La Superba (29 page)

“Who is this?”

“Who is this? Who is this? I'll tell you who this is. You're talking to the person who is going to break both your legs, pull out your nails one by one, and then punch all of your teeth out before hanging you publicly on the square by your shriveled balls.”

“Sorry, I didn't recognize your voice. Hello, Pierluigi. How's it going?”

“It's not going, you dirty foreigner. Think you can come here to my country, my city, ruin my business with your cocky, northern, bulging potato head full of soggy noodles? You're the barbarians who plundered Rome and now you're coming here in person for a pathetic replay in my back garden. I've spent years building something out of crystal glass and you come along with your big, fat, soft, pale body and stamp on it with your clumsy feet. But I can tell you one thing—crystal glass is expensive, and I'll recover every last cent back from you to cover damages.”

“I thought we were friends, Pierluigi.”

“Right. So did I.”

“So?”

“Tomorrow at eleven at my father's office. And please realize this is your last chance to come up with a proposal that will convince us to delay our legal proceedings against you. And that final proposal has five zeros, I can assure you of that.”

“Where's your father's office?”

“Find out for yourself. You always know best.”

“That's not how it works, Pierluigi.”

“Piazza della Vittoria 68/24.”

“Look forward to it.”

“You shouldn't.”

29.

Walter and I were on time. Piazza della Vittoria 68 turned out to be a stately marble building once designed to impress that still fulfilled its function with verve. Next to the main entrance were copper plates with the names of lawyers, judges, and notaries, each one grander than the last. We were expected. We had an appointment. Number 24 housed Parodi's office on the fifth floor. At the end of the corridor on the left. Two lifts. The left one didn't always work. Better take the right.

Walter was visibly intimidated by our surroundings. His nonchalant thespian appearance clashed with the strict patrician marble. He felt uneasy in these palaces of power, probably because he was a director and accustomed to situations where he held the reins in shabby practice rooms in abandoned squats.

“The name's Parodi,” Pierluigi's father said. He was sitting at the head of a relatively modest oval table in a spacious, bright office at the front of the palazzo overlooking Piazza della Vittoria. Pierluigi was there, too, but he wasn't allowed to talk. His father was doing the talking.

“The name's important. Sit down please. My son Pierluigi here is an absolute idiot, of course. You don't need me to tell you that. That's why I arranged the theater for him, to keep him off the streets, and because he can do relatively little harm there. But he's a Parodi, too. Do you know what I mean? He might be a prick, but he's my prick. If you'll excuse my French, but I'm trying to make something clear to you.

“That is to say that as soon as you try to put a spoke in that retard's wheel, I am compelled to protect that mongoloid. He's my son. He bears my name. My name is my most important asset in this city. I'd defend my name to the last. I know that you're an intelligent man. And I know you've been in this city for long enough to understand me.

“You're from northern Europe, which is why you think in legal terms. You think that the contract I arranged for my son for that theater is a public matter. I'll have to admit you're right, in essence. And I'd also like to compliment you on the way you managed to get hold of the document. I honestly thought it was sufficiently protected. But clearly you have contacts I didn't take into account.

“All of this makes you a sizeable opponent. But an opponent. By showing that document to my son's partner, you've caused my son substantial financial damage. And you'll understand that I'm left with no option but to collect those damages from you in the Parodi name.

“You still look quite unmoved, sitting there at my table. I know what you're thinking. You believe in Europe and in the idea that Italy is a democratic constitutional state and the fantasy that Genoa is part of Italy. You believe in your democratic rights and in the protection of law. Part of me would like nothing more than for you to be right.

“When you came in, did you see the copper nameplates of all the people with offices in this palazzo? Do you have any idea of my network? You might stand a chance in Strasbourg, Brussels, or at the international court in The Hague—if you had enough money for substantive proceedings against our legal team. But in Genoa you don't stand the slightest chance. Not against me. I seldom lose cases, and I've never lost a case when my good name was at stake.”

“What do you want from us?” I asked.

“Two forty.”

“We'd already reached two twenty with your son.”

“My son's an idiot and I've already initiated proceedings to impound all of your possessions.”

“Why should I be afraid of you, Mr. Parodi?”

