Colonial Tales

THE LIEUTENANT WITH AGATE EYES

THE LIEUTENANT WITH AGATE EYES‘And I’m telling you we’re not going to that dance,’ the Commendatore said, irritated: ‘I haven’t slaved for thirty years just to give my daughter away to some dandy.’

‘His father’s a lawyer.’

‘My daughter’s not going to marry a soldier, she’s going to marry a man who works for a living. When I die, her husband will take over my business.’

‘We can’t run roughshod over Emilia’s feelings like that, Giacomo!’

‘Don’t start talking nonsense, and don’t be so melodramatic. My daughter’s feelings are subject to my will, and I only want what’s best for her.’

‘If we don’t go to the club it’ll cause a scandal.’

‘You can only answer scandal with another scandal’ the Commendatore retorted, vexed.

‘You should at least remember that it was General Desiderius Occhipinti himself who invited us. Giacomo – come tomorrow we’ll have the whole army against us!’

‘I’ll take them on.’

‘I promise you – and I promise you on Emilia’s behalf too – that it will all be finished tonight. But… I beg you… let her say goodbye to that man.’

‘That man?’ the Commendatore interjected, losing his patience, ‘he’s just a magazine cutout, he’s not a man! Have you seen his legs?! They look more like wings than legs: They’re great when it comes to dancing a waltz, but they won’t do him any good while standing in a factory.’

‘You don’t mean to suggest we should want to fall in love with our own son-in-law and judge whether his legs are good enough or not?’

‘I can judge a man just by looking at him. And that little lieutenant’s got agate eyes, have you noticed that? They lack any depth, they’re gorgeous to look at, and they’ve cast a spell on Emilia, but they don’t see anything, like gemstones refracting light. When you shake his hand, you can’t feel the nerves, or the muscles of his fingers. I won’t argue that it might well be perfectly shaped, but it lacks any strength whatsoever. His uniform is just like his skin: clean and fresh, like he’d never even put it on, it’s like it was his natural plumage, it bears no sign of any physical strain; and by the end of the night, there’s still not a crease in sight. He can’t even warm up that uniform, or fill it enough to make it look tailored, he’s got the absent-minded grace of a mannequin. That little lieutenant looks good in a shop window, but put him out on the street and he’ll fall down and die.’

‘He doesn’t necessarily have to take over your business, you know.’

‘So who have I been working so hard for?’ the Commendatore exclaimed, ‘so I could see the business taken over by whom exactly?’

His wife looked at him, hesitantly. She could still force a few admissions out of him – ‘Look at that little lieutenant dancing with Emilia’ he’d said the first time he’d laid eyes on him, ‘look at how he moves, he’s so quick on his feet.’ But there was no hope. The ordeal of the office desk – the inexorable requirement for anyone to be granted his daughter’s hand, an enigma which had to be solved in order to marry the heiress of that great factory – would only humiliate that young paper soldier.

The Commendatore stood up. ‘I’m going to inform Emilia that we won’t be going to the club tonight. My daughter won’t ever forgive me for this.’

‘Don’t be dramatic, that’s enough now, don’t be so dramatic. The lieutenant is like a string of pearls, and right now we’re telling her that she can’t have it: she’ll cry a little and then it’ll all be over. It’s just like if you’d missed out on a big business opportunity at the office, you’d feel bad too.’

When the mother stepped inside the girl’s room, she found her sitting next to the window with a book in her hand.

‘Are you reading, my dear?’

Emilia half turned to face her.

‘You know, your father can really be odd at times. This little lieutenant has certainly got him all scared up.’

‘What about the dance?’ Emilia softly asked.

‘The dance? Sure, there’ll be a dance tonight,’ her mother stammered, ‘but we won’t be going.’

Emilia rose and the book slammed shut in her hand.

The mother’s eyes filled with tears.

‘Calm down, my daughter, calm down, I swear I fought for you. But you know how strong-willed he is.’

The daughter entered the sitting room where the father was reading the newspaper.

The father raised his eyes. They looked at one another for a long time.

‘I swear I won’t marry that man, daddy, not if you don’t want me to. But tonight we’re going to the dance.’

