La Superba (9 page)

Suddenly all roads led to Maddalena. I tried to walk from Piazza Soziglia to Piazza Fontane Marose, but in the place where the Via Luccoli was located at other times of the day, there was a dark alleyway which turned back on itself, coming out on the other side of Piazza Lavagna, where grubby men with their hands in their pockets walked along alleys with poetic names that were all called Maddalena, and where darkly-scented women, who were all called Maddalena, said I had pretty hair and that was why I had to go with them. They asked whether I was French. They asked whether I knew the secrets of the jungle where it could be night all afternoon in their hands. They grabbed me by the forearm to go explain it better somewhere else. They twirled my hair around their fingers and said that there was something feminine about me. They stroked the hand in the trouser pocket. Brutish beasts, they were.

She rolls over once again on her daybed. The ebony paneling nauseates her. She gets up to open a window. There's not enough light in this room in this house, in this much too grand house. There isn't enough light in Genoa. The biggest problem with women is that they are inclined to expect something from men. The biggest problem with men is that they realize that something is expected of them. This realization scares them. That's why they prefer the company of other men, men with whom they go rushing around in great seriousness, in the delusion that the city's future is at stake. And that's why nothing ever happens. A man wants to possess his wife, but if she wants to be possessed, he flees.
It's so tiring, waiting for the French. She stands at the open window. Far below in the alleyway there is loud laughing and joking in languages her husband won't let her learn. She hears someone running away. She imagines he has one hand in the pocket of his trousers. She falls back onto her day bed with a sigh. She looks up at the ceiling painting.

We all know damned well where I was going. San Luca is at the end of Maddalena. I turned right there. I walked to Via del Campo. Just before the end, ten meters before the Porta dei Vacca, was Vico della Croce Bianca.

24.

This neighborhood is known as the Ghetto. The name is meant ironically, but even during the daytime, it takes courage to go there. It's dusky all day in other alleys. Here it's always night. It gives the appearance of being renovated. And it's in dire need of that, which you realize the moment you set foot in the area. There's no pavement and almost everything is crumbling or half-collapsed. But it's not being renovated. For years, the narrow, tall, impassable streets have been covered in rusty scaffolding that has no other purpose than to deny all pedestrians even that tiny strip of blue sky.

If you look on the map, it's a question of five or six small alleys: Vico della Croce Bianca, Vico del Campo, Vico di Untoria, Vico dei Fregoso, Vico degli Andorno, and perhaps Vico San Filipa. But the map isn't quite right. There are also gaps between the walls, and toppled palazzi form new squares without a name. The rats are as big as lapdogs. They know their way around and take to
their heels, just like the Moroccans who rub along the mildewed walls as skittish as ghosts. And everywhere I saw the same sticker that was stuck to the pipes on my house:

    
derattizzazione in corso

    
non toccare le esche

I still have to look up what that means.

The transvestites live here. The famous transvestites of Genoa that Fabrizio De André sung about as
le graziose di Via del Campo
. They are men in their fifties wearing high heels and fishnet stockings over their hairy legs, a sexy dress straining over their beer bellies, and a wig. They beckon you into their caverns with their stubble and their irresistible baritone voices, where, for a pittance, you can grapple with their self-made femininity. Muslims who may not deflower a woman before they've committed a terrorist attack eagerly do the rounds of the hairy asses on offer. A condom spurted full is worth four dead rats, and four dead rats are a meal. She doesn't have any tits, her bra's full of cotton wool, but if you pay extra, you can suck on them. And if you don't pay, she'll stab your eye out with one of her stilettos.

