Clash of Civilizations for an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio Page 2
It’s impossible! Amedeo a murderer! I will never believe what you’re telling me. I know him the way I know the taste of Chianti and gormeh sabzi. I’m sure he’s innocent. What does Amedeo have to do with that thug who pisses in the elevator? I saw him with my own eyes, I said to him: “This is not a public toilet.” He gave me a look of such hatred and said, “If you say that again I’ll piss in your mouth! You’re in my house, you have no right to speak! Get it, you piece of shit?” And then he kept shouting at me, right in my face: “Italy for Italians! Italy for Italians!” I didn’t want to argue with him, because he’s crazy. Have you ever heard of a sane man who shamelessly pees in the elevator and is called the Gladiator? Frankly I wasn’t sorry about his death. That Gladiator kid isn’t the only lunatic in the building. Amedeo has a neighbor who calls her dog sweetheart! She treats him like a child, or a husband; in fact, once I heard her say that he sleeps next to her, in the same bed. Isn’t that the height of madness? God created dogs to guard the flocks, to protect them from wolves and keep away thieves, not to sleep in the arms of women!
Look for the truth somewhere else. I’m suspicious of that young blond guy who lived in the same apartment with the Gladiator. He has to be a spy or an agent of some secret service. I’ve often seen him follow me and watch me from a distance feeding the pigeons at Santa Maria Maggiore. Once he overwhelmed me with a lot of odd questions: “Why do you like pigeons so much?” “Why do you always use the elevator?” “Why are you always drinking Chianti?” “Why are you so friendly with Amedeo?” “Why do you hate pizza so much?” So I yelled right back, “What do you want from me, you spy?” Goddam spies, they’re always tracking down secrets! At that moment he looked at me in surprise: “Don’t you understand that I need all this information about your life for my film.” Amazed, I asked, “What do you mean?” and he said, “I’m talking about the film I’m making, and you, Parviz, are going to be the star.” That’s when I asked myself, disconcerted, if this damn blond guy was a spy or a lunatic. When I talked to Amedeo about it, he smiled: “Parviz, don’t be afraid of the blond kid, he dreams of becoming a film director someday. Human beings need dreams the way fish need water.” I didn’t entirely understand what Amedeo was saying, but it doesn’t matter, what really counts is that I trust him completely.
I’m sure there’s been a mistake. After that business of my strike against talking, Amedeo persuaded me to file an appeal, taking responsibility for the expenses. After a while they re-examined my case and admitted that I had been telling the truth, that I hadn’t lied. And in the end they granted me political asylum. Besides, I’m frank and honest because I have nothing else to lose—I’ve already lost my children, my wife, my house, my restaurant. Let me say that I don’t have much faith in the Italian police. So many times they’ve hauled me in to the police station to interrogate me like a dangerous criminal!
What I’m saying makes a certain amount of sense. Answer my question, please: is feeding the pigeons a crime punishable by Italian law? Now let me explain: as you know, Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore is a place where pigeons like to gather. I love the pigeons, I feel happy when I feed them. A man surrounded by pigeons is a sight that arouses the admiration of tourists, and inspires them to take souvenir pictures. And so I contribute to the promotion of tourism in Rome. But that doesn’t protect me, because on more than one occasion the police have prevented me from getting near the pigeons. I’ve objected: “What’s the law that prohibits feeding the pigeons?” I’ve done my best to explain that the dove is the symbol of peace in all traditions, it’s even the symbol of the United Nations! I wonder how Italy can keep me from feeding the pigeons if it’s a member of the UN. The police mistreated me even though I hadn’t done anything serious, in fact they insulted me by saying, “You want to make beautiful Rome into a garbage dump? Go back where you came from and do whatever you want there!” I refused to give in to their threats and I kept fighting, I swore to remain faithful to the pigeons. I’ll never let them die of hunger. Amedeo acted as a mediator between me and the police and they made me feed the pigeons with food provided by the city. I didn’t understand the point of this agreement, but what’s important is not to have any more trouble with the police and to be able to get the food without spending a cent.