‘Why aren’t you a man, Emilia? The strength of your willpower offers some consolation: Whenever you speak I cheer up because I can feel the presence of a proper heir. Now it doesn’t really matter whether we go to the dance or not. We can go, if you like… but only for an hour. Your mother says you need to say goodbye to that officer. Fine. If it’s so important so be it.’

‘Thank you, darling.’ the mother said, with tears in her eyes.

‘I really don’t understand what all these tears are for!’ the Commendatore exclaimed. ‘What time are we going?’

‘Eleven.’

‘Eleven it is.’

Come eleven o’clock they made their entrance into the Officers Club, on Corso Italia. The Commendatore was a solidly built man, with authoritarian features. He never enjoyed himself at parties: but he had gratefully accepted the general’s invitation as though it had been a medal. After the day’s tension, the mother got dressed in a hurry, without taking much care.

The general extended Commendatore Curzi a warm welcome. An army corps general still outranked an industrialist, at least in the colonies – even though this particular industrialist was the Chairman of the local chamber of commerce and a trustee of a few charities – but the government had made the region’s industrial development a top priority, for both economic reasons as well as, more importantly, for propagandistic purposes. And that man was a formidable go-getter. The soldier held him in high regard and didn’t leave him waiting in the reception room.

‘Emilia grows more beautiful by the day, Commendatore.’ the general said, joyfully making it known he remembered the girl’s name.

The dance had begun. The orchestra played a tango. On entering the room, Emilia immediately spotted the agate eyes on the other side of the orchestra. She also noticed the Commendatore – while his wife looked around herself – looking very frightened. They sat down at Colonel Lanza’s table. The latter’s wife, a sweet-natured blonde with withered features, complimented Emilia. ‘You’re really very pretty, very pretty.’ Emilia had been sitting there for over a half hour and nobody had paid her any mind. ‘You know, Emilia,’ the colonel’s wife began, keeping her voice down so that the Commendatore and her husband wouldn’t overhear her, ‘springtime and life are brief and go by quickly, just like a waltz. You whirl about and then the music ends, and then life gives you leave to go.’

A captain came to ask Emilia to dance. He was a melancholy man, very courteous, and he even confided in her a little, what seemed like snippets of a conversation he was secretly carrying on with himself.

‘Everybody’s here,’ he said, ‘but the dance feels a little stiff – doesn’t it?’

‘It’s eleven thirty.’

‘Does Emilia have a clock inside her head tonight?’

The mother kept scanning her surroundings. Maybe he didn’t show up? she asked herself, frightened. Maybe it’s for the best, maybe it’s for the best… and she folded her black lace shawl again.

Every time the Commendatore’s eyes scanned the room, he would find those agate eyes: they were hiding behind the orchestra’s red festoons as though peering through a thick wood. Yet the unerring Commendatore would always find them again right away, like the fine hunter he was. He had fixed his gaze upon him as though he were his prey.

Emilia returned to her table. The colonel asked her if she was having a good time. After Emilia’s measured response, and drawn by the brilliant notes being played, he stood up. He would step in and ask the girl to dance. He was shorter than Emilia, whose head hovered just above his. Meaning that every time she turned, Emilia’s eyes could run along the length of the room and admire those agate eyes beyond the orchestra’s festoons.

‘We watched you grow up, little Emilia,’ the colonel said, affectionately.

Emilia clasped his hand.

‘A little melancholic tonight?’

‘Tell me,’ the colonel’s wife asked her, drawing Emilia close to her as soon as they got back to their table, ‘that little lieutenant from the other day… is it all over with him? Such a handsome boy. A little frail perhaps, but very stylish! You know what he reminds me of? A violin! And here he is!’

Lieutenant Roberti was standing a step away from Emilia. He bowed slightly towards the ladies, then greeted the Commendatore and the colonel. At which he asked Emilia to dance.

‘Lieutenant Roberti appears to be wildly infatuated,’ the colonel’s wife commented, raising her voice as soon as the couple had left the table. ‘My dear Commendatore, it seems Emilia has stolen his heart.’ The colonel’s wife could have talked about love all night long. But following a subtle nod from Emilia’s mother, she kept her mouth shut.

