The Bookcase In The Basement
Some two hundred and fifty metres west of Rimini's historical centre a narrow road runs more or less parallel to the old city walls. On local street maps it appears as Via Duca degli Abruzzi and it is here that, in mid-2001, my wife and I rented one of the floors of a certain Residenza Trifoglio. Being working students at the time, apart from job demands our minds were mostly set on how best to meet examination deadlines and manage our time. We were often preoccupied with procuring course material and preparing orals and so quite ill-disposed to entertain fanciful thoughts or allow fleeting suspicions to concern us more than necessary. Nonetheless, from the very outset, signs that 'all was not quite as it appeared to be' began to show themselves. I remember of the first nights we passed there that it was not uncommon to be awoken by the fierce rattling of sarandas, assaulted by the surging forces of coastal windstorms as, animated by late September gales from a restless Adriatic, the leaves about us hissed menacing through the branch-locked avenues which fork outwards from Castel Sigismondo, the medieval rocca. It was like the summer's last indignant resistance to the onset of autumn and it always came as a violent, fitful eruption in what was an otherwise peaceful, wooded area. For us newcomers, however, and inasmuch as it concerned the creation of a new home and a fresh start, it all served to punctuate an inward turbulence which was to begin - and steadily to increase - soon after our arrival there. For though vaguely disturbing at first, the events succeeding our move became, with time, most unsettling indeed. To faithfully recount in sequence the incidents which have direct bearing upon my story, I include transcriptions of diary entries from important dates. I also make use of supporting comments or additional information which I have deemed instrumental either in elaborating particulars or, as the case may be, in clarifying chronology � Friday 19th January The move has left us positively drained of all energy. The kitchen arrives within a fortnight, which means we shall have to make do without a fridge and live on pizze and piadine for some days. The absence of a cold storage has Lucia all ratty for being deprived of the chance to stock up her 'ice cream corner', and take aways are hardly any fun when they're this regular. For one thing, they play hell with the digestion. My stomach has been under siege ever since we got here and I've been sleeping badly for all the farting that's been going on. Heaven help us. Wednesday 24th January Another fitful dream again last night. I've not been sleeping well of late. This time round I discovered the bed sheets all twisted about me. A nightmare, I guess (can't say for sure as I seldom remember anything the morning after). Perhaps I'd been wrestling a gorilla ! Saturday 27th January We are both set back with our studies by at least a month. Much remains yet to arrange and tidy. To assist us in establishing some order to our living space, Lucia and I have been sorting the books we need from the ones we don't, the latter being now neatly catalogued and shelved in a library in the basement. Friday 2nd February Had a dream last night which has remained the whole day in my mind. I relate it here for the fact that this is not the first time I have dreamt this one and I must therefore assume that it is in some way significant. Certainly it merits a mention for it's sheer eccentricity (if nothing else). So, here goes � I find myself in a sort of cell or windowless vault, occupied by myself and two others. Someone is lying upon the floor in the centre of the chamber, feet turned towards an open door. I soon realise from a series of ignited candles arranged about the figure that what I am seeing is in fact a shrouded corpse awaiting burial and wrapped in something resembling a black and white striped shawl. Though the shape of the body would suggest that it be that of a woman, the covered face makes it impossible to ascertain age. A bearded man of mature years sits upon a nearby chair. He wears a yellow beret. Eyes downcast, the lines of his forehead are knitted together in an intense frown, something between pensive melancholy and a look of detached solemnity. Initially it is unclear whether he notices me but before long I have the growing sense that he is unaware of my presence. Under the circumstances, however, I have no intention of calling attention to myself. Though I cannot say for sure (so much in dreams being hazy and suggestive), I discern that he is dressed in the habit of another century, and the irregular brickwork of the surrounding walls comes conspicuously close to the Medieval mode, perhaps to an even earlier period. Oh