Clash of Civilizations for an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio Read online

  But what do you want, now that I’m getting old I don’t understand anything anymore. To hell with old age! And so what, if Signor Amedeo is a foreigner, as you say, then who’s a real Italian? I’m not even sure about myself. Maybe the day will come when someone will say that Benedetta Esposito is Albanian or Filipino or Pakistani. Time will tell. Amedeo speaks Italian better than my son Gennaro. In fact, better than the professor at the University of Rome, Antonio Marini, who lives on the fifth floor, No. 16. I know all the tenants in my building, so they accuse me of making trouble among them. Is this the reward I deserve? I have their interests at heart and I’m always available for them. Tell me: is that supposed to mean I get involved in their business? San Genna’, help me out here.

  I remember very well, it was spring, five years ago. I saw him come in the street door and go toward the elevator, and I said to him:

  “Hey buddy, where’re you going?”

  “I’m going to the third floor.”

  I insisted on further details, and I discovered that he was going to see Stefania Massaro. As he was about to open the elevator door I said:

  “Please don’t bang the door. Make sure you’ve closed it properly, don’t press the button too hard.”

  He smiled at me and said:

  “I’ve changed my mind, I’ll walk.”

  I thought he was making a fool of me, insulting me the way everybody else does, but he smiled even more sweetly and said, “Good day, Signora!” I couldn’t believe my ears! I asked myself: are there really still men who respect women in this country? That day I felt a strange sense of guilt. I swore, as sure as there’s a San Gennaro, that I would be nice to him if he came back again. You should know that Signor Amedeo is the only one in this building who out of respect for me doesn’t use the elevator, because he understood the problems it causes for me every time it breaks. The trials of this elevator never end. There’s even someone who secretly pees in it! So I’m in danger of losing my job. We have had so many meetings to try to resolve this problem, but unfortunately we’ve never managed to come up with a solution. I thought of calling the people from the TV show Striscia la notizia who look into people’s problems and solve them quickly, but then I reconsidered, I didn’t want to damage the reputation of my building. Finally, inspired by James Bond, I got the idea of installing a small hidden camera in the elevator to discover the guilty party. Only I had to forget about that, because of the expense, and then I was afraid I’d be accused of spying and not minding my own business.

  I was talking about Signor Amedeo, right? After a while he came to live with Stefania. I was very pleased. But this life is not fair. Tell me: does Stefania Massaro deserve a fine man like Signor Amedeo? That fart can’t stand me, you’d think I’d killed her father and mother. And I can’t stand her, I do my best not to run into her. How can I forget her behaviour as a child? She’d ring doorbells and make a mess on the stairs just so the other residents would get mad at me. They were always accusing me of not doing my job properly! She did everything she could to get me thrown out, but she didn’t succeed. I’m not afraid of other people’s spite—San Gennaro protects me, if only because I named my only son after the patron saint of Naples!

  No! Amedeo has nothing to do with that crime. I don’t know who killed Lorenzo Manfredini. I found him stone dead in the elevator, in a pool of blood. The people in Piazza Vittorio couldn’t stand the Gladiator. I’m sure that the cause of this whole mess is unemployment. A lot of young Italians can’t find a good job, so they’re forced to steal for a piece of bread. The immigrant workers should be thrown out and our sons should take their places. Find the real murderer. I’m suspicious of that Albanian friend of Amedeo’s. I never understood what sort of bond there was between him and Signor Amedeo. Elisabetta Fabiani informed me that she frequently saw the Albanian drunk and laughing till he cried, right in front of the tourists in Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore. I tried to warn Signor Amedeo to stay away from criminal types like that, but he wouldn’t listen to me. In fact, he welcomed him into his house. And there you have the result.

