My First Seven Years (Plus a Few More)

by Dario Fo

  ‘Second episode: Medea, with the collaboration of Orpheus, puts the dragon to sleep long enough to allow the Argonauts to snatch the Golden Fleece without too much trouble. Medea, now deeply in love with Jason, decides to follow him. The hero promises her that the moment they reach a peaceful, safe place, he will take her as his bride. The king, the father of the young enchantress, goes absolutely wild at the news. Those bastards from Achaea have pilfered his fleece, and now they’re off with the daughter whom he had promised to a neighbouring king. In a rage, he gives chase to the thieves’ ship.

  ‘So as to foil her father who, with his ships packed with warriors, was catching up on the Argonauts, Medea executes an act of unthinkable ferocity: she slaughters her younger brother whom she had brought along with her. She tears him to pieces and scatters his severed limbs in the fields along the coast. In despair, the king moors at the shore and stops to search, with the help of his men, for the fragments of his son’s body. This horrendous stratagem gives the Achaeans the advantage and allows them to reach the Straits of the Bosphorus, but alas! the opening is blocked by another of the king’s fleets which had gone ahead. Once again they are saved by Medea who shows Jason a different escape route, up the mouth of the Danube which opens right in front of them.’

  As he spoke, the professor showed me on the Byzantine map the fugitives’ only possible route. ‘Hercules did not agree: “If we go this way, we will have to proceed to the land of the Germans, then across a great chain of mountains with the ship on our backs.” “You’ve got to choose: either extend the journey or accelerate death!” replies Medea. “The girl’s right,” comments the ox’s skull on the prow, “take it or leave it.”’

  ‘After a few months, raiding and slaughtering here and there to ensure their own survival, they reach the sources of the Danube. With the ship on their backs and labouring like beasts, they come out on the Rhine, and from there, sailing for several moons against the current, they enter Lake Constance. More moons. They curse their way across the Alps, still with their vessel on their backs. They finally reach Italy and come down into Lake Maggiore.’

  I stood there with my mouth hanging open. My eyes, too, were wide open.

  ‘Incredible! The Argonauts arriving here in our land! OK, it’s a myth, but we’re not going to find it’s merely nonsense, are we?’

  ‘Certainly, you can expect anything with myths, but this adventure was recounted by at least three separate bards, several centuries apart from one another, and they were all in agreement on the route of the voyage. Look here, I’ve got another two maps. Compare them with the first. The red line which marks the journey goes in the same direction on all three. Look, this mark shows the spot where the ship berths.’

  ‘But it’s on our shores! This must be the mouth of the Tresa and here, this inlet…’

  ‘You’re right. It is our coastline. The temple of the oracle used to be in the port of the Valtravaglia.’

  ‘We used to have an oracle here?’

  ‘And what’s so odd about that? Every ancient civilisation had at least a couple. In our lands, in these valleys, we had the Celts, or more exactly the Senones, in other words the primordial Celtic race.’

  ‘All right, so what did these Argonauts have to do with this oracle?’

  ‘They had to perform a sacrificial rite inside the temple which was hewn out at the foot of the waterfall, in order to purge themselves of all the crimes and pillage carried out in Colchis and on the rest of the voyage. Medea, in particular, had to purify herself, free herself of the ignominy of having killed her brother and dispersed his limbs. She knew that the commission of that crime would cause her dreadful labour pains. Every one of the Argonauts had to be present at that birth: Medea’s pain would liberate their consciences too. As is always the case, it is the woman who does the purgation for everyone.’

  ‘The daughter of the king of Colchis is laid out on the temple floor, and then her sufferings begin. Medea is seized by terrible contractions. Spasms follow hard one after the other, causing her face to be deformed by pain. The unborn child screams from inside his mother’s womb. At first, they are meaningless screeches, but gradually they are transformed into a series of curses of unthinkable ferocity: it is the voice of the oracle speaking through the cries of the child. The Argonauts listen to the list of all their misdeeds … the body of Medea has become almost transparent and inside her womb the child thrashes about and continues to scream insults and threats. The heroes bend down until their faces are level with the floor: soaked with sweat, they weep. The labour is interminable … at last the son of Jason and Medea is born, the very child whom, not long afterwards, his mother will slaughter to take her revenge!’