“I don't want to insult you. You're undoubtedly a respected person in your home country. You're a writer, aren't you? A poet even, look at that. Has your poetry been translated into Italian? I'd like to peruse some of your verses sometime, when I have nothing better to do. No? There you go, we're back to that. It's exactly what I'm trying to make clear to you. You are in Genoa, where my friends and friends of my friends have been calling the shots for centuries, and although I'd like to compliment you once
again on the way you attempted to adopt our way of thinking, you will always remain an outsider to us. Worse still, a foreigner. We can tolerate your presence in our city up to a certain degree, and even welcome it as long as you stick to your own business. But as soon as you start stepping into our territory, you're worth little more than your average Moroccan or Senegalese fellow—an irritating but relatively minor problem we can easily rid the world of—we have plenty of experience in that.

“That leaves me to thank you for a fruitful discussion. If you'll allow me to summarize the conclusion we have mutually reached, I'll look forward to your transfer of two hundred and forty thousand euros within, let's say, a fortnight. Is that reasonable enough for you? And if you fail to fulfill the obligation, which naturally seems highly unlikely to me, I will, in accordance with our mutual understanding, be charging you for breaches you never even dreamed existed.”

30.

Although I understood that the situation was worse than I'd thought, I wasn't worried. I had my magical contact after all. Harry Potter himself was on my side. I called him immediately. He didn't pick up. The next day I tried again and a few more times the day after.

The day after, I bumped into him by chance on Via Canneto Il Lungo. He was walking his dog and tried to ignore me. I invited him for a coffee. He couldn't refuse.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are we friends or not?”

He stared ahead, silently.

“Alright, I get you, Alfonso. We're quits. You don't owe me anything. But I need your advice again.”

“On the Parodi matter?”

“Have you already heard about it?”

“Of course.”

“And what do you think?”

He shrugged and looked away.

“But can you help me, Alfonso?”

“Do you know what, Leonardo? You screwed up.”

“I know, Alfonso. That's exactly why I sought out your illustrious presence, if you'll forgive me the expression.”

He didn't smile.

“I'm a foreigner, after all.”

He still didn't smile.

“I'll make you an offer, Alfonso, by way of a return service for the favor I'm asking you now. Parodi threatened me, but together we are stronger than he. Listen, Alfonso. I'm offering you a partnership.”

“What does that mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean, Alfonso. We'll figure something out. We'll get rich, you and me, with Walter. But first you have to help me neutralize this old family. You and all your contacts, Alfonso. Are you listening?”

Alfonso wasn't listening.

“Show me your hand, Alfonso.”

“Funny joke.”

“What's the matter? Tell me, please.”

“You made a mistake, Leonardo, a big mistake.”

“I know. But I've already admitted it. I never should have shown that contract to Il Varese. But I've learned my lesson.”

“That's not the problem.”

“What is then?”

“You're a foreigner, Leonardo. You don't understand where the power lies.”

“I'll admit to that, too. But that's why I'm talking to you. I want to learn. Tell me what you think.”

He stared at me thoughtfully. His dog started barking at another dog going by. He had to get up to calm the situation. After that he sat down again.

“Do you remember what I told you during our last conversation about the root of my own power?”

“The Freemasons?”

“She's the second highest in the organization, after me.”

“Who?”

“She's exceptionally well-connected. She's the personal advisor and a friend of the mayor. The mayor doesn't do anything without consulting with her first.”

“Who are you talking about, Alfonso?”

“And you insulted her. She's a personal friend of mine. I still owe her a few favors. And you insulted her to the core. You emptied a bucket of ice over her head quite publicly.”

I had to laugh at the recollection.

“Don't laugh, Leonardo. You've made an enemy of one of the
most powerful women in Genoa. And you've made an enemy of one of my most faithful political allies and one of my very dearest friends. I can no longer help you. More than that, you are now my enemy. This isn't Amsterdam or Berlin. This is Genoa. Good luck living the dream.”

31.

I met up with Walter in La Lepre for a crisis meeting. His triumphant optimism had evaporated. He was afraid. He loved Genoa like I did but could no longer see a future for himself in the city. The only thing he could see were damage claims.