  I say the Albanian is the real murderer. That good-for-nothing is rude when I call him guaglio’! I don’t know his name, and in Naples that’s what we say, but he answers with a nasty word in his language. I don’t remember exactly that word he always says, maybe mersa or mersis! Anyway the point is, this word means “shit” in Albanian and is used as an insult. What makes me even more suspicious is the fact that he doesn’t know his own country at all. He’s tried over and over again to convince me that he comes from a country that isn’t Albania. He’s not the only one who refuses to acknowledge his original country in order to avoid getting expelled, eh! That Filipino Maria Cristina always tells me she isn’t from the Philippines, she says she’s from some other country whose name I can’t remember. I don’t understand, why do the police tolerate these criminals? I know some of them very well, operating not far from Piazza Vittorio. You know Iqbal the Pakistani, who owns the grocery on Via La Marmora? Even he refuses to recognize his country, he always says, “I hate Pakistan.” How can a person feel disgusted by his own country like that? I remember Iqbal very well. Just a few years ago, he used to unload trucks at the market in Piazza Vittorio, now he’s turned into a big businessman! Tell me: how’d he find the money to start up a business? Where’d he get the money to buy the store and the van, and get the stuff that comes from outside? There’s no other explanation: that bum is a thief, or a drug dealer.

  So in the end what happens to the taxes we pay to the state? What’s the use if not to protect us from these criminals? Why don’t they arrest Iqbal and the Albanian and the rest of these criminal immigrants and throw them out? That Filipino woman, I really dislike her, she is so nasty, constantly aggravating me. My problem is I can’t stand people who don’t want to do anything. I still remember when she first came to take care of old Rosa, she was so thin, like a broomstick, from hunger. Oh well yes, there are still a lot of people in Africa and Brazil and other parts of the world who scrounge food out of the garbage. After a few months she got big and fat because of all the crap she eats, and she sleeps a lot, too, she only leaves the house for emergencies and pays no attention to problems like taxes, the rent, the electric bill, the phone bill, and all the other nuisances of daily life. She gets everything free and she acts like she owns the house. Is this right? Does this situation make any sense? Me, an old Italian woman, ill, I have to work hard, while she, that chubby young immigrant, is the picture of health. She eats what she wants and sleeps as much as she wants, just like a spoiled cat! I know she doesn’t have papers to be here, but I can’t report her because I don’t want to make trouble for Rosa’s relatives. They could get back at me without thinking twice.

  I’m sure the murderer of Lorenzo Manfredini is one of the immigrants. The government should hurry up and do something. Soon they’ll be throwing us out of our own country. All you have to do is take a walk in the afternoon in the gardens in Piazza Vittorio to see that the overwhelming majority of the people are foreigners: some come from Morocco, some from Romania, China, India, Poland, Senegal, Albania. Living with them is impossible. They have religions, habits, and traditions different from ours. In their countries they live outside or in tents, they eat with their hands, they travel on donkeys and camels and treat women like slaves. I’m not a racist, but that’s the truth. Even Bruno Vespa, on TV, says so. Then why do they come to Italy? I don’t know, we’re full up with the unemployed. My son Gennaro doesn’t have a job—if it weren’t for his wife, Marina, who’s a seamstress, and help from me he would have ended up as a beggar outside the church of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples. If there’s no work for the people of this country, how is it that we welcome all these desperate types? Every week we see boats loaded with illegal immigrants on the TV news. They bring contagious diseases like plague and malaria! Emilio Fede always says so. But no one listens to him.

  I say that crime has gone beyond all limits. Last month Elisabetta
Fabiani, the widow on the second floor, lost her little dog Valentino. She had taken him out to the gardens in Piazza Vittorio to do his business, as she does every day, and she sat down to enjoy the sun, then she looked all over and there wasn’t even a trace. She asked me to help, and we searched inside and outside the gardens, but not a sign. Elisabetta wept so much over the loss of Valentino that everyone thought her son Alberto had died. I told her that Valentino’s disappearance raises a lot of suspicions. I don’t have clear proof available, but what I see all around me tells me it was kidnapping.

  First. Recently a lot of Chinese restaurants have opened in and around Piazza Vittorio.

  Second. The gardens of Piazza Vittorio are the favorite place for Chinese children to play.

  Third. They say that the Chinese eat cats and dogs.

  After all those things I’ve told you, there is no doubt that the Chinese stole poor little Valentino and ate him!

