La Superba (21 page)

But later, too, when the Genoese were less inclined to leave and when the emigrants from other parts of Italy arrived, their story remained linked to this city. Almost two thirds of all Italian emigrants set sail from Genoa for the journey of their lives, the passage from poverty to the promise of a new and better existence. Each day, thousands of desperate people waited on the quaysides at this city's port for a chance to board one of the large ocean steamers that were called passenger ships but more closely resembled freight ships with human cargo. The stench and the sanitary conditions in third class were notorious. Concerned physicians wrote alarming articles about it at the time. Passengers contracted terrible illnesses during the weeks-long crossing. Many didn't survive it.

And for all those thousands on the quays, it was the ultimate dream to gain access to this hell in the belief that the hellish journey would culminate in the paradise called La Merica. They stood, sat, and lay down here to wait, sometimes for days on end. Farmers, artisans, beggars, rogues. Their few paltry belongings with them. They spent the nights on their duffel bags or simply on the ground among the rats. Some of them could afford a place in one of the long, underground dormitories or in an attic without light or fresh air. They were hungry. They'd been hungry all their lives anyway, but here at the Port of Genoa the prices for even the
simplest foods reached astronomical heights due to the enormous demand. The Genoese are good but they are not crazy. If you have that many hungry, poor wretches lying on your streets, of course you're going to ask a pretty price for your bread. You have to feed yourself at the end of the day.
A Zena a prende ma a non rende
, as the old saying goes. Genoa takes and gives nothing for free.

They arrived in the new world, destitute and broken, where they had to fight for their lives afresh against the gangsters, Mafiosi, slumlords, brothel keepers, high and lowlifes who were waiting to take advantage of them again with a big smile on their lips. The official website of the research institute for Italian emigration to both Americas emphasizes that the Italian emigrant was characterized by pride in his fatherland and an unwavering belief in human progress based on work and a strong awareness of civilian virtues and religious piety. It's actually there in black and white. This is comparable with the things I've sometimes heard right-wing Italian politicians say: the Italian emigrants went in order to work, while the African rabble flooding Europe have only come to steal. And then to think that the research institute is financed by the province, which since time immemorial has been in left-wing hands, you can just imagine.

I feel more and more like spending time in the archives excavating letters and diaries that reveal how things actually were, which not one Italian institute would dare put on its website. I don't know if it's going to result in a new play, like Walter wants, but perhaps it might, who knows, why not? In any case the material could be useful when I rework these notes I'm regularly sending you into a novel in which immigration and emigration need to be the major themes.

7.

Yet Walter's proposition kept bugging me. I mean, of course it was too ridiculous for words. As an ambition, it was a long way from anything I'd ever envisioned for myself and was, in practical terms, completely unrealistic. Where was I supposed to find the money to buy a theater? My financial situation in general wasn't rosy and at the moment it might even be called dire. And Walter didn't have any hidden reserves, either; I didn't even have to ask him to be very certain of that. I'd paid for his beer in Zaccharia.

But Walter was a professional optimist and he told me not to look at it all that way. Money wasn't the problem. We'd find a solution for that. “It's a rare opportunity, Ilja. Have you seen how that theater's outfitted? I've worked in big theaters in Germany, England, and Spain that had less than half the resources. You have to imagine all the things we could do there, you and me, with our different backgrounds and talents. We'd quickly become the most talked about theater in Genoa—we'd make sure of that, right?” He slapped my shoulder with a broad grin.

“And yet we can't completely ignore the question of the money, Walter.”

“No, of course not. But you don't understand a thing. We'll actually make money from it. I figured that all out long ago. Otherwise I never would have gotten you involved. It's a goldmine. Just think. Open seven days a week, and everything's possible: not just plays, but music, cabaret, jazz, cinema, you name it. And at the end of the night, away with the chairs and the stage and BOOM—dance parties with the best DJs! And all that time the
restaurant will stay open. Not to mention the bar. Ha! We'll cover the acquisition costs one way or another. If necessary we'll borrow. It's only a temporary investment. We'll have it paid back within half a year. And then we'll be talking. We're going to be rich, Ilja, you and me, in this fantastic place, with our talents.”