yes, something I forgot to mention : the man's lips are moving, though I cannot make out what he is saying. Tuesday, 27th February Deep-fried prawns and squid this evening. I went down to the cantina*1 earlier to fetch a bottle of Verdicchio to chill for dinner. Just as I was about to leave the place my eyes fell upon an antique armchair beside the bookcase - a tad rickety by now and, if truth be told, only in my possession because it has been in the family for some generations. I've never got rid of the thing as I keep telling myself I'll restore it someday. I found the wife's course material stacked upon it, and among her books 'La Kabbala e il suo simbolismo'*2, by G. Scholem. It lies open at the Kabbalistic 'tree' and an explanation of the ten Sefirot. Well, seafood cannot wait. After a while I had to rush back up to the kitchen. However, from what I could peruse in just a minute or so it all left me quite curious and determined to retrieve the book in the course of the week to study it with more attention. Fascinating stuff. I must make a point of asking Lucia to explain something of Jewish mysticism to me - and of reminding her to take more care in returning books to their shelves ! Friday 9th March My dream of a few weeks ago recurred last night. Spooky. At this stage I have to ask myself : Is the man observing a desperate vigil, believing his lifeless charge merely at rest; in wait for some future awakening when, dazed and blinking as from a profound sleep, she might open her eyes to him again ? And which are his words ? Does he mumble so into that silence in the hope of hitting upon some sacred spell to summon back to life her broken shell, that he may breathe to her a final salute ? Could he be a personage from out of the distant past, or does he represent instead a part of myself ? God knows. Friday, 23rd March It is some weeks since I last went down into the cantina. I had to go there earlier as we're leaving Friday morning at sparrow-twit for a few days in Calabria and we'll be needing suitcases. Tonight, after retrieving what I wanted, and just about to switch off the light and close up, something in the library caught my eye : a sizeable volume, jutting prominently out from the uppermost shelf. Upon closer investigation my eyes marked 'Come si studia la Mishna'*3, by Jacob Neuser. The work examines rabbinical traditions of Mishnah study and elaborates certain related themes. Lucia again. So, she has taken a fancy to Jewish Studies. Speaking of which, I am reminded that ancestry is reckoned on a matriarchal basis. The incident has me ruminating over a favourite boast of my maternal grandmother, who claimed that her mother's mother was Jewish. It takes me back to the time I worked in the Negev as a student-volunteer on Urim and a friend of mine among the kibbutzniks who once joked that there are two kinds of people in the world : those who are Jews and those who wish they were so ! Well, whichever way this may be leading, I can hardly imagine the wife is contemplating conversion or she would surely take more care with the texts she prized most highly. She's out for an aperitif with some friends this evening. I really must ask her, when she gets back, to which author we may ascribe the new romance with Judaica ! Friday 6th April Had the dream again last night - which at last has me quite sure it's going to return with some regularity ! Originally it came as a thing indistinct, even imperceptible, yet every time it grows progressively clearer. An odd scenario by all counts : always lacking in variation, none the less sombre. Ever more vivid. Which brings me to the point of my latest discovery. I haven't enough preparation in the spoken languages of the Middle East to know better, but it came to my notice this time round that my companion is chanting in a tongue not dissimilar to Hebrew (to which my ear is modestly attuned). However, there are enough peculiarities to have me wondering whether it be of some other Semitic derivation. Always solitary, it would appear the sitter visits my dreaming roughly once a month. The corpse never shows any signs of corruption as he keeps his faithful station beside it, and at no stage so far have I perceived (insofar as one can in dreams) the characteristic odour of decomposition. I really do hope these things will come to light before long, as I am deeper in this now than I ever expected to be. Sunday 5th August I must write down something that happened this afternoon as, considering the uncanny nature of the occurrence, I can only dub it inexplicable � Lucia returns to me from the cantina where she has just been selecting research material for her thesis. 'Can't you put things back after using them ? ' she snaps belligerently. 