Read La Superba Online

Authors: Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer

La Superba (5 page)

BOOK: La Superba
3.75Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Piazza Sarzano is a square that I still don't really get, a square like a formless mollusk with a Metro station I never see anyone going into or coming out of. But just to the right of it, left of the church, is a secret passageway to another city—a medieval wormhole. With its profound and contented pavement, the street swings steeply up the hill to a forgotten and abandoned mountain village straight out of Umbria or Abruzzo. A handful of narrow, abandoned little streets that rise and fall around a shell-shaped village square that slumbers in the sunshine. But in the distance you don't see any mountaintops, no hills crosshatched with vines, no goatherds, but the docks of Genoa. This is a magical place you cannot be in
without realizing that you actually can't be there because the place cannot exist. This is Campo Pisano, a perfect name euphonically, an ideal marriage between sound and rhythm. Its meter is the triumphant final chord of a heroic verse. The name fits perfectly after the bucolic diaeresis of the dactylic hexameter. The succession of a bi-syllabic and tri-syllabic obeys the
Gesetz der wachsenden Glieder
and creates a charming
auslaut
after the first unmarked element of the dactyl, by which an ideal alternation between a falling and a rising rhythm arises. The sound is carried by the open vowels that shine like the three primary colors on an abstract painting by Mondrian. The falling movement from the
a
to the
o
finds a playful counterpoint in the high
i
before it is repeated.

The cool hard consonants articulate the composition like the black lines on the same painting, with the racy repetition of the
p
right in the middle. It is a name like an incantation to evoke a magical abode. A spell of otherworldly sophistication is needed to bring to life an impossible place. If someone were to unscrew the street's nameplate from the wall, Campo Pisano would vanish into the mists of the docks, only to reappear when an ancient high priest remembered the name and it passed through his wrinkly lips between the Barbarossa walls and the sea. Campo Pisano. It's a happy place with a tragic past, in the same way that only people who have known pain can be happy because people who are painlessly happy like that blow away like a Sunday paper in the wind of an early day in spring. This place was once a kind of Abu Ghraib. Prisoners of war were locked up here after La Superba's army and navy had finally put down their archenemy Pisa for good. The curses of the defeated and humiliated Pisani still ring out to this
day. Symbols of Genoa's power are worked into the pavement in mosaics made of uneven pebbles. I'm the only person about at this time of day. The green shutters on the houses are closed. The wine bar won't open until the evening. In the distance I can hear a goat bleating, or a ferry honking.

Vico Superiore del Campo Pisano is a dead end, but Vico Inferiore del Campo Pisano isn't. Or the other way round. It depends which day it is. One of the two of them is a new wormhole, not back to Genoa and the present, but to America and yesterday's future. The road curves gently downhill to the left and leads to a grotto. Dampness and vegetation seep from moldy walls. These are the vaults of the bridge that links Piazza Sarzano with the Carignano quarter. The high priest lives under the last arch. His skull is older than the city. High above him, the people of Genoa go in search of parking spots and bargains. Closer to the sea the fast traffic races along the Sopraelevata, the raised motorway along the coast.

The grotto opens out into a post-apocalyptic landscape, or to be more precise: this is the perfect location to film an old-fashioned science fiction film, preferably in black and white. Its official name is Giardini di Baltimora, but people know it as Giardini di Plastica, the plastic garden. It's a gigantic dog-walking spot that also serves as a shooting-up area for heroin addicts and a kissing zone for young couples without places of their own. It looks like a 1960s or '70s version of the twenty-first century. Desolate green with charmingly gray mega-office-blocks. Above-ground nuclear bunkers in a field of stinging nettles. Pre-war spaceships that have crashed in a forgotten hole in the city and gradually been reclaimed by nature.

All kinds of pathways go back up to the Middle Ages from here, or to Piazza Sarzano or Via Ravecca. But you can also walk under the supports of the rusty behemoths, across the underground car park beneath which the motorway runs to the sea, past peeling bars and clubs with unimaginative names, under the skyscraper, to Piazza Dante. The city will reveal itself to you there once again, with an ironic smile. Yes. After your epic journey, you're simply back on Piazza Dante. Thousands of Vespas, Porta Soprana, Columbus's house, the cloisters of Sant'Andrea, in the distance the fountain on Piazza de Ferrari and, on the other side, Via XX Settembre. You know every street here. It's just a three-minute walk to your favorite bars. You burst out laughing in surprise. But how am I ever going to write about this, my friend? How can I ever make people believe that a city makes me happy?

