PARTISAN REVIEW
"They want to go back home," the sergeant said. "That's why
they're singing."
"What do the words mean?" the boy asked.
. "That there's a happy country somewhere, far away," the sergeant
srud.
"It's nice," said the boy.
They listened in silence until the song was over. Then the boy
asked again: "Tell me what I have to do."
"Nothing," the sergeant said. "Nothing this evening. Tomorrow,
come here at seven."
"O.K.," said the boy. He was still holding the dirty mess tin in his
hand and asked: "Should I wash the mess tin?"
"Yes, wash it up," the sergeant said.
The boy went to where the water casks were, and washed the mess
tin by rubbing it with earth. A soldier who saw him gave him a piece
of soap, and he washed the mess tin again with soap. Then he went
back to the sergeant. "I would like to dry it," he said, "but I haven't
anything to dry it with."
"You don't have to dry it," the sergeant said. He seemed absent–
minded, as if he was thinking of something else. The soldiers at the
end of the courtyai:d were still singing.
This spareness of contours, this bare presentation of things, this
reproduction of details which seem unessential, are certainly uncom–
mon in Italian literature. Berto is very fond of describing practical
occupations in their minute details. For instance:
Giulia smiled, but finding nothing else to say, got up and did
not sit down again. She gave a few more pulls to the pump . . . and
busied herself with the preparations for the meal. She took some canned
meat and some eggs out of the box, she lifted a pan off its hook on
the wall, and put everything on a table placed against the wall. She
opened the can, broke the eggs, and poured everything in the pan. Then
she began to
mix.
Her gestures were slow, unstudied. Daniele looked at
her, and looked also at the door to see whether Carla would come back.
She had been gone a long time. Then Giulia took the pot off the fire
and began to pour out the vegetables. Daniele went to help her, and
took in his hand a tin plate with many holes, which was used to drain
the vegetables.
Giulia smiled at
him
with gratitude. "Don't scald yourself," she
said. She cautiously poured out the contents of the pot. The vegetables
rested on the perforated tin plate, and the water dropped into a basin
underneath. A thick white vapor rose, full of the smell of the boiled
vegetables.
"Shall I go and throw the water away?" Daniele asked.
"No," Giulia said, "we can use it to wash the dishes."
Now, I won't try to prove that such minute cooking operations
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