38 The Origin of Pelagia's March
One day it happened that Captain Corelli did not go into work because an earthquake was vibrating in his head. He lay in Pelagia's bed, attempting not to open his eyes and not to move; the slightest shard of light pierced his brain like a poignard through the eye, and when he moved he had the distinct certainty that his cerebellum had become loose and was sloshing about on the inside of his
skull. His throat was as dry and stiff as leather, and there was no doubt that someone had been stropping razors in it. Periodically a tide of nausea welled in his gullet, rippling equally towards his stomach and his lips, and he fought disgustedly to restrain the bitter torrents of bile that seemed determined to find their way to an exit and decorate his chest. 'O God,' he groaned. 'O God have mercy.'
He opened his eyes and held them open with his forgers. Very slowly, so as not to perturb his brain too much, he looked about the room, and suffered a disturbing hallucination. He blinked; yes, it was true that his uniform was lying on the floor and was moving about on its own. He checked groggily that its movement was independent of the circular motion of the room, and closed his eyes again. Psipsina emerged from inside the tunic, and jumped up on the table in order to curl up inside his cap, which had been her favourite resting place ever since she had discovered the joys of contortionism; she filled it and overflowed from it in such a tangle and jumble of whiskers, ears, tail and paws that it was impossible to tell which part of her was which, and she slept in it because it reminded her of gifts of salami and chicken skins. The captain opened his eyes and saw that his rumpled uniform was now rotating in harmony with the rest of the world, and felt reassured that he was getting better, until some demented and metaphysical percussionist began to play the kettledrum in his temples. He screwed up his face and pressed the palms of his hands to the sides of his head. He realised that he needed to empty his bladder, but also recognised with resignation that it was going to be one of those occasions when he would need to be supported, would sway backwards and forwards, would be unable to exercise voluntary release, and would finally and inexplicably find himself simultaneously pissing on his own foot and falling over. He felt infinitely oppressed by intimations of mortality, and wondered whether it might not be better to die than to suffer. 'I want to die,' he groaned, as though the articulation of the thought might give it greater precision and dramatic force.
Pelagia entered, bearing a pitcher of water, which she set down at the side of the bed with a tumbler. `You've got to drink all this water,' she said firmly, `it's the only cure for a hangover.'
`I haven't got a hangover,' said the captain pathetically, 'I'm very ill, that's all.'
Pelagia filled the tumbler and administered it to his lips. `Drink,' she ordered him. He sipped at it suspiciously and was astonished by the cleansing effect of it
upon his physical and psychological state. Pelagia refilled the glass. `I've never seen anyone so drunk,' she remonstrated, `not even at the feast of the saint.'
'O God, what did I do?'
'Carlo brought you back at two in the morning. To be exact, he crashed the jeep into the wall outside, carried you inside like a baby in his arms, tripped over, hurt his knees, and woke everyone who was not already awake by shouting and swearing. Then he lay on the table in the yard and went to sleep. He's still there, and during the night he wet himself.'
'Really?.
`Yes. And then you woke up and you knelt down in front of me and waved your arms about and sang "Io sono ricco a to sei bells", at the top of your voice and completely out of tune, and you forgot the words. Then you tried to kiss my feet.'
The captain was completely appalled, `Out of tune? I never forget the words of anything, I am a musician. What did you do?'
`I kicked you, and you fell over backwards, and then you declared eternal love, and then you were sick.'
The captain closed his eyes despairingly and ashamedly, `I was drunk. My battery won the football match, you see. It doesn't happen every day.'
'Leutnant Weber called round early this morning. He said that your side cheated, and that the match was delayed for half an hour in the middle because two little boys stole the ball when it went over a fence.'
'It was sabotage,' said the captain.
'I don't like Leutnant Weber. He looks at me as though I'm an animal.'
'He's a Nazi; he thinks that I'm an animal as well. It can't be helped. I like him. He's only a little boy, he'll grow out of it.'
`And you're a drunk. It seems to me that you Italians are always drunk, or stealing, or chasing local girls, or playing football.'
'We also swim in the sea and sing. And you can't blame the boys for chasing the girls, because they can't do it at home, and anyway, some of the girls do very well out of it. Give me some more water.'
Pelagia frowned; there was something about the captain's remarks that struck her as offensive, and even cruel. Besides, she was in just the right mood for an argument. She stood up, emptied the pitcher over his face, and said vehemently, `You know perfectly well that they are bullied into it and driven into it out of necessity. And everyone is ashamed to have your whores here. How do you think we feel?'
The captain's head throbbed too much for quarrelling; it even throbbed too much to allow a reaction to being suddenly drenched by an angry maiden. Nonetheless, he became abruptly subject to a great sense of injustice. He sat up and told her, 'Everything you say and do is because you want me to apologise, in every look I see nothing but reproaches. It's been the same ever since I came. How do you think I feel? Why don't you ask yourself that? Do you think I'm proud? Do you think I have a vocation for suppressing the Greeks? Do you think I am the Duce that I commanded myself to be here? It's shit, it's all shit, but I can't do anything about it. OK, OK, I apologise. Are you satisfied?'
He slumped back into the pillows.
Pelagia put her hands on her hips, taking advantage of the superiority implicit in the fact that she was standing and he lying down. She pulled a wry face and said, 'Are you seriously saying that you are a victim, as much as us? Poor little boy, poor little thing.'
She walked over to the table, noticed Psipsina's somnolent presence in the captain's cap, and smiled to herself as she gazed out of the window. She was deliberately frustrating the intended effect of any response of the captain's, by ensuring that he would not be able to look into her eyes whilst he made it. She did feel sorry for him, she could not remain hostile to a man who permitted a pine marten to sleep in his hat, but she was not going to let her fondness show when there were principles at stake.
No answer came. Corelli looked at her silhouette against the light of the window, and a tune came into his head. He could visualise the patterned patrol of his fingers on the fretboard of the mandolin, he could hear the disciplined notes ringing from the treble, singing the praise of Pelagia as they also portrayed her wrath and her resistance. It was a march, a march of a proud woman who prosecuted war with hard words and kindnesses. He heard three simple chords and a martial melody that implied a world of grace. He heard the melody rise and swell, breaking into a torrent of bright tremolo more limpid than the song of thrushes, more pellucid than the sky. He realised with some irritation that it would require two instruments.