La Superba

by Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer

  “Because of that little incident? When you got arrested?”

  Don shook his head. “Well, indirectly. They called me two days ago to make an appointment. Which was this morning. They were very friendly. They asked about my health and in particular my financial situation. I told them the truth. I told them how difficult it is sometimes. They knew everything already and told me they might be able to help. ‘There are two gentlemen here you probably know. They’d like to have a little chat with you.’ The door opened and they came in. And indeed, I did know them well. I knew them only too well.”

  He stared dejectedly into his coffee. “Maybe I need something stronger.”

  “And who were they then?”

  “Unfortunately I can’t tell you, Ilja.” He downed his gin and tonic in one gulp. He looked a lot better for it. And when he’d finished his second, he said, “They wanted me back. They wanted me to work for them again. For the Service. But I’m too old, Ilja. I’m too old.

  “The two men were my former boss and his right hand. They’d come to Genoa especially to talk to me. Undoubtedly the Consulate had informed them about my lack of money and my recent act of desperation. We went for a coffee in the bar on the corner. I already knew what they were going to ask me, but I pretended not to. We talked about this and that and the good old times for half an hour and then the truth came out.”

  “What did they want you to do?”

  “They never tell you beforehand, they only explain when they’re one hundred percent sure you’re going to do the job. And just the bare minimum. You only get told the things that are absolutely essential to completing the mission. And then a lot of the time it’s probably about something other than what they’ve told you.

  “But they let it drop that they were thinking of several missions. Abroad. The word Cairo was mentioned a couple of times. They told me about a good friend of mine from Cambridge. Another literary type. Turns out he’s a professor there, at the University of Cairo. They told me he was planning to organize a big international conference shortly.”

  “On the metaphysical poets?”

  “I didn’t know he worked for the Service, too. I should have suspected, of course. And they did offer me a generous fee. About twice as much as I used to earn from them. And they knew all too well that I’d be receptive to their offer.”

  “So you agreed?”

  “I can’t do it anymore. All that traveling. I’m too old for it. I’m too old, Ilja.”

  15.

  A week later he was dead.

  It was a lovely summer’s evening. The terraces were buzzing. It was the high-pitched note of a warm day that hadn’t yet tired itself out but was satiated enough not to demand anything more of itself than this gentle and effortless slipping by in warm, slow gestures. Here and there, the metallic tinkle of a toast. Street musicians went past. They played slightly slower and their sound was slightly purer than usual. Beggars smiled. The swallows flew high above the pastel-colored palazzi. Pigeons pecked around the square without having to worry about the seagulls who’d flown far offshore over a calm sea. The fire brigade’s red helicopter flew high overhead to put out forest fires in the mountains. Tomorrow was going to be another wonderful day.

  I didn’t speak to Don that evening. I sat a few tables away from him with three Italian girls. He’d been attended to at his high table by a group of boaties. Don had been at his most Donnish. I had seen him gesturing enthusiastically and heard his loud laughter. Shoulders were slapped heartily again and again. He had been able to run through a large part of his repertoire. His stories had met with warm approval. They had sung along to his songs, and he’d been generously rewarded with many brimming glasses. He had been the focal point of the evening. He had gloried.

  When they left, he’d drifted off behind his sunglasses. There was a full glass of gin and tonic in front of him. He had a smile on his face.

  The crowds filed past his table. “Ciao, Don.” He didn’t reply. Just smiled. “Forza Sampdoria.” They slapped him amicably on the shoulder and carried on. “Grande Don.”

  Closing time drew near. Various waitresses had told Don in passing to finish his drink because they were about to shut. He’d listened with an affable smile.

  When the bar’s shutters had been rolled down halfway, Rebecca, the owner, came out to shake him awake. His glass was just as full as before. “Don, we have to close.” His sunglasses fell from his head. And still he didn’t move. He was cold to the touch.

  The ambulance arrived immediately. But there was nothing they could do. He was dead.

