(with Janet Berliner, 1995)
The Secret History of Fantasy (2010)
The Urban Fantasy Anthology (with Joe R. Lansdale, 2011)
In Calabria
PETER S. BEAGLE
In Calabria
Copyright © 2017 by Peter S. Beagle
This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the author and the publisher.
Interior and cover design by Elizabeth Story
Tachyon Publications LLC
1459 18th Street #139
San Francisco, CA 94107
415.285.5615
www.tachyonpublications.com
tachyon@tachyonpublications.com
Series Editor: Jacob Weisman
Project Editor: Rachel Fagundes
ISBN 13: 978-1-61696-248-7;
ePub: 978-1-61696-249-4;
Mobi: 978-1-61696-250-0;
PDF: 978-1-61696-251-7
First Edition: 2017
Book printed in the United States by Maple Press
For Ayesha L. Collins,
brave and beautiful,
always,
even when weary and sad
he whole trouble with your farm,” Romano Muscari said, “is that it is too far uphill for the American suntanners, and too low for the German skiers. Location is everything.”
“The trouble with my farm,” Claudio Bianchi growled through his heavy, still-black mustache, “is that, no matter where it is located, the postino somehow manages to find his way out here twice a week. Rain or shine. Mail or no mail.”
Romano grinned. “Three times a week, starting next month. New government.” He was barely more than half Bianchi’s age, but a friend of long enough standing to take no offense at anything the Calabrese said to him. Romano himself had been born in the Abruzzi, and in a bad mood Bianchi would inform him that his name suited him to perfection, since he spoke like a Roman. It was not meant as a compliment. Now he leaned on the little blue van that served him as a mail truck and continued, “No, I am serious. Whichever way you look—down toward Scilla, Tropea, up to Monte Sant’Elia, you are simply in the wrong place to attract the tourists. I grieve to mention this, but it is unlikely that you will ever be able to convert this farm into a celebrated tourist attraction. No bikinis, no ski lifts and charming snow outfits. A great pity.”
“A blessing. What do I need with tourists, when I have you to harass me with useless advertisements, and Domenico down in the villaggio to sell me elderly chickens, and that thief Falcone to cheat me on the price of my produce, when I could get twice as much in Reggio—”
“If that truck of yours could get even halfway to Reggio—”
“It is a fine truck—Studebaker, American-made, a classic. All it needs is to have the transmission repaired, which I will not have Giorgio Malatesta do, because he uses cheap parts from Albania. Meanwhile, I endure what I must. Whom I must.” He squinted dourly at the young postman. “Do you not have somewhere else to be? Truly? On a fine day like today?”
“Well . . .” Romano stretched out the word thoughtfully. “I did tell Giovanna that I would give her a driving lesson. She is learning my route, you know, in case of emergencies. Such as me actually needing to sleep.”
“Your sister? Your sister is not yet old enough to drive a motorcycle!”
Romano shook his head slowly and sorrowfully. “The saddest thing in this world is to watch the decline of a once-great mind. You can no longer even remember that Giovanna will be twenty-three years old next month.” He rolled his eyes, regarding the sky accusingly. “She cannot live with me forever. People will talk. Once she graduates, she will most likely move in with her friend Silvana, until she can find work and a place of her own. Just as you will undoubtedly need a quiet room where you can sit untroubled all day and write your poetry. Food and calming medications will be brought to you periodically.” He caressed the graying muzzle of Garibaldi, Bianchi’s theoretical watchdog, and glanced warily sideways at the short, barrel-chested farmer. “Have you written any nice poems lately, by the way?”
“I do not write poetry. As you know. I sometimes—sometimes—read poetry to my cows, because they seem to like it. But it is not my poetry, never my poetry. I read them Leopardi, Pavese, Pozzi, Montale—poets of some size, some humanity, poets perhaps to make my cows understand what a thing it is to be a man or a woman.” He cleared his throat and spat neatly into a tuft of weeds, startling Sophia, the stub-tailed three-legged cat, who was stalking a sparrow. “Now even if I did write poetry, I would never dream of reciting it to the cows. They have been raised to have taste. I would be shamed.”
“Admirable modesty. Truly admirable.” Romano clucked his tongue approvingly. “Well, I must tear myself away from this peaceable kingdom, or my flyers will not go through, and poor Giovanna will wait in vain for her lesson.” He patted the blue van’s left front fender, as he always did on getting into it; when Claudio mocked him as a superstitious peasant, Romano would reply serenely that the routine was merely to reassure himself that the fender remained attached. Starting the engine, he leaned out and spoke over its raspy hiccup. “One day you will see that girl driving this machine up the hill to your door, just as I do. She is a very quick learner.”
Bianchi snorted like a shotgun. “She is too young. She will always be too young. You are too young.” He stepped back, raising a hand in a gesture that might conceivably have meant farewell, but could just as easily have been directed at an annoying gnat.