But forget the abuse I get from the police. Let’s talk about the concierge Benedetta, who won’t stop being a bitch, just to annoy me. One time I lost patience and said to her, “It’s disgraceful for a woman your age to say guaglio’!” but she went on repeating it shamelessly. The insults of that wretched woman have no rhyme or reason. Once she asked me, rather arrogantly, “Do you eat dogs and cats in Albania?” I kept calm, and answered her, “Do you know Omar Khayyam? Do you know Saadi? Do you know Hafiz? We are not savages who eat cats and dogs! And what the hell do I have to do with Albania!” I’ve been brought up since childhood to respect old people, that’s why I walked away from her saying, “Merci, Signora.”
But let’s get back to Amedeo. He’s not the murderer! He can’t have had anything to do with this crime. Amedeo is not stained with the Gladiator’s blood. I’m sad because of his absence. I don’t know exactly what’s happened to him, but of one thing I’m sure: from now on no one will take any notice of me when I cry and drink wine in Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore. Who will take the bottle of Chianti away from me? I’m thinking seriously of leaving. If Amedeo doesn’t come back in the next few days, I’m leaving Rome and never coming back. Ladies and gentlemen, Rome, without Amedeo, is worthless. It’s like a Persian dish without the spices!
FIRST WAIL
Wednesday March 5, 10:45 P.M.
This morning Signor Benardi, the owner of the restaurant Capri in Piazza Navona, where Parviz works as an assistant cook, called me. He said Parviz doesn’t do what he’s told because he doesn’t understand Italian, and can’t distinguish between a frying pan and a saucepan, between zucchini and carrots, between basil and parsley. After a long list of complaints he offered Parviz the choice of leaving or washing dishes, and Parviz chose the second.
Thursday March 19, 11:49 P.M.
Signor Benardi called me again, telling me that he was sorry but he had to fire Parviz, because his mouth never leaves the wine bottle during working hours. He’s reprimanded him many times, to no avail. Poor Parviz, he’s convinced that the reason he’s always getting fired is his hatred of pizza and not his poor Italian and the fact that he drinks during working hours. Now the problem is that Parviz is unemployed, so he gets even more depressed and drinks twice as much. Tomorrow, on the way home, I’ll pass by Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore and find him, as usual, near the fountain, weeping and drinking. It takes a Persian meal to pull him out of that melancholy state. I’ll have to remind Stefania to invite some friends for dinner tomorrow night, so Parviz can cook his favorite dishes.
Saturday June 24, 11:57 P.M.
I’ve gotten fat. It seems that Parviz is right when he says, “You’re a very special kind of drug addict—your drug is pizza!” I became aware of my greed for pizza only recently. There is no doubt that pizza is my favorite food, I can’t do without it. By now all the symptoms of addiction are obvious. Pizza is mixed with my blood—I’ve become an alcoholic of pizza, rather than wine. Soon I’ll soften into dough and become, in my turn, a pizza.
Thursday November 3, 10:15 P.M.
Parviz isn’t wrong when he says that each of us has a place where he feels comfortable. It’s enough to see him in the kitchen. He’s like a king in his kingdom, finding peace and quiet in a few seconds. It seems to me that I’m seeing Shahryar, the sultan of the Thousand and One Nights, calm and serene after listening to one of Scheherazade’s stories. The bathroom is the only place that guarantees us pure tranquility and sweet solitude; it’s no coincidence that we call it the Restroom. I find tranquility in this small bathroom. It’s my nest, and this white bowl where I sit to take care of my needs is my throne!
Saturday July 3, 11:04 P.M.
