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The Clocks
by Federico Tozzi
translated by Minna Proctor
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Bernardo
Lotti had a clock for every room in his house,
including the bedroom. In the parlor he had
four. They were antique clocks, grandfather
clocks, and they were almost identical except
in size. They had wooden faces decorated with
roses, bouquets and garlands  that
were painted around the numbers. One of the
parlor clocks looked like it had been born there,
out of the wall, and had just kept growing until
it was bigger than all the others. For twenty,
maybe thirty years, that clock had never been
moved. Its brass knockers looked as if they
weighed a hundred pounds. The black hands were
sharp, like the blades of a knife—spinning
as if they had something to slice, something
to kill. The ticktock was like breath. Its face,
once painted white, was now a dirty, unidentifiable
color. The sharp hands seemed to mow down the
tiny rose bushes with each pass. Termites had
gnawed tiny holes like so many pinpricks into
the wood. When the hour chimed, it was transfixing,
and you could get caught there, listening to
that voice, losing count of the strokes. It
was a simple, soft song, and you listened in
expectation of some message, a word. The rust
on the gears seemed sweet and quaint. The other
three clocks in the parlor were barely audible,
as if muffling their chimes in deference.
*
When the clock at City Hall
struck midday, Lotti went to the Piazza del
Campo to eat in a restaurant called The Trattoria
della Speranza—the one with the green awning
and the white letters painted on it. He always
ate the same thing. So it was a special occasion
whenever he tried a new dish, and he'd have
half a liter of wine more than usual. It was
his custom to offer a glass of wine to the lemon
monger who was always sitting on a stool in
the doorway of the trattoria; he rested there,
holding his basket, empty by that time of day,
upside down over one knee. One hand would be
tucked into his pocket, jingling the copper
coins he kept there. He had a blade of straw
or hay tucked into his mouth, he was red in
the face, and there was always some kind of
heat blister on his cheek or the tip of his
nose. His mustache seemed to grow sparser over
time—there were only two or three bristles
left. His eyes were clear and wet; his hair
was slick with sweat. He'd wear his hat tilted
over one ear, even though it was too small.
He wore blue shirtsleeves, no jacket, and he'd
ripped open his shoes so they wouldn't rub against
his corns. He was still a young man, but was
already half crazy: two months out of every
year, he spent in an asylum. He'd get better
without any liquor, and he'd leave. He always
said hello to Lotti, as if he were obeying orders.
Lotti, as was his manner, barely returned the
greeting, even though it pleased him—so
much so, in fact, that he'd have been terribly
offended and never come back to the trattoria
if the lemon monger hadn't said hello.
This is an excerpt.
To read the rest, please continue your travels
in the Republic by purchasing
No. 10, September 2004.
Federigo
Tozzi's bio is forthcoming.
Minna Proctor's bio
is forthcoming.
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