me. This person was doing a harmonious crawl, well up to competition standard, and bobbed in and out of the water. She shook her long, black hair. It was her, Lucy! I greeted her, and she turned, smiling but surprised.

‘Don’t you think it’s bit risky to come so far out on your own?’

‘Don’t worry, Jute and her brother will be along in a moment to pick me up on their motorboat. I dived in ten minutes ago. They’re going to the island and they’ll be here any time now.’

‘If you like, I’ll stop and wait for them with you.’

‘No,’ she said, abruptly, ‘thank you but I prefer to be on my own … forgive me.’ And she started off, dipping her face into the water at every stroke. I continued on my way, sinking the oars deep into the water. I moved off, mortified and more than a little offended. ‘Who does she think she is, this stuck-up, conceited so-and-so? “No, thank you but I prefer to be on my own!”’

It was the first time a girl had spoken down to me in that way. Whereas the others, they…? It was not that I had girlfriends.

I looked out at the island with the castle to see if there was any sign of the motorboat, but there was nothing to be seen. On the other side, behind the headland along the coast, I noticed a black line running along the bottom of the lake.

‘Madonna!’ I exclaimed, ‘that’s the sign that the inverna wind is getting up, which means there’ll be a storm. It’ll be on us in less than twenty minutes … and those imbeciles on the motorboat are not even on the horizon!’ I stopped rowing and turned the boat round. I went at breakneck speed towards the centre of the lake, caught up with Lucy who was now agitated and in difficulty.

‘Lucky you came back,’ she shouted to me. ‘I’m getting cramp.’

‘Take it easy, I’ll help you onto the boat.’

‘Thanks, but what is that black strip down there?’

‘It’s a fierce squall.’

‘Does that mean a hurricane?’

‘Yes, but relax. There’s time enough before it hits us. But come on, get up here! There’s only one system to stop the boat from capsizing. We’ve got to do the crossbar balance.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’ll explain to you as we go. I stretch out full-length, sideways … like that, with my bottom on one side and my back propped against the other … perfect! Now I put my legs in the water, feet first, being careful to keep my balance, just like a set of scales … you see? Now you sit astride my feet … come on! Try to move up to my knees. Well done. Now see if you can slide forward on your front, holding onto the side of the skiff with both hands. Careful, now I’ll raise my legs very slowly until I can pull you on top of me. Like that, that’s it!’

I give Lucy a push and she flies into the boat with a cry. Her body was completely on top of mine, leaving us in an embrace: she laughed, I was out of breath. I would have stayed that way forever, but the wind was starting to howl menacingly. I turned her over gently, making her take a seat in the shell of the skiff. I took up the oars and started rowing in an attempt to get away from the swelling waves. The first gusts hit the boat, hurling flurries of foam over us. I decided to head for the port in Cannero, so as to get the wind at my back. We made it into the mouth of the port just in time to escape the first heavy blasts of the squall, and were swept powerfully onto the low bank. The boat slid bodily up the beaten-earth slope. ‘If I’d had to wait for my friends’ boat, I’d definitely have gone under like a stone,’ commented Lucy. ‘What can have happened to them?’

Among the people on the shoreline cheering us on, there was someone I knew, a schoolfriend of mine called Aristide. Lucy was trembling and could hardly stand. I too was exhausted, but like the valiant saviour I was, I lifted her in my arms. ‘Come over here,’ shouted Aristide, ‘let’s go into this bar.’ I took a couple of paces, and instantly my legs gave way. Two youths grabbed hold of me before I landed on top of the girl. My friend undertook to carry Lucy, and they moved smartly towards the bar. ‘Hey,’ I shouted, ‘and what about me? Are you abandoning me here like some poor son-of-a-bitch?’ It was all I could do, crawling on all fours, to make it on my own to the bar. They brought out a blanket and put it over me.

‘I can’t see Lucy. Where is she?’

‘The woman took her up to her bathroom for a hot shower.’

I asked if they had any news about a motorboat which should have berthed before the squall blew up. ‘Yes,’ they replied, ‘There is one which has docked down at the police jetty. It had broken down, the engine was completely seized up.’

Aristide appeared at the door and pointed out over the lake directly in front of him. ‘They’re taking the two strangers, the girl’s friends, over to the far side of the lake. Look, they’re circling round the spot where you were a little while ago. Obviously they don’t know you reached land.’ Aristide picked up the telephone and dialled the number of the police station. Someone needed to tell the people in the motor launch that the girl had been brought ashore. Aristide put down the receiver and said: ‘Everything’s OK. Unfortunately the launch can’t turn back to pick you up. With the waves whipped up by the squall, it might get battered onto the coast. They’re heading for the far side, where they’ll be able to shelter in Germignana Bay.’