  At the conclusion of the story, I too felt damp with sweat and it was with difficulty that I asked: ‘Is it from that awful birth that our valley takes its name?’

  ‘Indeed,’ concluded the professor. ‘Valle del Travaglio, the Valley of Labour, nowadays Valtravaglia. After Medea’s labour pains.’

  ‘Incredible. I thought it referred to the labours of work.’

  ‘Perhaps that is the correct origin. In fact it is as well never to place undue trust in etymologies which are overloaded with mystic tragedy!’

  ‘In any case, whether it’s a question of a reliable event or of some fantasy, the whole epic is a wonderful tale. It’s strange that Homer didn’t grab it for himself.’

  ‘In that case, you take full advantage and reinvent it at once! Hurry up because the ancients always return, and they claim everything back, including your newest fantasies!’

  CHAPTER 21

  Physical Harmony

  For us children who lived along the lakeside, what game could rival splashing about in the water, diving from rocks and rowing on any kind of craft? We did not view any of these activities as sports or organised disciplines but as enjoyable pastimes in which we challenged each other to see who was fastest, most agile or most daring. Our life was one long wallow in water.

  On the beach, we took note of how the older boys swam, especially if they showed signs of possessing experience and style. Often we took our courage in both hands and asked them for a few hints, in other words, asked them to be to some extent our masters.

  Thus I learned that in swimming the most important thing is not strength but harmony: everything, every part of the body, every limb must glide smoothly, without upsetting the delicate balance between movement and breathing. Working in the theatre a dozen or so years later, I discovered that producing the maximum impact with the minimum of effort and gesture was the principal rule for every mime and every actor worth his salt. It was not a particularly stunning discovery. Shakespeare himself, through the words of Hamlet, advised actors to move and perform with intensity and ‘temperance’, rather than with any useless waste of energy.

  But let us go back to swimming. I felt in my element in the water, even if, as happens with all boys who are passionate about a game but lack discipline and measure, I tended to go over the score. Often, even when the sun was shining, my companions and I came out of the lake blue and trembling with the cold. There was the danger of getting caught by icy currents which could easily cause painful cramps, and which could have dire consequences. Since we always went swimming in groups, we were in a position to help one another. If one of us was seized by spasms of crampul, we knew how to massage the muscle affected back to life.

  Our second great passion was rowing. The dream of each of us was one day to acquire a boat of his own, but our limited resources made this dream almost unachievable. Occasionally, we were able to take advantage of the generosity of some holiday-maker who allowed us to play about in their boat, and more frequently we were able to go out on the boats of the fishermen, but to sit behind an oar was for us a driving need: breathe in, arch, take the strain, rise, breathe out, stretch, release, bend, and back to the beginning, all the while dipping oars in water. I had discovered that, as with swimming, perfect coordination of movement ensures maxim
um speed with minimum effort. The key to progress, however, was the ability to train constantly, but with no boat of my own, how was this to be done? The solution to the problem lay in Milan.

  * * *

  Every year in Milan, those who studied at the Brera were taken on to set up exhibitions at the Fiera Campionaria, the Trade Fair. The pay was reasonably good, but the work was murderous. It involved developing projects, completing decorations by painting or erecting models, putting up various plastic books, scribbling out gigantic letters or improvising at the last minute solutions to publicity difficulties.

  I was not yet seventeen when I was employed to prepare an enormous stand which should have taken at least a month. At the inauguration of the fair, I was totally exhausted. I had spent the previous two nights without a wink of sleep, and when I got home it was already daybreak. Before leaving the fair, I crossed the entire pavilion where the prototypes of canoes and competition-class rowing boats with a mobile rowing mechanism were on display. There was one which had fascinated me, a ‘one-off’ with ash-wood hull and sliding-seat.

