Edzio

I

ON THE SAME floor as us, in a long, narrow wing leading from the courtyard, Edzio lives with his parents.
    It is long now since Edzio was a little boy. Edzio is a grown man, with a booming male voice in which he sometimes sings arias from operas. Edzio has a tendency to corpulence — not the spongy and soft kind, but rather the athletic and muscular variety. In his shoulders he is as strong as a bear, which is just as well, since his legs are utterly wasted and shapeless, unfit for use.
    It is impossible to tell, looking at Edzio’s legs, exactly what has given rise to this strange debility. It is as if, in a confusion of knees and ankles, there are too many joints, at least two more joints than ordinary legs have. No wonder then that his legs twist woefully at these joints, not only sideways, but forwards too, and in all directions.
    And so Edzio gets around with the aid of two crutches — crutches of excellent workmanship, beautifully French-polished to a mahogany finish. Every day he goes downstairs on these crutches, to buy his newspaper, and it is his only walk, his one diversion. His progress down the stairs is distressing to behold. His legs buckle irregularly, now to the side, now to the rear; and they bend in unexpected places, and his feet, in short, high steps, clatter like sticks over the planks, like a horse’s hooves. But once he has reached level ground, Edzio is surprisingly transformed. He straightens, his torso swells impessively, and there is a swing in his body. Leaning on his crutches as if on a railing, he throws his legs far forward, and they hit the ground with an uneven stamp; then he lifts his crutches from their place, and with a further swing, pulls himself powerfully forward. By means of these thrusts of his body, he gets the better of space. Many a time he will demonstrate this heroic method in the courtyard, manœuvering his crutches with truly wonderful enthusiasm, with immeasurable energy collected during a long period of sitting, to the admiration of housemaids watching from the balconies. His neck swells at such times, and is marked with two folds of double-chins. And to his face, held up at an angle, his mouth taut with exertion, a pained grimace furtively rises. Edzio doesn’t even have any work to do. It is as if fate, saddling him with the burden of his debility, has in exchange secretly released him from that curse of the children of Adam. In the shadow of his affliction, Edzio takes full advantage of his exceptional privilege of idleness, and in his heart of hearts, he is content with his private and, as it were, individually drawn up transaction with fate.
    But we often wonder how that young man of twenty-or-so years can fill his hours. He spends a great deal of his time reading the newspaper. Edzio is a serious reader. He takes scant notice of the advertisements and notices. And even when he has reached the last page of his daily, by no means do the remains of a boring day await him — not in the least. In fact, it is only then that Edzio commences his true occupation, which he has been patiently anticipating. In the afternoon, as others lie down for an after-dinner nap, Edzio brings out his great thick books, and arranges them on a table by the window. He prepares his glue, brush and scissors, and sets about his enjoyable and interesting task, cutting out the most interesting articles and sticking them in his scrapbooks, according to a special system. His crutches, leaning against the window sill, stand ready for any eventuality. But Edzio has no need of them, for he has everything to hand. And so, as he works diligently, the few hours pass by until teatime.
    Every third day, Edzio shaves off his reddish facial hair. He enjoys this activity, with all of its theatrical props: the hot water, the lathering soap and the smooth, gentle razor. Stirring the soap, stropping the razor on a leather strap, Edzio sings, without training, without flair, but unpretentiously and from a full chest, and.Adela insists that he has a pleasant voice.
    On the other hand, it appears that not everything is entirely harmonious in Edzio’s house. There is, I’m afraid, some very serious dispute between Edzio and his parents, the background and origins of which no one really knows. I shall not repeat conjectures and rumours, confining myself to the empirically established facts.
    It usually happens toward evening, at the hottest time of the year, when Edzio’s window is open, that we hear the sounds of those altercations. Strictly speaking, we can hear only half of the argument — Edzio’s part, that is, since the retorts of his antagonists, hidden in the more distant rooms of the apartment, do not reach us.
    It is difficult to guess from this what Edzio is being accused of, but it may be deduced from the tone of his responses that he has been cut to the quick, driven almost to his wits’ end. His words are violent and impetuous, driven by excessive agitation, but however incensed its tone, his voice is cowardly and miserable.
    ‘It’s the truth,’ he cries in a teaful voice. ‘And what of it? — When yesterday? — It’s not so! — And what if I did? — Well, papa is lying!’ And so it goes on for a whole quarter of an hour, varying only in Edzio’s explosions of anger and indignation, as he beats his head, and tears his hair out in his helpless rage.
    But there comes — and it is the defining moment of those scenes, which lends them their particular frisson — the moment we have been awaiting with bated breath. Something seems to crash in the depths of the apartment, a door is banged open, furniture falls over with a thud, and Edzio’s ear-splitting squeal breaks forth.
    We listen to all of this, shaken and ashamed, but with peculiar satisfaction nonetheless, stemming from the idea of wild and fantastic violence being inflicted on the person of an athletic young man, without heed to the paralysis of his legs.

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