Malacqua

by Nicola Pugliese

  On receipt of the calm and peaceful news via radio, the authorities sighed deeply with relief and their faces settled into a half-smile: in fact, on the eve of Operation Sea Watch, there had been many doubts and intense discussions. It had even been feared that the operation might not go smoothly, indeed that there might be incidents and disorder. You know what schemers are like, always ready to take advantage of the slightest opportunity for attrition, and in short, on the eve, everyone had said let’s hope it goes well, and now that it was after one and the boys had sadly climbed back up to Montedidio, abandoning their outpost of the Villa Comunale and Molosiglio, it seemed that all had turned out for the best. Nothing could disturb that calm, serene air that breathed warmly now on the city’s promenade. And there was this air of resignation on the one hand, and of regained calm serenity on the other.

  And it was precisely in consideration of the fact that the situation was firmly and definitively under control, that Ferdinando De Rosa, Marshal of the Carabinieri, said fine, rummaged in his pockets, took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, drawing on it violently and with relief. Inhaling the smoke, he looked at the sea right in front of him, and there was this horizontal strip, the profile of Vesuvius, of Punta della Campanella, of the Isle of Capri. The sun bleached everything white. There were many boats on the water. He stood like that watching until he noticed that the sea seemed to be coming towards him. The first time he noticed he said to himself that’s impossible, that’s absolutely impossible. Or perhaps it is possible, what do I know about the sea? And in fact Ferdinando De Rosa reflected that he was profoundly ignorant about every aspect of the sea. Yes, there had been that thing about tides that come and go, which he had studied at school many years before, but apart from that he had never taken the slightest interest in the sea, not least and principally because of the fact that his wife’s illnesses, all nervous in origin, had repeatedly obliged them to take holidays, with the children the aunt and everybody, in the area around Lake Laceno, where they were all fine and entirely heedless of the disastrous effects of the sea on the nervous systems of people who suffered with their nerves. Because of that age-old habit he had gradually lost all contact with the sea. He had been left with a vague feeling of the time when he was a boy and sailing at school and he and his friends hired a rowing boat from the fishermen of Mergellina, and it was therefore a matter of rowing and rowing for hours under the sun. There were no bathing costumes in those days, there was nothing at all, those boys rowed cheerfully until they reached the open sea, and in the end with the heat and the sweat there was nothing for it but to strip off completely and throw themselves into the water. Every time he remembered that day, he inevitably also remembered a thin boy with glasses, no idea what his name was. He never wanted to get completely naked, so he swam in his very big white underpants which hung down because of the bony thinness of his legs and hips. He also remembered that if you lowered your head from the boat and stared at the sea it was as if you had gone to sleep. From below you couldn’t see anything but the slow movement of the water, the green and the azure blue, an unchanging stillness, an infinite variation of tones and colours. In the end the sunlight etched itself on his retinas. And in fact that was what he knew about the sun. Apart from jellyfish, which he had sometimes seen from the boat, and one of them had come very close to him, really close, while he was swimming in the water, but in the end nothing had happened that time, because calmly and keeping an eye on the jellyfish he had got back to the boat, he had hauled himself up on his arms and gone on staring at the water of the sea, strange, curious, transparent creature. Otherwise, he knew nothing about the sea. Ferdinando De Rosa had suddenly been very clear after getting married: Patrizia was sick with her nerves. The sea wasn’t really the reason, not at all, the fat doctor from the National Health had told him, but anyway she needed to holiday in a cool place in the countryside, in the hills if possible. In fact he was already aware by around the month of April, when it first turned warm, that Patrizia really couldn’t bear the heat, and at night she wandered the length the house and back again, and she couldn’t sleep, and in the morning she wore a face, hollow-eyed and shattered, as if she had done something in the course of the night, when in fact she hadn’t done anything at all. Sometimes he had surprised her in the early afternoon talking to herself on the terrace at home. At such moments he felt a pang in his heart, seeing her like that. Then he came slowly up behind her and gave her a kiss on