y disconcerted by now, 'I hope to
live to seventy or eighty, God willing.'
'Very well,' pursued the man in grey. 'Let's call it seventy, to be on
the safe side. Multiply three hundred and fifteen million three hundred and
sixty thousand by seven and you get a grand total of two billion two hundred
and seven million five hundred and twenty thousand seconds.' He chalked this
figure up on the mirror in outsize numerals -- 2,207,520,000 -- and
underlined it several times. 'That, Mr Figaro, is the extent of the capital
at your disposal.'
Mr Figaro gulped and wiped his brow, feeling quite dizzy. He'd never
realized how rich he was.
'Yes,' said the agent, nodding and puffing at his small grey cigar,
'it's an impressive figure, isn't it? But let's continue. How old are you
now, Mr Figaro?'
'Forty-two,' the barber mumbled. He suddenly felt guilty, as if he'd
committed a fraud of some kind.
'And how long do you sleep at night, on average?' 'Around eight hours,'
Mr Figaro admitted. The agent did some lightning calculations. The squeak of
his chalk as it raced across the mirror set Mr Figaro's teeth on edge.
58
'Forty-two years at eight hours a night makes four hundred and
forty-one million five hundred and four thousand seconds . . . We'll have to
write that off, I'm afraid. How much of the day do you devote to work, Mr
Figaro?'
'Another eight hours or so,' Mr Figaro said, apologetically.
'Then we'll have to write off the same amount again,' the agent pursued
relentlessly. 'You also spend a certain proportion of the day eating. How
many hours would you say, counting all meals?'
'I don't exactly know,* Mr Figaro said nervously. 'Two hours, maybe.'
'That sounds on the low side to me,' said the agent, 'but assuming it's
correct we get a figure of one hundred and ten million three hundred and
seventy-six thousand seconds in forty-two years. To continue: you live alone
with your elderly mother, as we know. You spend a good hour with the old
woman every day, that's to say, you sit and talk to her although she's so
deaf she can scarcely hear a word. That counts as more time wasted -
fifty-five million one hundred and eighty-eight thousand seconds, to be
precise. You also keep a budgerigar, a needless extravagance whose demands
on your time amount to fifteen minutes a day, or thirteen million seven
hundred and ninety-seven thousand seconds in forty-two years.'
'B-but -' Mr Figaro broke in, imploringly. 'Don't interrupt!' snapped
the agent, his chalk racing faster and faster across the mirror. 'Your
mother's arthritic as well as deaf, so you have to do most of the housework.
You go shopping, clean shoes and perform other chores of a similar nature.
How much time does that consume daily?' 'An hour, maybe, but -'
'So you've already squandered another fifty-five million one hundred
and eighty-eight thousand seconds, Mr Figaro. We also know you go to the
cinema once a week, sing with a social club once a week, go drinking twice a
week, and spend
59
the rest of your evenings reading or gossiping with friends. In short,
you devote some three hours a day to useless pastimes that have lost you
another one hundred and sixty-five million five hundred and sixty-four
thousand seconds.' The agent broke off. 'What's the matter, Mr Figaro,
aren't you feeling well?'
'No,' said the barber,'- yes, I mean. Please excuse me . ..' 'I'm
almost through,' said the agent. 'First, though, we must touch on a rather
personal aspect of your life - your little secret, if you know what I mean.'
Mr Figaro was so cold that his teeth had started to chatter.
'So you know about that, too?' he muttered feebly. 'I didn't think
anyone knew except me and Miss Daria -'
'There's no room for secrets in the world of today,' his inquisitor
broke in. 'Look at the matter rationally and realistically Mr Figaro, and
answer me one thing: Do you plan to marry Miss Daria?'
'No-no,' said Mr Figaro, 'I couldn't do that...' 'Quite so,' said the
man in grey. 'Being paralysed from the waist down, she'll have to spend the
rest of her life in a wheelchair, yet you visit her every day for half an
hour and take her flowers. Why?'
'She's always so pleased to see me,' Mr Figaro replied, close to tears.
'But looked at objectively, from your own point of view,' said the
agent, 'it's time wasted - twenty-seven million five hundred and ninety-four
thousand seconds of it, to date. Furthermore, if we allow for your habit of
sitting at the window for a quarter of an hour every night, musing on the
day's events, we have to write off yet another thirteen million seven
hundred and ninety-seven thousand seconds. Very well, let's see how much
time that makes in all.'