“But don't leave me here on my own, Walter. The fight has only just begun.”

“I'll never leave you alone,” he said. But his eyes told a different story.

“One day we'll conquer this city. The city needs us.”

“Do you have your credit card on you, Ilja?”

“Yes, why?”

“Maybe we can go to the Piazza delle Erbe. You can have another drink on the terrace and I'll pop into the Internet café for a sec. I'll pay you back, don't worry.”

After half an hour he came back out. He gave me back my credit card.

“I owe you eighty euros.”

“Come and sit down. We'll have another drink and chat some more.”

“I don't have time right now. I'll see you later.”

“What did you actually do in the Internet café?”

“I had to book something.” He kissed me on the cheek. “See you soon.” It looked like he had tears in his eyes.

That evening he sent me a text message. “Pisa. Airport. Sorry.” And the next day another from a foreign number. “Good luck living the dream. Genoa will always be in my heart.”

SECOND INTERMEZZO

Fatou Yo

1.

I met Djiby the first time in Via di Pré, where else? In the daytime, it is possibly Genoa's most beautiful street. “Daytime” is a rather vague word that I only use as a contrast to the night. Via di Pré is at its prettiest in the early evening on a summer's day, when balmy twilight descends on the dark alleyway. This is the hour when everyone has just woken up from their siesta and goes to have a look on the street corner, yawning, at how others are getting on with their work. And others are getting on with their work. Halal butchers work with a great racket under the arches. Next door, loud squabbling as the Afro hair of hurricane-proof black women is straightened—women who gossip in Africa's great multitude of languages about the people who had their hair straightened the day before, joking about how fat the asses in question were and how lazy their husbands. Fruit swells in the shops. Here, just about everything is for sale for nearly nothing. This is Africa.

Women in large, flapping, traditional robes sit on the street selling paper handkerchiefs and toothpicks. But they aren't selling paper handkerchiefs and toothpicks—they are voodoo witches with the power, for the right price, to make a rival impotent or
cause an unfaithful mistress to lose a leg. There are white witches and black witches—those who help and those who cause damage, but the difference is invisible to a northerner. They have another function apart from that. They usually sit in front of the door of the palazzo they live in, and for good reason. They are keeping watch. They share their houses with family members, sons and nephews, who deal drugs and get up to all kinds of other shady business, so it's important to keep an eye on who is going into the building. And they're all rolling in it. All you need is for one badly fitted stove gas bottle to explode and the witch's quivering coven turns up in a Mercedes to deliver her to safety, her suitcases filled with gold on the back seat.

At night, when the butchers, hairdressers, and fruit merchants have let down their shutters and closed them with at least four padlocks, the Via di Pré becomes a warzone. Footsteps echo hollowly as you walk between the trenches, sounding just as suspicious to everybody else. The Senegalese are at war with the Moroccans, the South Americans with the Senegalese and the Moroccans, and the Moroccans with everyone. They use stones and bottles as ammunition. Sometimes they use ammunition as ammunition. There are sometimes fatalities, though you seldom read about them in the papers since the victims are illegals, and so officially don't exist, and to prevent further problems, are whisked away as quickly as possible by their fellow countrymen. The police are of no help. They settle scores in their own way.

The only thing protecting you from being hit in the crossfire is your white skin. You're irrelevant in the war between immigrants. To them, you're just a stupid, weak, white outsider who doesn't
understand a thing. The gang members allow you, quietly and ignorantly, to trudge through a no-man's-land armed in ways you have no knowledge of. But there are pickpockets in no-man'sland and they set their sights on your unsteady walk, your mobile phone, and the five euros you have left in your trouser pocket. The police are not players here. They avoid Via di Pré after sunset because it's simply too dangerous.

2.

Cinzia lives there, just by the Commenda, on the top floor of a palazzo that's been dilapidated since the Middle Ages. The stairs are so worn you could cook soup in them. She no longer has any neighbors, not really. She does have cracks in the wall from a gas bottle that exploded in the adjacent building. But she has the prettiest terrace in Genoa. You can see everything from her roof: the despairing labyrinth, the badly planned motorway, the lighthouse, and the port. The view of the port is magical. Slowly drifting skyscrapers like the MSC
Fantasia
and the MSC
Poesia
greet the city with three low hoots of their horns, while ferries leave for Sardinia, Sicily, Barcelona, and Africa. All of the boats together form a poignantly slow ballet of dreams of other places where it will be just as bad as it is here, but at least it won't be here.

