The Stories of John Cheever

The Rockwells’ party was large, and I left at about ten. A hot wind was blowing off the sea. I was later told that this was the sirocco. It was a desert wind, and so oppressive that I got up several times during the night to drink some mineral water. A boat offshore was sounding its foghorn. In the morning, it was both foggy and suffocating. While I was making some coffee, Assunta and the signorina began their morning quarrel. Assunta started off with the usual “Pig! Dog! Witch! Dirt of the streets!” Leaning from an open window, the whiskery old woman sent down her flowery replies: “Dear one. Beloved. Blessed one. Thank you, thank you.” I stood in the door with my coffee, wishing they would schedule their disputes for some other time of day. The quarrel was suspended while the signorina came down the stairs to get her bread and wine. Then it started up again: “Witch! Frog! Frog of frogs! Witch of witches!” etc. The old lady countered with “Treasure! Light! Treasure of my house! Light of my life!” etc. Then there was a scuffle—a tug-of-war over the loaf of bread. I saw Assunta strike the old woman cruelly with the edge of her hand. She fell on the steps and began to moan “Aiee! Aieee!” Even these cries of pain seemed florid. I ran across the courtyard to where she lay in a disjointed heap. Assunta began to scream at me, “I am not culpable, I am not culpable!” The old lady was in great pain. “Please, signore,” she asked, “please find the priest for me!” I picked her up. She weighed no more than a child, and her clothing smelled of soil. I carried her up the stairs into a high-ceilinged room festooned with cobwebs and put her onto a couch. Assunta was on my heels, screaming, “I am not culpable!” Then I started down the one hundred and twenty-seven steps to the village.

The fog streamed through the air, and the African wind felt like a furnace draft. No one answered the door at the priest’s house, but I found him in the church, sweeping the floor with a broom made of twigs. I was excited and impatient, and the more excited I became, the more slow-moving was the priest. First, he had to put his broom in a closet.