the back of the neck, a kiss on the cheek, she smiled weakly as if to say thank you, yes exactly as if she was saying thank you, but in fact he was very clearly aware: Patrizia was far away, so far away. At that moment, and in the previous moments on that precise day, and on the previous days, she seemed sometimes to take refuge in that little corner that was all her own and withdraw from everything. It was because of Patrizia’s nervous frailty that in the end they had to call her aunt to ask if she couldn’t come and stay with them for a little while. Not so much to look after the house or the children, not that, so much as to keep Patrizia company for all the time that he was out on duty, and to check that her nervous fragility did not lead to anything serious, because who could guess the thoughts of a woman who was sick with nerves who was left at home alone with her children? Then the aunt had come to the house, and from the very first for Ferdinando De Rosa everything was immediately clear, oh yes: their life as a couple was shattered, shattered forever. But in any case there was nothing else to do, nothing else to do but keep a constant eye on Patrizia, and with those watches that they were doing at Gruppo Napoli II there wasn’t much to be cheerful about. He was particularly aware that with those watches he no longer had any time of his own. In fact some evenings he was tired, really tired and he came home and he saw his wife, and the children, and the aunt, and very often also Patrizia’s mother, a fat and unbearable woman who looked at him askance as if it was his fault that Patrizia had ended up in that state, as if it was because of the marriage, or perhaps the children he had given her, that her little Patrizia had ended up with that fragility of the nerves which meant that now she couldn’t even be left on her own, because her mother was afraid of something and everyone was really afraid of something, even if nothing ever happened, but how could you run the risk of something happening?, who would have assumed responsibility if something anomalous and terrible had happened all of a sudden? In short it had been for these remarkable reasons that he in one respect or another had never had anything to do with the sea, and every time he remembered the sea Ferdinando De Rosa remembered the boat trip with his friends, and the jellyfish, and not many other things.

  So when he had the impression, that morning, that the sea had grown, and that it had risen slightly, he was left with those doubts of his and the awareness of his own ignorance about the sea. He found himself thinking that perhaps he hadn’t seen properly, and that perhaps even if the sea had risen a little, it meant nothing but the recurrent play of the tides. He had studied at school but he didn’t really remember it now. Certainly there was a tide that rose and a tide that fell, and that was also bound up with the alternation of day and night, but in fact however many attempts he made he couldn’t really remember anything, he remembered only that vague thing and it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough at all. When he noticed for the first time, on that Sunday morning, 4 August, that the sea had grown, he stood in silence reflecting and waiting calmly and patiently. Besides, the sea was always the same placid sea, nothing to worry about in any respect, nothing that could cause anxious thoughts. The boats went as they always went, and on the parapet of Santa Lucia he had the good sense to make a mark so as to check the water level in future. So he made that visible mark and let a few minutes pass. As the time passed, letting the time pass, he felt something within him like a dark foreboding, a worry that was unjustified but vivid and real. Besides, his worry was broadly justified by what happened next, a few minutes later, when checking the mark he had made he noticed for the second time, this time without any doubt whatsoever
: the sea had risen again. And in itself this would not have mattered in the slightest had it not been for the mounting sense of foreboding which seemed to provide an interpretation of everything which aroused remote and indistinguishable fears. Ferdinando De Rosa now reflected that he might have been mistaken, insofar as this rising of the sea constituted a ritually composed and regular event, but in any case henceforth it was his duty to be mistaken in company and not only on his own. It was in consideration of such reflections that he also showed the other carabinieri in what way and to what extent the sea had now been rising for some minutes at that spot. At first a deep sense of dismay took hold of the militiamen, not least because it is difficult for any carabiniere, however expert, to stop the sea, or proceed to its identification, and you can’t take the sea by the arm or if called upon to do so use handcuffs, so this state of dull embarrassment prevailed for some time. On the other hand everyone