“Or we'll find someone to invest on our behalf.”

“Or we'll find someone. Exactly. We just need to put together a good business plan. Anyone with a bit of sense in their heads will see immediately that with the right artistic management, this could be a gigantic success. So you're in? Let's agree on this. Let's in any case go and talk to the owners and see what they are actually asking for it. Then we'll see. Alright? I have to go now. Can you pay for my beer? I'll talk to you later.”

I had my doubts about the guaranteed riches that would rain down on us as soon as we had the keys to the joint, but I had to admit that I didn't entirely disagree with Walter. There was potential for a successful commercial operation. I could see that. It would be hard work, certainly at the beginning. But as soon as we'd built up a name, we'd grow automatically as long as we continued to deliver quality. I could use my connections back home. I counted among my friends some of the most excellent actors, musicians, and composers in Europe. I'd worked with them. That would be possible here too. They'd be happy to come to Genoa. And Walter had a wealth of international contacts. We'd be able to exploit that fact and our international orientation would make us stand out from the other theaters in the city.

I had to admit that the idea of having a source of income here in my new fatherland, especially over the long term, wasn't
unattractive, certainly in light of my precarious financial situation. And there was another matter. Working here would mean putting down roots. Instead of just staying here, living off pen, paper, and my imagination, which in principle would be possible in any other place in the world, I'd have a role and a mission that were directly connected to this city. The idea pleased me. I was also receptive to the thought of being able to give something back to the city that I had so much to thank for. Of meaning something to the one who meant so much to me. And apart from that, there was another thought that I tried to suppress but that kept raising its head—I'd be a theater director. The idea alone appealed to my vanity. They'd be impressed by that back home. And all those failed thesps in Zaccharia would finally take me seriously.

Later that day I ran into Cinzia. We had an aperitif in the Bar of Mirrors. I asked her whether she knew the theater. She shook her head. There you go, I thought, the current owners are charlatans. People don't even know the theater exists. We'd be sure to be much better at that. I described the place at length and told Cinzia about our plans. She listened attentively. I also said that all of this information was highly confidential, obviously; I don't know why, but it sounded kind of professional. She nodded. She wouldn't say a single word to anybody.

“The only thing that worries me is the investment. I'm hesitant to get into debt for this.”

“What you need,” Cinzia said, “is a rich mistress.”

I found that hilarious. But she wasn't laughing.

8.

The theater was closed. We rang the bell. No answer. We looked through the window. It was dark inside. Our appointment was at three, wasn't it? It was already a quarter past. We rang again. Nobody. The door was padlocked on the outside, so there was no way there was anyone inside. We waited. In the meantime, Walter tried to telephone to confirm that our appointment was at three o'clock. No one picked up. We decided to wait a bit longer. And just as we were about to give up and leave, he showed up. It was almost four.

“Where did you get to? I was inside. I've been waiting for you for an hour. Did you ring the bell? Then I didn't hear it. No, and my telephone doesn't have any signal inside. I was just about to leave in fact. But fine. I'm glad I finally found you.”

“But how did you get in?” Walter asked. “The door's padlocked. When we saw that, we stopped ringing the bell.”

“That's why? But I went in through the back entrance.”

“There's a back entrance? I had no idea. Can we see it?”

“Another time. Come.”

His name was Pierluigi Parodi. He was one of the two owners, and rather young for a theater director—somewhere in his late twenties, I guessed. He was a textbook case of what they call a
fighetto
in Italian—someone who acts the handsome young man and is the first to believe he's a handsome young man. He had clearly spent much of his life in front of the bathroom window. Blow-drying such a studiously nonchalant coiffure and trimming that ostensibly unkempt goatee would take hours. He wore
expensive designer clothes and box-fresh sneakers, and naturally he had Ray Bans perched on top of his head. He was a poor little rich kid and went to no trouble to hide it. His manner of speech and his gestures also betrayed the mentality of a person who considered himself privileged and superior because everything always landed on his lap. He was terribly smug.