  Signor Amedeo is innocent. Arrest his Albanian friend, question him carefully, you’ll see, he’ll break down and confess. I’ve caught him red-handed many times trying to break the elevator. I’ve seen him go up and down for no reason, he goes up to the top floor and down to the ground floor. I observed him very carefully until I became sure that he was guilty. Before calling the police I spoke to Signor Amedeo to avoid complications. The Albanian is the real murderer, I’m ready to swear to it. Is it right that Signor Amedeo should pay in the place of some immigrant? Is it right to accuse a good Italian citizen of a crime he didn’t commit? San Genna’, you see to it!

  Why are you so insistent? I told you that Amedeo is a real Italian. I asked him personally over and over to tell me where he comes from, about his parents, his family, where he was born, and other things I can’t remember anymore. He always answered with a single word: south. I didn’t want to bother him with questions to find out more details, I said to myself: who knows, he might be Sicilian, Calabrian, or from Puglia. And then there’s no difference between Catania and Naples, between Bari and Potenza, we all come from the south. What’s the harm, in the end we’re all Italians! Rome is the city where people come from all over. Do me a favor, don’t accuse Amedeo of being an immigrant. We Italians are like that: in tough times we don’t trust each other, instead of helping we do all we can to hurt each other. Are we a people who have betrayal in our veins? During the Second World War we fought with the Germans, then we revolted against them and were allied with the Americans. I still remember the American soldiers on the streets of Naples. I was a pretty girl then, and all the boys liked me.

  We are a strange people. We murdered Mussolini and his lover Claretta in a public square in Milan, we threw out the king and his family and wouldn’t let them return, we defied the Pope and the Holy Church when the majority voted in favor of divorce. Then we all saw Giulio Andreotti on television sitting at the defense table, and that no-good Cicciolina in parliament. I’m not educated like you, but I still have the right to ask: If Andreotti had dealings with the Mafia, does that mean I voted for the Mafia and didn’t realize it? Does that mean that the Mafia governed Italy for decades? Lately we’ve been hearing about that Northern League that’s doing its best to divide the country in two and found a new state, Padania. What country are we living in? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Madonna, help us!

  I hope Signor Amedeo comes back soon. Then you will discover the terrible mistake you’ve made. I tell you, this country is a wonderland. From now on I won’t be surprised if I hear someone say that Giulio Andreotti is Albanian or Pakistani or Filipino. Signor Amedeo is the only tenant who stops to talk to me. He always calls me Signora Benedetta and he avoids using the elevator because he respects my work, he knows how I struggle to keep things peaceful for the tenants. The disappearance of Signor Amedeo and the groundless accusation that he murdered the Gladiator make me long to leave Rome for my final return to Naples. Yes, that’s San Gennaro calling me! I’ll go to the church of San Domenico in Naples to pray for Signor Amedeo.

  SECOND WAIL

  Thursday February 4, 11:14 P.M.

  I tried unsuccessfully to convince Benedetta, the concierge, that Parviz isn’t Albanian, and that merci is a French word meaning “thank you” that is used, with the same meaning, in Iran. When I got home tonight she stopped me, as usual, and after a long tirade in which she kept repeating that I’m like her only son she advised me to stay away from the Albanian, saying, “That crook! He’s just going to cause you a ton of problems, because witnesses have seen him selling drugs in Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore while he’s pretending to feed the pigeons.” The police have arrested him several times, but she couldn’t understand why they release him right away.

  Tuesday June 4, 10:57 P.M.

  The morbid relationship that Benedetta has established with the elevator raises a lot of questions. This morning she was very angry with Parviz. She complained for a long time, saying that the Albanian, as she calls him, “wrecks the elevator” in order to get her fired from her job, on the pretext that she’s old and can’t look after the tenants. I promised to speak to Parviz to try and resolve this problem. I hate the elevator because it reminds me of a tomb. I hate confined spaces, except this bathroom. It’s my nest. Today I read an article about the hoopoe in the magazine Focus; apparently it’s the only bird that takes care of its needs in its nest! There’s another bird as mysterious as the hoopoe. It’s the crow, which showed Cain how to get rid of the corpse of his brother Abel by digging a pit. It’s said that this was the first murder on earth, so the crow is the first expert on burial in history. I am a special sort of crow. My mission is to bury bloodstained memories.

