"The Tartar Steppe" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dino Buzzati)

He went down a narrow winding stair cut out of the heart of the ramparts and his footsteps resounded above and below him as if there were others there. The rich folds of the cloak swung to and fro and struck the white mildew on the walls.
Thus Drogo arrived below ground ; for the workshop
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of the tailor, Prosdocimo, was accommodated in a cellar. When the days were fine a ray of light shone down through a little window level with the ground, but that evening they had already lit the lights.
"Good evening, sir," said Prosdocimo, the regi­mental tailor, whenever he saw him come in. Only a few patches of the great room were lit up—a table at which an old man was writing, the bench where the three young assistants worked. All around scores upon scores of uniforms, greatcoats and cloaks, hung limply with the sinister abandon of hanged men.
" Good evening," Drogo replied, "I want a cloak; a fairly cheap cloak is what I want—something to last four months."
"Let me see," said the tailor with a smile at once inquisitive and suspicious, taking the hem of Drogo's cloak and drawing it towards the light. His rank was that of sergeant-major, but by virtue of being tailor he could apparently allow himself a certain ironical familiarity with his superiors.
"Good material, very. You, will have paid a fine price for it, I imagine, they don't do things by halves down there in the city."
He looked it all over like a craftsman then shoo_k his head so that his full ruddy cheeks trembled.
"It's a pity though," he said.
"What's a pity?"
"It's a pity the collar is so low, so unmilitary." "That's how they wear then nowadays," said Drogo with superior air.
"Fashion will have the collar low," said the tailor, " but for us soldiers fashion doesn't count. Fashion must be according to the regulations and the regulations say `the collar of the cloak will be tight, stand up and be three inches high.' Perhaps, sir, seeing me in this hole you think I am a very third class sort of tailor."
"Why?" asked Drogo. "On the contrary, not a bit of it."
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"You probably think I am a very third-class sort of tailor. But many officers have a high opinion of me­in the city, too—important officers. I am here on a merely temporary basis," and he measured out the syllables of the last three words as if it were a statement of great importance.
Drogo did not know what to say.
"I expect to leave any day," Prosdocimo went on. "But that the colonel won't let me go. . . . But what are you people laughing at?"
For in the shadows they had heard the stifled laughter of the three assistants. Now they had their heads bent and were exaggeratedly intent on their work. The old man went on writing and kept to himself.
"What is there to laugh at?" Prosdocimo repeated. "You're a bit too smart, you people. You'll find that out one of these days."
"Yes," said Drogo, "what is there to laugh at?" "They are fools," said the tailor, "it's best to pay no attention to them."
Here footsteps were heard coming down the stairs and a soldier appeared. Prosdocimo was wanted up­stairs by the sergeant-major in charge of the clothing store.
"Excuse me, sir," said the tailor.
Drogo sat down and prepared to wait. Now that their master was gone, the three assistants had broken off their work. The old man at last raised his eyes from his papers, rose to his feet and limped over to Drogo.
"Did you hear?" he asked with a strange inflection, making a gesture to indicate the tailor who had left the room. "Did you hear him? Do you know, sir, how long he has been in the Fort?"
"I've no idea."
"Fifteen years, sir, fifteen accursed years, and still he goes on repeating the same story--I am here on a temporary basis, I expect to go any day . .,"
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At the assistants' table someone muttered. This must be their daily butt. The old man paid not the slightest attention.
"But he will never move from here," he said. "He and the commanding officer and lots of others will stay here till they're done—it's a kind of illness. You're new, sir, watch out—you're newly arrived ; watch out while there is time."
"Watch out for what?"
"See that you leave as soon as possible, that you don't catch their madness."
"I am here for only four months," said Drogo, "I haven't the slightest intention of staying."
"Watch out all the same, sir," said the old man. "It was Colonel Filimore who began it. Great events are coming, he began to tell me, I remember very well—it will be eighteen years ago. 'Events,' that was what he said. These were his words. He got it into his head that the Fort is tremendously important, much more im­portant than all the others and that in the city they don't understand."
He spoke slowly so that there was time for silence to come' between one word and another.
"He got it into his head that the Fort is tremendously important, that something was bound to happen." Drogo smiled.
"That something would happen? A war you mean?" "Who knows—perhaps even a war."
"A war from across the steppe."
"Yes, probably from the steppe."
"But tell me, who would come?"
"How should I know? Of course no one will come. But the colonel has studied the maps, he says there are still Tartars, the remains of an old army, he says, roaming up and down."
From the shadow there came the idiotic sarcastic • laughter of the assistants.
"They are still waiting for them," the old man went on. "Take the colonel or Captain Stizione or Captain Ortiz or the lieutenant-colonel--every year they say something must happen and so it will go on until they are retired." He broke off and leant his head to one side as if he were listening. "I thought I heard steps," he said. But there was no sound of anyone.
"I hear nothing," said Drogo.
"Prosdocimo, too," said the old man. "He's only a sergeant-major—the regimental tailor, but he has joined up with them. For fifteen years he's been waiting too. But yciu don't believe it, sir, I see that, you don't say anything and think it is nothing but a lot of stories."
Almost imploringly he added :
"Watch out," he said, "you will let them convince you, you'll end up by staying here too, I have only to look into your eyes."
Drogo was silent; it seemed to him beneath his dignity to confide in such a poor creature.
"And you," he said, "what do you do?"