The Nonexistent Knight by Italo Calvino Read Free Book Online

too stunned by so many things that had happened to feel happy, too happy to understand that he had exchanged his former preoccupation for even more burning anxieties, he returned to the camp.
    "I’ve avenged my father, you know. I’ve won. Isohar has fallen. I...” but he told his tale confusedly, overhurriedly, since the point he wanted to reach was another. “And I was fighting against two of them, and a knight came to help me, and then I found out it wasn’t a soldier, it was a woman, lovely, the face I don’t know, in armor she wore a periwinkle blue robe...”
    “Ha, ha, ha,” roared his companions in the tent; intent on spreading grease on the bruises all over their chests and arms, amid the great stink of sweat which is present every time armor comes off after battle. “So you want to go with Bradamante, do you, little one? If she wants! Bradamante only takes on generals or grooms! You won’t get her, not even if you put salt on your tail!"
    Raimbaut could not bring out a word. He left the tent; the sun was setting red. Only the day before, when seeing the sun go down, he had asked himself, “Where will I be at tomorrow’s sunset? Will I have passed the test? Will I be confirmed as a man, making a mark in the world?” And now here he was at that next day’s dusk, and the first tests were over. But now nothing counted any longer. There was a new test, and the new test was difficult, unexpected, and could be confirmed only there. In this state of uncertainty Raimbaut would have liked to confide in the knight with white armor, as the only one who might understand him; he had no idea why.

5
    BENEATH my cell is the convent kitchen. As I write I can hear the clatter of copper and earthenware as the sisters wash platters from our meager refectory. To me the abbess has assigned a different task, the writing of this tale. But all our labors in the convent have, as it were, one aim and purpose alone, the health of the soul. Yesterday, when I was writing of the battle, I seemed to hear in the sink’s din the clash of lance against shield and armor plate, and the clang of heavy swords on helmets. From beyond the courtyard came the thudding of looms as nuns wove, and to me it seemed like the pounding of galloping horses’ hooves. Thus, what reached my ears was transformed by my half-closed eyes into visions and by my silent lips into words and words and words, and on my pen rushed over the white sheet to catch up.
    Today perhaps the air is hotter, the smell of cabbage stronger, my mind lazier, and the hubbub of nuns washing up can transport me no further than the field kitchens of the Frankish army. I see warriors in rows before steaming vats amid a constant clatter of mess tins and tinkle of spoons, of ladles on edges of mess tins, or scraping the bottom of empty encrusted cooking pots; and this sight and smell of cabbage is repeated in every regiment, from those of Normandy, Burgundy, and Anjou.
    If an army’s power is measured by the din it makes, then the resounding array of the Franks can best be known at mealtimes. The sound echoes over valleys and plains, till eventually it joins and merges with a similar echo, from Infidel pots. For the enemy too are intent at the very same time on gulping foul cabbage soup. Yesterday’s battle never made so much noise—nor such stink.
    All I have to do next is imagine the heroes of my tale at the kitchens. I see Agilulf appear amid the smoke and bend over a vat, insensible to the smell of cabbage, making suggestions to the cooks of the regiment of Auvergne. Now up comes young Raimbaut, at a run.
    “Knight,” says he, panting, “at last I’ve found you! Now I want to be a paladin too! During yesterday’s battle I had my revenge ... in the mêlée ... then I was all alone against two ... an ambush ... then ... now I know what fighting is, in fact. And I want to be given the riskiest place in battle ... or to set off on some adventure that will gain glory ... for our