I was sitting with Cinzia on her terrace, thinking all these things, when he came in, carrying something heavy. He smiled happily. White teeth shone in his black face.

“Hey, Djiby,” Cinzia said. “What's today's gift?”

“I know exactly what it is,” he said. “Something heavy.” He
found that terribly funny. “You know that's my job—carrying heavy loads. Francesco has someone else for light loads. But he earns even less than me.” He set down his large bag in a corner of the terrace, giggling.

She introduced him to me. “Leonardo's a foreigner as well, like you.”

“He might be a foreigner but he's not like me. He doesn't have to carry heavy loads. He's allowed things I'm not allowed because his ears are translucent and his teeth are blacker than his face.” Grinning, he said goodbye. He began to sing on his way down the stairs. It sounded like “
Fatou yo
.” It sounded melancholy. The sound died away as he descended to street level.

“He has keys to your house?”

Cinzia shrugged. “He's a good boy. He's one of Francesco's, my landlord's, slaves.”

“Do you rent?”

“He's the owner of the entire palazzo. And I've heard he has dozens of buildings, mainly here in Via di Pré.”

“So he mainly rents them to Senegalese?”

“But he's a good person. I think he has political ambitions, too, so he can't allow himself to get a bad name as yet another slumlord exploiting illegal immigrants. And he loves Via di Pré. He wants more white people here and is really doing his best about that. That's how I got this apartment.”

“So that his buildings will be worth more. If this weren't such a black neighborhood.”

“But at least he's doing something about it. The thing he had Djiby bring over is a sack of cement to repair the cracks in the
wall made by the gas explosion. Many of them here on the terrace. See that crack there? Other landlords put fifteen Senegalese in an apartment and let the lot rot away.”

“And your friend Djiby, where does he live then?”

“I can see what you're getting at, Leonardo, but it's complicated.”

3.

I saw Djiby often in the days that followed, and in my neighborhood, Molo, too—a long way from Africa. Sometimes in the early mornings, Oscar had him put out the Gradisca's tables, chairs, and umbrellas. After that he went to the fruit shops and fishmongers on Via Canneto Il Lungo to deliver heavy boxes or take empty ones to the trash. He rang on various bells to assist the helpless old ladies without a lift that he worked for, carrying bottles of water and other heavy things upstairs. I'd probably seen him before, before we'd been introduced to each other, but he hadn't stood out. Now that I knew him, I always greeted him amicably. He chuckled as he greeted me back.

And then when I saw him once in the evening with some bracelets and other trinkets he was trying to sell, I invited him to join me at my table.

“What will you have? Are you a Muslim?”

“A beer's good.”

“Small or large?”

“Depends on how much you've got to tell me.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something. You're doing the telling.”

“In that case, a
very
large beer.”

The beer was brought. We clinked glasses. He began to laugh.

“Why are you laughing, Djiby?”

“At you, Leonardo. Because you're funny. Because you have such a funny name.”

“Djiby's an even funnier name.”

“Like Leonardo DiCaprio with his arms outstretched and then blub, blub, blub.”

“Actually my real name's Ilja.”

He found that hilarious. “That's a girl's name.” He roared with laughter. “Would you like to be a girl, Ilja? Can I be the first one to fuck you if you do?”

“I wanted to ask you a serious question, Djiby.”

This made him laugh even more. “Blub, blub,” he said. He downed his beer in one. “I'll be serious again tomorrow.”

“Serious?”

He slapped my shoulder. “I like you, girly Leonardo.”

4.

His full name was Djiby P. Souley. I asked him what the P. stood for. Laughing, he said he didn't know. He'd thought of the P. himself because he wanted to have three initials: DPS, it looked chic, for later, when he was a rich, successful businessman.

“Is that what you want to be, a rich, successful businessman?”

“I am that already to my family back home in Senegal. It might be the biggest joke of the century.”

“Did you tell them you were?”