  “How long’s he been dead?”

  “It’s hard to say. But at least four hours or so. Didn’t you notice anything?”

  “We thought he was happy.”

  16.

  The news spread through the city like wildfire. The next day, people from the suburbs were already arriving in Piazza delle Erbe to ask whether it was true. It was true. In the absence of anyone to offer their condolences to, they offered them to themselves. Rebecca had placed an improvised book of condolences on the bar in her café: an empty scrapbook with kittens on the cover, which she’d had lying about somewhere; a photo of Don, which Nello from the Internet café had printed out and framed; and Don’s last gin and tonic, which they hadn’t had the heart to empty down the sink the previous evening. The rose seller had laid a white rose next to it. Rebecca had tried to pay him for it but he’d refused. Halfway through the evening the scrapbook was already full. Nello dug up a large exercise book in the Sampdoria club colors from somewhere. That, too, was soon full. And everyone asked when the funeral would be.

  That was a good question. Not least because it wasn’t exactly clear who would arrange it. Or, rather, it was all too clear. Don knew hundreds of people in this city who called themselves his friends, but he had no friends, apart from our small group of expats who had always worried about him instead of cheerfully slapping his fragile shoulders in passing, which by the way, he had always preferred to anyone worrying about him. If we didn’t organize it, no one would.

  We had to notify his family, but that was easier said than done. We knew of the existence of a son in Australia, a daughter in Greece, and a sister in Birmingham. We tracked down the son quite quickly. He really had become famous as “Dicko,” the bad guy on TV talent show juries. We tried to contact him through his management. There was no response. There wasn’t a single trace of the daughter. No doubt she had a different surname by now. The same went for his sister, but we did finally manage to trace her with a lot of effort and a bit of luck, thanks to friends of friends of our friend from Liverpool. She reacted calmly to the news of her brother’s death. “I’m glad it happened like that,” she said over the phone. “That’s the best death he could have wished for, the drunken bastard.”

  We had a lot of contact with her over the days that followed. No, the body didn’t need to be shipped back to England. It was better to bury him in Genoa. “Let him take his nuisance where he spent his money. All those so-called friends of his are there. No one knows him here anymore.” And no, she wouldn’t come for the funeral. Her brother had always considered himself better off without her. He’d never wanted to listen to her when he was alive and she thought the chance very small that things would be any different now.

  And his children? “Don’t bother.” Why not? “Let it lie. I don’t want to say anything bad about him.” But we need to keep them informed at least? “He never found that important when he was alive. He’s been dead to them for more than thirty years. From the moment he started drinking again. If he ever stopped. But for a while he acted as though he had, when the children were still young. And when he couldn’t keep it up anymore he just disappeared, from one day to the next. He didn’t even leave a letter on the kitchen table and he never got back in touch. We only heard by chance through the grapevine years later that he was in Italy.”

  We asked about his professorship post. Perhaps the University of Cambridge would be inte
rested in publishing an obituary or might be inclined to donate something as a sign of their gratefulness and respect? She burst out laughing. “Is that what he told you? Typical Don.” Wasn’t it true, then? “But when, then? Think about it. He went to university when he got out of the army. He was a mature student, as we call it. When he started his studies he was about twenty-six. He was over thirty when he graduated. His children had already been born. He started a Master’s thesis but never finished it, he ran off to Italy before that.”

  But nevertheless, over the years he was a welcome guest at international academic conferences, wasn’t he? In particular, ones on the metaphysical poets? “Don’t make me laugh. He never left Italy. It wouldn’t have been possible. His passport ran out more than twenty years ago. I still remember the letter. His ex-wife gave it to me. I think I’ve still got it somewhere.”