He drew a line under the long column of figures and added them up with
the rapidity of a computer.
60
The sum on the mirror now looked like this:
Sleep
441,504,000
seconds
Work
441,504,000
do.
Meals
110,376,000
do.
Mother
55,188,000
do.
Budgerigar
13,797,000
do.
Shopping, etc.
55,188,000
do.
Friends, social club, etc.
165,564,000
do.
Miss Daria
27,594,000
do.
Daydreaming
13,797,000
do.
Grand Total 1,324,512,000 seconds
'And that figure,' said the man in grey, rapping the mirror with his
chalk so sharply that it sounded like a burst of machine-gun fire, '- that
figure represents the time you've wasted up to now. What do you say to that,
Mr Figaro?'
Mr Figaro said nothing. He slumped into a chair in the corner of the
shop and mopped his brow with a handkerchief, sweating hard despite the icy
atmosphere.
The man in grey nodded gravely. 'Yes, you're quite right, my dear sir,
you've used up more than half of your original capital. Now let's see how
much that leaves of your forty-two years. One year is thirty-one million
five hundred and thirty-six thousand seconds, and that, multiplied by
forty-two, comes to one billion three hundred and twenty-four million five
hundred and twelve thousand seconds.'
Beneath the previous total he wrote:
Total time available Time lost to date
1,324,512,000 seconds 1,324,512,000 do.
Balance 0,000,000,000 seconds
Then he pocketed his chalk and waited for the sight of all the zeros to
take effect, which they did.
'So that's all my life amounts to,' thought Mr Figaro,
61
absolutely shattered. He was so impressed by the elaborate sum, which
had come out perfectly, that he was ready to accept whatever advice the
stranger had to offer. It was one of the tricks the men in grey used to dupe
prospective customers.
Agent No. XYQ/384/b broke the silence. 'Can you really afford to go on
like this?' he said blandly. 'Wouldn't you prefer to start saving right
away, Mr Figaro?' Mr Figaro nodded mutely, blue-lipped with cold. 'For
example,' came the agent's grey voice in his ear, 'if you'd started saving
even one hour a day twenty years ago, you'd now have a credit balance of
twenty-six million two hundred and eighty thousand seconds. Two hours a day
would have saved you twice that amount, of course, or fifty-two million five
hundred and sixty thousand. And I ask you, Mr Figaro, what are two measly
little hours in comparison with a sum of that magnitude?'
'Nothing!' cried Mr Figaro. 'A mere flea bite!' 'I'm glad you agree,'
the agent said smoothly. 'And if we calculate how much you could have saved
that way after another twenty years, we arrive at the handsome figure of one
hundred and five million one hundred and twenty thousand seconds. And the
whole of that capital, Mr Figaro, would have been freely available to you at
the age of sixty-two!' 'F-fantastic!' stammered Mr Figaro, wide-eyed with
awe. 'But that's not all,' the agent pursued. 'The best is yet to come. The
Timesaving Bank not only takes care of the time you save, it pays you
interest on it as well. In other words, you end up with more than you put
in.'
'How much more?' Mr Figaro asked breathlessly. 'That's up to you,' the
agent told him. 'It depends how much time you save and how long you leave it
on deposit with us.'
'Leave it on deposit?' said Mr Figaro. 'How do you mean?' 'It's quite
simple. If you don't withdraw the time you save for five years, we credit
you with the same amount again.
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Your savings double every five years, do you follow? They're worth four
times as much after ten years, eight times as much after fifteen, and so on.
Say you'd started saving a mere two hours a day twenty years ago: by your
sixty-second birthday, or after forty years in all, you'd have had two
hundred and fifty-six times as much in the bank as you originally put in.
That would mean a credit balance of twenty-six billion nine hundred and ten
million seven hundred and twenty thousand seconds.'
And the agent produced his chalk again and wrote the figure on the
mirror: 26,910,720,000.
'You can see for yourself, Mr Figaro,' he went on, smiling thinly for
the first time. 'You'd have accumulated over ten times your entire life
span, just by saving a couple of hours a day for forty years. If that's not
a paying proposition, I don't know what is.'
'You're right,' Mr Figaro said wearily, 'it certainly is. What a fool I
was not to start saving time years ago! It didn't dawn on me till now, and I
have to admit I'm appalled.'