I’ve tried many times
to persuade Parviz to learn the secrets of Italian cooking, but he always refuses. This subject raises many questions beyond the culinary. I think Parviz is afraid he’ll forget Iranian cooking if he learns Italian. It’s the only explanation for his hatred of pizza in particular and pasta in general. As the Arab proverb says: “You can’t fit two swords in a single sheath.” Parviz thinks it’s impossible for them to live together in harmony. For him Iranian cooking, with its spices and its smells, is all that’s left of his memory. Rather, it’s memory and nostalgia and the smell of his family rolled into one. This cooking is the thread that ties him to Shiraz, which he has never left. Parviz is strange, he lives in Shiraz, not in Rome! So why do we force him to learn Italian and cook Italian style? Do people speak Italian in Shiraz? Do they eat pizza, spaghetti, fettuccine, lasagna, ravioli, tortellini, parmigiano in Shiraz? Auuuuuuuuu . . .
Friday April 14, 11:36 P.M.
Today I wept! I couldn’t believe it, the tears flowed without my even realizing it. I never imagined finding Parviz in such a state. The social worker didn’t go into details on the telephone, she said only, “Parviz is sick, hurry, before it’s too late.” I said to myself maybe he had drunk more than usual. I hurried to the refugee welcome center, and made my way among policemen and nurses. When I saw him with his mouth sewed up, I felt a tremendous earthquake in every part of my body. I couldn’t speak, I took his hand and embraced him tightly. Oh, my God! Where does such sadness come from? What is silence? Is there any point in speaking? Are there other ways of telling the truth, without moving your lips? The authorities had told Parviz that his story of fleeing Iran was an invention, that it had nothing to do with politics, but instead with cooking! They told him, “Your application has been rejected.” They didn’t believe that he fled Shiraz after the Revolutionary Guard found some anti-government leaflets from the People’s Mujahideen in his restaurant. It’s true that Parviz is not a political activist and has no relationship to any parties, but his life was in danger. One desperate night he fled, without kissing his children or his wife goodbye; he didn’t have time to say farewell to his Shiraz!
I ask as loud as I can, from this hole that has a stink to take your breath away: who possesses the truth? Rather, what is the truth? Is the truth spoken with words? Parviz spoke his truth with his mouth sewed up: he spoke with his silence.
Today my hatred of the truth has increased, and so has my passion for wailing. I’ll wail for the rest of the night from this confined space, and I know that no one will hear me. To this small tape recorder I’ll entrust my ceaseless wailing, then console myself by listening to it. Auuuuuuu . . .
Monday August 5, 10:49 P.M.
Peace between Parviz and the police! The controversy over the pigeons in Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore dragged on. It wasn’t easy to persuade him not to feed his pigeons anymore. Parviz adores pigeons, because he’s sure that someday a pigeon will land on his shoulder carrying a letter from his wife and children. He’s still waiting for the promised message, especially after hearing the story of the miracle that happened in Santa Maria Maggiore in the year 356, when it snowed in August. In the meantime, the city has decided to make life difficult for the pigeons in the big squares in Rome with the excuse that there are too many of them, and they shit on the citizens and, worse, on the tourists. So it decided to prohibit feeding them in the squares. In fact, it went further, introducing free birdseed laced with birth-control chemicals. I suggested to Inspector Bettarini that he give Parviz the job of feeding the pigeons, using the city’s birdseed, and after some hesitation the police agreed. I had no trouble persuading Parviz, and obviously I said nothing to him about the nature of the city’s birdseed. Sometimes it’s best not to know the truth. For example, I agree with doctors who hide from a patient the true nature of his illness. What stupidity drives a doctor to say to a patient, “You’re going to die in two months”? Poor man, let him live his two months without the burden of knowing the hour of his end! Is the truth a remedy that cures our ills or a poison that slowly kills us? I’ll look for the answer in wailing. Auuuuuuuu . . .
Saturday February 25, 11:07 P.M.