  And that astronomic pension, then? “Which pension?” The one he had at Barings Bank and lost because of Nick Leeson’s activities? “All the private investors were reimbursed before the bankruptcy. The truth is that Don never worked in his life, apart from perhaps a few private English lessons and a little translation job now and again. He didn’t have time to. He was a full-time alcoholic. His whole life long. He was already an old drunkard long before you knew him as an old drunkard. It’s a miracle he kept it up for so long. I’m happy he had such a pleasant death, because I do love him. Bury him there among his so-called friends and keep us out of it. And cherish the stories he had you believe. Let things be as he wanted them. I don’t want to hear anything else about it. I’ll transfer a contribution to the costs. That’s all. Thank you.”

  17.

  In Via Canneto Il Curto, in the stretch between Via San Lorenzo and Piazza Banchi, there’s a dusty little shop where you can buy old coins and medals. I’d never seen a customer go in, and although I’d never noticed a shopkeeper, either, he did exist. He heard the shop bell ring and came shuffling out of a back room in his dressing gown. He was even dustier than his shop. He asked me how he could be of assistance. I told him I needed one or two old decorations. He stared into space, deep in thought. Medals, I clarified, pointing at the shop window where medals of all shapes and sizes were displayed. Something gradually began to dawn on him. He nodded circumspectly and asked me what kind of medals I was thinking of. “English medals,” I said. “Decorations for bravery in battle or other exceptional services to the fatherland.” “English?” “Yes, English.” He shook his head and began to shuffle to his back room. I stopped him and said I’d take any other medals that were good. I chose four: the biggest with the most stars, crowns, and aureoles, with the most fake gold and the most colorful ribbons.

  The funeral took place in the historic Staglieno cemetery. Our Scottish friend had been able to arrange a modest but pleasant spot through his contacts there for a friendly price. He didn’t want to say much about it, but I suspect he’d gotten a bulk discount by signing a contract for us all to take options on plots there at the prevailing rate at the moment of first use. To keep the costs even lower, a slot was chosen on a Tuesday morning at eight o’clock. We announced the time and place in an advertisement in Il Secolo XIX and a letter on the door of the Caffè Letterario on Piazza delle Erbe.

  Despite the early hour, it was unbelievably busy. When the ceremony started with an a cappella performance of Don’s favorite aria “O mio babbino caro,” by his good friend Irene Cenboncini, the soprano from the Carlo Felice, there were hundreds of people around the grave, including pretty much every barman from in and around Genoa. Our Scottish friend gave an impassioned speech in Italian, in which he dwelt at length on a number of Don’s merits—ones he’d always been too modest to share with his Italian friends, such as his heroic role in various battles in Korea and Malaysia and the crucial role he played in a number of key moments in the history of the twentieth century as an agent for the British Secret Service. The medals shone on his coffin.

  And then the coffin began to drop and, in a silence that resounded with respect, the grave stone was slowly revealed. It was a simple block of granite in the classical form with a curve at the top. And the only thing carved into it were the two words which had been the two most spoken words in Genoa all those years and which now rang out in silence for the very last time:

  ciao don

  18.

  There was a long procession from Staglieno, along the banks of the River Bisagno back to the center. We passed Luigi Ferraris Stadium in Marassi. There was a large banner hanging above the main entrance, changing the name of the stadium to “Stadio di Don.”

  On Piazza delle Erbe, all seven cafés were running at full fighting strength. The terraces had been set up outside at their maximum capacities and all the temporary staff had been called in. This turned out to be necessary. On that Tuesday morning, when all of Don’s friends flooded the square to raise a final toast to him, it was busier than a busy Friday or Saturday night. And even though nothing had been agreed beforehand, everyone drank gin and tonic, which everyone ordered as cappuccino senza schiuma. This led to some debauched scenes quite early in the day.

  The game soon became who could remember the most jokes from Don’s immense but worn repertoire. Anyone telling a joke laughed louder than everyone else and then told it again a few more times in a loud voice to prevent others from cutting short their victory by telling a joke of their own. This Italian habit, which usually annoyed me, had something almost likeable at the time, because ultimately these were Don’s victories that were being celebrated with so much determination and noisy envy.

