The Truckdriver

I am lean and nervous, with thin arms and long legs, and my belly is so flat that my trousers keep slipping down: in fact, I am exactly the opposite of what is required to make a good truckdriver. Have you ever looked at truckdrivers? They're all big fellows with broad shoulders, brawny arms, strong backs and bellies. For a truckdriver depends especially on his arms, his back and his belly: on his arms, for turning the steering-wheel, which has a diameter very nearly as long as an arm, and which sometimes, on the bends of a mountain road, has to be turned full circle; on his back, to stand up to the fatigue of sitting still for hours and hours, always in the same position, without beginning to ache or grow stiff; and finally on his belly, to keep him planted solidly in his seat, like a rock embedded in the earth. So much for the physical aspect. From the moral point of view I am even less suitable. The truckdriver should have no nerves, no caprices, no homesickness, nor any other delicate feelings: driving is exasperating and fatiguing enough to kill an ox. And with regard to women, the truckdriver, like the sailor, should think very little about them; otherwise, with that continuous coming and going, he would go completely crazy. But I myself am full of thoughts and preoccupations; I am melancholy by nature and I like women.

However, in spite of its not being the right job for me, I wanted to be a truck-driver and managed to get myself taken on by a transport company. As mate they gave me a fellow called Palombi, who was, it must be admitted, a real lout. He was, indeed, the perfect truckdriver—not that truckdrivers" are not often intelligent; but he had the good fortune to be stupid, so that he formed one single piece with his truck. In spite of the fact that he was a man of over thirty, there was still something of the overgrown boy about him: he had a heavy face and rounded cheeks, small eyes beneath a low forehead, and a slit of a mouth like the opening in a moneybox. He spoke little, in fact hardly at all, and preferably by means of grunts. His intelligence brightened only when there was a question of something to eat. I remember one occasion when, tired and hungry, we went into an inn at Itri, on the road to Naples. There was nothing to eat except beans cooked with bacon rind, and I scarcely touched them because they don't agree with me. Palombi devoured two bowls full: then, pulling himself back in his chair, he gazed at me solemnly for a moment, as though he were about to tell me something of importance. Finally, passing his hand across his stomach, he declared: "I could have eaten another four plate-fuls." This was the great thought that had taken so long to find expression.

With this companion, who might have been made of wood, I don't need to tell you how pleased I was the first time we came across Italia. At that time we were doing the Rome-Naples route, carrying all kinds of different loads—bricks, scrap-iron, rolls of newsprint, timber, fruit, and even, occasionally, small flocks of sheep that were being taken from one pasture to another. Italia stopped us at Terracina and asked for a lift to Rome. Our orders were not to give lifts to anybody, but, after we had taken a look at her, we decided that, for this once, the rule didn't hold good. We beckoned to her to get in and she hopped up, as brisk as could be, saying: "Three cheers for the truckdrivers! They're always so kind."

Italia was a provoking girl: there is no other word for it. She had an incredibly long, narrow waist, and above it, a bust that stood out sharply—positively venomous, it was—under the tight jumpers she usually wore, which came down to her hips. She had a long neck, too, and a small, brown head and two large green eyes. In contrast to her very long body, her legs were short and rather crooked, so that she gave the impression of walking with her knees bent. She was not beautiful, in fact, but she had something better than beauty; and I had proof of this during that first trip, for, when we had got as far as Cisterna, and Palombi was driving, she slipped her hand into mine and squeezed it hard, and never let go of it till Velletri, when I took over from Palombi. It was summer, and about four o'clock in the afternoon, which is the hottest time, and our two hands were all slippery with sweat; but every now and then she threw me a glance out of those green, gypsy eyes of hers and it seemed to me that life, after being for such a long time nothing more than a ribbon of asphalt, was beginning to smile upon me once more. I had found what I had been looking for—a woman to think about. Between Cisterna and Velletri, Palombi stopped and got out in order to "go and look at the wheels," and I took advantage of this to give her a kiss. At Velletri I willingly changed places with Palombi: a clasp of the hand and a kiss were enough for me, for that day.