found themselves thinking, Ferdinando De Rosa and all the others; if it is true on the one hand that this strange, unusual and alarming phenomenon may occur, it is also true on the other hand that nothing, nothing at all, on that morning of Sunday 5 August, gave any clue to any inauspicious or tragic events, and in any case the situation seemed to be under control, yes, even with the sea rising like that. Of course the best resolution, subject to later checks, was to alert the superiors, inform those who, being of higher rank, also indubitably had the task of solving problems and assuming certain responsibilities, and obviously that decision was not to be taken on the spur of the moment, certainly not, because there was still a fear of making a poor impression on one’s superiors. But it would also have to be said that in the meantime on the round terrace of Mergellina there was a murmur of fishermen who had seen the sea rising and couldn’t figure it out, because in the course of their lives they had seen all manner of things but they had quite definitely never seen the sea rising with that Olympian calm, that joyful, almost laughing serenity of rising waves. Because in fact, even though the sea was clearly rising no one could really find it in themselves to worry about it. The sea wasn’t swelling and it wasn’t getting dark and it didn’t seem to be threatening anything, and in the end it was a sea that was still clearly a friend, a friend to fisherfolk and people on boating trips, the same calm, familiar sea as ever, nothing at all that might raise anxieties or dark forebodings. Aside from that extremely concrete awareness of the unignorable fact that the sea, beyond any doubt, had begun to rise. Yes, it had begun to rise and seemed to be continuing to do so. The same carabinieri, on the wall at Santa Lucia, at last agreed that there was nothing to be done but to alert the superiors, and radio contact was therefore established with the headquarters of Gruppo Napoli II. In the meantime, the water level had reached the parapet, and from one minute to the next the sea was going to overflow on to the pavement and into the road, yes, it was going to overflow. That fateful moment came at last and it came at the very moment when the police instruction came from Napoli II headquarters that they were not under any circumstances to abandon their position. Upon receipt of that instruction the officers immediately fell into line with a strong sense of discipline. Moreover, perhaps the wisest thing to do in these circumstances was to go on guarding that spot. And then, in any case, it became clear to everyone, even when the water overflowed from the parapet and on to the pavement, that for the time being at least there was no danger. No danger of any kind, apart from the irritation of water getting into your shoes, and sticking your trousers to your calves, and to your socks, but that was merely a matter of discomfort, of continuous embarrassment, certainly not a dangerous situation. Then the patrol went on patrolling regularly, even though the water had now filled the whole width of the pavement and spilled from the kerb on to the tarmac of the road. It was that brackish seawater that ran from one pavement to the other. It advanced in slow rivulets, and there was always that patch of water pushing forwards, pointing the way, just as seawater does when it reaches the shore, except that this time there was no backwash, the patch of seawater, that thin veil, continued on its way. From Via Partenope it climbed up Via Nazario Sauro and then to Piazza del Plebiscito, and in fact people stopped to look, and there really was something to look at, if we are to maintain a degree of objectivity. Because in reality no one had ever seen anything like it before, and neither would they in all likelihood see anything like it again in days to come, and in the end the rising sea is a very strange phenomenon. Then the people gazed down in puzzlement at the tarmac and that patch of seawater advancing, advancing, followed by all the rest of the water from the sea. And it was clear to everyone that this was not just something that was happening as the result of some dramatic or evil trick, oh no. It was clear straight away that, however unusual or supernatural the nature of this event, it too somehow fell within the natural order of things, and it had its own specific reasons, and what was being observed at that moment was therefore not a negative event, far from it. Except that obviously none of them could help thinking and reflecting on the joyful, almost laughing nature of this phenomenon, and in the end their sense of wonder was remarkable, and in many respects justified, but such considerations remained deeply alien to the strength and why not the biological determination of the seawater, which from Piazza del Plebiscito in the course of a few minutes – what time could it be?, half past one in the afternoon? – went on rising up along Via