'No need to be,' the man in grey said soothingly,'- none at all. It's
never too late to save time. You can start today, if you want to.'
'Of course I want to!' exclaimed Mr Figaro. 'What do I have to do?'
The agent raised his eyebrows. 'Surely you know how to save time, my
dear sir? Work faster, for instance, and stick to essentials. Spend only
fifteen minutes on each customer, instead of the usual half-hour, and avoid
time-wasting conversations. Reduce the hour you spend with your mother by
half. Better still, put her in a nice, cheap old folks' home, where someone
else can look after her - that'll save you a whole hour a day. Get rid of
that useless budgerigar. See Miss Daria once every two weeks, if at all.
Give up your fifteen-minute review of the day's events. Above all, don't
squander so much of your precious time on singing, reading
63
and hobnobbing with your so-called friends. Incidentally, I'd also
advise you to hang a really accurate clock on the wall so you can time your
apprentice to the nearest minute.'
'Fine,' said Mr Figaro. 'I can manage all that, but what about the time
I save? Do I have to pay it in, and if so where, or should I keep it
somewhere safe till you collect it? How does the system operate?'
The man in grey gave another thin-lipped smile. 'Don't worry, we'll
take care of that. Rest assured, we won't mislay a single second of the time
you save. You'll find you haven't any left over.'
'All right,' Mr Figaro said dazedly, 'I'll take your word for it.'
'You can do so with complete confidence, my dear sir.' The agent rose
to his feet. 'And now, permit me to welcome you to the ranks of the great
timesaving movement. You're a truly modern and progressive member of the
community, Mr Figaro. 1 congratulate you.' So saying, he picked up his hat
and briefcase.
'One moment,' said Mr Figaro. 'Shouldn't there be some form of
contract? Oughtn't I to sign something? Don't I get a policy of some kind?'
Agent No. XY Q/384/b, who had already reached the door, turned and
regarded Mr Pigaro with faint annoyance. 'What on earth for?' he demanded.
'Timesaving can't be compared with any other kind of saving - it calls for
absolute trust on both sides. Your word is good enough for us, especially as
you can't go back on it. We'll take care of your savings, though how much
you save is entirely up to you - we never bring pressure to bear on our
customers. Good day, Mr Figaro.'
On that note, the agent climbed into his smart grey car and purred off.
Mr Figaro gazed after him, kneading his brow. Although he was gradually
becoming warmer again, he felt sick and
64
wretched. The air still reeked of smoke from the agent's cigar, a dense
blue haze that was slow to disperse.
Not till the smoke had finally gone did Mr Figaro begin to feel better.
But as it faded, so did the figures chalked up on the mirror, and by the
time they had vanished altogether Mr Figaro's recollection of his visitor
had vanished too. He forgot the man in grey but not his new resolution,
which he believed to be his alone. The determination to save time now so as
to be able to begin a new life sometime in the future had embedded itself in
his soul like a poisoned arrow.
When the first customer of the day turned up, Mr Figaro gave him a
surly reception. By doing no more than was absolutely necessary and keeping
his mouth shut, he got through in twenty minutes instead of the usual
thirty.
From now on he subjected every customer to the same treatment. Although
he ceased to enjoy his work, that was of secondary importance. He engaged
two assistants in addition to his apprentice and watched them like a hawk to
see they didn't waste a moment. Every move they made was geared to a precise
timetable, in accordance with the notice that now adorned the wall of the
barbershop: TIME SAVED IS TIME DOUBLED!
Mr Figaro wrote Miss Daria a brief, businesslike note regretting that
pressure of work would prevent him from seeing her in the future. His
budgerigar he sold to a pet shop. As for his mother, he put her in an
inexpensive old folks' home and visited her once a month. In the belief that
the grey stranger's recommendations were his own decisions, he carried them
out to the letter.
Meanwhile, he was becoming increasingly restless and irritable. The odd
thing was that, no matter how much time he saved, he never had any to spare;
in some mysterious way, it simply vanished. Imperceptibly at first, but then
quite unmistakably, his days grew shorter and shorter. Almost before he knew
it, another week had gone by, and
65
another month, and another year, and another and another.
