I lived on the top floor, in an attic. I was separated from the endless plateau of terraces throbbing with hung laundry by the garden of a small church, which was sheltered by leafy sycamores. Right in front of my window, stood the bell tower, proudly upright on the church’s facade like the hackle on a colonel’s beret; at sunset, the swallows would swirl around it, granting the Roman evening a passionate and agonizing voice.
All those who went onto my little balcony from my studio would be struck by the vastness they were suspended in and would exclaim: “Stunning!” But living there was a different story; especially for me who worked well into the night. I’d climb into bed exhausted, and just as I began to savor the sweetness of rest, the first toll of the bells would wake me with a start.
Shortly after, I’d hear the church’s heavy doors thud shut, and women’s hurried footsteps resounding in the empty street. Each morning I’d hope that these devotees’ zeal would satiate the parish priest’s needs, and would greedily dive back into sleep, just as the bells, protesting irately against the lazy and reluctant, would start banging again.
In summer, those tolls, entering forcefully from the open window, would shake my windows, lamp, and bed; they seemed capable of even ripping the blankets off my body.
And whenever my exhaustion prevented them from waking me up right away, they’d inspire terrifying dreams; I’d feel like I was on a steamship in the middle of a storm, hailed to the lifeboats by an alarm, or trapped in a burning barn, whose fire bell everyone ignored.
I’d wake up from these nightmares with my heart racing. I’d hear my son’s tiny bare feet in the next room, sprinting to shut his window, and my neighbors angrily slamming their shutters. The whole block would coalesce into a single mean thought, a sole curse that would stamp itself, in black, onto the parish priest’s white tunic. I’d try to fall back asleep by counting, picturing flowing water, deep pools with velvet-like surfaces, but it was no use. Soon all the shutters would open once more, and my son would start running his toy train. I’d rise and, drawn to the kitchen by the smell of burnt milk, would find the maid napping near the lit stove, its wicked flame licking the livid morning light, while the bells triumphantly abandoned themselves to every merry folly.
I put up with this for years until, finally, I decided to confront the parish priest. My son, terrified by my temerity and moved by an already manly instinct, offered to come with me. “Let’s go,” I said taking his hand, and rather than support, that tender flesh felt like a motive.
So like this, with his face pale and mine flushed, we briskly went downstairs, walked across the church, and barged into the vestry. A young friar was folding lace surplices before a large armoire, which stood on a platform. He turned, analyzing me with that scared expression religious men have whenever women fail to present themselves as submissive, displaying guilt and shame over the original sin.
He explained that the parish priest had left Rome for a few days and that he was his substitute. I was afraid that my courage would freeze up if I postponed the talk, so without preambles, I said my piece, insisting that it was impossible to go on like this. Standing on the platform he was taller than me, but I stared at him so audaciously that I forced him to lower his gaze as he replied that the bells rang according to the rules and that, after all, if I woke up at 5 o’clock, I could seize the opportunity to come down to mass and start the day with an act of mercy.
It was that word which reignited my ire. “Mercy?” I snapped. “And for those of us who work at night, don’t you have any mercy?” He seemed astonished, as for him night was only for sleep and rest. “I write,” I began, but instantly realized I’d made a mistake as my career made him suspicious. “Those who must feed their children can’t choose their working hours,” I said while shaking the tender hand I held. Nonetheless, I could feel myself falling into an abyss when suddenly, glancing out the open window at the squalid terraces and the hung laundry, I found a handhold. “And the newspaper printers? The cops? Nurses? The tram drivers, pilots, taxi drivers, train conductors, pharmacists, obstetricians? And those who tend the sick or keep vigil over the dead, in exchange for their work, don’t they have a right to your mercy? Hundreds, no, thousands of people cannot rest thanks to your lack of mercy.”
He was young and, before that madwoman who accused him, unarmed. He stepped down from the platform as if to apologize, but as soon as he was at my level, I asked, “So?” He didn’t reply; I pressed him. “Those who wish to go to mass can set the alarm, but those who are forced to sleep where . . . Just look!”