  The next game was to do an impression of Don. Elio, Boar, imitated how Don sang Sarah Vaughan’s “You are My Honeybee” to every girl who came in. ‘You are my honeybee, he sang, and he pricked her…’ He made the accompanying obscene gesture. “Get it? Pricked her…And then squeeze some tits. I’ll demonstrate. Look. Like this.” Boar squeezed a random friend of Don’s in the tits. But there was a degree of self-interest in it, I thought; it wasn’t just part of the imitation. From time to time, someone would fall off his chair, blind drunk. But in those cases, too, it wasn’t clear whether this was part of the game or whether it was due to the gin and tonic. But at the end of the day it came down to the same thing.

  Don’s funeral gradually turned into Don’s birthday. And because at his own birthdays Don generally featured more as a shadowy presence than he was actually present as a concrete person, he was barely missed. He was there that day on the Piazza delle Erbe, there was hardly anyone who doubted that. And no one doubted it at all when, suddenly, spontaneously, without agreement or sign, across the square hundreds of voices joined together in his favorite song: We all live in a yellow submarine.

  In the evening there was a passionate debate about how we could get the council, the province, or the region to replace a small, battered statue of a putto on the Piazza delle Erbe with a statue of Don holding a glass of gin and tonic. And when, hours later, after the legal closing time, the shutters rattled downwards and everyone stumbled home blind drunk, we heard Don’s piercing peals of laughter echoing through the city’s silent alleyways.

  He was a living legend and it will be difficult for the city to get used to the fact that he is now a dead one. Smiling behind his sunglasses, he drank himself to death and laughingly invented a life story to go with it. The bum. The drunken bastard. He enticed all of us into the labyrinth of his fantasies. And he succeeded—he was the most popular immigrant, the most successful foreigner in the whole of Genoa because he never assimilated, never fit in, and always stayed himself. In fact he had refined himself into a caricature of himself. And on the day of his funeral, hundreds and hundreds of friends had drunk cappuccino senza schiuma while having serious conversations about a statue. Hundreds and hundreds of drunken voices had joined together to sing his favorite song. We all live in a yellow submarine. He had always known that it would end like this. Grande Don.

  PART TWO

  The Theater Elsewhere

 
1.

  It’s like a bath. The plug’s in and the tap’s on. There’s nobody home. The person who turned on the tap has forgotten it. She’s gone out. Slowly but surely, the bath gets fuller and fuller. And it’s a cast iron certainty that at a certain point that can be calculated mathematically it will overflow, immediately causing a new situation because the apartment will be flooded and so will the downstairs neighbors’. That’s August.

  The plug is plugged in the early springtime and the warm tap is turned on. Gradually, day after day, week after week, month after month, the city becomes filled with summer until, on a mathematicallycalculable day in August, when almost no one is home, it floods. It’s not that it’s only a bit warmer than the day before, the same as when a bath overflows, you can’t say that it’s only a bit fuller than before. The city suddenly becomes white with heat in August. And when the inhabitants return from holiday in September and rush to turn off the tap and pull out the plug, it takes another couple of months to mop up all that summer.

  The August heat is aqueous. And I’m not referring to the sweat that pours from your forehead when you feel the urge to raise a slow hand to mop your forehead. Although it’s related to that. The water from the sea evaporates and has nowhere to go. Right behind the city, there are mountains. In other places in the world, you’re grilled or roasted at such high temperatures. Here you’re steam cooked in the hot vapors. From the mountains it looks like there’s mist hanging over the city. But in the city itself the sun shimmers. The mist is the air we breathe. In the city, this goes by the fairy-tale name of macaia, a word that can only be whispered, otherwise they’ll reach in through your open windows while you sleep and choke you with their soft hands. If the Genoese, who always complain about everything, complain about one thing more than anything else, it’s these clammy days and nights of suffocation that paralyze even your thoughts. Macaia is made up of the sighs of the Genoese.