'This must be the third time I've had to pick this up from the chair in the cantina. ' In one hand she holds up A. Cohen's 'Il Talmud'*4. Initially I am convinced she is playing a practical joke on me. However, I soon have to check myself. There is an unmasked gravity in her voice and for the pursed lips and flushed cheeks I am pressed to ask, dumfounded, whether she is indeed having me on. A series of denials and accusations ensue. Presently, at once baffled and incredulous, it dawns upon us both that at various intervals in the course of the last ten months we have been replacing books which had somehow been removed from the locations to which they had formerly been assigned. It had always slipped my mind to question Lucia about those book episodes in the cantina, however much the subject matter left me puzzled. I should have known better : she is specialising in the pre-Roman period and her thesis treats of the Etruscan settlement at Verucchio ! Bewildered, annoyed and suddenly desperate to solve the problem of the nameless, faceless visitor to our cantina, she exclaims in her alarm : 'Frank, we have an intruder. We must sort this out now or I shall never again sleep soundly in this place. This could be serious. ' She looks at me steadily : 'We should start by checking the lock, ' she whispers, visibly perturbed. Then, recovering her voice : 'Perhaps it's faulty. Or broken. ' At that we quit the apartment to descend the stairs and check the lock. To our surprise we find the door bolted fast, and everything in the basement arranged as usual, with books and storage all in place. I have to own that we are unsure what to do at this point. We have decided to sleep on it and work out how best to go on in the morning. Monday 6th August Who is the mystery librarian mixing up the books on the shelves and, evidently not a thief as far as we can make out, why is our guest so interested in the cantina ? None but ourselves have access to the place, being the only ones in possession of a key. Certainly somebody else does have a key or none of this would be happening. So, the question remains : Who ? We shall have to proceed discreetly in conducting our inquiries or people will think us quite mad (hardly a convenient attribute in such a small town as this). I had it in mind to ring Rinaldi tomorrow and make an appointment with him to pay the rent. I'll take the opportunity then to tell him that we need a spare key for the cantina door as we've lost ours and must have another one cut. If there be one in his possession (as surely there must), then I shall simply have to be upfront with him and ask him why he has taken such a peculiar liking to our bookcase. I know the most logical thing to do would be to change the lock and say nothing more about it, but that would leave too many riddles and both Lucia and I are anxious to get to the bottom of this. Tuesday 7th August An altogether enigmatic conversation this morning with Rinaldi, who confirms that in fact he does have a spare key to the cantina. At the same time he gives me his assurance that he respects our privacy and has never thought to enter there. I went on to enquire whether any previous occupants might have made off with the cantina key before vacating the palazzo, to which he responded in the negative, saying that he always requests that all keys be returned to him upon termination of tenancy. By then it was already obvious to us both that a certain someone among the professor's former tenants had, at some stage, had a copy cut : ' �. a particularly nosy individual, ' I murmured then aloud, '� who has an insatiable interest in all things Jewish - and my bookcase. ' At that a curious thing happened. A long silence followed, and not a word from my interlocutor. Indeed, were it not for the low sound of his breathing I should quickly have concluded that he had hung up. I suspected him distracted : 'Doctor Rinaldi ? ' A second pause ensued. 'Yes. I'm here, ' returned my landlord at length. There was a tremor in his voice. He seemed in some way distressed. 'Are you alright ? ' 'I do beg your pardon, Frank, but am I to understand that someone is stealing books from your library ? ' 'Stealing, no. That's just it. Borrowing is the more appropriate term. The books don't leave the basement. They never leave the basement. They � they change location. ' 'Again � you must forgive me, but I'm not entirely sure that I understand. You say that books are � er �moving � systematically � by themselves ? ' � 'That's right. ' 'Listen, may I ask a favour of you ? ' 'Please do. ' 'The next time you or your wife notice that a book has been moved, will you � call me ? ' 'Certainly.' 