Commendatore Curzi disdained the silence cowards use to keep danger at bay: ‘If the world, such as it is today, were governed by peace and harmony, instead of by strength and willpower, that little lieutenant over there might get along just fine. But peace and harmony have no place outside of the dance floor.’

The colonel’s wife laughed, amused. ‘Just look at them – they’re so made for each other. Emilia looks so pretty tonight. Very pretty indeed.’

The mother kept her eyes fixed on the young couple. She might well have been saying goodbye to him at that exact moment. She might have been explaining why they couldn’t be together. She might have been employing noble phrases, along the lines of, ‘I’ll always respect you.’ In fact, given that the waltz’s heady notes can play tricks on one’s mind, she might have even gone so far as to say ‘I’ll never forget you.’ Nevertheless, if she had something to say, then she should have gotten on with it: after all, how long could a waltz possibly last?

Even the father’s eyes were fixed on Emilia. The couple entered his line of sight and then suddenly left it again, swaying back and forth as though being swept about by the waves. What was resoundingly clear, however, was that Emilia was not talking. Good girl, he thought, no point in sweet nothings, promises, or tears. He was proud of his daughter’s silence. And since a string of pearls had been mentioned, he would make a point of buying her one as a present. One with two strands, or three, maybe even four… He too was gripped by the waltz’s rhythm.

When Major Maiorana approached to invite the colonel’s wife to dance, the latter leapt up, as light on her feet as a little girl. Once out on the floor, her eyes met Emilia’s. ‘God how I love to dance!’ she exclaimed.

The Commendatore was still examining the lieutenant’s uniform. He still couldn’t fathom how that uniform could be kept so rumple-free, as though it wasn’t hanging off a human body, a warm body made of muscles – no, it was as if he were a glove or a soap bubble. He didn’t even seem to be breathing, his nostrils didn’t seem to flare, his chest didn’t seem to be rising and falling. If life was as harmonious as this waltz, he thought to himself, full of melancholy, then this little lieutenant would have been a perfect match for Emilia, they’re very similar and cut from the same cloth. But life isn’t like that: it would be like giving Emilia a pheasant for a husband, a nice little golden pheasant… Having grown irritated, he turned his head away and stopped looking at the dancers.

Maybe they’ll run off to the terrace. As soon as the dance is over, Emilia’s going to drag him out onto the terrace. And once they’re alone, she’ll tell him… But what will she say?! What could she say? Her mother was wringing her hands.

Like a troupe of incompetent actors, the orchestra musicians adapted to the atmosphere on the floor, playing at faster tempos, playing the last notes as loudly as the room allowed. Right on the final beat, just as the couples were slipping out of their embraces, Emilia addressed her first words to the lieutenant that night: ‘Keep dancing.’

One spin, two spins, three spins. The couples had all unclasped, some were still standing immobile in the middle of the dance floor, while others had already headed back to their respective tables. Right in the middle of it all, keeping its distance from the couples still standing and those leaving, one last couple kept spinning along.

The Commendatore’s eyes had turned into fangs. As for Emilia’s mother, she was barely able to restrain herself as she raised her hand to cross herself. Don’t let anything happen, God, don’t let anything happen, God.

At this point the dance floor had emptied entirely. Yet the lieutenant with agate eyes kept spinning about with his girl in his arms. ‘Pretty, really very pretty…’ the colonel’s wife murmured. The Commendatore stood up, but nobody paid him any attention. Everyone had stood up by then, neatly arranging themselves in a square around the dance floor. ‘Look!’ said the colonel’s wife, ‘the hall is ready for the cavalry lancers.’

Only the orchestra players were still moving. They were miming a bizarre comedy, which is to say that they didn’t know what to do, whether they should keep playing – but if they did, what would they play? Yet the young officer and his girl didn’t need them at all.

Then, right on the other side of the orchestra, a passageway swung open. Somebody was on their way. All eyes turned to that opening, and the General in Chief of the army corps emerged at the other end. It was as though the rows of guests had taken up formation so that the general could review his guard of honour.

One spin, two spins, three spins. Then the young lieutenant and the girl came to a stop. The girl bowed deeply before the general, while the young lieutenant stood to attention. The General in Chief of the army corps dismissed them, and his hand betrayed a trace of kindness.