I couldn’t convince Parviz that Johan Van Marten isn’t a spy but a Dutch film student who dreams of restoring the glory of neorealism with the rebirth of a De Sica or a Rossellini. Johan, or Blondie—as the residents of the building call him—is trying to gather information about the lives of Parviz, the concierge Benedetta, Sandro, Antonio Marini, Elisabetta Fabiani, Iqbal the Bangladeshi, and all the others. Johan’s dream is to shoot a film in Piazza Vittorio, in black-and-white, that tells their stories. He’s asked me insistently to help him persuade Parviz, Benedetta, Iqbal, Maria Cristina, and the others to be in the film. He said that Parviz is a talented actor, with remarkable artistic gifts. You merely have to watch him weeping spontaneously and feeding the pigeons near the fountain of Santa Maria Maggiore to find the many resemblances between him and the fantastic Anthony Quinn. He paused on the name. He suggested giving Parviz a name worthy of an emerging film star: Parvi Bravo instead of Parviz Mansoor Samadi.
THE TRUTH ACCORDING
TO BENEDETTA ESPOSITO
I’m from Naples, I’ll shout it out, I’m not ashamed. But then why should I be? Wasn’t Totò born in Naples? He’s the greatest actor in the world, he won five Oscars. I’m a big fan of Totò, I haven’t missed a single one of his films and I remember them all. He can make me laugh even when I’m sad. I just can’t help laughing whenever I see the scene where he tries to sell the Trevi Fountain to that nitwit tourist. Remember that movie?
My name is Benedetta, but a lot of people like to call me la Napolitana. That nickname doesn’t bother me. I know that a lot of the tenants can’t stand me, hate me for no reason, even if I am good at my job. Ask around which is the cleanest building in Piazza Vittorio, they’ll tell you with no hesitation: “Benedetta Esposito’s building.” I don’t mean to say that I own this building, let’s get it straight: I don’t want any trouble with the real owner, Signor Carnevale. I’m just a simple concierge, that’s all. I’ve spent forty years in this building, I’m the oldest concierge in Rome. I really deserve a prize, and I ought to get it right from the mayor’s own hands. The problem is, this is Italy: we reward the incompetent and despise the good! Look what happened to poor Giulio Andreotti: after serving the state for decades, he was accused of being in the Mafia! Mary Mother of God, help us! In fact, they accused him of kissing that mafioso Riina on the mouth. What a disgrace! What an outrage! Who would believe such a lie? That poor man Andreotti is a true Catholic. He never misses Mass, he is a real gentleman, and as Totò says, “Gentlemen are born.” I am ready to testify at the trial in Palermo loud and clear: “There is only one hand that Andreotti has kissed, and it’s the hand of the Holy Father!” His back is hunched from fatigue. I have back problems, too, because of the heavy work, and the pain in my joints gives me no peace. I can’t really manage the cleaning anymore, but I have no alternative since my pension isn’t enough even to buy medicine. The trouble is they destroyed the Christian Democrats after Aldo Moro was killed. In the past I always voted for the Christian Democrats, but now it’s all so confusing! I don’t know who I should vote for. My son Gennaro told me to vote for Forza Italia, he says he heard Berlusconi on television swearing on the heads of his children he’ll make everybody rich like him.
What are you saying? Signor Amedeo is a foreigner? I can’t believe he’s not Italian! I haven’t lost my mind yet, I can certainly tell the difference between Italians and foreigners. Take that blond student, for example. There’s no doubt, he’s from Sweden. Just look at him and listen to him, and you know he’s a foreigner, with that way he talks. He makes so many ridiculous mistakes, like when he says, over and over, “I am not gentile!”—“I am not polite, not nice,” he says, the way someone might say, “I am rude.” He calls me Anna Magnani! I’ve told him so many times that Anna Magnani was born in Rome, she’s Roman, whereas I was born in Naples, I speak Neapolitan. He aske
d me to be in a movie. I said that I like movies a lot, especially the ones with Totò, but I don’t know how to act. I’m a concierge, not an actress! At that point he took me by the hand and got me dancing. I was nearly falling down, and he looked at me seriously: “You’re the new Anna Magnani!” That blond kid is a foreigner from head to toe—he’s an idiot and he’s crazy. A lot of times in winter I see these blond tourists, male and female, wearing short-sleeved T-shirts, and so I stop, bewildered, and in astonishment say to myself: “Aren’t these people afraid of catching cold?”