CONTENTS

1) The Non- Camillo Books (Introduction)

2) Early Family Stories
- Introduction
.
- "He and She"
- "Age Forty"
- "Venice..."
- "Birthday Cake"
.
- "Travelling..."
- "...Revolution"
- "Prisoner..."
- "Purgatory Cake"

3) Later Family Stories

4) Drawing Room Farces

5) Notes from Prison Camp

When they reach a certain age, women begin to make important discoveries.

"Giovannino," Margherita said to me one day, "has it ever occurred to you that I have within me a world that is entirely mine?"

"No, Margherita," I said.

"I have a world that's all mine within me," Margherita explained. "Oh yes, I live in our everyday external world, but I also live in a secret world all my own. I move alone, sad, hopelessly alone through the streets of that world. And sometimes I get lost and frightened and cry out for help--but no one hears me."

A problem.

"If the world's all your own," I said, "you must know it pretty well."

"It's a world that belongs to me," said Margherita, "only in the sense that I belong to it. I am a prisoner of that world of shadows, desires, and fears--a prisoner, and alone. And I drag my unhappy feet though streets that never end."

"A bad business," I said. "Couldn't you at least get hold of a bicycle?"

Margherita looked at me with disgust.

But I went on. "I'm not joking, Margherita. I'm only trying to help you. Since it's a world that's entirely yours, where you live in your thoughts, you can concentrate on traveling on a bicycle instead of on foot, and you'd feel much better, believe me. I'd have said a car, but you don't drive."

A few days later she spoke of her world again, and I asked: "Margherita, did you try thinking what I told you?"

"Yes."

"And did you manage to get hold of a bicycle?"

"Yes," she said. "It wasn't easy. That world is a poetic world. But finally, through sheer force of will, I won out."

"Is it better, traveling around on a bicycle?"

"Well, I am less tired and I can do a great many more streets."

For a week Margherita was in high spirits. Evidently, not having to travel on foot had been of considerable benefit to her. Then one day she fell into a deep depression.

"Margherita," I said, "how are things in that world of yours?"

She sighed. "Not well."

"How about the bicycle?"

"I've had to go back to walking. I had a blow-out."

I lost my head.

"Margherita," I cried, "if you managed to get hold of a bicycle, you ought to be able to fix the tire by thinking of a bit of rubber, a tube of cement, and a bicycle pump."

"I have all of that, and I've tried. But I can't get it fixed."

"It's so easy, Margherita! Try again!"

She shook her head.

"Isn't there a bicycle shop in that world of yours?"

"In that world of mine there are only shadows, desires, fears. It's terrible, Giovannino, I'm so alone there!"

I took her hand and led her to the large room that serves as both garage and workshop. I took down my bicycle from the wall and showed her how easy it was to change a tire. I even had her try it. And after several attempts, she succeeded.

Then I left her to her thoughts. She seemed more cheerful.

I gave her three days. Then I asked her point-blank:

"Well? Everything okay?"

"I can't do it, Giovannino," she replied. "It must be a different kind of tire. And just look what it's done to my hands."

She held them out. They were soft and unblemished. She was showing me the hands of her mind, and I admitted that they were somewhat battered.

"Don't give up hope, Margherita. I'm here to help you," I said.

"But you're not there. There I'm alone with a bicycle I can't use."

We went back to the garage and I had her change the tire of my bicycle again and again. Recalling the instructions given with a machine gun, I had her repeat the operation blindfolded.

For the next two days she seemed preoccupied, and I knew she was struggling with that tire. The third day she was triumphant.

"I made it!" she cried. "The bicycle is fixed and works perfectly."

Weeks passed, and months, before Margherita spoke again of her secret world. We were alone in the house one evening, and Margherita looked at me with tears in her eyes.

"What's happened, Margherita? What is it?"

"I fell, Giovannino. I was riding along a narrow mountain road in my world and the bicycle slipped out from under me. I rolled all the way down."

She covered her face with her hands.

"And where are you now, Margherita?"

"At the bottom of a ravine," she sobbed.

"Hurt?"

"Hurt."

"Badly?"

"It can't be so very bad. I can move. It's only my head that hurts."

"Have you tried calling for help?"

But of course it was useless to call for help in a world of shadows, desires, and fears. I told her to get hold of herself and rest a bit before trying to climb out.

A couple of days later, Margherita told me she no longer felt any pain in her head, but trying to get out of the gorge was hopeless.

"It's the end," she sobbed, "unless someone throws a rope down to me. I'm devoured by thirst."

I went to the bookstore and bought all the manuals they had on mountain climbing. Margherita and I studied the illustrations. We found the type of rock formation within whose walls Margherita was imprisoned. We read the manual, and she learned by heart the movements I thought would be of use to her.

For three days Margherita tried to climb that steep mountain wall. The fourth she showed me her hands: they were smooth and white, but I could see how scratched and bloody they were.

"I'm done in," Margherita said. "I feel the end approaching. Soon there'll be nothing but a heap of bones at the bottom of the ravine."

I cursed the bicycle and cried that I was to blame for the whole thing.

"No," Margherita said, "it's fate. I'd have fallen even without the bicycle. We must be resigned."

But I didn't want her to be resigned.

"Cry out!" I said. "Cry out with all the strength you've got left. Cry out."

"It's no use, Giovannino. There's nobody there."

"Cry out, cry out day and night. Try to call me. Don't stop calling me. Who knows, I may hear you."

I went to the garage and kicked my bicycle. Then I kicked the motorcycle too and hurt my foot, and I had a very disagreeable day. In the evening the sky was ugly and full of dark clouds and threats of distant thunder. It began to rain, but I stayed by the sea, where I had spent the afternoon. After the storm ended, the world was silent and dark. And I heard a distant cry: "Giovannino!"

I got on my motorcycle and sped toward the city. At home, Margherita was humming as she set the table.

"Margherita, did you call?"

"I called and called. And at last you heard me. I saw you leaning over the ravine."

"Did I have a rope with me?"

"Yes, you had a long rope."

"Thank God!"

"You had a long rope and you threw it down to me. I tied myself to it and you pulled me up."

"Hurray!" I cried, and praised God for having created mountain-climbing manuals.

"It was marvelous," Margherita sighed. "The minute I got up on safe ground again, you kicked the bicycle down into the ravine."

I took pride in my feat of strength.

"Then what did I do?" I asked.

"You went away."

"I'm sorry about that. It was a terrible thing to leave you alone in that horrible, dangerous world. And without even a bicycle."

But Margherita was perfectly serene.

"Only shadows, desires, and fears live in my secret world. But I'm not worried any more. I know that if I'm ever in danger and I call to you, you'll hear me and come."