From then onwards, regularly once or even twice a week, Italia got us to take her from Rome to Terracina and back. She would wait for us in the morning, always with some sort of parcel or suitcase, near the walls; and then, if Palombi was driving, she would hold my hand all the way to Terracina. On our return from Naples, she would be waiting for us at Terracina; she would get in, and the hand-clasps would begin again and also—even when she was unwilling—the secret kisses at moments when Palombi could not see us. In short, I fell seriously in love, partly because it was such a long time since I had been fond of any woman and I had lost the habit. And to such a point that all she had to do now was to look at me in a certain way and immediately I was moved, like a child, even to tears. They were tears of tenderness; but to me they appeared a weakness unworthy of a man and I made great efforts, unsuccessfully, to check them. While I was driving we would talk in low voices, taking advantage of Palombi being asleep. I do not remember anything of what we said—which shows it was mere trifles and jokes and lovers' talk. I do remember, however, that the time passed quickly: even the asphalt ribbon from Terracina, which usually seems to go on forever, fell away as if by magic. I used to slow down to twenty or fifteen miles an hour, allowing everything to pass me—even the farm carts, almost: in time, however, we would reach the end of the journey and Italia would get out. At night it was even better: the truck seemed to go forward almost by itself, while I drove with one hand on the wheel and the other round Italia's waist. When, in the distant darkness, the headlights of other cars went on and off, I felt like answering their signals by flashing out with my own lights some word that should let everyone know how happy I was. Something like "I love Italia and Italia loves me."

As for Palombi, either he noticed nothing or he pretended not to notice. In point of fact he never protested, even once, against these very frequent journeys of Italia's. When she got in he would give her a grunt by way of greeting, then move aside to let her sit down. She always sat in the middle, because I had to keep an eye on the road and inform Palombi, when it was a question of overtaking another vehicle, whether the road was free. Palombi did not protest even when I, in my infatuation, wanted to write something that should refer to Italia on the glass of the windscreen. I thought it over and then wrote, in white letters: "Viva l'Italia." But Palombi was so stupid that he never noticed the double meaning of the words, until some other truckdrivers jokingly asked us why in the world we had turned so patriotic. Only then, looking at me open-mouthed, a smile slowly dawning on his face, did he say: "They think it's Italy and it's really the girl . . . You're a clever one. that was a bright idea of yours."

All this went on for a couple of months or perhaps even longer. Then one day, after we had left Italia, as usual, at Terracina, and had gone on to Naples, we received orders to unload and go back to Rome, instead of staying the night in Naples. I was annoyed, because we had an appointment with Italia for the next morning: but those were the orders. I took the wheel and Palombi immediately began to snore. All went well as far as Itri, because the road is full of bends and at night, when a truck-driver is beginning to get tired, bends make him keep his eyes open and are his best friend. But after Itri, going through the orangegroves at Fondi, I began to grow sleepy, and, in order to keep awake, I set myself to think about Italia. However, as I thought about her, it seemed to me that my thoughts were forming a thicker and thicker tangle in my mind, like the branches in a wood that becomes steadily denser and in the end quite dark. I remember saying to myself, all of a sudden: "It's lucky for me that I have the thought of her to keep me awake . . . otherwise I'd be asleep by now."

Of course I was asleep, and I formed this thought in my mind not while awake but in my sleep, and it was a thought sent to me in my sleep to make me sleep better and with more complete abandonment. At the same moment I felt the truck leave the road and plunge into the ditch; and I heard, behind me, the crash and jolt of the trailer turning over. We were going slowly and there-fore were not hurt: but, once we had managed to get out, we saw that the trailer was upside down with its wheels in the air and that the entire load, consisting of tanned hides, was lying in heaps in the ditch. It was dark, there was no moon, but the sky was full of stars. As luck would have it, we were almost at Terracina: there was the steep hill on our right and, on our left, beyond the vineyards, the quiet, black sea.