I heard a story: in the nineteen-sixties a real war waged in these alleyways. For three days. The harbor was full of American warships. An American marine had broken the explicitly worded rules and ventured into these streets one night. Into the Ghetto. He had fallen in love. To him, she was the most beautiful girl in Genoa. He had the blushing privilege of being able to shower her in cigarettes, chocolate, and fishnet stockings. He secretly wrote poems for her in his diary. It was the most wonderful night of his life. But exploring between her sticky thighs afterward, he discovered the truth.
He felt betrayed, swore he would take revenge, and fetched his friends. Forty heavily armed marines invaded the Ghetto. And the transvestites fought back. Stilettos vs. night-vision binoculars. Boiling oil poured from the top floor. Fences falling as soon as the troops reformed. In the meantime, running across the rooftops and the rusty scaffolding. Diversionary tactics with fishnet stockings. And the street you came through, the one guaranteeing your retreat, suddenly doesn't exist anymore because it seems to have been barricaded with a portcullis. They won. The transvestites won. The neighborhood was declared a no-go zone for American marines.

It's a place that has an unusual pull on me. Probably partly due to that story. Or because it's the place that is the furthest away from my fatherland. Or for other reasons. I don't know. We'll come back to the subject.

25.

Rashid was limping when I saw him again. He had a black eye as well.

“Come and sit down. I'll order you a beer. Sorry about last time. And thank you. But what happened?”

“A disagreement,” he said.

“Did you go to the police?”

He tried to giggle but it made him cough, which clearly hurt his ribs.

“Are you here illegally?”

He stared into his beer.

“Sorry, Rashid. Perhaps you don't feel like talking at all.”

“Could you order a few of those free appetizers for me maybe? What are they called again?
Stuzzichini
.”

“Of course.”

“Sorry to ask but there are some things here that a foreigner like you gets more easily than a foreigner like me.”

He ate like a dog. He ate like someone who hadn't eaten for a week.

“I haven't eaten for a week, Ilja.”

I ordered more free snacks for him under the pretext of ordering them for myself.

“And I'm privileged,” he said with his mouth full. “Can you imagine? Where I live, we live with eleven or nine or thirteen, it's different every day. Two rooms. Nine hundred and eighty euros a month. Most of them are Moroccans like me. But there are also a few Senegalese. It's even harder for them than it is for us. But they make it difficult for themselves, I have to say. I'm not a racist but those black people ruin it for all of us. I mean, I came here to work, Ilja. I'm an honest man. Tell me it's true. I'm a good Muslim, even if I do have the occasional beer. But those blacks have a completely different mentality, you can't do anything about it, it's just like that. They steal. They even steal from their own housemates. And if you say anything about it, they kick the shit out of you and give you a black eye. They're used to taking advantage of others. It's not even their fault, really. It's their culture. You have to respect that. You'll agree with me about that, Ilja, that you have to respect their culture.”

I began to feel more and more uncomfortable about this conversation.

“But to return to your question,” Rashid said. “No.”

“Sorry, I lost the thread.”

“I'm not here illegally. I have a temporary residence permit. Not like those blacks. I have the right to be here. They arrive on rubber boats via Lampedusa, Malta, or the Canary Islands. I came here with a passport. I'm a skilled worker. I installed air-conditioning for work in Casablanca. I'm a good person, Ilja, do you understand?”

“And why did you come here?”

“Do you want an honest answer?”

“No.”

Rashid had to laugh and then cough and then his ribs hurt again. He slapped me on the back.

“Really, you're my only friend here,” he said. “It's quite an honor for a white man, me saying that, you should know that. Since you asked, I'll give you a dishonest answer.”

He took a sip of his beer.

“I came here to write a book and not to earn money. I came here to gather inspiration and to enrich my life with new experiences, like being robbed and beaten by my own housemates, and I didn't come here to survive. I got bored with my work in Casablanca. It was the same old. I came here to look for a new challenge. Like not even being able to get the most basic job with a name like mine. Here I'm a pariah. But it's fascinating sharing a two-room apartment with nine or eleven or thirteen others, plus the rats. It makes me resourceful. It makes me creative. It keeps me on my toes.”

“I'm sorry, Rashid. I understand what you want to say. But why don't you go back?”

“You don't understand a thing, Ilja. I've already explained it to you. The first time we met. Don't you remember?”