“Shall we sit down outside here? It's hot.”

“It's cooler inside,” Pierluigi said. “And we don't want the neighbors eavesdropping. You're too trusting, you foreigners. Lesson one in doing business in Italy—what you don't know doesn't hurt you. The fewer ears that hear, the fewer eyes that see, the more chance of earning money. So. Now you know that. Nothing is free, but Pierluigi is giving you this important lesson for absolutely nothing.” He laughed.

We went upstairs to the bar. He turned on the coffee machine and made three espressos. He placed a large heavy marble ashtray on the table, got a wooden box out from behind the bar, and offered us cigars. He took one himself, sat down at the head of the table, leaned back, and looked at us with a smile.

“It's actually very straightforward,” he said. “The asking price is two forty. Half of that can be paid in installments—we'd have to figure out interest, of course. But that's a simple sum. And then we'd have to talk about the takeover costs for the furnishings and fittings: the lights, the sound system, furniture, restaurant crockery and cutlery, kitchen equipment, coffee machine, ice machine, terrace heating, that kind of thing. We'd have to make an inventory of all that, at the end, then you'd decide what you wanted to take and you'd make an offer. We can come to an arrangement. Well?”

“Two forty?”

“Two hundred and forty thousand euros. I can't go any lower than that, I'm sorry. That's an absolute rock-bottom price. Just think. Do you know what an apartment around here costs? You don't know because you're foreigners. But I'll tell you because I'm honest. You'll pay three times that for just a hole in the wall. And what we have here is a blooming, profitable theater with catering facilities. Don't ask me to lower the price. We're friends. Don't embarrass me.”

“Why do you want to sell it, Pierluigi?”

“I'm sitting pretty, here. I don't want to sell it at all. I mean, I'm not in a hurry. It's a personal favor. I like you two. I trust you. You want a theater, and I happen to have one. In any case, I wanted to venture out and expand my business. Import and export. I have an extensive network abroad. Do you know that the greater part of what Italy produces goes abroad? You didn't know because you're not Italians. But those are the facts. And you have to know the facts in Italy if you want to do business.”

The situation seemed clear to me. As Pierluigi had correctly stated, it was all about the facts. And the most important fact was that I didn't see a single way that I could cough up the asking price, not even in installments, and let's not even mention the additional costs. The adventure ended there as far as I was concerned. But because we hadn't finished the cigars, I decided to ask something else, out of curiosity. “Pierlugi,” I began, “could you perhaps give us an indication of the monthly costs?”

He made a dismissive gesture. “That's a stupid question,” he said. “Electricity is the only expense. Because of the lights. But that's up to you. I've always been able to keep it to a minimum. I mean,
a bit less light in a play only makes it more atmospheric. I can show you the bills. Gas and water are normal. And apart from that the rent is extremely low.”

“The council rent?”

“Less than seven hundred a month. A pittance. That's their form of cultural subsidy.”

“But why should you pay rent on a building you own?”

“You're foreigners. But let me explain. That's the way it works in Italy. There's a nine-year license. But you don't have to worry about that, it'll be extended automatically.”

“But the building is officially owned by the council?”

“That's not the way you should look at it.”

“How then?”

“Two twenty. I can't go any lower than that.”

9.

We held a crisis meeting in La Lepre, a hip, successful bar just a stone's throw from the theater. The bar was named after the minuscule square in front of it where there was enough room for an intimate terrace. It is one of the best-hidden oases in one of the darkest parts of the labyrinth, between the church of Santa Maria delle Vigne and Via della Maddalena. Not long after I'd arrived in Genoa, I happened upon it one evening. Although I'd actively tried to find the square, I couldn't find it again for a month, when I chanced upon it for a second time.