The Garden of Monsters

by Lorenza Pieri

  “A few nights later I found one of those black snakes in my bed sheets. My brother John had hidden it there to scare me. I began to scream so loudly that my cousin Jean-Charles, who was twenty-two at the time, came in from the next room. He took the snake, which obviously was already dead, and threw it out the window. I was so scared that I asked him to let me sleep with him, and Jean-Charles let me stay in his bed all night. The next day my parents found out about it and were infuriated. I didn’t understand why, they made me see wickedness where there hadn’t been any. Their strict religiosity led them to see evil everywhere, and to suspect that I might already be a nasty girl, ready to jump into men’s beds and tempt them. They made me feel dirty, when I had just been afraid and in need of protection. I looked older than my age, and they made me feel like that was a sin. Perhaps it was this incident that planted a sick thought in my father’s head. I provoked his disapproval. His desire. And he had the absolute power of an adult over a child, of a father over a daughter.

  “A few days later my father took me into the tool shed—he had asked me to come with him to look for the fishing pole. Once we were in the shed, his hands began to explore my body in a way they had never done before. That afternoon the aristocratic and ultra-religious banker André Marie Fal de Saint Phalle put his penis in my mouth. He told me not to move, but I was already completely paralyzed. That moment completely changed my life. From that point on, shame, anguish, and fear have never left me. The man who was supposed to protect me and love me had transformed into a monster who was violating me. I loved him and felt that he loved me too, I understood that this was something that was completely beyond his control, that it dominated him, but I could not distinguish the borders between feelings anymore. I knew nothing about sex, but I knew it was not right for me to learn it from him. That man destroyed everything, he transformed the love I felt for him to contempt. He destroyed my faith in human beings forever. He tied my physical pleasure to a sense of shame. My father left me to bear the whole burden of the incest on my own. The whole burden of something I didn’t understand, but which I knew was wrong, and for which I felt responsible in some way. To survive a trauma of this kind at that age, the only thing I was capable of doing was to close off the episode in a corner of my memory and forget it. To delete it. Until, twelve years later, when I had just gotten out of a psychiatric clinic for a breakdown, my father wrote me a letter in which he asked for my forgiveness. My psychiatrist refused to believe that confession. I didn’t speak to my father again, and now that he’s dead, I suppose I’ve forgiven him, but the trauma has continued to work, ever since, and for always. Traumas cannot be erased. If you’re strong you can hide them under a mask. A mask behind which at length you start to suffocate. All of my monsters were born in that moment. For years I had nervous tics. I kept on biting my lip, I did it until I bit it all the way through. My rebellious gestures. My nightmares. My capacity for isolating myself and living in an imaginary world, disconnected from the real. The magic box I played with by myself, alienating me from everything. The collapses. The obsessions. The time I got kicked out of school; the other time, when I was fourteen years old, when, still knowing nothing of sex, I wrote a pornographic story and circulated it among the girls at the high school. The weapons that I always carried with me. My suicidal impulses. My scattered studies, my rebellion against the nuns at the religious school, the marriage at nineteen, the rage at the works I created, shooting them, building enormous women . . . everything. Every one of my choices comes from that moment. My Nanas, which reassert feminine power at a size in which they can’t be crushed . . . my autobiographical film Daddy, in which I killed my father seventeen times, my inability to be a good mother, all the way on to this inordinate ambition which has led me to build the largest sculptures a woman has ever created, sculptures that are also monsters . . . All, all of this is part of that, of the summer of the snakes.”

  At this point, Niki looked into Annamaria’s eyes.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this; I told my daughter fifty years later, in a letter. Now I’m telling you, and not because I want to share lurid details, I’m sorry to upset you, but you’re old enough to understand. And without knowing this, you cannot know anything about me, you cannot make sense of anything I tell you, but most of all, you cannot make sense of anything I’ve created. And I also want to tell you that the pain you feel now, the things that have hurt you so badly that you think they’ll always hurt, maybe they will, but they are part of your story. You can transform them, reshape them, enlarge them, until they emerge from you to make something great, if you want. Because I’m certain that you can. It’s something that’s visible, you know? I know how to see things and people; I see that you feel that you are bad. But I know that you are not. Someone more grown up and more responsible than you has made mistakes, and it’s not fair that you are paying for it. But you can try to defend yourself. You know how to make people laugh, and you know how to laugh at yourself; you can become an actress and laugh as you talk about all the things that hurt you. Transform the mistake into what you are, a marvel, unique in the world.”

