SEVEN STORIES

BY DINO BUZZATI
TRANSLATED FROM ITALIAN BY REBECCA HEATH

One morning in March, after a day's train ride, Giuseppe Corte arrived in a city where there was a famous sanitarium. He had a slight fever, but even so he insisted on walking from the station to the hospital, carrying his small suitcase. Although showing only the earliest signs of the disease, Giuseppe Corte had been advised to seek treatment at the renowned sanitarium where they specialized in treating just this one malady, guaranteeing a high level of medical competence and the most rational and effective use of the facilities. When Giuseppe Corte caught sight of the hospital from a distance -and he recognized it from having seen its photograph in a brochure -the sanitarium made an excellent impression on him. The fa.ade of the white seven-storied building was broken by a series of alcoves that gave it the appearance of a hotel. It was surrounded by a perimeter of tall trees. After a brief medical examination, pending a more detailed one, Giuseppe Corte was put in a cheerful room on the seventh and last floor. The furniture and upholstery were light in color and in good condition, and the wooden armchairs had cushions covered in multicolored fabric. A window opened on to a view of one of the most beautiful districts of the city. Everything was serene, hospitable and reassuring. Giuseppe Corte went to bed immediately and, once the bedside light was on, began reading a book he had brought with him. A short time later a nurse came in to ask if he wanted anything. Giuseppe Corte did not want anything, but gladly started talking to the young woman, asking for information about the sanitarium, and it was through her that he learned of the hospital's unusual features. The patients were distributed floor by floor according to the severity of their illness. The seventh, that is, the top floor, was for those who were only slightly sick. Patients who were only moderately ill but needed monitoring were assigned to the sixth floor. On the fifth they treated those who were more seriously ill and so on, floor by floor. Gravely ill patients were on the second floor and hopeless cases were on the first. This odd system, besides greatly expediting the operation of the hospital, prevented a patient who was only slightly sick from being disturbed by another who was dying, and ensured the same atmosphere on every floor; it also facilitated the matching of treatment to the condition of the patients. According to this scheme, the patients were divided into seven progressive castes. Each floor was like a small world to itself, with its own special rules, with its own special traditions. And since every section was entrusted to a different doctor, there were small, but distinct differences in how the cases were handled, even though the director general had impressed on the hospital the need for single set of guidelines. When the nurse had left, it seemed to Giuseppe Corte that his fever had disappeared and he went to the window, not to look at the landscape, even though it was new to him, but with the hope of catching sight of other patients on the lower floors. The structure of the building, with its large alcoves, allowed this type of observation. In particular, Giuseppe Corte fixed his attention on the first floor windows, which seemed far away and which he could view at an angle. But he was unable to see anything interesting. The majority of them were tightly closed by gray sliding window shutters. Corte saw that there was a man at the window of the room beside his. The two looked at each other for a while with growing interest, but neither knew how to break the silence. Finally Giuseppe gathered his courage and said, "You've only been here for a short time, too?" "Oh no," said the other. "I've already been here for two months ," was silent for several moments and, not knowing what to say next, added, "I was watching my brother down there." "Your brother?" "Yes," the unknown man explained. "We came here together, it's really an odd situation, but he's been getting worse; just think, he's already on the fourth."

"On the fourth floor," replied the man, and he pronounced the four words with such an expression of pity and horror that Giuseppe Corte was almost frightened. "But are they that badly off on the fourth floor?" he asked cautiously. "Oh, God," said the other, shaking his head slowly, "their cases aren't completely desperate, but there's not much to be happy about." "But then," Corte asked with the joking offhandedness of one untouched by tragic events, "then, if the patients on the fourth are so sick, whom do they put on the first floor?" "Oh, the ones who are actually dying are on the first. On that floor there's nothing more the doctors can do. Only the priest works there. And naturally " "But there's hardly anyone on the first floor," Giuseppe Corte interrupted, as if asking for a confirmation of his thoughts. "Almost all the rooms down there are closed." "There aren't many now, but there were quite a few this morning," the responded with a thin smile. "Where the shutters are lowered is where has died a short time ago. Don't you see that on the other floors all are open? But excuse me," he said, drawing back slowly, "I think it's get cold. I'm going back to bed. Good luck, good luck" other someone the shutters beginning to

The man disappeared from the sill and the window was closed with force; then a light shone from inside the room. Giuseppe Corte remained at the window, without moving, staring at the lowered shutters on the first floor. He stared at them with a morbid intensity, trying to imagine the mournful secrets of the terrible first floor where the patients were sent to die, and he was relieved at the thought that it was so far away. The shadows of the evening were descending over the city. One by one the thousand windows of the sanitarium lit up; at a distance one would have taken it for a palace with a party in full swing. Only on the first floor, down there, at the base of the precipice, dozens and dozens of windows remained blind and dark. Giuseppe Corte was reassured by the results of the medical examination. Usually pessimistic, in his heart he was already prepared for a harsh verdict and would not have been surprised if the doctor had consigned him to the floor below. Indeed, his fever had not gone away, despite the fact that his general condition was good. Instead, the doctor was cordial and encouraging. An illness at its earliest stage -he said to him -but very slight; in two or three weeks it would probably pass. "Then do I stay on the seventh floor?" Giuseppe Corte asked anxiously at that point. "But of course!" the doctor answered, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "And where did you think you were going? Maybe to the fourth?" he asked, laughing, as though hinting at the most absurd possibility. "That's better, that's better," said Corte. "You know how it is; when you're sick you always imagine the worst." In fact, Giuseppe Corte remained in the room which had been assigned to him originally. He got to know some of his hospital companions on the rare afternoons when he was allowed to get up. He carefully followed the plan of treatment, and did everything he could to get better quickly; nevertheless, his condition remained the same. About ten days had passed when the head nurse of the seventh floor came in to see Giuseppe Corte. She had a favor to ask of him: the following day a lady with two children was going to be admitted to the hospital; adjoining Corte's were two empty rooms, but they needed a third one; would Mr. Corte be kind enough to move to another room, just as comfortable as his? Of course Giuseppe Corte made no objection; one room or the other was all the same to him; perhaps he would get a new and more attractive nurse.