'I would only ask that you touch nothing, that you leave all as you find it. I should like, with your permission, to examine the place. ' 'Of course. ' So ended our conversation. All very ambiguous. With nothing resolved, it came as small comfort to the wife, who insists that we change the lock, and is already talking about moving. Well, it's late and she is calling me to bed. Lucia always complains that she has trouble sleeping when I'm not lying beside her. So, I will say goodnight without further ado ! It is at this stage that I must depart from my diary, as succeeding vicissitudes were of the kind that is so unsettling that one's immediate tendency is to avoid dwelling upon them more than is absolutely necessary. It is on the night of Sunday 28th October, over two months after my discourse with Rinaldi, that I have occasion once again to visit the cantina. This time I go with Lucia. She is exchanging our light summer clothes for warmer winter wear, all packed in boxes, and help is needed in sorting and selecting the coats and jackets that we shall be requiring in the cold months ahead. To our astonishment, we enter to find an old periodical, dated February 1986, lying face-down upon the chair beside the bookcase. The leaf selected for the reader's attention appears at centrefold. It has an article entitled 'L'Ebraismo e la morte'5*. We take up the journal and mark a sub-heading at the top : 'La Kaddish del lutto'*6. It starts with a version of the prayer in Italian, leading onto the formula itself, printed first in Aramaic and then in Hebrew and accompanied by an Italian translation. On the opposite page there is a commentary and a brief introduction which, in English, would read as follows : "Essentially a declaration of faith, the Kaddish does not come down to us as a practice associated exclusively with death and mourning. Some believe that Jews began to recite the prayer in thirteenth century Germany for the purpose of sustaining their belief in God in the face of notably harsh Crusader persecution. The Kaddish was later recommended as an accompaniment to the mourning period, set to begin after death and to continue subsequently for the duration of eleven consecutive months ..." Further down, another passage reads ... "The body is wrapped in a shroud and prayer shawl, laid upon the floor, and burning candles are placed about it. Burial must follow soon afterwards, proceeding either on the same day or on the next. One of the shomerim, or keepers, is called to guard the body, as it is considered disrespectful to the deceased to leave it unaccompanied prior to interment ..." The text so takes me by surprise that it seems to me just then that all time is frozen as my mind returns to the dream and to the man beside the corpse. For a split-second I am alone, oblivious to my wife's presence. A shriek from beside me recalls me to myself. It makes me start and I turn to find her leaning against the wall, as if supporting herself following a violent knock to the senses. I cry out : 'Lucia ! ' Slowly she recovers herself. 'Honey, what's wrong ? You're pale as a spectre. ' I speak timidly, almost with reluctance, as if taken off guard at having broken the immense silence of some vast, empty cathedral after closing time. 'Frank, there is something I must tell you. However, I must warn you first that it is something quite bizarre. ' She turns to me, deliberately. 'Probably you�re going to think I'm crazy, but I begin to think it explains something of what has been taking place. Well, you see, I've been having a certain recurring dream in which �' I raise a staying hand : 'I can already guess what you're going to tell me, ' She studies my lips intently, ears trained upon my every word. I am out of breath, though I know not why. 'There is a shrouded corpse, ' I go on after a pause, 'and close by, a man - one who sits. He � talks to himself. ' 'He recites the Kaddish, ' returns my beloved then, enlightened. 'It never occurred to me before � but � yes, I see it now. He recites the Kaddish. ' 'You know these things because you have had the same dream. ' 'Yes. A few times. Once a month, at least. ' 'Yet you told me nothing. ' 'I didn't want to bother you with � idiocies. ' 'I see. ' At that an uncanny stillness fills the room and for the first time I have the acute sense that we are not alone, that others are about us : unseen witnesses listening to our every syllable, watching our every move. 'Frank, ' begins Lucia slowly, staring aghast at me and shaking her head, 'it is crystal clear to me here that we are before a mystery far bigger than ourselves. Rinaldi needs to come up with more answers. He owes us as much. That time you spoke with him, some weeks back. Was he really as unhelpful as you made him out to be ? ' I am justly reproved. 