  During the confession, Annamaria had barely breathed. Only when Niki fell silent, as if the silence had suddenly restored her vital functions, did she notice that her heart was beating wildly in her chest; she also felt it in her throat and her temples. She swallowed, and two tears fell on the table of mirrors with a noise of heavy drops. Her reflection, Giovanna’s, and Niki’s became unrecognizable, reassembled in a thousand fragments on the mirrored ceiling, as if pain had broken them into pieces and the light of truth had done what it could to put them back together, without succeeding. She felt overwhelmed yet also invaded by a strange, comforting heat. She was nestled in the belly of the Empress, and there and only there, with these two women beside her, she was sure that nothing bad could happen. Niki said to her, “Good for you for crying, tears are good for you, they wash away ugly things. But this is the last time, because you come here to laugh, don’t forget.”

  She would never forget.

  16. THE TOWER

  Opening. Construction.

  Emergence of that which is hidden.

  Annamaria had returned home at the normal time for a school day. Nobody paid attention to her. There was a serving of lukewarm, overcooked pasta on the table, covered by a plate. She ate it distractedly and went straight to her room, eager to think over that morning, in which somebody else’s anguish had been superimposed on hers. It felt like she was still marked by it: the deep circles under her eyes marking her face like wreaths left over from a celebration that had ended, her clumsiness accentuated, as if the burden of what she had learned were reflected in her uncoordinated steps. She felt like she needed to lie down on the ground and try to make sense of everything she was feeling. There was something new inside her. To passively experience someone else’s pain and trauma, other people’s sins, other people’s fights, was to take part in them completely. She absorbed all of it. She wanted to find a way to become less permeable. Her most private thoughts about herself and her family, about Niki’s story that had shaken her so much, were interrupted at intervals by the sounds of her grandfather, the toilet flushing, his house shoes clomping, hawking into his handkerchief. She had to break her train of thought to shout at him to turn down the television. It seemed to her that something comic, prosaic, and tangible always came along to disturb the roiling of her unquiet mind whenever she was trying to make sense of what was happening to her. Maybe that was part of her, too. She struggled for understanding, but she always ended up listening to that grotesque voice that pushed her thoughts to the side, overlaying her pain with the irresistible urge to laugh at herself. A ridiculous girl, that’s what she was.

  Miriam wasn’t there. After Annamaria had left, early in the morning, she had gotten dressed and returned to Sanfilippi’s house. She thought he’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and everything always went well for him, and
it still would this time, when they needed to do something for their sons.

  Things went so well that it was much easier than anticipated. Sanfilippi saw the chief of police around midday at Porto Ercole, where he’d gone out on his sailboat, docked next to Sanfilippi’s boat Granma. The police chief said hurriedly, “I don’t want to know anything, but take down this telephone number. It’s the number of the court clerk. I’ll see him tomorrow, I’ll talk to him, you can call him after lunch. Then the two of you can come to an understanding, but you’ve got to give him a gift. He likes the sea. Fishing. Sometimes whole documents can disappear, even he doesn’t know how that’s possible, but whenever it does, it’s a mess that he’s got to hurry and clean up.”

  They exchanged slaps on the back, thanks, promises of mutual favors. Filippo called the court clerk from a public place. He knew that the telephones of the police chief’s employees were monitored, so he made an appointment with him to meet at the Grosseto marina in the afternoon, to pick up “some fishing gear.”

  He took Miriam along with him; he had her come in his car for two reasons: so she could see how much he was doing for her, that it wasn’t enough to “make a phone call,” it was necessary to involve more than one contact, and to do so personally; and also because he wanted her to be there in person to hand over the bag with the five million lira in cash. In the event—unlikely but still possible—that someone tracked them down and nabbed them, he wouldn’t be in the photograph.