11.

Religion is the opiate of the masses. Although Italy has flirted more often and more intimately with Marxism than most other Western European countries, it is one of the most drugged up countries I've ever seen. The Holy See actively gets involved in politics. The pronouncements of the Holy Father are even widely reported in progressive and left-wing newspapers. Not a week goes by without a public debate that is only a debate in that the Vatican has regurgitated one of its anachronistic opinions in a press release. There are few politicians who have the courage to commit electoral kamikaze by distancing themselves from the dictates of the Holy Mother-Church or casting doubt on the authority of the
old right-winger who believes himself Christ's terrestrial locum.

Genoa is a civilized, northern, and even explicitly left-wing city, where money is earned, where people can read and write, and where all the old people go to church. Or they take communion at home if they live on the seventh floor, with their fluid retention and their walker and the lift's out of order again. The tabloids scream outrage. In Genoa, a salesman's healthy skepticism is the norm, just as the pleasant shadow in the alleyways doesn't evaporate under any amount of sun. Jesus said that Peter wanted to build his church on a rock. Peter's church in Genoa is on Piazza Banchi and it is built on shops. The foundations of trade still lie under the church's foundations. But even here, the mayor only has to come up with the idea of organizing a Gay Pride parade for the archbishop to put a stop to it the next day.

Being a Catholic doesn't have to be a conscious choice, not like the existential struggles in Dutch Protestantism that go with being doubly, triply, quadruply Reformed or Restored Reformed. In the fatherland, conversion to Catholicism is for men of my profession worthy of a press release, guaranteed fodder for an endless series of discussion nights in community centers. In Italy, it's something you're born into, just like being born a supporter of Genoa or Sampdoria, and just as you're born someone who eats
trofie al pesto
and not egg foo young with noodles. God isn't someone you search for on a hopeless path with your hands cramped into a begging bowl, but someone like the coach of a football team or the chef in a restaurant: he'll be there, and no doubt he'll do his best, because that's how it's always been. So you get baptized and you marry in a church, not because you particularly want that,
but because it makes Granny happy and because that's the way it's always been. Catholicism is the default, the standard setting, and too many complicated downloads and difficult processes are needed to deviate from it. Most people won't go to all that trouble.

But this wasn't what I intended to talk about at all. Religion is a bit of a woman's thing after all. The men in Italy celebrate their own holy high mass every Sunday at three o'clock on the dot. Since time immemorial the year has unfolded around the cycle of friendly duels and preliminary rounds that lead to the championship and the final position. The religion is called Serie A. Mass is each team's weekly match. At three o'clock on Sunday afternoons, millions of Italian men sit in their regular parish to be flagellated for ninety minutes by the live coverage on Skynet or some other subscription channel. Sampdoria's church is the Doge Café on Piazza Matteotti; Genoa's church is Capitan Baliano, diagonally opposite. At halftime during the service, everyone smokes a fraternal cigarette together on the same square before returning to their own temple at exactly four o'clock for the second half and another forty-five minutes of suffering, hell, and damnation.

Nobody enjoys it, as befits a religion. I've watched a football match in a bar a few times back home. You have to drink a lot of beer and do the cancan together, and by the second half getting beer down each other's throats becomes more important than watching the match. In Italy, on the other hand, it's a deadly serious matter. The men drink coffee and swear.

There isn't a single Italian male who doesn't know about food. He can't cook, his wife does that, but he knows better. It's his job to deliver negative comments about each course in an indignant
manner. And there isn't a single Italian male who doesn't know about football. He's incapable of sprinting fifty meters, but he knows better. Each Sunday it's his job to give an indignant and scornful commentary of every move made by the top athletes in the stadium.

But Italians don't know a thing about football. They don't understand it and they don't even like it. Every time a player loses possession it's the referee's fault for not spotting a foul. Each goal conceded is proof of the scandalous inferiority and the appalling ignorance of the opponent who has gone and gotten it into his thick skull to score against their team. They cheer if a player on their team brings an adversary down with a violent tackle and jeer when the referee penalizes this action. And, in general, even with the best will in the world, no one can understand how, these days, the best-paid top players constantly make the most basic fuck-ups. The game is mostly unwatchable, because when Italian clubs compete with each other, they never take a single risk, and their lineups only have half a striker.