From the vestry’s window, which was shaded by sycamores, I pointed to my window, high up beneath the sun’s white glare, its shutters open wide like desperate arms. Countless other windows, equally defenseless, surrounded us. He grew pale and turned to look at me. Against him, all alone, my son and I were a family, a functioning moral entity, which fulfills its duties and thereby demands rights. Behind his thick lenses, I could see him lower his heavy, Mediterranean gaze.
He was about to say something, but his words were buried beneath a sudden deafening racket that plummeted from the bell tower. Once the bells stopped, there was an awkward silence. Finally, he murmured, “I understand but the parish priest is absent. I can’t . . . ” He paused, imploring comprehension. I shot back an ironic look then, coldly taking my leave, said “I didn’t think a higher order was needed for an act of mercy.”
The following morning, I was awakened by the first bell toll as usual. I lay waiting, and it seemed to me that across that space we were still facing off, challenging one another in a staring contest. I waited for the bells to invade the room with their clamor, contemptuously reaffirming their mandate of authority. But only the gentle quiet of morning encircled my window. There was one more toll, discreet like a knowing nod. After that, I confidently let myself drift into a splendid, restorative sleep.
They were unforgettable days: my neighbors, with their well-rested smiling faces, bowed whenever I passed, the doorman deferentially tipped his hat, and my son, shocked by my newly revealed power, no longer dared to act up. We awoke uplifted by the birds chirping on the sycamore’s branches, and the maids sung as they beat rugs. But it was a short-lived happiness, an ephemeral triumph: a few mornings later, the bells’ fury announced both the parish priest’s return and his desire to punish me harshly for having dared so.
After that marvelous truce, it seemed crueler to all of us to suffer that revenge. But nobody mentioned it: after my defeat, we realized we were hopelessly condemned. Regardless, one evening I couldn’t work, so I went onto my balcony and spied anxiously on the church’s garden. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of that young friar, for I worried that he had been punished or even sent away. In brief, this worry soon became unbearable; I felt I had a moral obligation to confess and wouldn’t have peace until I did. I left the house as if I were turning myself in.
There were only a few people in the church. The altar was still decorated with lilies from that morning’s wedding; that sweet, divine fragrance, provoked in me the same lethargy I endured as a girl, kneeling for long periods on an empty stomach. It was then that I spotted him coming out of the vestry with a little black book in his hands, looking down. I blocked his path, so he stopped, scared to see me. He tried to avoid me, but I grabbed his arm; his tunic’s white wool was unpleasantly rough. “I came because I was concerned,” I said. “I was worried that . . . Most of all, I wanted to thank you.” He didn’t reply and continued staring at the floor; his hands squeezed the book tightly. Then he lifted his gaze, confident now, and didn’t lower it again until we were through. “Thank me? For what?” He answered coldly. I resumed, unsure. “For the quiet. For having stopped the bells.” But he firmly declared, “I didn’t do anything. Since your visit, I’ve been indisposed until . . . today. I imagine that the bells tolled like always. It couldn’t be otherwise. It’s only that, little by little, you get used to it, and you no longer notice them. You no longer notice anything.” I remained silent for a minute, then smiled and said, “That’s it. You must be right.” After a quick bow, he went back to looking down and left, heading towards the confessional where some guilty soul was waiting.
I watched him walk away, his skinny shoulders hunched beneath the weight of that lie. No longer an adversary or protector, but through sin, an accomplice. He, too, accessible to human weakness, tempted, defenseless: so he, too, like me, in need of mercy. I started to leave, and saw, for one more instant, his white tunic shine in the darkness of the confessional; then he drew the black curtain, erasing himself, and vanished.
Out on the street, people were anxious and walking quickly; wandering fireflies brushed past me; one moment they were dark, hairy worms, the next, dazzling drops of light. Above the houses and the pointed bell tower, the sky was still light, and in the air, I could hear joyous voices in the distance and smell the tart scent of honeysuckle—all the telltale signs of summer. “Little by little, you no longer notice anything,” I thought with a shudder. A few days later I abandoned that house.
