Edzio

I

ON THE SAME floor as us, in a long, narrow wing leading from the courtyard, Edzio lives with his parents.
    It is a long time now since Edzio was a little boy — Edzio is a grown man with a booming male voice in which he often 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 by looking at Edzio’s legs exactly what has caused this strange debility. It is as if, in a confusion of knees and ankles, they have too many joints, at least two more joints that ordinary legs. It is no wonder then that his legs twist woefully at these joints, and not only sideways but forwards too, and in all directions.
    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 a newspaper, and it his only walk, his one diversion. His progress down the stairs is distressing to watch. His legs buckle irregularly, now to the side, now to the rear, and they bend in unexpected places, while his feet, in short, high steps, clatter over the planks like sticks, 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 a long way forward, and they hit the ground with an uneven stamp, then he lifts his crutches from their place and pulls himself powerfully forward with a further swing. 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, manoevering 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 double-chin folds, and to his face — held up at an angle, his mouth taut with exertion — a pained grimace furtively rises. Edzio does not even have any work to do, as if fate, in 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 right to idleness, and in his heart of hearts he is content with his private and, as it were, individually drawn up transaction with fate.
    Many a time, however, we 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. His takes little 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, while 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 diligently works, 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 or 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. Unfortunately, there is some very serious dispute between Edzio and his parents, the background and origin of which no one knows. I shall not repeat conjectures and rumours, confining myself to the empirically established facts.
    It usually happens toward evening at the warmest time of the year, when Edzio’s window is open, that we hear the sounds of these altercations. In truth 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 apartments, 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 response that he has been cut to the quick, driven almost to his wits’ end. His words are violent and impetuous, driven by excessive agitation, although the tone of his voice, however incensed, is cowardly and miserable.
    ‘Yes indeed,’ he cries in a teaful voice, ‘and so what..? — When yesterday? — It’s not true! — And what if it is? — 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 out his hair in helpless rage.
    But occasionally there comes — and this is the defining moment of these scenes, which lends them their specific thrill — 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 full of shame, but also with peculiar satisfaction, stemming from the idea of wild and fantastic violence inflicted on the person of an athletic young man, however paralysed in his legs.

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