Palombi merely said: "Now you've done it"; and then, adding that we must get help from Terracina, started off on foot. It was a very short distance, but, seeing that we were just outside Terracina, Palombi, who was always thinking about eating, said he was hungry and that, as it would be some hours before the tow-truck arrived, we might as well go to an inn. So we went into the town and started looking for one. But it was after midnight, and in that round piazza, full of gaps from the bombings it had suffered, there was only one café, and that, moreover, was just closing. We turned down a small street that appeared to lead towards the sea and, a little way along it, saw a lamp and a sign above the door. We hastened our steps, our hopes rising, and it was indeed an (concluded on page 69)Truckdriver(continued from page 16)inn; but the roller-blind was half down, as though it were on the point of closing. It had glass doors, and the roller-blind left a strip of the glass uncovered, so that we were able to peep in. "You can see it's closed," said Palombi, stooping down to have a look. I stooped down too.

We could see a big room, like that of a country inn, with a few tables and a counter. The chairs were all placed upside down on the tables; and there was Italia, armed with a broom, bustling about doing the cleaning, a big duster tied round her hips. And behind the counter, right at the back of the room, stood a hunchback. I have seen hunchbacks before, but never so perfect a one as this. His face framed between his hands, his hump higher than his head, he was staring at Italia with ugly, black, bilious eyes. She was nimbly sweeping the floor, then the hunchback said something or other to her, without moving, and she went over to him. leant the broom against the counter, placed her arm round his neck and gave him a long, warm kiss. Then she took up her broom again and went twirling about the room as though she were dancing. The hunchback came down from the counter into the middle of the room: and we could now see that he was a kind of seafaring hunchback, with sandals and fisherman's trousers of blue cloth, turned up at the bottom, and an open-necked shirt á la Robespierre. He came over to the door, and we both of us drew back, as though with the same thought. The hunchback opened the glass door and pulled down the blind from inside.

"Who would ever have thought it?" I said, to hide my agitation: and Palombi answered: "Yes," with a bitterness that surprised me. We went to the garage, and then spent the night getting the truck back on to the road and loading up all those hides. But at dawn, as we were coming down towards Rome, Palombi began talking—for the first time, one might say, since I had known him. "You saw," he said, "what that bitch Italia has done to me?"

"What d'you mean?" I replied in astonishment.

"After all the things she'd said to me," he went on, in his slow, dull manner, "after she'd held my hand all the time while we were going up and down and I'd told her I wanted to marry her and in fact we were more or less engaged—well, you saw? A hunchback!"

His words took my breath away and I did not say anything. Palombi went on: "I'd given her such a lot of nice presents —a coral necklace, a silk scarf, a pair of patent-leather shoes . . . I'm telling you the truth. I was really fond of her. and besides, she was just the right girl for me . . . She's an ungrateful, heartless bitch, that's what she is . . ."

He went on like this for some time, speaking slowly and as though to himself, in that pale dawn light, as we rattled along towards Rome. And so—I couldn't help thinking—Italia had fooled both of us just in order to save railway tickets. It irritated me to hear Palombi speaking, because he was saying the same things that I myself might have said, and also because in his mouth, seeing that he was almost incapable of speech, these things sounded ridiculous. So much so, that, all of a sudden, I said to him brutally: "For God's sake stop talking to me about that bag of bones . . . I want to go to sleep." He, poor chap, answered: "Some things hurt, all the same, you know"; and then he was silent all the way to Rome.

For several months, after that, he was sad all the time; and for me the road had gone back to what it had been before—a road without beginning or end, just a cheerless ribbon of asphalt that had to be swallowed and spewed out again twice a day. What finally persuaded me to change my job, however, was that Italia opened a wineshop right on the Naples road, calling it The Truckdrivers' Resort. A fine resort indeed, worth going hundreds of miles to visit! Naturally we never stopped there, but, all the same, seeing Italia behind the counter and the hunchback passing glasses and bottles of beer to her was painful to me. I took myself off.

The truck with "Viva l'Italia" on the windscreen and Palombi at the wheel, is still on the road.