Ten Tributes to Calvino (3 page)

Despite what the President had said about an immediate invasion, the voyage took many weeks. The troops on board grew bored and surly, but they were allowed to grumble as much as they liked because they were all free. Indeed the purpose of going to war was to give other people the same right to grumble, so nobody could complain about this grumbling. But if someone did complain, that was fine too, it showed they were free, and being free doesn’t mean you have to be happy.

Finally the ships sighted land. Boats were lowered from the decks and the troops rowed quickly to shore.

They landed on the beaches and swarmed out to attack the enemy. Soon all the fishing villages on the coast were burning and the cobbled streets were choked with mangled corpses.

Marching inland, the troops took the capital of the little nation but the tyrant who ruled had already fled. They found him cowering in a hut in the mountains and they cut off his head and stuck it on a pole and danced with the pole to the freest music, free jazz, and everybody was invited to this dance, but they were free to accept or decline as they pleased. Smoke drifted freely across the landscape.

When half the population was dead and the remaining half wholly free, the troops were visited by President Arbusto and many medals were pinned on many chests and many salutes were exchanged. Delighted by the performance of his troops, the President announced the name of the next country to be invaded. He was feeling generous.

“But you’ll get a rest first of all,” he said, “because fighting for the freedom of others is even more exhausting than fighting for your own freedom. I’m not unreasonable.”

In the pause between celebrating victory over this land and invading the next, the President made a list with his generals. Someone would shout the name of a country that desperately needed freedom and it was added to the list. But people kept thinking of new names. They stayed up all night and a hundred cigars were chewed.

It wasn’t enough to make a list of destinations. There also had to be a certain amount of moral examination. President Arbusto asked himself two questions: (a) Can these wars be won? (b) Will they increase the amount of freedom in the world? The answer was yes both times. Therefore these wars were not just wars but
just
wars.

The next country they invaded proved harder to subdue. It lay on the border of the first country, over a range of mountains, and had seen what had happened there, so it was more prepared. But the troops of President Arbusto won anyway and they were so annoyed by the stubborn resistance of the enemy that they decided to educate the survivors and persuade them to fully accept the gift of freedom.

“From now on,” they roared, “when you say, ‘Hey, I think that freedom is a good idea’ you
won’t
be beaten by the opponents of freedom, because we came along and made you free.”

And they made sure this lesson was remembered very well by beating it into them. There were other reprisals too, and the streets ran with blood, but blood is like oil and runs out eventually, and after the rainy season everything was quite clean again.

The third country to be invaded was an island much closer to home. It was ruled by a dictator who had tricked his people into believing that his beard was magical. By tugging it a certain number of times he could reduce poverty, provide pensions, workers’ rights, equality for women, and other unlikely miracles. In fact his people lived in squalor and drove cars that were more than forty-five years old.

President Arbusto surrounded the island with his gunships and shelled the capital. Each shell had a message written on it, a free message, maybe some free verse poetry or a free offer by one of the telephone companies. When the shrapnel was discovered in the shells of buildings, some of this writing was still legible. But nobody was forced to read it, because they were free at last. Or dead.

When the country surrendered, President Arbusto called a meeting with his generals to discuss the next name on the list. But such meetings never run entirely as planned, and in fact all that happened was that more names were added to the list. It was much easier to make a new list of countries that didn’t need any freedom.

“I think we’re the only one,” the President said.

The years passed heroically. One morning President Jorge Arbusto addressed the crowd below his palace. He seemed tired and worried but there was also enough of the old determination in his eyes to suggest he had a final task to accomplish, something supreme.

“My friends and followers,” he began, “we seem to have made a mistake and exported too much of our own freedom to other lands. I know I said it couldn’t run out, it was like cows, but now that seems not to be the case. The new conclusion is that freedom is like a muscle. If muscles don’t get proper exercise they waste away.”

“Yes,” he continued after a pause, “they become atrophied and that’s the same as if they weren’t there in the first place. The problem is that none of you ever exercised any of your freedom. While our troops were away in remote realms, exporting the stuff, you just went along with whatever I said and everything they did. You might have protested, and thus kept your freedom fit, but you didn’t.”

He shook his head ruefully and sighed deeply.

“As a result, freedom in our land has withered away almost to nothing and will soon perish. We have now exported freedom to every other country in the world, and they are all free, but because you allowed freedom here to shrivel, I’m forced to add another name to my list of countries in need of freedom. Or rather, to remove a name, the only name, from the list of countries not in need of freedom.”

“That’s right,” he added with an ironic smile, “our own nation is the last one to stand in the way of global freedom. It is imperative we become free as quickly as possible.”

The crowd muttered uneasily and President Arbusto waited for several minutes before interrupting them:

“Don’t worry, it’s not necessary to import that freedom from abroad. I don’t think we need to be invaded by foreign troops. Even though freedom here is almost dead, it is still strong enough for one final act, the act that will restore total freedom. We can invade ourselves! This is cheaper than asking troops from free nations to invade us. Our own troops are due home anyway. When they return we can surrender to them instantly. They may be too astonished to open fire.”

The crowd settled down at this news.

