La Superba (40 page)

She slammed the iron door behind her with a loud bang. I was alone at last. Although I was always alone, it felt like a long-awaited liberation. I turned my back to the door, the city, and her and tried to sleep, not only because I was tired but because I didn't feel like existing. I didn't feel like the passing of time. I wanted to cheat. I wanted to skip a stretch of time. Preferably a large stretch. A day or so. In any case, until Inge had safely and, as far as I was concerned, definitively left the city. Perhaps just to be sure I should factor in a safety margin of an extra day.

Hibernation. I muttered the word as a silent prayer. My lips tasted it like the first word, the
logos
from the beginning. Before the beginning even. That timeless, blissful state the universe was
in before it had to go and begin. Everything was perfect until someone rolled over onto their other side and, because he took the covers with him, accidentally awakened a divinity. That was the start of all that crap with time and specific arrival times that had to be texted. That was the start of the misery of consciousness and the consciousness of misery. That was the start of fantasies about belief, hope, and love. That was the start of the fantasy of a better life elsewhere, because it could hardly be worse anywhere else than it was here.
Utinam ne in nemore
. If only that first tree had never been felled in the holy forest before being deprived of its bark and hollowed out as a vessel to sail to another, better place. All our unhappiness springs from that. But you can't blame us for any of it, because staying put isn't an option, either. We can't remain safely at mama's side because we've been cursed with curiosity and longings. It would have been better off for all concerned if they'd just left us to have a nice sleep. What's wrong with sleep? According to statistical analysis, the majority of crimes committed in the world are perpetrated by people who were awake, while the contribution of sleepers to the crime figures is negligible. And is the person sleeping unhappy? What kind of longings, failings, complications, or insurance claims from lawyers does he experience in his sleep? Does the sleeper long to awaken so that he can toil away in the frustrated wakeful world among others who are also complaining about having been awoken by such shrill sounds?

The divine being who set off the alarm clock should be immediately arrested and tried at the International Criminal Court. He should be accused of serious crimes against humanity, on behalf of humanity. We have numerous millennia of irrefutable witnesses.
He will be given a fair trial, but there's no other imaginable outcome than that he'll be given the heaviest sentence. And on that day, delirious crowds will gather on the world's squares and jubilantly burn their alarm clocks.

29.

I was awoken by her text message. She was in the Bar of Mirrors. I ached all over. I didn't want to see her again. I wanted to float away in my black gondola along the black river of the black winter.

But I was a knight, too. My suit of armor shone in the corner of the room. I'd sworn an oath of allegiance, though I couldn't remember to whom or what it involved. But I realized it was my duty to be a good man. I rose creaking from my creaking bed. I splashed my face clean with the little bit of firewater I had left, did up the buckles on my armor, and clattered downstairs.

She was inside the porcelain grotto. I saw her from a distance through the window. I faltered. She sat there so enormous and self-assured that I became embarrassed I was on my way to her, that she was a so-called friend, and that I would have to sit down at her table. She'd seen me, she waved.

She was drinking Prosecco. “Ciao!” she said, much too loudly. I whisperingly ordered myself a Prosecco, too. There she was then. She sat there striking a false note. With everything. With the fragile, elegant people in the bar and with the bar itself, this sacred place where I'd met the most beautiful girl in Genoa and I'd kissed her in the little cubbyhole where they make the
stuzzichini
. The blonde colossus wouldn't even fit in there. And she had no idea.
That's what bothered me the most. She thought it was good to be herself, and she hadn't the faintest inkling of the politely restrained, quivering discomfort around her or my suppressed embarrassment. There she sat, inconsiderate, legs spread, in one of the most sacred places on earth without even wondering where she was.

Some people don't belong in some places. That's what they say here about the Moroccans and the Senegalese, I know. But in this case, I can say it, can't I? If I want to deny a big blonde woman from my very own fatherland access to my new, old, fragile city because she doesn't understand how old and fragile it is and she doesn't understand how gentle, slender, and petite she has to be to be allowed to stay here, that doesn't make me a racist, does it?