It's the same every Sunday. No one takes any pleasure in it. But they wouldn't miss it for the world. It's ritual. The week exists by the grace of Sunday afternoons. It wouldn't surprise me if the same match had different results in different parts of Italy. On the Genoese subscription channels, Genoa beat Palermo 4-0, after which an orgy of pretty things you can buy if you're happy explodes onto the screen. Palermo probably won the same match 4-0 on the Sicilian subscription channels.

Like every religion, Serie A has a gospel. But it's much better than those four books in rotten Greek the Vatican's had to make
do with for centuries. It's printed on pink paper and appears daily with new messages of salvation every time: the
Gazzetta della Sport
makes it possible to lose yourself in fantasies about Sunday afternoon all week long, with retrospectives that are updated daily, prognoses, statistics, and charts. You don't need any other newspaper if you want to be an Italian among the Italians.
Tutto il rosa della vita
is its slogan—everything pink in life. The world's fucked, hundreds of thousands of poor bastards are landing on Lampedusa, the government has declared a state of emergency, there are soldiers in the streets, and people are dying of poverty, but if you read the
Gazzetta dello Sport
, none of that has to bother you. There, it's just about the things that are really important, like the percentage of risky passes from the left wing in comparison to the 1956–57 season.

Italy lives in its imagination. The opium of its people is pink.

12.

I often thought back to my short and confusing relationship with the leg, or rather with the girl I'd fantasized onto it. I was ashamed. But I had to get over that. In a certain way, it had been perfect love. Because I'd dreamed her up myself, she was the woman of my dreams. And yet she was concrete, material and physical enough to have me believe that I wasn't dreaming. I could actually touch her, stroke her, feel her, and she moved, sighed, and groaned exactly as I imagined in my loveliest fantasies.

The problem with complete women is that they can interfere with your fantasies. There's a good amount of body to grope, but
in fact you do exactly the same thing as when there's only a single leg available to you. You quench yourself with her skin, while her melting thoughts become your thoughts. You moan sighs into her mouth. You create an image of her and expect her to live up to it. The more she manages to match your unspoken fantasy, the better she is.

Good sex is the illusion that the other finds your lovemaking good. Love is like a mirror. You see your own countenance in the delighted face of the other. You hope the other sees herself reflected in you, while you project your own longings onto the emptiness of her astonished eyes. I mean: everyone finds true love sooner or later. But there are at least six billion people on earth. How probable is it, statistically speaking, that the collection of limbs lying next to you in bed happens to be the one unique person who makes your existence complete? How likely is it that “The One” should drop onto your lap like a snow-white dove who has died in midflight right above your beseechingly outstretched hands? True love is the decision to start believing in the fantasy at hand, instead of fantasizing. My love for the leg was exactly like that. All things considered, it was exactly like that. Do you understand?

And unlike an un-fabricated girl with a mouth in a face on a head atop shoulders that has a mind of its own, my mistress could say nothing that impeded the illusion. She was perfectly identical to the image I'd made of her. And so she remained a concept, a work of art, the snow-white dove I could catch wherever I wanted her to fall. When I had sex with her, I had sex with my own fantasies, and so the sex was perfect. Because that's how things are. Because every encounter is accompanied with wild assumptions about what the other is thinking, with her trembling
little shoulders and her eyes so brown in the headlights of your rampant lust. At night, the other looks like the unlit motorway to the embodiment of your unclear dreams, but you haven't realized that as you honk with your dimmed headlights, she is driving even faster toward an uncertain destination behind you. And after the head-on collision, once perfect limbs dangle off sharp edges of broken glass. I know you understand me. You're not like the others.

BOOK: La Superba
3.75Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Sanctuary by Joshua Ingle
Zeus (The God Chronicles) by Solomon, Kamery
Queen of Hearts by Jami Denise
Death in Paradise by Kate Flora
The Quest of Julian Day by Dennis Wheatley
Thug Matrimony by Wahida Clark
Sweet Trouble by Susan Mallery