Having no recollection of the grey stranger's visit, Mr Figaro should
seriously have asked himself where all his time was going, but that was a
question never considered by him or any other timesaver. Something in the
nature of a blind obsession had taken hold of Lim, and when he realized to
his horror that his days were flying by faster and faster, as he
occasionally did, it only reinforced his grim determination to save time.
Many other inhabitants of the city were similarly afflicted. Every day,
more and more people took to saving time, and the more they did so the more
they were copied by others -even by those who had no real desire to join in
but felt obliged to.
Radio, television and newspapers daily advertised and extolled the
merits of new, timesaving gadgets that would one day leave people free to
live the 'right' kind of life. Walls and billboards were plastered with
posters depicting scenes of happiness and prosperity. Splashed across them
in fluorescent lettering were slogans such as:
TIMESAVERS ARE GOING PLACES FAST! THE FUTURE BELONGS TO TIMESAVERS!
MAKE MORE OF YOUR LIFE - SAVE TIME!
The real picture, however, was very different. Admittedly, timesavers
were better dressed than the people who lived near the old amphitheatre.
They earned more money and had more to spend, but they looked tired,
disgruntled and sour, and there was an unfriendly light in their eyes.
They'd never heard the phrase 'Why not go and see Momo?' nor did they have
anyone to listen to them in a way that would make them reasonable or
conciliatory, let alone happy. Even had they known of such a person, they
66
would have been highly unlikely to pay him or her a visit unless the
whole affair could be dealt with in five minutes flat, or they would have
considered it a waste of time. In their view, even leisure time had to be
used to the full, so as to extract the maximum of entertainment and
relaxation with the minimum of delay.
Whatever the occasion, whether solemn or joyous, time-savers could no
longer celebrate it properly. Daydreaming they regarded almost as a criminal
offence. What they could endure least of all, however, was silence, for when
silence fell they became terrified by the realization of what was happening
to their lives. And so, whenever silence threatened to descend, they made a
noise. It wasn't a happy sound, of course, like the hubbub in a children's
playground, but an angry, ill-tempered din that grew louder every day.
It had ceased to matter that people should enjoy their work and take
pride in it; on the contrary, enjoyment merely slowed them down. All that
mattered was to get through as much work as possible in the shortest
possible time, so notices to that effect were prominently displayed in every
factory and office building. They read:
TIME IS PRECIOUS - DON'T WASTE IT! or:
TIME IS MONEY - SAVE IT!
Similar notices hung above business executives' desks and in
boardrooms, in doctors' consulting rooms, shops, restaurants and department
stores - even in schools and kindergartens. No one was left out.
Last but not least, the appearance of the city itself changed more and
more. Old buildings were pulled down and replaced with modern ones devoid of
all the things that were now thought superfluous. No architect troubled to
design houses that suited the people who were to live in them, because that
67
would have meant building a whole range of different houses. It was far
cheaper and, above all, more timesaving to make them identical.
Huge modem housing developments sprang up on the city's northern
outskirts - endless rows of multi-storeyed tenements as indistinguishable as
peas in a pod. And because the buildings all looked alike, so, of course,
did the streets. They grew steadily longer, stretching away to the horizon
in dead straight lines and turning the countryside into a disciplined
desert. The lives of the people who inhabited this desert followed a similar
pattern: they ran dead straight for as far as the eye could see. Everything
in them was carefully planned and programmed, down to the last move and the
last moment of time.
People never seemed to notice that, by saving time, they were losing
something else. No one cared to admit that life was becoming ever poorer,
bleaker and more monotonous.
The ones who felt this most keenly were the children, because no one
had time for them any more.
But time is life itself, and life resides in the human heart. And the
more people saved, the less they had.
SEVEN
The Visitor
'I don't know,' Momo said one day. 'Seems to me our old friends come
here less and less often than they used to. I haven't seen some of them for
ages.'
She was sitting between Guido Guide and Beppo Road-sweeper on the
grass-grown steps of the ruined amphitheatre, watching the sun go down.
'Yes,' Guido said pensively, 'it's the same with me. Fewer and fewer
people listen to my stories. It isn't like it used to be. Something's
wrong.'
'But what?' said Momo.
Guido shrugged, spat on the slate he'd been writing on and thoughtfully
rubbed the letters out. Beppo had found the slate in a garbage can some
weeks before and presented it to Momo. It wasn't a new one, of course, and
it had a big crack down the middle, but it was quite usable all the same.