Gennaro Serra and reached Montedidio, the houses, the streets and alleyways of Montedidio, and seeped into the basements. In fact the seawater was doing nothing other than undermining the houses, one by one, patiently and meticulously, all the ragged boys who had not been able to get to the rocks on Via Partenope, on Via Caracciolo, in Mergellina that morning, and the sea saw this as a gesture of love, and in fact that is exactly what it was. Many considered with vivid alarm that a shapeless and sometimes tarry liquid mass could feed on such feelings with regard to the boys who had been unable to swim that day, but the evidence of the facts was truly blinding, it had never been more blinding. That brackish water insinuated itself everywhere, licking soft calves, touching toes. On that day, which was Sunday 5 August, it was truly clear to everyone that if the boys had not gone to the sea because they had been prevented from so doing by Operation Sea Watch, the sea, for once, had come to find the boys. It had done so with the boys’ own cheerful and punctilious determination. In fact, thinking again now about that unusual event already slightly spoiled by the passing of time, thinking again now about that event on the morning of Sunday 5 August, it dawned on the mind that this had in all likelihood been an alert, a warning significant in its way, and in short the question which concerned us now was perhaps substantially the question of 5 August, or at least not dissimilar, even though then in fact they could not help noticing the latent anxiety they were feeling right now had been entirely unknown on that August day. In fact they all remembered very clearly how that August day had been a joyful and a laughing day, a holiday, while now this rain that was coming down and coming down was something much harsher and more cruel, more than anything it bent your head forcing you downwards, and the feeling had shed any connotation of gaiety, beyond any doubt. There was nothing to smile about any more, with this rain now, nothing at all in the end, and in fact the cruel harshness of a vague and heavy question was concentrating in people’s fists. On the city, if you looked up, that veil of rain was coming down and coming down, and the rain marked a fine weft in the distance, and the same thoughts were damp and wrinkled thoughts, deeply marked by that fine vertical rain that was falling falling on threads of water that mingled with the fallen water and the water that was yet to fall, and because now there was a harsh and deep and cruel awareness: this rain would continue, yes, it would continue until the event became apparent, until the ultimate significance became clear and apparent even to the most defenceless and the weakest minds. In fact all that remained was to reconsider everything, really everything, from a perspective other than this one of waiting opened up by the rain. Waiting weighed on hearts like a gigantic
press, fixed and inescapable, it fell with the harsh and heavy determination of continuous reproach. And that was the third day of rain. The city of Naples was so disheartened that it choked back its playful melancholic streak and folded away its florid thoughts in a dark corner of the house, along with the rubber mattress and battered fishing tackle.

  And it was not until 7.30pm on that same day that Pasquale De Crescenzo became fully aware that no more people were going to come. Then he looked dolefully at the seats in their neat rows, the fertilised plants, the Press Club flowers, the waiters coming and going, and it was as if they always had very many things to do. But in fact he wondered what they really had to do, given that there were not more than twenty people in the room, most of them friends and family members. He wondered also, looking dolefully towards the window, if that gloomy, stubborn rain that had been steadily falling for three days and with those sad conscious thoughts would cease. And there was a strange silence in that room, because in fact everyone was very careful not to speak, and everyone was in a state of waiting, at least waiting to know how it would all end. And besides if you are talking in public, it is necessary for the public to be large, so it then covers the murmur with its own murmur, and in the end gentlemen everyone wants to have their back covered in life, it is by no means a matter of leaving yourself exposed and isolated. In general those who expose themselves always come to a bad end, and in life hardly anyone wishes to come to a bad end and even if there was someone who did wish such a thing, or did until a few days ago, now in fact with that rain that was coming down and coming down, and those distorted questions, and that unusual waiting, now no longer wished such a thing, and wished instead to participate, and to be involved in things, and therefore not to expose themselves, no, not in the slightest. In the end there was this silence, in the room, and what became