I took her to the nearest taxi stand, gave her a peck on the cheek, and said, “See you soon.” I was lying. As far as I was concerned it was a lie. When I went back to the Bar of Mirrors I noticed a large crack in the porcelain-tiled ceiling.

30.

Dear friend, I have good news and bad news. I'll start with the good news. No, naturally, I should start by thanking you first. The amount you sent me didn't leave much room for maneuver, but after asking around among friends and with a good bit of negotiating, it turned out to be enough to get us represented by a respectable lawyer. Her name is Stefania Volpedo. She's young and doesn't have that much experience, but she works at a reputable office. To be honest, this is her first case. But she was ready to take it on, she assured me. I think it makes her even more motivated
to prove herself. And a more experienced lawyer is simply too expensive for us. Essentially this is a simple case. We don't need a chic hotshot to be able to win it. Stefania made this point several times herself. She described Parodi's claim as ridiculous, grotesque, and without a hope in hell of succeeding. Exactly like I told you. She said that the judge would probably rule it as inadmissible at the preliminary sitting. In any case, that's what she'd be aiming for with her plea. In fact, she was amazed that the great Antonio Bentivoglio had even made himself available for such a hopeless case. She was also honored that her first court appearance was going to be against such a renowned criminal lawyer and she was looking forward to inflicting on him one of his rare defeats. It would help her career enormously. It would be a dream start. She thanked me for finding her. She almost kissed me.

The hearing was today. I didn't have to be there myself, she assured me. It was in fact little more than a pro forma sitting. I wouldn't be asked to do anything. She would represent us and ensure it didn't get any further than this one sitting. It has just finished. I just spoke to her. Naturally you're the first one I'm telling the news to, pronto.

The good news is that we won. The judge ruled in our favor on all the points. The strategy of Stefania Volpedo, Attorney at Law, J.D., worked perfectly. The claim was ruled inadmissible. The great Antonio Bentivoglio hadn't even prepared a rebuttal. He waived his right to plead his own case. He simply smiled. It was almost too easy, Stefania said. It was too easy.

Just before the sitting was adjourned, he spoke. For two seconds. He announced that he would be appealing against this ruling on behalf of his client.

I asked her what it meant. She is convinced that any court of appeal would endorse the verdict. The Parodis can litigate their way to the Supreme Court or the European Court with their star lawyer if they want, but this first judge's line of reasoning will be adopted everywhere. Stefania is completely sure of this. And I believe her. We will win.

I asked her whether it meant that the Parodis will have to pay the litigation costs. So here comes the bad news. Stefania explained to me that if the case goes to appeal there's no definitive ruling. And without a definitive ruling, there's no winner or loser. And without a winner and a loser, there's no certainty about who is going to be responsible for the costs. We'll definitely win, but we haven't won yet. I asked her how long it might take in her professional opinion. She reflected. “A week or two?” I asked. “Three weeks, perhaps?”

She looked uncomfortable. “Maybe a bit longer,” she said.

“How much longer?”

“You have to understand that Italy is a constitutional state. Lawsuits take time.”

“How much time? A month?”

“About seven years.”

“Seven years?”

“If we don't have to go to the Supreme Court. We'll leave the European Court aside. But don't worry. We'll definitely win.”

“And how much will that cost?”

“I'll charge the same hourly rate to the bitter end, I promise you. I'm grateful to you for giving me this case. I owe you one.”

31.

In October of the year 1347, twelve merchant ships sailed into Messina harbor in Sicily bearing the white flag with the red cross. They were part of the Genoese fleet that regularly used this harbor. But the spectators ashore soon noticed that this was no routine visit. The ships were behaving oddly. They were sailing more slowly than usual. The oars were moving irregularly. Some of them weren't being used at all, and because the number of oars being used on port and starboard wasn't the same, some of the ships continuously seemed to be drifting off course. They were swerving dangerously to one side until the helmsman compensated with the rudder. They swayed into the harbor like twelve drunkards. A few times they only just managed not to crash into each other. The Sicilians grew suspicious. Genoa had the best fleet in the Mediterranean. The discipline of the Genoese crew was legendary. Something very strange was going on. To be on the safe side, they drafted in halberdiers to wait for the ships and their crews on the quayside.