'Afraid so. However, at some stage he became uncomfortable. I suspect he knows something, or at least he communicated as much. He said to contact him if it ever happened again. ' 'Well, it's almost midnight. ' 'Yes. But you're right - we must unravel this one. I think we should call all the same. ' Within five minutes Rinaldi was at the front door. We all went down directly to the basement. There we explained to him in order of time - and as accurately as possible - all that had transpired since our arrival at Trifoglio. He began by inspecting the cantina, asking to view any books related to our story. Then, after examining the texts we had come upon that night, he closed the door nervously, as one grown suddenly suspicious of invisible eavesdroppers or unwanted company. Self-involved, he paced to and fro, looking quizzically about him until, slightly less agitated, he turned to me and began in a low voice � 'Our chat over the phone the other day left me most perplexed. As students of history you will already know that I was once a research professor at the faculty at Bologna. My subject was Byzantium, so the coastal towns along the Adriatic were always of particular professional interest to me. Of course, not being a specialist in the Middle Ages, I was as good as ignorant of Rimini's seldom-mentioned medieval Jewry. I had heard it said that they lived somewhere in the vicinity of Trifoglio, but I knew precious little about them beyond that. After our conversation I lost no time in consulting the local archives so as to have some idea of their presence here. Sources at Gambalunga Library reveal that the community buried it's dead outside the city walls, somewhere between Porta Montanara (the Roman gate through which traffic to and from the Marecchia Valley once passed) and the former cathedral of Santa Colomba, demolished in 1815 and survived today only by it's bell tower. Surrounding development over the centuries has seen the new city rise about the old, leaving half-buried the walls of Castel Sigismondo. At one time these would have towered above the moat which, filled in over time, was included in the original plans to encircle the fortress. Following examination of old maps, and after I had brought the moat into the equation, it became plain to me that the palazzo you are occupying is situated directly above the old Jewish cemetery. It follows then that this very space (that is to say the ground area occupied by the basement) would mark the exact spot where the city's Jewish dead were once interred. Rinaldi's exposition left me with a bad taste in my mouth. My sense of reason reacted antagonistically to his words and I felt literally nauseous. They were too bizarre, too irrational against the backdrop of the events of the preceding months. I simply refused to believe it all and immediately determined to tell him nothing about the dream. Too late. Before I could distract her, Lucia had already begun. As she related the scene it became undeniably clear to me that the same dream that had been haunting my nights was no less familiar to her. Our landlord remained stock-still, attentive throughout. 'Well, ' he said at length, 'it would seem that we are dealing with someone - a Jewish person by the looks of it - who died or was buried here once and who, as far as I can tell, is doomed to inhabit the place eternally : an unfortunate soul from out of time, imprisoned here. Someone who is � trying to communicate with you. ' A long, thoughtful silence followed. 'You will understand, ' began Rinaldi at length, 'that the developments you recount leave me confused. I am especially intrigued by the yellow beret worn by the man in the dream. But more about that later. Something is nagging at me, a certain triviality which begs clarification and for which I must count on your co-operation to assist me in arriving at some semblance of sense. Forgive the ridiculous nature of the question, but may I enquire if either one of you is Jewish ? ' 'Neither, ' returned Lucia, responding for us both. 'Is that relevant ? ' 'I thought as much. But, no. It seems not. Allow me to explain. You see, this palazzo was built in the late seventies. As you can imagine, it has seen a good many tenants come and go. It's occupants have always come from the Romagna and therefore, in all likelihood, been Catholic. This is true for historical reasons. As far as we can be certain, already prior to the arrival in the early fourth century of Gaudentius*7, the city�s first recorded bishop, the region had been, for the most part, Christian. It never crossed my mind that anyone among Trifoglio's tenants were of any other faith only because, frankly, before now it was never of any consequence. I say 'before now' because it would seem from these revelations that in a strange sense you have been, as it were, chosen. What I am trying to say is that, as to the