La Superba

by Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer

  Monia came into the cubicle with me. This was quite normal, apparently. The shop assistant didn’t bat an eyelid or blush. “Cubicle” is actually quite a modest description. It was a spacious changing room with tasteful, dark red carpet and a sofa upholstered in the same colored velvet. There was a large, antique mirror with a gilt frame. Monia sat down on the sofa and looked at me. It was a rather strange moment. Now I was supposed to get undressed in front of her. OK, whatever, I’d just have to do it. I made a game of it, acting as though I was a woman doing a striptease. I accompanied it with a sensual dance. I teased her with my tits and my ass in the big mirror. She smiled. And then I stood there before her in my underpants with a nice big “ta-da.”

  She stood up and handed me the jacket. Then she changed her mind. She put the jacket back on the hanger and the hanger on a hook. She copied my dance and slowly unbuttoned her blouse. It wasn’t quite what I’d intended. “Monia,” I said, “your life lesson should be that everything will turn out alright as long as you don’t do what I do.” She had to laugh. She clicked open her bra behind her back.

  “Do you need to try on something too?”

  “Look at me.”

  Of course I’d already seen her tits. But at the time it was all late and dark and drunken. Now I saw them in real life, in daylight in a changing room on Via XX Settembre. They were scandalous. Enormous tits like that are immoral. Or at the least, you’d have to pay a fortune in tax for them. And apart from that, I didn’t think it was such a good idea to be studying them in the changing room of a chic menswear store.

  “Wait,” she said. “Don’t move.” She wasn’t concerned with her tits but with her bra. She very slowly and attentively put it on me.

  “Now you’re a proper pretty girl at last. Dance for me.” As she said this, she took my cock out of my underpants. “Look at yourself in the mirror,” she said. “You’re the most beautiful girl in Genoa. I’d like to comb your hair.” She worked my penis. “You could be as pretty as a doll. Look in the mirror. I want you to come for me. It’s alright, I have a tab here. Or am I not doing it right? Let me bite your nipples. Let me play with your stiff, hard cunt. I know you get a lot more turned on by young girls with little titties than by me. Admit it. Admit that you’re thinking of someone else right now. A girl like that waitress who used to work at the Bar of Mirrors. Say it. Tell the truth. Look at yourself in the mirror. You’re wearing my bra, you slut. It’s much too big for your little titties. Look at yourself. Your titties are as small as hers. You look like her. You are her. Watch me fingering her for you until she comes.” And as she came for me, I came at the same time as she in the mirror.

  Monia licked her fingers. All of a sudden she was all decent and dressed again. She stood there fiddling with my lapel. I was very hot. She grunted in approval. “We’ll make a man of you, Leonardo, a real Italian man. Just leave that to me.”

  I was still confused when I got to the register. The August heat was making me feel dizzy. “Leonardo’s a poet,” Monia said. “And he’s a friend of mine. Give him a good price.” Ten percent was taken off and the amount rounded down. I had to pay twelve hundred euros. But the amount wouldn’t really sink in until an hour later. Monia was walking haughtily out of the shop ahead of me. I gave the shop assistant a kind of apologetic nod.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said quietly.

  16.

  What the hell? I was furious the next day. I’d been hoodwinked into buying a suit for twelve hundred euros, about as much as your money order, while the whole idea was that her credit card was supposed to be on the ebony counter, not mine. Investment, you say. Let’s fucking hope so.

  “But are you sure…” Walter asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I mean, do you know how much money that is? She’s investing that in us then, in our project.”

  “I think I was the one paying, Walter.”

  “But you have to learn to think like the Genoese. She let you spend that much which means she owes us now. More important than that—it’s a sign that she trusts us and that she’ll certainly want to invest more in us in the future.”

  “With my credit card?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point, then?”

  “It’s about the network. Everything in this city revolves around knowing the right people. That’s how we need to think, Ilja. If we still want to get our theater off the ground this summer, we have to think like that. And you know it.”

  I nodded, although I didn’t agree with him. I nodded because I had made a decision. I was going to get my revenge. I was going to take revenge on Monia. I was going to do everything I could to extort from her the fortune we needed to take over the theater. I nodded grimly.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Alessandro De Santis.”

  “Is he that actor?”

  “No. He was on the Andrea Doria. He boarded the 24th of May, 1894, and on June 25th, he arrived at Ellis Island, the newly opened immigration center for New York. He’d contracted whooping cough on board, but he still managed to be admitted, mainly because during the journey he’d learned a booklet by heart containing the best answers to give to the authorities in English. He’d never seen any authorities before and never heard any English. He was a farmer’s son, born in a village in Piemonte. What did he know? He knew nothing.”

  “What’s this got to do with Monia?”

  “I’ll come to that. Listen. Just imagine it. Alessandro arrives in New York. He had no other possessions than the things his family could do without—a woolen blanket, a chicken, which he ate during the crossing, a photo of his mother, and a letter with the address of a distant cousin who’d emigrated years earlier.”

  “What was she called?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Elena. She was called Elena.”