  Friday September 6, 10:35 P.M.

  Our neighbor Elisabetta’s dog has vanished. Tonight Benedetta asked me insistently the names of the countries where people eat dog. I answered that I don’t know, then she surprised me with a strange question: “Does your friend the Albanian eat dogs and cats?” I swore that Parviz has never in his entire life touched dog or cat! This old lady has a disarming naïveté.

  Wednesday November 17, 11:27 P.M.

  Today Benedetta revealed a very sensitive secret to me. She said in a low voice, in order not to be heard by anyone else: “The disappearance of the dog Valentino isn’t accidental. He was kidnapped by the Chinese children who play in the gardens in Piazza Vittorio! They hunt for cats and dogs the way our children chase butterflies.” Then she advised me to avoid Chinese restaurants because their favorite dish is made with dog. I restrained myself from bursting into laughter, said goodbye in a hurry, and ran up the stairs. As soon as I opened the door I started laughing like a lunatic. And then I had a brilliant idea. I wondered what would happen if I knocked on Elisabetta Fabiani’s door and said to her: “I’ve just come back from the Chinese restaurant next door, and I had rice with some delicious meat; when I was leaving I asked the restaurant owner what kind of meat I’d eaten and he said, ‘It’s from a dog we found one morning near our restaurant, he was wearing a collar that had “Valentino” written on it.’” I haven’t laughed so much for a long time. Anyway, I hope little Valentino comes back soon, so I’ll be able to listen to him wailing at night.

  Saturday January 7, 11:48 P.M.

  Benedetta usually complains about everything: the tenants in the building, the government, the businesses in Piazza Vittorio, how bad the health service is, the high price of medicine, taxes, rain, the immigrants. But today she talked to me about her son Gennaro, who’s unemployed. She asked me to help her find him a job, repeating that when it comes to relatives, “familiarity breeds contempt,” and even, “Parenti serpenti”—relatives are like snakes. This proverb resembles the Arab “Relatives are like scorpions.” After talking about Gennaro, she began her usual complaint about the foreigners who make trouble in Piazza Vittorio and why don’t the police arrest criminals like Iqbal the Pakistani who sells drugs and runs a prostitution ring. What she doesn’t know or perhaps doesn’t want to hear is that Iqbal is Bangladeshi, not Pakistani, and that he’s not a d
rug pusher and has nothing to do with prostitution. Iqbal is a member of a cooperative made up of fifty Bangladeshis, and he doesn’t own either the van or the shop. I’ve never seen anyone work like him. He’s a human bee. I thought of telling Benedetta everything I know about Iqbal, then I thought twice: to what end? It’s really pointless to know the truth. The only consolation is this nighttime wailing. Auuuuuuuuu . . .

  Tuesday October 26, 10:53 P.M.

  This morning Benedetta told me, “Today they’re going to announce the final judgment on Giulio Andreotti. I don’t trust informers who accuse upstanding people like Andreotti just to muddy the waters.” She is waiting very anxiously for the verdict, she wants to know the truth about the relationship between the state and the Mafia. Tonight I finished reading The Day of the Owl by Leonardo Sciascia, which is considered one of the best novels ever written about the Mafia, and I stopped at this passage: “The truth is at the bottom of a well: look into a well and you see the sun or the moon; but throw yourself down and there is neither sun nor moon, there is the truth.”

  THE TRUTH ACCORDING

  TO IQBAL AMIR ALLAH

  Signor Amedeo is one of the few Italians who shop in my store. He’s an ideal customer: he pays cash—I’ve never written his name in my credit book. There’s a real difference between him and the rest of the customers, like the Bangladeshis, the Pakistanis, and the Indians, who pay at the end of the month. I’m well acquainted with their problems. A few can afford a fixed amount every month, while the rest live like the birds: they get their food day by day. There are a lot of Bangladeshis who sell garlic in the markets in the morning, flowers in the restaurants at night, and umbrellas on rainy days.