DARINA SILONE
89
notice that I was watching him. He wrote several pages, with in–
creasing rapidity and an unforgettable look of exaltation on his face.
Punctually at six a maid brought dinner - only for him. Mine
would come later. I told him not to wait for me, to eat while the food
was hot.
"I don't want to eat at all," he said, furious at being interrupted.
He was usually a good patient and followed his schedule. He got up
from the armchair and sa t on the edge of the bed in front of the
trolley. He had been served curried veal with rice , which the day
before I had advised him to choose from his special menu. He had
remarked, "Oh, your India! " an allusion to my interest in that coun–
try. I had replied that there would be nothing Indian about the
curry, but that it might make the dish more appetizing.
Then with an abrupt change of mood towards me, he said,
"No , I can't eat , I want to wait for you ." I answered that perhaps I
should be served last, someone had to be last , he had better begin.
He began slowly, reluctantly, hardly tasting the food, constantly
pausing to say, "I want to wait for you ." I told him I wasn't hungry
and that he needn't bother, but he put down his fork.
When finally my dinner came, I didn't notice it. He had very
carefully pushed the table away from him, raising it slightly to avoid
the television cable. I didn't understand .
"Do you need anything? Can I help you?"
He did not answer. Taking care not to upset anything, he very
deliberately turned himself around to sit, erect, in the armchair. I
watched him, motionless . It was like the performance of a solemn
ritual. In a loud voice, slowly and clearly, declaiming the words, he
said,
"Maintenant c'estjini. Tout estfini. Je meurs."
He put his hands to
his temples and groaned four times, "Ohh-ohh-ohh-ohh." Then
he closed his eyes and collapsed in the armchair. I called him
desperately, but he did not respond. I couldn't believe it, and yet I
had to believe it. I should have liked some last personal word but
realized that he had given it: "I want to wait for you."
Ignazio Silone had succeeded, by a supreme effort, in dying as
he wanted : with dignity and in full awareness .
That he should have spoken, at the moment of death, a
language not his own, was a phenomenon, the doctor told me, uni–
que in his experience.
After the cerebral lesion which had put an end (at about 6:30
p.m. on August 18, 1978) to his conscious existence, he fell into a
coma . He seemed to be immersed in a quiet, untroubled sleep . He