Guido had been teaching Momo her alphabet ever since. Momo had a very good
memory, so she could already read quite well, though her writing was coming
on more slowly.
Beppo, who had been pondering Momo's question, nodded and said, 'You're
right, it's closing in -- it's the same all over the city. I've noticed it
for quite a time.'
'Noticed what?' asked Momo.
Beppo thought a while. Then he said, 'Nothing good.' There was another
pause before he added, 'It's getting cold.'
'Never mind,' said Guido, putting his arm consolingly around Momo's
shoulders, 'more and more children come here, anyway.'
69
'Exactly,' said Beppo, 'that's just it.' 'What do you mean?' Momo
asked. Beppo thought for a long time before replying. 'They don't come for
the sake of our company,' he said. 'It's a refuge they're after, that's
all.'
They looked down at the stretch of grass in the middle of the
amphitheatre, where a newly invented game was in progress. The children
included several of Momo's old friends: Paolo, the boy who wore glasses;
Maria and her little sister, Rosa;
Massimo, the fat boy with the squeaky voice; and Franco, the lad who
always looked rather ragged and unkempt. In addition to them, however, there
were a number of children who had only been coming for the past few days and
one small boy who had first appeared that morning. It looked as if Guido was
right; their numbers were increasing every day.
Momo would have been delighted, except that most of the newcomers had
no idea how to play. All they did was sit around looking bored and sullen
and watching Momo and her friends. Sometimes they deliberately broke up the
other children's games and spoiled everything. Squabbles and scuffles were
frequent, though these never lasted long because Momo's presence had its
usual effect on the newcomers, too, so they soon started having bright ideas
themselves and joining in with a will. The trouble was, new children turned
up nearly every day, some of them from distant parts of the city, and one
spoilsport was enough to ruin a game for everyone else.
But there was another thing Momo couldn't quite understand - a thing
that hadn't happened until very recently. More and more often these days,
children turned up with all kinds of toys you couldn't really play with:
remote-controlled tanks that trundled to and fro but did little else, or
space rockets that whizzed around on strings but got nowhere, or model
robots that waddled along with eyes flashing and heads swivelling but that
was all.
70
They were highly expensive toys such as Momo's friends had never owned,
still less Momo herself. Most noticeable of all, they were so complete, down
to the tiniest detail, that they left nothing at all to the imagination.
Their owners would spend hours watching them, mesmerized but bored, as they
trundled, whizzed or waddled along. Finally, when that palled, they would go
back to the familiar old games in which a couple of cardboard boxes, a torn
tablecloth, a molehill or a handful of pebbles were quite sufficient to
conjure up a whole world of makebelieve.
For some reason, this evening's game didn't seem to be going too well.
The children dropped out, one by one, until they all sat clustered around
Guido, Beppo and Momo. They were hoping for a story from Guido, but that was
impossible because the latest arrival had brought along a transistor radio.
He was sitting a few feet away with the volume at full blast, listening to
commercials.
'Turn it down, can't you?' growled Franco, the shabby-looking lad.
The newcomer pointed to the radio and shook his head. 'Can't hear you,'
he said with an impudent grin.
'Turn it down!' shouted Franco, rising to his feet.
The newcomer paled a little but looked defiant. 'Nobody tells me what
to do,' he said. 'I can have my radio on as loud as I like.'
'He's right,' said old Beppo. 'We can't forbid him to make such a din,
the most we can do is ask him not to.'
Franco sat down again. 'Then he ought to go somewhere else,' he
grumbled. 'He's already ruined the whole afternoon.'
'I expect he has his reasons,' Beppo said, studying the newcomer
intently but not unkindly through his little steel-rimmed spectacles. 'He's
sure to have.'
The newcomer said nothing, but moments later he turned his radio down
and looked away.
71
Momo went over and sat down quietly beside him. He switched off the
radio altogether, and for a while all was still.
'Tell us a story, Guido,' begged one of the recent arrivals. 'Oh yes,
do!' the others chimed in. 'A funny one - no, an exciting one - no, a fairy
tale - no, an adventure story!'
But Guido, for the first time ever, wasn't in the mood for telling
stories. At length he said, 'I'd far rather you told me something about
yourselves and your homes - how you spend your time and why you come here.'
The children relapsed into silence. All of a sudden, they looked
dejected and uncommunicative.