cantina, nobody before you has ever reported anything out of the ordinary. It had sprung to mind that perhaps these things came to pass at exactly this period in time because you were Jewish. But, no matter. We have established that this is not the case. What we do know is that Rimini once had a Jewish community. It was here from between the thirteenth and the seventeenth century, enjoying much prosperity and even establishing it's own bank, the capital of which soon came into no small demand. Before long it was financing, among other borrowers, the court of the reigning seigniory. However, unable to repay their debts, the Malatestas finally expelled all Jews from the territory on charges of usury. But this is not all. During my search I came across a reference to a manuscript of October 1525 which stated that in 1515, after a proposal to the Pope treating of the identification of the Rimini Jewry (which, it is indicated, was later conceded), the men of the community were ordered to wear a yellow beret to distinguish themselves from their Christian contemporaries.8*' We left Residenza Trifoglio early next summer, having purchased a house in Miramare, just three kilometres away. We were sorry to go. Apart from our memories of the adventures we had lived there, the novelty of the place had begun to grow on us. Moreover, we had become impervious to the shananagans of our 'basement scholar' and had even developed a tolerant fondness for him. Upon vacating the premises, the wife decided to leave behind in the cantina her volumes of the Torah, Talmud and Mishnah. Lucia confessed that she would miss her 'learned ghost', having 'developed an affinity for his subject', and insisted that he would need reading material 'to accompany him in his great solitude'. But I remain unconvinced. In the absence of any tangible proof and for the discouragement within orthodox Judaism of such raw spiritualism, I have come to believe that the phenomena to which we were witness touch upon a deeper truth, one whose very elusiveness accords it a value which tends more to the instructive than to the sensational : a reminder that it is impossible to consign to oblivion, indefinitely, the individual lives of those who have gone before us. For the erased traces of forgotten settlements are permanent only for as long as they remain uncovered, and all places have their story. According to my diary, Friday 7th December 2001 marks the last night I ever dreamt about the guardian of the corpse. The dream has never since returned, so setting the duration of it�s recurrence to exactly eleven months - the precise length of the Jewish mourning period and the recommended time span for recital of the Kaddish. A full year has past since then. Assuming now that the dream will never visit my sleep again, once more I find myself dwelling upon the question of my alleged Jewish origins. Rinaldi died early last spring, quite unexpectedly. I never told him of the famous boast of my maternal grandmother, partly because I find it absurd that bloodlines should have any influence in the matter, but also because Lucia, who also had the dream, is in no doubt about her Catholic origins. Neither have I any desire to research my genealogy. Nothing it could yield would ever sway me in my position that, essentially, no one person is very different from another. Irrespective of race or creed, our passage through time shall be forever inextricably laced into the telling pages of humanity, our histories inscribed by the one hand of the master chronicler. I remember once, in an ancient cemetery of the Galilee, recovering my bearings from an area map I had kept in my pocket for the purpose. I had sat down to rest upon some derelict grave when a group of passing Hasidim began to shout and point in my direction, ordering me to my feet. I realised then that, in my self-absorption, I had neglected to observe the dignity of the place. I recall being cognisant at the time of an odd sensation. It struck me how much the demand of the men for my respect had, at some level, included me into their company. It were as if, of a sudden, their dead had become my dead - for, unwittingly, they had commanded me that day to claim their forebears as my own. *1 basement *2 Piccola Biblioteca Einaudi, Torino, 1980 *3 Italian translation, Unione delle Comunit� Israelitiche Italiane, Roma, 1983 *4 Forni Editore, Bologna, 1979 *5 Judaism and Death *6 The Kaddish of Mourning *7 Italia Romana : Municipi e Colonie - Ariminum, Regio VIII Aemilia, Guido Achille Mansuelli, Ed. Istituto di Studi Romani, S. A. Arti Grafiche Panetto & Petrelli, Spoleto, 1941, p 53 *8 Monumenti Autografi, Zanotti, an. 525 ������ ������ ������ ������ ������ ������ ������
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