When the sirocco blows the human skin perspires, the cheekbones sparkle in faces dripping with grimy sweat and overlaid with a black down which leaves a dirty moist shadow about eyes, lips and ears. Even voices sound thick and lazy, and words have an unwonted meaning, a mysterious significance, as though they belonged to a forbidden jargon. The people walk in silence, as though oppressed by a secret anguish, and the children pass long hours seated mutely on the ground, nibbling crusts of bread or fruit black with flies, or looking at the cracked walls on which can be seen the motionless outlines of lizards, embedded by mildew in the ancient plaster. The air is heavy with the perfume of the brilliant carnations which stand in terracotta vases on the window-sills. The voice of a woman, singing, ascends now from this side, now from that: the song echoes slowly from window to window, coming to rest on the sills like a weary bird.
The odour of cold smoke from the fire in the Cellamare palace pervaded the dense, sticky atmosphere. Sadly I inhaled that odour of a captured city, sacked and consigned to the flames, the ancient odour of an Ilium enveloped in smoke from burning buildings and funeral pyres, prostrate on the shore of a sea crowded with enemy ships, under a mould-specked sky, beneath which the flags of the conquering peoples, who had hurried forward from all the corners of the earth to take part in the long siege, grew mouldy in the wind that blew in hoarse, steamy, fetid gusts from the far horizon.
I walked down Via Chiaia in the direction of the sea, surrounded by crowds of Allied soldiers who thronged the pavements, jostling and pushing one another and shouting in a hundred strange, unfamiliar tongues, as they made their way along the banks of the raging river of vehicles which flowed tumultously through the narrow street. And I felt amazingly ridiculous in my green uniform, which was riddled with bullets from our own rifles, and had been stripped from the corpse of an English soldier who had fallen at El Alamein or Tobruk. I felt lost in that hostile throng of foreign soldiers, who pushed me on my way with violent shoves, used elbows and shoulders to thrust me to one side, and turned back, looking contemptuously at the gold braid on my uniform and saying to me in furious voices: "You bastard, you son of a bitch, you dirty Italian officer."
And I thought to myself as I walked: "Who knows how one says 'You bastard, you son of a bitch, you dirty Italian officer' in French? And how one says it in Russian, in Serb, in Polish, in Danish, in Dutch, in Norwegian, in Arabic? Who knows, I thought, how one says it in Brazilian? And in Chinese? And in Indian, in Bantu, in Madagascan? Who knows how one says it in German?" And I laughed as I thought that that conquerors' jargon must certainly translate very well into German too—even into German—because German too, compared with Italian, was the language of a victorious people. I laughed as I thought that all the languages of the earth, even Bantu and Chinese, even German, were the languages of victorious peoples, and that we alone, we Italians alone, in Via Chiaia, Naples, and in all the streets of all the cities of Italy, spoke a language which was not that of a victorious people. And I felt proud of being a poor "Italian bastard," a poor "son of a bitch."
I looked about me in the crowd for someone who, like me, felt proud of being a poor "Italian bastard," a poor "son of a bitch." I looked hard into the faces of all the Neapolitans I met, lost like me in that noisy crowd of conquerors, pushed like me on one side with violent shoves, with elbow-thrusts in the ribs: poor wan, emaciated men, women with thin white faces hideously restored to life with rouge, skinny children with enormous eyes, ravenous and fearful; and I felt proud of being an "Italian bastard" like them, a "son of a bitch" like them.
But something in their faces, in their expressions, made me feel humble. There was something about them that wounded me deeply. It was an insolent pride, the vile, horrible pride of hunger, the arrogant and at the same time humble pride of hunger. They did not suffer in their souls, but only in their bodies. They suffered no kind of pain other than bodily pain. And suddenly I felt lonely and strange in that crowd of conquerors and poor starving Neapolitans. I was ashamed that I was not hungry. I blushed because I was only an "Italian bastard," a "son of a bitch," and nothing worse. I felt ashamed that I too was not a poor starving Neapolitan; and elbowing my way along the street I escaped from the press of the crowd and set foot on the first step of the Gradoni di Chiaia.
* * * *
The long flight of steps was cluttered up with women, seated one beside the other, as on the tiers of an amphitheatre, and it seemed that they were there to enjoy some wonderful spectacle. They laughed as they sat, talking among themselves in high-pitched voices, or eating fruit, or smoking, or sucking caramels, or chewing gum. Some were leaning forward, their elbows on their knees, their faces buried in their clasped hands; others lolled back with their arms on the step above them; others yet rested lightly on their sides; and all were shouting and calling one another by name, exchanging voices and formless oral sounds, rather than words, with their companions seated lower down or higher up, or with the shrieking attendant crowd of dishevelled, repulsive old women on the balconies and at the windows overhanging the alley, who, their toothless mouths agape with obscene laughter, were waving their arms and hurling gibes and insults. The women seated on the steps were straightening one another's locks, which in every case were gathered together and built up into a lofty edifice of hair and tow, reinforced and supported by hair-pins and tortoiseshell combs, and adorned with flowers and false tresses, in the style of the wax Madonnas in the little chapels at the corners of the alleys.