  It was a very humid day. The appointment was in front of a closed restaurant on the promenade by the sea. The court clerk was waiting for him in a metallic blue Fiat Regata parked under the pines. As soon as he saw them arrive, he got out of his car and lit a Marlboro. He was tall and bald and was wearing a life jacket that wasn’t appropriate for the day. Sanfilippi stayed in the car and made Miriam get out. There was nobody in the area, there was no need to playact, even though the court clerk really did have fishing tackle in his trunk. Miriam hurried to deliver the duffel, a bag from the gym where Saverio worked; as she handed it to him she thought how stupid that was, and asked him for the bag back, but he said he would make it disappear. Miriam, agitated, repeated two times: “Saverio Biagini, Saverio Biagini, he’s the one to save.” She said it just like that, “to save,” and felt ashamed. He made a grimace of impatience and quickly said goodbye, he wanted to get away as soon as possible.

  On the way back, Miriam cried silently. The gray Aurelia extended along a sea of the same color. Miriam told Sanfilippi all her worries: “But what if he takes the money and doesn’t do anything? And what was I doing, that was a bag from the gym, I just wasn’t thinking.”

  Sanfilippi hesitated to reassure her. It would have reduced his power, diminished the risk and the significance of what he was doing.

  “Miriam, what can I tell you, it’s in God’s hands. I’ve never bribed anyone, and I don’t even know if this is how these things work. I don’t know if this amount is sufficient, either; we’ll definitely have to give the chief of police a sizable gift, too. As for the bag, that was unfortunate, to say the least, but a whole lot of people go to that gym, why would it necessarily be yours? Plus, he won’t be stupid enough to let it be found. You’ve got to keep calm. I don’t know what to expect now. Sometimes they make false records with wrong names. In that case, considering that they caught him in the act and there’s written testimony from the two cops, either they pin it on someone else, which can be done—Grosseto is full of known heroin fiends—or they make the folder with the whole file just disappear, which would be better. It certainly won’t be a cakewalk: these documents are registered and under key. It’s not normal for them to disappear, and it’s not guaranteed. But you have to admit that I’ve done everything I could, for you, for Saverio, for Sauro. I’m risking losing everything I have, my reputation, I hope you understand that.”

  “I understand it very well, and I don’t know how to thank you. Even though you’re also doing this for Luca.”

  “Yes, of course. On that subject, next week we have an appointment with the notary to transfer your shares in the restaurant to him. We have to agree on a symbolic figure that you’ll give back to me later in cash—it shouldn’t be a donation, but a sale, for all intents and purposes.”

  “But wouldn’t it be better to wait a bit? Maybe something will come out that will show all the connections . . .”

  Sanfilippi burst out laughing. “So you’re Perry Mason now? Don’t go there. We’ve said that everything would be concurrent regardless of the outcome. As you’ve seen, I did everything I was supposed to do, and I acted without hesitation. Now it’s your turn. Stalling wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “I’m not stalling, I just wanted things to be secure for you too, for all of you. Filippo, I’m truly sorry if you think you can’t trust me. I put my son’s life in your hands, and everything I had; I think we can rest assured on the question of trust, can’t we? If you want, we can go to the notary tomorrow. I don’t give a damn at this point.”

  She had altered her tone.

  “Next week is fine,” Sanfilippi said, turning serious.

  Miriam gripped the steering wheel even harder. She was certain that she had only made mistakes in her life, and the idea that this was the worst of them all made her feel hollow inside.

  She knew nothing of what Filippo and Sauro had said to each other that night. Sanfilippi had confined himself to saying that he’d persuaded Sauro, and they could go forward. She hadn’t spoken to her husband since she’d thrown the cup of chamomile tea onto the floor.

  She wanted to go home, she wanted to hear from him that everything was all right, she wanted a hug, but she didn’t get one. The next day she hugged Saverio, and as she cried on his shoulder she told him that he was the ruin of their family. Sauro could not be found when their son arrived at home. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going or when he would be coming back; Miriam was afraid he would never come back, that the last fight about Saverio had marked the end of their marriage. She didn’t care. So they’d get divorced. She had Saverio, free and innocent again, in her arms. Annamaria could not bear her mother’s complete surrender to this excessively loved son who made her lose her reason, her control, her dignity. In front of the giant that was her brother, Miriam looked like a little girl.