"We've got a nice new car,' one of them said at last. 'On Saturdays,
when my mother and father have time, they wash it. If I've been good, I'm
allowed to help. I want a car like that when I'm older.'
'My parents let me go to the cinema every day, if I like,' said a
little girl. 'They don't have time to look after me, you see, and it's
cheaper than a babysitter. That's why I sneak off here and save the money
they give me for the cinema. When I've saved up enough, I'm going to buy an
aeroplane ticket and go and see the Seven Dwarfs.'
'Don't be silly,' said another child. 'They don't exist.' 'They do so,'
retorted the little girl. 'I've even seen pictures of them in a travel
brochure.'
'I've got eleven books on tape,' said a little boy, 'so I can listen to
them whenever I like. Once upon a time my dad used to tell me stories when
he came home from work. That was nice, but he's hardly ever home these days,
and even when he is he's too tired and doesn't feel like it.' 'What about
your mother?' asked Maria. 'She's out all day too.'
'It's the same with us,' said Maria. 'I'm lucky, though, having Rosa to
keep me company.' She hugged the little girl on her lap and went on, 'When I
get home from school I heat up our supper. Then I do my homework, and then'
- she
72
shrugged her shoulders -- 'then we just hang around till it gets dark.
We come here, usually.'
From the way the children nodded, it was clear that they all fared much
the same.
'Personally, I'm glad my parents don't have time for me these days,'
said Franco, who didn't look glad in the least. 'They only quarrel when
they're home, and then they take it out on me.'
Abruptly, the boy with the transistor looked up and said, 'At least I
get a lot more pocket money than I used to.'
'Sure you do,' sneered Paolo. 'The grown-ups dish out money to get rid
of us. They don't like us any more - they don't even like themselves. If you
ask me, they don't like anything any more.'
'That's not true!' the newcomer exclaimed angrily. 'My parents like me
a lot. It isn't their fault, not having any time to spare, it's just the way
things are. They gave me this transistor to keep me company, and it cost a
lot. That proves they're fond of me, doesn't it?'
No one spoke, and suddenly the boy who'd been a spoilsport all
afternoon began to cry. He tried to smother his sobs and wiped his eyes with
his grubby fists, but the tears flowed fast, leaving pallid snail tracks in
the patches of grime on his cheeks.
The other children gazed at him sympathetically or stared at the
ground. They understood him now. Deep down, all of them felt as he did: they
felt abandoned.
'Yes,' old Beppo repeated after a while, 'it's getting cold.'
'I may not be able to come here much longer,' said Paolo, the boy with
glasses.
Momo looked surprised. 'Why not?'
'My parents think you're a bunch of lazy good-for-nothings,' Paolo
explained. 'They say you fritter your time away. They say there are too many
of your son around. You've got so much time on your hands, other people have
to
73
make do with less and less - that's what they say - and if I keep
coming here I'll end up just like you.'
Again there were nods of agreement from the other children, who had
been told much the same thing.
Guido looked at each of them in turn. 'Is that what you think of us,
too?' he asked. 'If so, why do you keep on coming?'
It was Franco who broke the short silence that followed. 'I couldn't
care less. My old man says I'll end up in prison, anyway. I'm on your side.'
'I see,' Guido said sadly. 'So you do think we're stealing time from
other people.'
The children dropped their eyes and looked embarrassed. At length,
gazing intently into Beppo's face, Paolo said, 'Our parents wouldn't lie to
us, would they?' In a low voice, he added, 'Aren't you time-thieves, then?'
At that the old roadsweeper rose to his full but diminutive height,
solemnly raised his right hand, and declared, 'I have never, never stolen so
much as a second of another person's time, so help me God.'
'Nor have I,' said Momo.
'Nor I,' Guido said earnestly.
The children preserved an awed silence. If the three friends had given
their solemn word, that was good enough.
'And while we're on the subject,' Guido went on, 'let me tell you
something else. Once upon a time, people used to like coming to see Momo
because she listened to them and helped them to know their own minds, if you
follow my meaning. Nowadays they seldom stop to wonder what they think. They
used to enjoy listening to me, too, because my stories helped them to forget
their troubles, but they seldom bother with that either. They don't have
time for such things, they say, but haven't you noticed something odd? It's
strange the things they don't have time for any more.'