  “And then?”

  “Alessandro couldn’t find any work, even though they’d promised him that he’d automatically get rich if he managed to reach La Merica and be admitted. But he didn’t look for his distant cousin. He didn’t want any help. He was an Italian. He had his dignity. He finally got a job as a day laborer on the railways. He and a large group of other Italians were put to work building a new track outside the city. It was incredibly demanding and dangerous work, paid a pittance, and the foremen didn’t like foreigners. They were treated like scum. They were sworn at, spat on, and hit. One day a railway sleeper fell on his foot. He could no longer walk. He was fired.

  “After that he had various little jobs around the city as a newspaper seller, garbage man, road worker, and warehouse assistant. None of it added up to much. He could barely survive. The worst thing was that he was ashamed. His mother back in Italy was under the impression that her son was a rich, successful man by now in the Promised Land, where everyone got rich and successful without even trying. He sent the small amounts of money he could do without to her so as not to spoil the fairy tale. But he never wrote to her. He couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth and write that sometimes he had to resort to stealing to stay alive, but neither could he bring himself to lie to her.”

  “Did you make this all up?”

  “No. Listen.”

  “I’m convinced you made this all up.”

  “I went to the archives, Walter.”

  “Carry on.”

  “Years went by in this way. And one day the news reached Alessandro that his mother was dying. He had to go back to Italy. He wanted to go back. He wanted nothing more than to be with her. He hoped he’d be in time. But he didn’t want to disappoint his mother on her deathbed. He wanted her to die with the dream that her son had become a rich, successful man in New York.

  “He decided to set aside his pride and ask for help. There was nothing else to do. He managed to trace his distant cousin.”

  “Elena.”

  “Elena, yes. And he borrowed a large sum of money from her. Part of it was for the crossing and with the rest he b
ought the most beautiful, expensive, chicest suit he could find.

  “He was just in time. His mother was incredibly ill and weak but she was still alive. She was overjoyed to see him. And she was overjoyed to see him looking so good. ‘I’ve missed you terribly all these years,’ she said in a weak voice, tears in her eyes. ‘But my one consolation has been knowing that you’ve become rich and successful. You wrote so nicely about your new life. Thank you for writing faithfully every week to tell me about it. Since you left, your letters have been the most important thing in my life. Thank you.’ With a happy smile on her face, she breathed her last breath.”

  “His father.”

  “Yes. It turned out that his father had been writing letters every week on his behalf and making up excuses to go into the city every week to post them.”

  “And then?”

  “That’s where the story ends.”

  “You did make it up, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. But knowing that it was true.”

  “You’re right. I’m sure it happened like that. It must have happened like that at least once, even though he might not have been called Alessandro. I think I saw a film once with almost the same story, only it wasn’t about an Italian in New York but a different kind of immigrant.”

  “It still happens. People still lose their way in their dreams. And people still do everything they can to keep the fairy tale alive.”

  “But it’s a wonderful story. We’ll definitely have to use it in our play. But better still would be if we could work in the story of Monia and your suit in some kind of way. That would give a nice contrast. The upscale immigrant, the expat who buys an expensive suit so he can go to the opera with his rich, older mistress…”

  “And the poor sod who gets himself into debt trying to make his mother happy with a dream. And then to think that whole business with the opera suit was only to make our own dreams come true of getting a theater in which we can put on the play about the painful contrast.”

  “Self-referential theater.”

  “Yep. We’re sure to make a splash.”

  17.

  But it didn’t sit well with me, that whole story about the nine-year license and paying rent to the council—and of course it didn’t sit well. I decided to investigate. I could go to City Hall and simply ask for the relevant documents, couldn’t I? If it was a matter of a license and rental, it meant it was a public case and therefore the contract necessarily had to be public. And if it wasn’t, it was something else and then we were a bit further. But Pierluigi himself had said this was the situation, so those documents were probably available.

  Genoa’s City Hall is a charming palazzo halfway along Via Garibaldi, opposite Vico del Duca. It has prominent neighbors, like museums and the fancy head offices of foreign banks. Via Garibaldi, which used to be called Strada Nuova, is the jewel in Genoa’s crown, built to astonish and amaze—a milestone in classical architecture. Rubens walked around making sketches of it. Many Genoese who live outside of the center perceive that street as the edge of the abyss. They dare venture this far and no farther into the labyrinth. The side alleys lead straight into the jungle in their eyes, a place where, within a hundred meters, you’ll fall prey to prostitutes, pimps, and knife fighters. And it’s not even totally untrue. Incidentally, our future theater was positioned right there in the jungle where no decent Genoese dared to go. That was something else to consider, I realized. But I would concern myself with that later.

  I went and stood at the counter in City Hall. But that wasn’t the way it worked. I was given to understand that I had to take a numbered ticket and wait my turn. I apologized. I hadn’t noticed the ticket machine. I took number 814. I looked at the display. The number at that moment was 409. I waited to see how quickly the line moved. There was only one window open and after fifteen minutes, number 409 was still involved in a number of very special and particularly time-consuming transactions. Number 410 took about a quarter of an hour, too. I began to add up. In any case, I had plenty of time to go outside and smoke a cigarette in the street and come up with a plan.