“Of course,” the President added, “the tyrant who currently rules our country must be overthrown. This is something I can accomplish right now, to save time. Stand back, please.”

With a wild yell, he grabbed hold of himself by the collar of his own shirt and dragged himself to the edge of the balcony. But he wasn’t going to give up without a fight and he pushed back. The tussle went on for half an hour. The opponents were evenly matched. It was so confusing, the crowd couldn’t tell who was fighting for freedom and who wasn’t. Some cheered for both. The President bounced against the balustrade, stumbled from one side of the balcony to the other.

Suddenly, he managed to get his hand on the back of his own head, and with a mighty effort, he flipped himself over the balustrade and into thin air. He plummeted in silence to the hard ground below. The crowd parted to let him through. When they surged forward around his leaking corpse, they saw an extended arm and clenched fist, though whether this was a salute of freedom or defiance, nobody could guess.

You have probably never heard of Itselfia, the city that evokes only itself. Few people go there these days. That is a shame because it is rather a pleasant place, full of little squares and gardens where the inhabitants gather to play music, drink wine and forget they are lost until the following morning. Even the ruler of Itselfia can sometimes be found wandering the open spaces, asking people for directions home. Once he lived in a palace and one day he might find it again. Until that moment he satisfies himself with cheap rented accommodation.

All other cities like to dream of other cities. Itselfia does not dream or encourage dreams in its populace, unless those dreams are scenes identical to the scenes of daily urban life. Itselfia is unique. All cities are unique but the style of uniqueness possessed by Itselfia is wholly singular, for it has nothing to do with geography, architecture, the culture or character of its people. Itselfia may resemble other cities in certain aspects, the boulevards and parks and restaurants, but it refuses to acknowledge rivals. It is self-referential.

Other cities give the impression of wanting to travel elsewhere but Itselfia prefers to be only where it is. It is satisfied but not smug. Consider a city such as London. A traveller may visit London and stroll down Oxford Street and thus be reminded of Oxford; in Oxford he might cross Gloucester Green and so begin to think of Gloucester; in Gloucester he can loiter on Cheltenham Road while he daydreams of Cheltenham; in Cheltenham there is a Bath Road; in Bath an Upper Bristol Road; in Bristol a Coventry Walk; in Coventry a Norwich Drive; in Norwich a Quebec Road.

Simply by arriving in London one rainy day the traveller has already moved in some part to Canada, in terms of reference, of imagery. He is connected with places outside his actual location, and those other places are similarly connected. This process is endless and forms a gigantic loop, or rather a net that ensnares the world, for London does not evoke merely one city, Oxford, but a thousand others, each with a myriad evocations of its own. All cities are invisible lenses that diffuse a sense of place, all except the unambiguous Itselfia.

The method by which Itselfia evokes only itself is disappointingly simple. Every street, however long or short, has the same name. Likewise every square, park, building. It might be supposed that the inhabitants can still distinguish certain areas by painting houses different colours or planting trees in recognisable patterns. But without names a destination becomes merely a description, subject to inaccuracies and fatal misunderstandings. The Street of Green Houses is a new name; a street of green houses is not. The former if outlawed in Itselfia; the latter is permitted but useless.

I wanted to live in Itselfia and decided to look for work there. The journey was long and not without incident. I entered the city under the imposing arch of Itselfia Gate and walked down Itselfia Street as far as Itselfia Square. I asked for directions to Itselfia Hotel, where I planned to spend the night. I was given the same reply from many people: “Turn right or left on any corner, walk up or down any street, cross any square and knock on the door of any house.” These directions were both vague and precise. I did not find my hotel. I drank wine in a garden instead.

Itselfia is not quite a labyrinth, for a labyrinth evokes other labyrinths, some with walls of stone, some with walls or thorns and leaves. Itselfia is too homely, too comfortable to be a labyrinth. When a man is lost in a labyrinth he is always where he does not wish to be. When a man is lost in Itselfia he is always in his desired place, in the right house, on the right street, listening to guitars under the right willow. It was many months before I managed to escape Itselfia. I can no longer remember if I left willingly or not. But I have never returned.

Just by chance I am a very helpful man. I went to the market and overheard a conversation between a grocer and a customer. It turned out that the customer was the famous Soviet writer who came in from the cold — CCCP Snow. I remembered reading his books when I was a very helpful student, years ago.

“Do you still favour social realism in novels?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “I’m planning to move into more Calvinoesque territory if I can, but I haven’t made a start yet.”

“No worries,” I replied. “I’ll give you a lift.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The territory you mention is beyond the woods behind my house. My car is outside. It won’t take long to get there.”

He was doubtful but he finally accepted my offer. We drove out of the town and turned up the lane that forms the eastern boundary of my large garden. It is a well-tended piece of land and because I am very helpful all the gardens of my neighbours are equally pleasant. But my passenger was more concerned with our destination.

“How will we know when we arrive?” he enquired.

“Keep an eye open for the Non-Existent Viscount in the Trees. When you see him, that’s a strong indication.”

He was silent for some minutes and then he said, “The best thing you can do is skip ahead and insert your own name into all the blank spaces above all the empty lines.”

“Who are you talking to?” I wondered.