“No, but they know I'm in Europe and everyone in Europe
gets rich and successful without trying. Every African knows that.”

“But they know better by now?”

“Well, no, they don't. Not really. Do you know what they told me about Europe? Back home in Senegal, before I went away? They said that Europe is a fortress. That its borders are so well guarded it's almost impossible to get in. But that's understandable because everyone inside can get free money. You can go to a counter and they arrange a wage for you that you can come and collect each month without having to do anything for it. Everyone in Europe wears expensive designer suits and gold watches, which they check the whole time because everything in Europe happens punctually. They sell sunglasses there that cost more than a month's salary in Dakar, but everyone wears them, even though no one really needs them because there's less sun than in Africa. Everyone can easily afford them. And if you want to, you can work as well. And then you become a millionaire. And the jobs are just there for the taking, and in Europe there aren't any really exhausting physical jobs, like farming or working in a factory. Robots do that kind of work. All the people work in banks where they look after the money the robots earn for them. All you have to do is sit at an office desk in a suit and do nothing but stare at a computer screen that says how much money is flowing in. The banks also give free debit cards to anyone who wants them and you can use them to get money from a wall if you need it. At home, too, all the work is done by computers and machines. Nobody has to do the laundry, or clean, or cook. There are appliances for that. That's why the people have plenty of time to go and watch football matches on televisions as big as cinema screens. And everyone drives lovely
big cars, like Mercedes or Jaguars, and most people buy a new one as soon as the ashtray is full. The buildings are made of silver and glass. They've invented a special kind of glass that's made of silver and reflects light like a mirror. They cover palaces as high as mountains with it. And there is so much gold that some people put it in their teeth, not even for decoration, because nobody sees it, but simply because they can. And there's always as much food as you can eat because they've developed scientific techniques that can make tomatoes as big as apples and apples as big as melons, and the cows are even fatter than hippos. Europeans don't only eat meat on public holidays, but every day, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They have so much water they shower every day. And they shower with perfume as well. Beer doesn't come in bottles but out of a tap like water. Anyone who gets ill can go to a laboratory for free, where they cure them. They can do everything there. They can even give you new body parts if you need them. And you can have as much sex as you want because all European men have tiny dicks and their women long for a real one. And you don't even have to marry them because they're emancipated, which means it's only about the sex.”

“You're exaggerating, Djiby.”

“I know by now that the reality is a bit different.” He laughed. “But these are the kinds of stories going around in Africa. And if you hear them often enough, while day in day out you have just enough francs in your pocket to buy some bread, sooner or later you get the idea of maybe making the trip. And if you don't come up with that plan yourself, there are family members or friends who suggest it and as a small favor in return for their suggestion,
they ask only that you don't forget them once you've settled in the Promised Land. In Africa, it's considered a scandal for a young man to be poor and there are a lot of friends and family members who'll remind you of that.”

“I'd love to hear the story of your travels.”

“I knew it. Are you going to write it down in your book?”

“Does it bother you?”

“On the contrary. I've always wanted to be a character in a novel. And if I can't be rich and successful, at least I might become famous in that way. It's something at least. Will you make sure you spell my name correctly? Djiby P. Souley. The P. in particular is very important.”

“I understood that.”

“But seriously, I think it's important that my story be told to the people in the north. It's the story of my people. I'll tell it to you.” A broad grin appeared on his face. “On the condition you pay for my beer. And I'll need a lot of beer because it's a long, thirst-inducing story since it mainly takes place in the desert and onboard ships under a scorching sun.”

5.

“I was the chosen one. My two younger brothers might be physically stronger, although everyone thought that only because they themselves kept saying it the whole time. But I'm cleverer, and even they couldn't deny that. I'm good at languages. I probably inherited that from my mother. My Italian's already quite good, isn't it?” He laughed. “Don't say yes or no. But languages are important for
a trip like that. Maybe even the most important thing. Because you have to negotiate stuff the whole time. But I didn't know that at the time. Muscles are important for a black man once you're in Europe so you can earn a few euros carrying heavy things, but you need a set of totally different skills to get into Europe. You need to know which way the wind blows on your third day. To do this, you have to speak the tongues that cool the desert and part the waves.