  As I stood outside smoking, a tramp spoke to me. I tried to ignore him. But he was persistent. “Thank you,” I said. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. Number 430. “Ten euros,” he said. I decided to pay him. “And your number?” he asked. “Swap.” I gave him number 814. “That’ll be the day after tomorrow,” he said. “If we’re lucky. Give me an extra five euros and we’ll stay friends.”

  Two hours later, it was my turn. I explained why I’d come. Although my Italian was quite good by now, I had to explain my request three times in different ways and even then she didn’t understand me. On my insistence, on my firm insistence, as number 431 behind me began to break out in a rash, she fetched her manager. I explained it all once again. He asked for my ID. I was prepared for that. I laid my passport on the counter with a triumphant gesture. He picked it up as though it was a rare incunabulum and began to study it at length. He shook his head.

  “The information you are requesting is unfortunately not authorized.”

  “You mean that you’re not authorized to give me the requested information.”

  “You said it.”

  “So what now?”

  He shrugged and turned to walk away.

  “Come back, you bastard!” Behind me, number 431 held his breath. It was starting to get interesting. “I’m a citizen of the European Union and I know my rights. Allow me access to the documents I want to see or I’ll drag you to the Strasbourg courts.”

  That made an impression. He humbly retraced his steps. He fished a document out of a drawer and stamped it with great pomposity. He handed it to me.

  “What is this?”

  “You are hereby authorized to present your request to the other office.”

  “Which other office?”

  “Matitone.”

  “And that’s where they keep the documentation?”

  He smiled apologetically. “I’ve done my best, sir. I’ve done more for you than is actually allowed. Thank you. Perhaps I could be of further service with a lottery scratch card?” With a compassionate smile that expressed sympathy for my quest, he withdrew to the recesses of his splendid palace.

  18.

  “Matitone” means “giant pencil.” And that’s what it looks like. A hexagonal block of flats with a pointed roof. The council’s pride and joy. Built by the mayor’s wife’s construction company. But tendered completely transparently and according to the rules, of course. Taller than the famous lighthouse. A new landmark for the modern city. Genoa doing credit to its age-old nickname—La Superba. A skyscraper in the old port. Visible clear across the city. The term “visual pollution” had never had such a golden ring to it. And because there wasn’t a single company that wanted to have its offices there, the council moved in themselves. You’re either a mayor or you aren’t. You do things for the people. You do things for your friends.

  I have to say, it’s the perfect auxiliary branch to City Hall because it’s high and inaccessible. It’s Kafka’s castle. It is visible everywhere, but just try getting there. In theory it should take an hour to walk there from the center, but were it not for the two motorways you have to cross. You can also try the Metro to Dinegro, but there are rumors about people never coming back.

  By now I knew how it worked. I smoked a cigarette outside and waited patiently until a tramp came to sell me a ticket number. I knew the price. I was prepared to pay fifteen euros. But nobody came. After half an hour, I decided just to go inside. I reported to the counter to ask where I could get a number. The receptionist said it wasn’t possible. I asked whether that meant it was my turn. He said it wasn’t that simple and I needed special authorization. I said I had that. He shook his head. Practically no one had special authorization. And what’s more, it was the lunch break. If I’d come half an hour earlier he might have been able to help me.

  “But then I’ll come after lunch.�
�

  He sighed.

  “What time…?”

  “Half past three.”

  In my home country, I only had to give the sign and an alderman would call me back. And in such cases, someone higher up would usually offer help, too. And after that the mayor or the minister would call just to make sure that everything had been satisfactorily settled and to make sure I wasn’t going to write a caustic item in the paper about it.

  Here, it was with the greatest difficulty that I got to speak to a counter clerk. When I returned at three thirty, there was somebody else there. He refused to look up. I coughed. No reaction. I coughed importantly. He looked up. I produced my stamped document from City Hall on Via Garibaldi. He gave it a fleeting glance and then turned with admirable concentration to a very important, undoubtedly urgent, serious receptionist’s task that he had to carry out on his computer. I hit the counter as hard as I could with the flat of my hand. It made even me jump. It clearly happened fairly often during his responsibility-infused workdays. “If you’d like me to call security,” he sighed without looking up from his screen, “then I can be of service to you in the blink of an eye.”

  “If I were you…” I began. I had to bluff my way through this. “If I were you, I’d at least have the courtesy to hear me out before I call someone. I’m a friend of Fulvia’s.”

  It had popped out before I realized. I don’t know how I’d come up with it. But he reacted as though he’d been stung by a wasp. “Fulvia Granelli?” he asked.

  “Granelli Fulvia,” I confirmed.

  “My apologies, I thought you were a foreigner. Might I see that document again? And what have you come for if I might ask? Alright, alright, I understand. This is highly irregular. Fourteenth floor. You can take the lift at the end of the corridor on the right.”