le Sete 1

The tales of the no-Christmas gifts.

In Savona, under the arcades of Via Paleocapa, at the corner of the Libreria Moderna, an old Jewish man, tall and very skinny, with a hooked nose and predatory, inquisitive eyes, sometimes lined up his books there, on some very long tables. A large Jewish candelabrum, which I would have coveted very much, dominated everything. I don't even remember if it was for sale. This gentleman instilled a widespread, indistinct terror in me, and he was selling and buying books. It was Christmas time, and I, as usual, didn't have a penny. But I wanted to buy presents for the family’s women: my mother, grandmother, and sisters. My father abhorred gifts; I did not consider my brothers and grandfather

I owned, traversis itineribus, a Divine Comedy from 1818,1920 (I believe) in three volumes, from which they detached the boards. It was still the most precious thing, in terms of possession, that I could dispose of. After various thoughts, considerations, ambushes, second thoughts and apparent overcoming of the fears that the matter instilled in me, one morning I made up my mind and took up those three heavy volumes, being cautious not to be noticed: my grandmother was at Mass, my grandfather was preparing "food" for us and was always very discreet, my father was at work, my mother was still asleep. There was no danger with my brothers, they always left well before me to go to the station. We went to school in Savona, on the 6.52 or 6.53 train.

The dreaded moment of ACTION had arrived: I could not, for the sake of dignity, back out. I remember that this gentleman had read my hand. He was perplexed and worried, and he didn't want to tell me almost anything so as not to worry me (according to him...). So he terrified me even more.

In any case, I had to do something. And then I was running out of time. And so I asked him if he could evaluate my treasure. After some hesitation, he would have given me 18 thousand lire. Which seemed to me indecently little, and however, they wouldn't have solved the problem. Furthermore, the volumes were rather heavy, and I hoped I wouldn't have to carry them back. Fighting back tears of disappointment—it was absolutely out of the question to let myself be seen in that state—I took my books back and headed for the station. At this point, I could give in to my silent desperation. It was all grey. It might have been dark, too. I don't know. I don't remember the whole journey, but I know I didn't want to go home. I was too sick. I didn't go back up the Monte Carmelo bridge; I went along the Berbena from Borgo Castello, then a rough and thorny passage. And there under my parents' wall, I couldn't decide to go back up to enter the house. Blurred and confused memories. I know I hid the books down there—I would come back later, when everyone was asleep, to get them. After drying my face and trying to put on some acting, I climbed up the wall, returning to normal life. I think I met my mother, who wouldn't have understood anyway...