When the ships had finally managed to dock and the Sicilian soldiers boarded them to find out what was going on, they found a situation much worse than their grave suspicions. Most of the crew were critically ill. They had black lumps in their armpits and groins, some as big as an egg, some even as big as an apple. Blood and pus seeped from them. The stench was unbearable. Many of them had black spots on their skin. They had a fever and were suffering terribly. Several dozen seamen had already died. They hung lifelessly over their oars.

They came from Caffa, one of the captains said, coughing up blood. It was one of the most important trading posts for the Genoese. The city was in the Crimea, on the Black Sea, and was the end station of the Silk Road. A few months previously the city had been besieged by Kipchaks, Tatar soldiers from the Golden Horde's Khanate. At a certain point, they'd begun to catapult the dead bodies of their own men over the city wall. They had died of a horrible sickness. They were covered in lumps and black spots. It didn't take long for the inhabitants of Caffa to begin to show the same symptoms. The illness spread rapidly; within a few days half of the city was sick. Most of the people who were infected were dead within five days. There was hardly any time to burn the bodies. There were rumors of doctors who became infected visiting a patient and died first. People going to bed healthy could be dead the next morning from the boils and bruises. When the first soldiers in the Genoese garrison died, they fled with these twelve ships.

The Sicilians disembarked the survivors and put them in quarantine. The doctors could do little more than provide them with brandy, willow bark, dried myrtle leaves, and other painkillers. Within a few days, they'd all died. They burned the bodies and disinfected the ships with sulfur and smoldering sage branches. They'd have preferred to sink them but messengers from the north had already announced that the Genoese wanted their ships back. And Genoa was a powerful ally. They couldn't ignore her requests.

The ships sailed into Genoa harbor a week later with Sicilian crews. They were suitably rewarded and spread across various ships with different trade missions so they could return to Messina. None of them showed any symptoms of the mysterious illness.
The crisis seemed to have been averted.

But no one saw a black rat emerge from the hold of one of the ships and run along the black cable with which the ship was moored to the quay, in search of food. And no one saw a second rat follow it, and after that dozens of others from the other ships. The quayside always provided for scavengers. It was covered in fishing waste and other garbage. And from the harbor they disappeared into the caverns of the city.

A few days later, the first Genoese began to display lumps in their armpits and groins, as big as an egg or an apple, oozing pus and blood. Their skin turned black. The illness spread rapidly. Within no time, half the city was sick. Some were dead within five days. There was hardly any time to bury the bodies. And from Genoa, the sickness spread across Liguria, Piemonte, and the rest of Europe. The Black Death would be responsible for millions of victims in the fourteenth century and decimated Europe's population.

32.

And the letter you were so kind as to forward to me didn't contain good news, either, but I suspect you already knew that, if only because of the emphatic “open immediately” printed on the reassuringly lavender-colored envelope. It was an official notification from the tax authorities back home. They refer to arrears built up over the previous years. There's also the matter of a new tax assessment for the past calendar year. This all adds up to a sum I couldn't cover even if they impounded my belongings. If I were still back home, this tax bill would make me technically bankrupt.

I'm busy preparing my response. Every writer of repute has written a long letter to the Inspector of Direct Taxes at some point in their lives. I will explain at length why I merit special status. I will address my contributions to the cultural climate in my fatherland and in a hilarious manner I will calculate to the last cent the various ways in which the bureaucracy is doing me, culture, and humanity a disservice. I will compose an anticipatory ode to the inspector, immortalizing him. I will praise his literary taste and compare him favorably to his fellow inspectors from other districts who, unlike him, are only interested in the banality of bookkeeping and the wheel trims on their company cars, while I will ascribe to him alone the power of discernment that will allow him to write history.