Journal of Italian Translation - Brooklyn College - Academic Home ...

John Pope / Grazia Deledda
It seems to be the ends of the earth, a no man’s land: only bird
tracks make long, serpentine lacework on the immaculate dune.
Man does not set foot here; yet there is the fear of encountering
one; better to turn back, where there are many, and the one keeps
us from the evil of the other.
But the dog again goes onwards by himself, or rather he jumps
about and rolls in the sand, plays with a twig, stretches upwards,
with his naked belly shivering, his paws seeming to want to embrace
the sky.
I have the impression that he’s already forgotten about me and
wants to be alone with his crazed joy of freedom: as always, I’ve
played with my own imagination in believing he understands me.
And I turn back, alone; but I’ve taken just a few steps when
I hear a galloping in the water: the animal rejoins me, passes me,
turns around and without halting looks at me: and I have never
seen a more imploring gaze.
“Don’t leave me,” says that gaze, “if you want me, I will go
with you, and even make the way safe and arrive before you,
wherever you need to go.”
So this dog is mine: if he doesn’t belong to the peasants, he
certainly belongs to me: and I want to take him; I will have him
watch over the garden, and in the lonely hours we’ll be together
in the shade of a tree, satisfied in our friendship. And I will also
have him guard the house.
Those are my thoughts; from small calculations, our acts of
generosity, like lovely flowers from their seeds, are born.
The dog now came close to me, measuring his step with mine:
at times he paused and sniffed the seaweed, then stared at the sea,
shaking his ears: doubtless he was looking for something as we
went back down. But if I caressed his head, he nevertheless raised
his eyes and promised me his loyalty.
Having returned to where the peasants were, he stopped, his
paws in the water, his eyes, through the bars of his muzzle, gazing
far out to sea. He seemed like an inmate returned to jail after
a brief escape.
“Is he yours?” I ask the peasants.
“No, ma’am; we thought he was yours. It seems he’s lost his
master.”
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