OF THE MANY HORRIBLE THINGS THAT I’VE HEARD IN recent years, the one that made the deepest impression on me was the following story, told to me by a young girl.
“Once when I was going through Milan,” she said, “I had to visit an aunt, already fairly elderly, whom I hadn’t seen for several years. It would have been terrible if she came to hear that I had been in Milan and hadn’t gone to see her. She’d have been mortally offended. But as I was busy in the afternoon, I telephoned her to say that I’d see her that evening, after supper. The tone of her reply implied that she was absolutely delighted—too delighted, really—at the prospect of my visit.
“She lived somewhere near Via Settembrini in a quiet, elegant house; she had an old apartment in it, kept scrupulously clean, but so full of furniture, pictures, carpets, screens, vases, curtains, stools, work baskets and general bric-a-brac that on entering you felt positively weighed down with its fussiness, with dust even. And then the lamps had the most complicated shades and gave out a depressing sort of light. No sooner was I inside the door than I felt I wanted to get out and into the open again as soon as possible.
“My aunt was in the dining room, and she wasn’t alone. Seated opposite her, on the other side of the table, was another elderly woman, a close friend I assumed from the familiar way in which she behaved. But I remember now that there were at least three other people: they were sitting farther back, in the shadow, and I couldn’t see them very well, but from what I remember there was a young woman of about thirty, another little woman rather older, quite unremarkable, and a very fulsome man, with glasses, of about fifty. As far as one could tell, they lived in the same house and came to see my aunt every evening.
“The conversation was taking the course one might expect (news of my family, our mutual relatives, the war), so that I was surprised at the way my aunt and her friends were looking at me: intensely, as though they expected not simply a polite visit but something far more important, something about which they were extremely anxious.
“At the same time, I was struck by the incredible jumble of furniture and ornaments of all sorts: here it was somehow even more stifling than in the other rooms I’d come through. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could live and move in that jungle of antiquated junk. It made me feel physically sick.
“The central table in particular was heaped almost to overflowing with a whole collection of things: a low flower stand with some unhealthy-looking little green plants, a bonbonnière, a photograph album, an inkstand, balls of wool, little vases, books and, among other things, a large tray filled with bottles, flasks and glasses. From the look of them, the bottles probably contained syrups or sticky rosolios, and I felt sickened at the thought that I would probably be offered some. In the middle, hanging from the ceiling but so low that it almost touched the central flower stand, was an art nouveau lampshade like an upside-down lily, shading a lighted lamp; at the bottom was a strange sort of protruding handle, like those on coffee grinders but of shiny brass; I thought it might have something to do with raising and lowering the lamp.
“Then suddenly, through the gloom, I saw a small animal moving restlessly about on the left arm of my aunt’s armchair. For some reason I was immediately convinced that it was a bat, though I can’t think why, since it really had very little in common with one. My aunt obviously kept it in the drawing room like a kitten and found it delightful. It had a small droopy face like a little dog rather than a mouse, a thin slender body and a long ratlike tail; but what struck me particularly were its four tiny legs, about seven inches long, with webbed feet like a duck’s, only black.”
“So it had no wings?”
“No, no wings. But with its blackish color and those slimy webbed feet, it looked more like a bat than all the bats I’ve ever seen put together.
“Weirdly elegant, the little animal moved from its position on the arm of the chair where it had been perched and began to jump strangely sideways until it reached the edge of the table, at which juncture it leapt back to the arm of the chair; it did this several times, always jumping with all four feet at a time. It kept its eyes fixed on me.
“‘A bat?’ I asked stupidly, hoping to please my aunt.
“‘Yes,’ she said, smiling rather sadly. ‘Such a sweet little thing!’
“Meanwhile the bat (as I may as well call it) continued its delicate crab-like leaping: it was gradually coming closer to me, swaying languidly, almost flirting. At one of its more determined leaps in my direction I couldn’t control a movement of disgust and drew back.
“‘Oh, dear!’ hummed my aunt mellifluously, as if I’d disappointed her. ‘Now, what harm could it do you?’
“But the bat had noticed my movement and had drawn back itself with a graceful leap, for all the world as though it were offended. It withdrew to the middle of the table, where the collection of glasses, flasks and bottles was thickest, picking its way among them with extraordinary delicacy, without so much as brushing them.
“Not only my aunt but her friends too were smiling in a pleased, hopeful, expectant manner—like a mother whose child is about to recite a much talked-of poem to a guest—and were glancing first at me, then at the bat. Were they expecting me to take it on my lap and stroke it? I was well aware of their ridiculously anxious glances but I didn’t dare return them. Were they somehow in awe, in fear of the hateful little thing? Worried that I might maltreat it? Or did they expect me to join in their abject admiration? By now I was convinced of one thing: the feeling of expectancy I’d noticed on coming into the room was in some way connected with the presence and behavior of the bat. ‘Just look at the sweet thing,’ murmured my aunt, no longer able to contain herself.
“Its webbed feet were at that moment carrying out a series of mysterious maneuvers among the bottles. Incredible though it may seem, I had to admit to myself that it was plainly trying to lift one of the glass stoppers of a Louis XV decanter half-full of a thick raspberry-colored liquid.
“‘Maria,’ said my aunt nervously, nodding with great affection at the efforts of the abominable creature, ‘would you like a glass of Prunella Ballor?’
“Prunella Ballor? I wanted to laugh. Could that revolting concoction really be an expensive liqueur?
“But my aunt didn’t move to pour it for me. She was watching the antics of the bat. I was about to murmur vague thanks when I understood: the creature itself was to pour my drink.
“‘Will you have one, Maria?’ pressed my aunt.
“‘You really must,’ interposed the man with glasses.
“You’d have thought their whole life depended on my answer. They stared at me fixedly, they seemed to be imploring. If only to goodness I would accept, would allow the bat to perform this singular feat, be pleasant to it, not annoy it, they seemed to be saying.
“‘No thank you,’ I answered firmly. ‘Honestly, I never drink anything in the evening.’
“A querulous voice came from the shadows (it must have been the young woman): ‘Come come, don’t feel you have to refuse just out of politeness.’
“‘Please, Maria,’ insisted my aunt. ‘Just a little, one drop.’” She was behaving as though her life was at stake, her voice trembling with emotion.
“What does this absurd pantomime mean, I wondered. To please them, must I bow down to this wretched creature?
“I answered firmly, ‘No thank you, Aunt, I won’t have anything, please don’t press me.’ And without really knowing why, I stood up to go.
“At my words, an inexplicable look of horror appeared on the faces of my aunt and her friends.
“‘Oh, God, what have you done!’ exclaimed my aunt, her eyes wide with fear.
“Meanwhile the bat, turning its little face toward me for the last time, suddenly moved away from the bottles and leapt lightly onto the handle which protruded from the lamp; with a sudden angry movement, perhaps in retaliation to the insult, it gave the lever a push.
“Instead of going upward, as I’d imagined, the lamp swung around on itself and the light suddenly fell.
“At the same time there was a violent series of tremendous explosions and the distant crash of bombs echoed through the whole city, shaking the houses: the air was filled with the roar of a thousand planes.”