In the bar, Lucy was now in tears on a chair, releasing all the accumulated tension of our adventure. She was worried about her mother who wouldn’t have seen her return, so I made an attempt to calm her down. ‘Don’t worry, I asked Aristide to get the policemen to let your parents know you’re safe and well.’

‘But you don’t even know where I live.’

‘Oh yes, I do. Villa Mainer, Castelvecchia, care of the Unner family…’

‘But look … how did you find all that out?’

‘I’ve been spying on you. I crept up on you a couple of days ago. I know everything about you. You have a sister and a grandfather, your mother’s from Milan and your father’s from Hungary and he’s a dentist.’ She laughed, untroubled.

By now, the big breakers from the lake were battering ferociously against the facade of the bar. The owners pulled the shutters down and reinforced the doors and windows from the inside with heavy tables. Still wrapped up in blankets, we went out by the back door with Aristide as our guide, and made for his house higher up, beyond the headland. Her mother greeted us with great warmth. When her son explained the dangers we had faced, she was close to tears. She took Lucy in her arms and hugged her. When she realised that under the blanket, the girl was wearing nothing but a wet costume, she took her by the hand upstairs to the bedrooms. I went with Aristide to his room and he gave me some dry clothes.

A short time later, we all sat down at table. The Signora took my hand in hers and then, looking at Lucy, asked: ‘You’re engaged, aren’t you?’

There was a moment of embarrassed silence, then Lucy took charge: ‘Yes, since this spring.’

‘Ha, ha!’ the Signora laughed. ‘Look at your boyfriend blushing! There’s nothing to be ashamed of, son. If you don’t fall in love at your age, when will you?’

After supper, the Signora took us to our two respective bedrooms. ‘You’re too young to sleep in the same bed!’ was her comment. ‘I’m sure your mother would never forgive me.’ Lucy smiled.

We retired. I lay down on the big bed, but I couldn’t get to sleep. Outside, the howls of the wind, as it twisted along the canal, were punctuated by the crash of uprooted trees. Lightning, followed by claps of thunder which sounded like explosions in a mine shaft, lit up the sky. A particularly terrible gust blew open the windows. I rose to fasten it, but struggled to get it closed. I turned round and in the doorway stood Lucy, clutching a blanket.

‘I’m so afraid,’ she said. ‘Can I stay here with you?’

I muttered something incomprehensible and made her a sign to come in. She went straight to the bed and sat down. After a brief preamble which made no sense at all, I asked her: ‘I saw you once with Jute’s brother. You were playing and laughing in the water…’

‘No,’ she stopped me firmly. ‘He’s not my boyfriend. He’s very keen on me, but I don’t like him.’

‘Except when he plays with you in the water and throws you in the air and catches you in his arms.’

‘Oh God, we’re only just engaged and already you’re throwing a jealous fit.’ We both laughed.

‘Anyway, I still have a bone to pick with you. Don’t get annoyed, but can you explain why you didn’t want to come with me when I caught up with you in the water?’

‘It’s simple. Because I didn’t want Jute and her brother to see us together when they came back with their motorboat. She’s always nagging at me, telling me that every time I see you I go into a flutter like a nun standing in front of a naked Saint Sebastian pierced with arrows. Not to mention her brother who’s much worse. He’s very jealous of you … to put it mildly, you give him a pain in the balls. If he’d found you and me in your yawl, tangled up in each other’s arms after we tumbled in together, there was every chance he’d have rammed into you with his big, show-off motorboat.’

I was panting like a bellows, but I was also getting rid of all the bile which had built up in the pit of my stomach.

Outside, the storm roared noisily: at times it quietened down, only to begin howling again more loudly than before. We told each other everything, starting from the first time we had met on the beach. She made fun of my acrobatic diver displays, especially since more often than not they ended with horrendous belly flops. I got back at her over certain poses and attitudes she struck: I laughed, and she denied that she had ever behaved in that way.

She was clearly flattered at having produced such emotion in me. I stood up on the bed and began mimicking her various ways of walking, real mannequin parade stuff, in front of us awestruck lads, her way of running, jumping … I even imitated her voice and laughter. Lucy rolled about laughing, and in fact careered about on the bed so much that she fell off and landed on the floor with a great thud. ‘Oh God, my head! What a bump!’ I had to take hold of her to help her back to her feet. She embraced me and gave me a tiny peck on the cheek. My heart was beating in my temples, in my chest and right down to my toes. We carried on chattering, lying one close to the other, but when the first rays of light began to filter in through the shutters, it was a struggle to speak; our words came out mangled by sleepiness. We fell asleep like two children. For both of us it was first love. I was seventeen and she fourteen. Blessed be that squall!