“Yes.”

“You're lying. But I'll explain it to you one more time. If you'll order me another beer.”

I ordered him another beer with
stuzzichini
.

“Let's take one of my housemates as an example. So that it's not about me but someone else. That makes it easier. He comes from Senegal. He's black. His name is Djiby. Yes, write that in your notebook: Djiby. Got that, concerned white citizen of the world? Great. He's a man with a spectacular refugee story. Go and interview him. I'd be happy to introduce you to him.”

“Thank you.”

“But the principle is the same.”

“What principle?”

“My family saved up, too. I have five brothers. And a couple of sisters, but they don't count. Apart from that, I have about forty cousins. The family picked me out. The crossing and the documents cost a couple thousand euros. The illegals, like Djiby, paid even more. But in Africa, it's considered a wise investment. Everyone knows how difficult it is to get into Europe. That's why they choose their best sons or cousins. The people with the best chance of success in Europe. They picked me because of my professional training and because I speak English. And everyone knows the investment is returned. Because if he manages to reach Europe, he'll automatically get rich and send back money, fridges, and cars to the family members who took out loans to get him there.”

“What if it doesn't work?”

“That's not an option.”

“But it happens.”

“In almost one hundred percent of the cases. But it's not an option. Because they've invested too much in you. And apart from that, you'd be the first.”

“The first?”

“Not to make it in Europe.”

“And all those others then? All those Moroccans and Senegalese like the ones you're sharing the house with?”

“The legals get themselves knee-deep in debt so they can return to the homeland in August in a hired Mercedes with a trunk full of Rolexes.”

“And that keeps the fairy tale alive.”

“Fairy tales aren't fairy tales if no one doubts their being true.”

“And the illegals?”

“It's a fairy tale paid for with the family's entire assets. Do you know how much money that is in Africa, a couple thousand euros? In Casablanca, they assume that I'll immediately start earning that on a monthly basis. Because I'm in Europe. Because I managed to get to Europe.”

“What would happen if you went back and admitted that the project failed?”

“The illegals do the same as us. Except they can't go home. They spend the whole day sweating in call shops, explaining in their language why the money transfer hasn't arrived yet. It seems like all of Senegal hangs out on the pavement in front of the Western Union. And they use that money not to buy food or to open a shop or start a business—they buy Rolexes to show their friends
they've made it because they have a second cousin in Europe.”

“And how much do you earn now, if I may ask?”

“If I returned empty-handed, without fridges and Mercedes for the whole family, it would mean that I, the chosen one, was the first to violate the sacrifices and trust of my kinsfolk. I would be disowned by my family and friends and I wouldn't have any family or friends anymore. I'd be the ultimate loser, a pariah no one would ever want to have anything to do with. I'd be as good as dead.

“These roses are imported and stripped in the Ghetto. They are sold illegally in the early morning on Via della Maddalena for fifty cents apiece. I take forty on weekdays and a hundred and twenty on Fridays and Saturdays. I sell them for a euro. And I rarely manage to sell them all. I have to pay my rent and in the meantime my family keeps asking where the Rolexes have got to.”

“And so?”

“And so and so and so. And so everyone does what I do. From time to time, I send them fifty, a hundred, two hundred euros.”

“And you borrow that?”

“I borrow it.”

“And how are you going to pay it back?”

“I live in a fantasy, Ilja. And not even one I made up myself.”

26.

An interviewer in my home country once asked me, “Why do you keep falling in love with waitresses?” I have no idea where he got his information from. I didn't have much time to think about it; I had to come up with a witty response: “Because they can't escape my gaze.”

I'm writing to you, my friend, because I'm afraid things are about to get out of hand with the waitress from the Bar of Mirrors. I say afraid, and I mean for you, because she is, as I've repeated to the point of boring you with it, the most beautiful girl in Genoa. You'll never see me again anyway, but given the most recent developments, I'm afraid I have to admit the fact with an ever-broadening grin on my face.