Guido surveyed the listening children with narrowed eyes
74
and nodded before continuing. 'The other day,' he said, "I bumped into
an old friend in town, a barber by the name of Figaro. We hadn't met for
quite a while, and I hardly recognized him, he was so changed - so irritable
and grumpy and depressed. He used to be a cheerful type, always singing,
always airing his ideas on every subject under the sun. Now, all of a
sudden, he hasn't got time for anything like that. The man's just a shadow
of his former self - he isn't good old Figaro any more, if you know what I
mean. But now comes the really strange part: if he were the only one, I'd
think he'd gone a bit cracked, but he isn't. There are people like Figaro
wherever you look - more and more of them every day. Even some of our oldest
friends are going the same way. I'm beginning to wonder if it isn't
catching.'
Old Beppo nodded. 'You're right,' he said, 'it must be.' 'In that
case,' said Momo, looking dismayed, 'our friends need help.'
They spent a long time that evening debating what to do. Of the men in
grey and their ceaseless activities, none of them yet had the faintest
suspicion.
Momo, who couldn't wait to ask her old friends what was wrong and why
they'd stopped coming to see her, spent the next few days looking them up.
The first person she called on was Salvatore, the bricklayer. She knew
the house well - Salvatore lived in a little garret under the roof -- but he
wasn't at home. According to the other tenants, he now worked on one of the
big new housing developments on the far side of town and was earning a lot
of money. He seldom came home at all these days, they said, and when he did
it was usually in the small hours. He'd taken to the bottle and was hard to
get along with.
Momo decided to wait for him just the same, so she sat down on the
stairs outside his door. When it grew dark, she fell asleep.
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It must have been long past midnight when she was woken by the sound of
unsteady footsteps and raucous singing. Salvatore came blundering upstairs,
caught sight of Momo, and stopped short, looking dumbfounded.
'Momo!' he said hoarsely, clearly embarrassed to be seen in his present
condition. 'So you're still around, eh? What on earth are you doing here?'
'Waiting to see you,' Momo replied shyly. 'You're a fine one, I must
say!' Salvatore smiled and shook his head. 'Fancy turning up to see your old
pal Salvatore in the middle of the night! I'd have paid you a visit myself,
ages ago, but I just don't have the time any more, not for - well, personal
things.' He gestured vaguely and flopped down on the stairs beside her.
'You've no idea the kind of life I lead these days. Things aren't the way
they used to be - times are changing. Over where I'm working now,
everything's done in double-quick time. We all work like fury. One whole
floor a day, that's what we have to sling together, day after day. Yes, it
isn't like it used to be. Everything's organized -- every last move we make
. ..'
Momo listened closely as he rambled on, and the longer she listened the
less enthusiastic he sounded. Suddenly he lapsed into silence and massaged
his face with his work-roughened hands.
'I've been talking rubbish,' he said sadly. 'I'm drunk again, Momo,
that's the trouble. I often get drunk these days, there's no denying it, but
that's the only way I can stomach the thought of what we're doing over
there. To an honest bricklayer like me, it goes against the grain. Too
little cement and too much sand, if you know what that means. Four or five
years is all those buildings will last, then they'll collapse if anyone so
much as blows his nose. Shoddy workmanship from top to bottom, but that's
not the worst of it. Those tenements we're putting up aren't places for
people to live in,
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they're - they're hen coops. It's enough to make you sick. Still, why
should I care as long as I get my wages at the end of the week? Yes, times
are changing all right. It used to give me a kick when we built something
worthwhile, but now ... Someday, when I've made enough money, I'm going to
quit this job and do something different.'
He propped his chin on his hands and stared mournfully into space. Momo
still said nothing, just went on listening. When Salvatore spoke again, he
sounded a little brighter.
'Maybe I should start coming to see you again and telling you my
troubles -- yes, I really should. What about tomorrow or the day after? I'll
have to see if I can fit it in, but I'll come, never fear. Is it a date?'
Momo nodded happily. Then, because they were both very tired, they said
good night and she left.
But Salvatore never turned up, neither the next day nor the day after
that. He never turned up at all.
The next people Momo called on were Nino the innkeeper and his fat wife
Liliana. Their little old tavern, which had damp-stained walls and a vine
growing around the door, was on the outskirts of town.
Momo went around to the back, as she used to in the old days. Through
the kitchen door, which was open, she could hear Nino and Liliana
quarrelling violently. Liliana, her plump face shiny with sweat, was
clattering pots and pans around on the stove while Nino shouted and
gesticulated at her. Their baby was lying in a baskerwork crib in the
corner, screaming.