  Annamaria felt like she was going to explode, she had too many things inside to risk letting them come out in the form of words. She took Saverio by the arm and said to him: “Listen, there’s something we need to do. To not talk for a little while. Let’s go out riding, you and me. We’ll gallop until we’re completely exhausted.”

  It seemed like a good idea to him, too. In silence they went to the stables, saddled the horses and were hardly off the asphalt when they broke into a gallop together, it was almost a competition, almost as if they were still little kids, and it was beautiful, the light of the spring and the cool evening, the scent of the humid earth, the first trees in flower, the sweated horses, the wind from the sea that blended with everything and awakened memories, erasing all their worries.

  What had convinced Sauro, Miriam would never know. She had guessed that Sanfilippi had made Sauro feel at fault as a father in some way, putting evidence in front of him that he hadn’t done enough to make his son feel loved, respected, heard. The night the two men saw each other, Sanfilippi had pulled out his best arts of persuasion. He spoke in a low voice, preceding each sentence with mellifluous affirmations, like, “You are my dearest friend, I would not do this for anyone else,” “I’m talking to you with my heart in my hand,” “You know how much trust there is between you and me, we’ve shared every kind of experience, we’ve always protected each other,” “Other people are malicious, they’re not like us,” and then glasses of whiskey, and in between, the injection of a sense of guilt, and the repeated insinuation of his own agenda: “For once you should do as your wife says, maybe you owe her, this time.” And so, to exonera
te Saverio, Sauro had accepted everything, the bribery of the public official in exchange for their shares in the restaurant.

  It was never clear to him how even the trade was. In the moment, he felt so wrongfooted in his interactions with everyone, and Filippo’s magnanimity seemed to put him in a corner. He felt like a traitor. Filippo was someone who had never done anything wrong, and he wasn’t doing anything wrong now, even as he was declaring himself ready to bribe and to be bribed. He, on the other hand, what had he done? He had betrayed him by taking his wife to bed. He hadn’t raised Saverio well or protected him. He hadn’t listened to Miriam’s requests for help. He had ignored Annamaria’s problems.

  In front of Filippo, Sauro had bit his cigar, he had fidgeted on the armchair, gripped by a sense of nausea. Once again he found himself sitting in the same armchair in which he had fought with Giulia. The same one on which Miriam had despaired. He thought again about all the unlucky coincidences. Maybe he deserved to be atoning for his sins while sitting right there, in front of the friend he had deceived. Filippo looked fresh, his clothes were impeccable, his frameless glasses made his blue eyes look smaller in a way that made him seem younger, as if no wrinkle could touch him.

  “Listen, I see that you’re sorry, and I understand. I don’t want to take anything away from you, you are more the owner of the Seaside Cowboy than I am, the idea was more yours than mine; it’s our baby . . . but you know very well what I’m risking. And I don’t have a plan B, I don’t have another restaurant, land, or horses. I only have my job as a burnt-out politician. Let’s just say, I wouldn’t take a risk like this for my brother, but for you I will, because you’re practically like a brother to me, even more. You know what, Sauro, if we’re really doing this for Saverio, let’s give him ten percent and a real job. Have him be a waiter, the maître d’, anything he wants, but he’ll also be something like a boss; and it’s clear that that’s another thing entirely, he’ll work in a different spirit, he’ll put himself into it. What do you say? And at that point you’ll leave him alone, you won’t interfere, you’ll just take care of the horses and the Saddlery. Because I know that working alongside each other isn’t something either of you would want. We’ll leave the boys to the sea, Luca and Saverio.” To break the tension he made a joke. “With the two of them around, you know how much ass will turn up . . .” He laughed by himself and gave Sauro a pat on the back. Then he resumed his speech with his customary aplomb: “Seriously, we’ll give Saverio an opportunity, we’ll do something for everybody and even for you and Miriam, who need to return to being a tight-knit, solid couple. For the sake of the village, you need to stay together, you’re an institution. The king and queen.”