  When I got to my bed, I slept uninterruptedly for twenty hours. Just before waking up, I dreamt of that racing skiff skimming lightly over the water, and it was me who, with a casual touch of the oars, made it go. After a while, the boat took off into the air and I was in flight. I passed over the wharf, flew over the great harbour, touched the top of the church tower and glided through the clouds back down to the lake …

  At the end of the week, I was back at the Fiera to draw my wages for the installation work, a decent sum of money. I went into the pavilion where my boat was on display and asked if I could have a closer look at it, to examine it properly. The attendant stared at me with ill-disguised, annoyed condescension and said: ‘But please, don’t touch!’

  I looked back at him with a malicious smile and then asked: ‘Can I at least give it a little lick?’ The attendant gazed at me in surprise and then burst out laughing, but from that moment he relaxed. He helped me to lift it, weigh it and contemplate its design from all angles, both right way up and upside down. It was a masterpiece, as beautiful and elegant as a dolphin … no, even more beautiful: it was a mermaid fit to win any competition!

  I bought it. I put nearly all my capital into it, but it was by any standards worth every penny. To keep a close eye on the carrier who would be transporting it to the lake, I oversaw in person the packaging and loading, and then, so as not to let it out of my sight, I climbed into the cabin beside the lorry driver.

  For the launch, I was down at the quay at seven o’clock in the morning. Almost all my friends in the gang came along to give a hand in lowering the skiff into the water. Each one had his own enthusiastic comments to make.

  As we raised the hull, my legs were shaking as though I were about to make love to it. The balance was so precarious that at every movement I risked keeling over, and I immediately shipped water, but as soon as I gripped the oars in my hands and began to move backwards and forwards on the sliding-seat, the boat surged forward smoothly, cutting through the small waves like a blade. The speed was impressive. The skiff seemed to be propelled by a silent, hidden engine. My friends applauded and all together implored: ‘Give us a shot, give us a chance as well!’

  The right to use each other’s things, whether it was a bicycle or a boat, at least once, was a kind of iron rule among the lakeside clan. No, I was not keen on the idea. It was as though I were being forced to let them try my woman, one by one, but there was no escape. So I was compelled to halt my boat in the water and let them get in one after the other and, as if that were not enough, to teach each of them how to control it and make the seat move so as to obtain maximum advantage in rowing. To put up with their shouts of joy and to stand by as they inevitably overturned the boat, which had then to be lifted out of the water, emptied and dried out, was for me the equivalent of being scourged.

  At the end of it all, I was left alone with my skiff once again in my arms. I lifted it up and, carrying it on my head like the god of the Amazons, I almost ran home, fearful that those idiots would follow me with shouts of: ‘Come back! Give us another shot!’

  * * *

  On the beach along from the bridge where we would go to bathe, there were whole family groups evacuated because of the bombing. Among that colony of strangers, it was impossible not to notice two stupendous girls, both more or less fourteen years old. The one had locks of dark, curly hair, the other had blonde, straight hair. The two friends ran and jumped about in and out of the water, laughing and showing off two elegant, slim bodies in a non-stop mannequin parade.

  Each one of us gawked at them, alternating between moments of wonder and flushes of heat, but we were taken aback by their behaviour: it was as if we were not there. To get ourselves noticed, we threw ourselves off the mooring masts which jutted out of the water and made a flashy display with pirouetting dives, but those two strangers did not deign to pay us any attention. They were often on their own, especially in the water, where they swam with perfect style: arm and leg breast-stroke movements that would have graced any competition … that is, they dipped of sight under the water level to reappear with a scissors-kick of the legs.

  We were not inferior as regards style, and in particular we knew perfectly well the movement of the currents and how to take advantage of them to have ourselves carried along more quickly.