apparent, along with the faint sound of the rain falling, the muted gurgle, in the little bar, of the espresso machine. Pasquale De Crescenzo said to himself that in such circumstances it would be appropriate to close the glass door dividing the hall from the bar. In fact, he believed that writing poetry was difficult enough, but that of course more difficult and tricky, in this strange city but also elsewhere in all the cities of the world, was making people listen to poetry. Because you needed an unexpected detail, that was it, the muted gurgle of the coffee machine, to distract the mind, distract it, and remove it from the verses. Because in fact Pasquale De Crescenzo had noticed on more than one occasion: life is hostile, deeply hostile to poetry. Life is something extremely concrete and tangible that does not want poetry, it can’t bear it. And even with all those jokes, and all that flattery, and girls applauding, and saying oh yes oh yes, in fact things are different, he knew very well how things were. Many many times he had resisted, in the homes of friends, and had looked sadly up at the windowpanes, and from outside he had seen the night sky with all its lights. Then he reflected sadly that in all likelihood there was no point continuing with the evening as planned, and in the end it struck him as entirely pointless for Maria De Giovanni to deliver her opening introductory presentation to the lyric poems of Pasquale De Crescenzo. Above all for the extremely valid reason that there had as yet been no sign of Maria De Giovanni that evening, and she never would appear, and secondly because the poems of Pasquale De Crescenzo spoke for themselves, and there was no need for any presentation or introduction, gentlemen, because poetry is what it is, it is pleasing, if it is not pleasing on its own it is the poetry that is wrong, or perhaps you are incapable of grasping it. Having mulled these thoughts, Pasquale De Crescenzo then got to his feet resting his hands on the green tabletop, for a long time studied the bottle of mineral water and the empty bottles, the two ashtrays strategically placed in anticipation of a huge influx of people to the table of honour, he carefully studied his fingernails, the ten nails of his ten fingers, and said at last: gentlemen. I am truly sorry that adverse atmospheric conditions have kept numbers smaller than they would doubtless have been under different circumstances, but on the other hand we must take account of reality and adapt to it, you all know that this evening’s programme included, before the poetry reading, an introductory presentation by Professor Maria De Giovanni, who has been prevented from taking part by difficulties with public transport, and therefore, with great regret, we will all have to do without the programmed talk and I will find myself all alone, and besides I don’t really have much to say, I will tell you one thing only and I hope that you will all share my enthusiasm: the language of Ferdinando Russo and Salvatore Di Giacomo is not dead, it is alive and vital today more than ever, today and in the years to come, because the so-called vernacular is not a literary invention, an artificial construction made by experts and linguistic experimenters, but the most authentic, the most genuine and the most felt expression of an entire people, that people which, in the reign of the Bourbons, enjoyed a superior position in civil and artistic life, and from the perspective of their history went on to maintain a true individuality and singularity, inexpressible except through the purest expressions of the purest Neapolitan dialect, so, gentlemen, in the hope that it may serve some useful purpose I should like this evening to strike a blow for the defence and protection of our language. Well, considering my brief introduction is at an end, let us move on to the poetry, which may not be great poetry, it may not pass into the literary history of this great city and this country, but it most certainly constitutes concrete testimony of a love of the city, a love of Naples, which is the truly unique characteristic of all the sons of Queen Partenope, and now we have come to the poems which as you know have been collected in a volume by the publisher Cosentino Fausto under the title Napule ca luce, and I should like to begin this short meeting with one of the poems closest to my heart, which seems to me to be particularly indicative of the possibility of making poetry today in the Partenopean vernacular, the poem in question is entitled ‘L’Ammore è ’na palomma’. Love is a Dove. So Pasquale De Crescenzo began in that faltering voice of his, and as always happened, down in the depths of his throat he became aware of a tremor in his vocal cords. But that only affected the first few lines, he knew very well, he realised that every time, that soon his voice would be coming out very smoothly, his voice would acquire pleasing and elastic inflections, and at last he began