Free The Watcher and Other Stories by Italo Calvino Page A

came from that trunk of a man with a voter’s certificate, the Reverend Mother was the least concerned of all: and yet she bustled about, carrying out the election formality as one of the many formalities the outside world demanded which, for reasons she didn’t bother to investigate, affected the efficiency of her service; and so she tried to raise that body’s shoulders on the pillows, as if it could make a pretense of sitting up. But no position suited that body any more: the arms, in the great white shirt, were numbed, the hands were bent back, and so were the legs, as if the limbs were trying to turn upon themselves, seeking refuge.
    â€œCan’t he speak?” the chairman asked, raising one finger, as if apologizing for his doubt. “Can’t he speak at all?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Chairman, he can’t,” the priest said. “Hey, can you speak? No? You can’t? You see: he can’t speak. But he understands. You know who she is, don’t you? She’s good, isn’t she? Yes? He understands. For that matter, he voted in the last election.”
    â€œOh, yes,” the Reverend Mother said, “this one has always voted.”
    â€œHe’s in that condition, but he can understand...” the woman in white said then, in a tone that might have been a question, an affirmation, or a hope. And she addressed the nun, as if to involve her too in this question-affirmation-hope: “He understands, doesn’t he?”
    â€œAh, well...” the Reverend Mother held out her arms and raised her eyes.
    â€œEnough of this farce,” Amerigo said. “He’s unable to express his wishes, and so he can’t vote. Is that clear? We must show some respect. Nothing more need be said.”
    (Did he mean “some respect” toward the election or “some respect” toward the suffering flesh? He didn’t specify.)
    He expected his words to start a battle. But instead, nothing happened. Nobody protested. With a sigh, shaking his head, he looked at the twisted man. “True, he’s been getting worse,” the priest agreed, in a low voice. “He could still vote, even two years ago.”
    The chairman indicated the register to Amerigo. “What do we do? Leave a blank, or shall we write a report separately?”
    â€œSkip it, skip it,” was all Amerigo could say; he was thinking of another question: Was it more humane to help them live or help them die? But he had no answer to that question either.
    So he had won his battle: the paralytic’s vote hadn’t been extorted from him. But a vote: what did a vote matter? This was the argument Cottolengo kept repeating to him, with its moans and its cries: you see what a joke your will of the people becomes, nobody believes in it here, here they take their revenge on the secular powers, it would have been better to let even that vote go by, it would have been better if the part of power gained by such means were to be left ineradicable, inseparable from their authority, that they should assume and bear it forever.
    â€œWhat about number 27? And number 15?” the Reverend Mother asked. “Are the others who were supposed to vote going to vote, then?”
    After a glance at the list, the priest had gone over to one bed. He came back, shaking his head. “That one’s in a bad way, too.”
    â€œHe can’t recognize anyone?” the woman supervisor asked, as if inquiring about a relative.
    â€œHe’s got worse, much worse,” the priest said. “We’ll leave it at that.”
    â€œThen we’ll cross this one off, too,” the chairman said. “What about the fourth? Where is the fourth?”
    But the priest had caught on by now, he only wanted to cut matters short. “If one can’t vote, then the others can’t either. Let’s go...” and he took the chairman’s arm, to urge him out, as the old man was trying to check the