Momo sat down quietly beside the baby, took it on her lap, and rocked
it gently to and fro until it stopped crying. The grown-ups interrupted
their war of words and glanced in her direction.
'Oh, it's you,' said Nino, with a ghost of a smile. 'Nice to see you
again, Momo.'
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'Hungry?' Liliana inquired rather brusquely.
Momo shook her head.
'So what do you want?' Nino demanded. He sounded grumpy. 'We're rather
pressed for time just now.'
'I only wanted to ask why it's been so long since you came to see me,'
Momo said softly.
Nino frowned. 'Search me,' he said irritably. 'I've got enough worries
as it is.'
'Yes,' snapped Liliana, 'he certainly has. Getting rid of our regular
customers, that's all he worries about these days. Remember the old men who
always used to sit at the corner table in the bar, Momo? Well, he sent them
packing -- he chucked them out!'
'No, I didn't,' Nino protested. 'I asked them, quite politely, to take
their custom elsewhere. As landlord of this inn, I was perfectly within my
rights.'
'Your rights, your rights!' Liliana said angrily. 'You simply can't act
that way - it's mean and cruel. You know they'll never find another inn as
easygoing as ours. It wasn't as if they were disturbing anyone.'
'There wasn't anyone to disturb, that's why!' retorted Nino. 'No
decent, well-heeled customers would patronize this place while those
stubble-chinned old codgers were lolling about in the corner. Besides,
there's little enough profit in one measly glass of cheap red wine, which
was all they could afford in an evening. We'll never get anywhere at this
rate.'
Liliana shrugged. 'We've done all right so far.'
'So far, maybe,' Nino said fiercely, 'but you know yourself we can't go
on like this. They've just raised our rent -- I've got to pay thirty per
cent more than before and everything's getting more expensive all the time.
How am I going to find the money if I turn this place into a home for
doddering old down-and-outs? Why should I go easy on other people? No one
goes easy on me.'
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Liliana banged a saucepan down on the stove so hard that the lid
rattled. 'Let me remind you of something,' she said, putting her hands on
her mountainous hips. 'One of those doddering old down-and-outs, as you call
them. is my Uncle Enrico, and I won't have you insulting my relations.
Enrico's a decent, respectable man, even if he doesn't have much money to
splash around, like those well-heeled customers you've set your heart on.'
'But Enrico's free to come here any rime,' Nino said with a lordly
gesture. 'I told him he could stay if he wanted, but he wouldn't.'
'Without his cronies? Of course he wouldn't! What did you expect him to
do, sit in a corner by himself?'
'That settles it, then,' Nino shouted. 'In any case, I've no intention
of ending my days as a small-time innkeeper just for your Uncle Enrico's
benefit. I want to get somewhere in life. Is that such a crime? I aim to
make a success of this place, and not just for my own sake. I'm thinking of
you and the baby as well, Liliana, don't you understand?'
'No, I don't,' Liliana said sharply. 'If being heartless is the only
way you can get somewhere in life, count me out. I warn you: sooner or later
I'll pack up and leave you, so suit yourself!' On that note, she took the
baby from Momo - it had started crying again - and flounced out of the
kitchen.
Nino said nothing for a long time. He lit a cigarette and twiddled it
between his fingers while Momo sat watching him.
'As a matter of fact,' he said eventually, 'they were nice old boys --
I was fond of them myself. I feel bad about them, Momo, but what else could
I do? Times have changed, you see.' His voice trailed off, and it was a
while before he went on. 'Maybe Liliana was right all along. Now that the
old men don't come here any more, the atmosphere seems strange -cold,
somehow. I don't even like the place myself. I honestly don't know what to
do for the best. Everyone acts the same
79
way these days, so why should I be the odd man out?' He hesitated. 'Or
do you think I should?'
Momo gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Nino caught her eye and nodded too. Then they both smiled.
'I'm glad you came,' Nino said. 'I'd quite forgotten the way we always
used to say, "Why not go and see Momo?" Well, I will come and see you again,
and I'll bring Liliana with me. The day after tomorrow is our day off. We'll
turn up then, all right?'
'All right,' said Momo, and went on her way, but not before Nino had
presented her with a big bag of apples and oranges.
Sure enough, Nin