  Of the two, the one who attracted me more was Lucy, with her dark, curly hair. I managed to speak to her for a moment in the water. She and Jute, her friend of German origin, had ventured very far out. Taking advantage of a current parallel to the direction they had taken, I caught up with them and warned them: ‘Careful, you’re right in the middle of a cold current. You could get cramp. I’d advise you to shift over a few strokes in the direction of the mountain, where I’ve come from. The current there is warmer and it helps you to move more quickly.’

  Both of them smiled and thanked me, especially Lucy, who came over to me and asked how to work out the direction and quality of the currents. I could not believe that I was being given the chance to display my knowledge as scientist of the lakelands. I felt like the complete master of the waters!

  She even paid me a compliment: ‘You have a fine style of entry into the water. Who taught you?’

  ‘I learned here on the lake, watching those who are good at it.’ I would have liked to say something gracious to her as well, but I was as dumbstruck as a pickled perch.

  Back on shore, we said goodbye to each other, and I did not see her for a week. Perhaps she had gone to a different beach, perhaps she had left. A few days later, I wandered along the pathway dug into the cliffside above the lime kilns further along the coast. Down below, in a kind of green harbour, there was someone playing in the water. I recognised her at once: it was her, in the company of young man with whom she was skylarking. He was diving under water and tossing her up in the air; both were laughing uproariously. A few paces more and I was standing on a kind of balcony above them. She caught sight of me, and gave me a faint wave. Her friend pushed her underwater, and she came bouncing back to the surface, but as she thrashed about, legs flailing, she unintentionally gave him a sharp kick on the male reproductive bits and pieces. The lad let out a piercing scream, and I could not help exploding in laughter. Lucy, too, burst out laughing, but he shot me a look of undying hatred.

  A few days later, it was the feast of the Calend de Magg, May Day. On top of Mount Domo, the peasants had planted a flowering tree. It was an ancient rite, still called, in Tuscany, the Piantar maggio, the Planting of May. A long pole whose top was decorated with peach, apple and cherry shoots and covered with newly blossoming flowers was driven into the ground. The Fascists did not take kindly to this rite, in part because for almost half a century the Piantar maggio was also a celebration of Labour Day, but the regime turned a blind eye to it and let folk get on with it. It was a lovely day. There was not a ripple on the lake as I set off in my boat, pushing gently, with no great e
ffort, towards the island of Cannero where stood the ruins of the Malpaga Castle, named after the famous pirate brothers who had built it in the sixteenth century. I was almost at the centre of the lake when I became aware of someone swimming a little ahead of me. This person was doing a harmonious crawl, well up to competition standard, and bobbed in and out of the water. She shook her long, black hair. It was her, Lucy! I greeted her, and she turned, smiling but surprised.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s bit risky to come so far out on your own?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jute and her brother will be along in a moment to pick me up on their motorboat. I dived in ten minutes ago. They’re going to the island and they’ll be here any time now.’

  ‘If you like, I’ll stop and wait for them with you.’

  ‘No,’ she said, abruptly, ‘thank you but I prefer to be on my own … forgive me.’ And she started off, dipping her face into the water at every stroke. I continued on my way, sinking the oars deep into the water. I moved off, mortified and more than a little offended. ‘Who does she think she is, this stuck-up, conceited so-and-so? “No, thank you but I prefer to be on my own!”’

  It was the first time a girl had spoken down to me in that way. Whereas the others, they…? It was not that I had girlfriends.

  I looked out at the island with the castle to see if there was any sign of the motorboat, but there was nothing to be seen. On the other side, behind the headland along the coast, I noticed a black line running along the bottom of the lake.

  ‘Madonna!’ I exclaimed, ‘that’s the sign that the inverna wind is getting up, which means there’ll be a storm. It’ll be on us in less than twenty minutes … and those imbeciles on the motorboat are not even on the horizon!’ I stopped rowing and turned the boat round. I went at breakneck speed towards the centre of the lake, caught up with Lucy who was now agitated and in difficulty.