This crowd of women sitting on the steps, which resembled the ladder of the Angels in Jacob's dream, seemed to have come together for some celebration, or for some play in which they were at once actresses and spectators. At intervals one of them would sing a song, one of those melancholy songs of the Neapolitan people. This would at once be drowned by outbursts of laughter, raucous voices, and guttural yells which sounded like appeals for help or cries of pain.
But there was a certain dignity about those women, about their varied postures, now obscene, now comic, now solemn, about the very disorder of the tableau which they presented. A certain nobility even, revealed in some of their gestures, in the way they raised their arms to touch their temples with the tips of their fingers, to straighten their hair each with her two plump and dexterous hands, in the way they turned their heads and inclined them on their shoulders, as though the better to hear the voices and the obscene words which floated down from the balconies and windows above, and in the very way in which they spoke and smiled. Suddenly, when I set foot on the first step, all became mute, and a strange palpitating silence, like an immense variegated butterfly, settled lightly on the packed stairway.
In front of me walked a number of negro soldiers in their close-fitting khaki uniforms, swaying on flat feet encased in thin shoes of yellow leather which shone as if they were made of gold. Slowly they climbed, in that sudden silence, with the lonely dignity of the negro; and as they advanced up the steps, through the narrow passage left free by that mute crowd of seated women, I saw the legs of those unfortunates slowly splay open. "Five dollars! Five dollars!" they suddenly began to cry all together, in hoarse, strident voices, but without gestures; and this absence of gestures added obscenity to their voices and their words. "Five dollars! Five dollars!" As the negroes ascended, so the clamour increased, the voices became shriller, hoarser and hoarser grew the cries of the termagants on the balconies and at the windows, as they goaded the negroes on and joined in the chorus of yells: "Five dollars! Five dollars! Go, Joe! Go, Joe! Go, go, Joe, go!"
But no sooner had the negroes gone by, no sooner had their gilded feet moved from a step, than the legs of the girls who were sitting on that step slowly closed again, and the girls turned round, gesticulating, shaking their fists and shouting obscene insults at the negro soldiers, beside themselves with intense, savage fury, until first one negro, then another, then yet another stopped, seized as he passed by ten or twenty hands. And I continued to climb the triumphal ladder of the Angels, which rose str
aight into the sky, into that festering sky from which the hoarse sirocco tore fragments of greenish skin, and scattered them over the sea.
* * * *
I felt far more miserable and cowardly than I had done on September 8th, 1943, when we had had to throw our arms and our flags at the feet of the conquerors. They were old, rusty arms, it is true, but they were precious family mementoes, and all of us, officers and men, were attached to those precious family mementos. They consisted of old rifles, old sabres, old cannon of the period when women wore crinolines and men tall stove-pipe hats, dove-grey redingotes and high boots with buttons. With those shotguns, those rust-covered sabres, and those bronze cannon our grandfathers had fought alongside Garibaldi, Victor Emmanuel and Napoleon III against the Austrians, for the freedom and independence of Italy. The flags too were old and démodé. Some were very old: they were the flags of the Republic of Venice, which had flown from the masts of the galleys at Lepanto and from the towers of Famagosta and Candia; the ensigns of the Republic of Genoa and those of the Communes of Milan, Crema and Bologna, which had flown from the Carrcccio{2} in the battles against the German Emperor Frederick Barbarossa; the standards painted by Sandro Botticelli, which Lorenzo the Magnificent had given to the archers of Florence; the standards of Siena, painted by Luca Signorelli; and the Roman flags of the Capitol, painted by Michelangelo. In addition, there was the flag presented to Garibaldi by the Italians of Valparaiso, and the flag of the Roman Republic of 1849. There were also the flags of Vittorio Veneto, of Trieste, of Fiume, of Zara, of Ethiopia, of the Spanish War. They were glorious flags, among the most glorious of the earth and the sea. Why should only the British, American, Russian, French and Spanish flags be glorious? The Italian flags are glorious too. If they were not, what pleasure should we have derived from throwing them in the mud? There is not a nation in the world that has not once at least had the pleasure of throwing its flags at the feet of conquerors. It falls to the lot of even the most glorious flags to be thrown in the mud. Glory, what men call glory, is often thick with mud.
It had been a wonderful day for us, September 8th, 1943—the day on which we had thrown our arms and our flags not only at the feet of the conquerors, but also at the feet of the conquered; not only at the feet of the British, the Americans, the French, the Russians, the Poles and all the rest, but also at the feet of the King, Badoglio, Mussolini and Hitler. We had thrown them at the feet of all, victors and vanquished—even at the feet of those with whom it had nothing whatever to do, and who sat back enjoying the spectacle. We had even thrown them at the feet of the passers-by, and of all those whom the spirit moved to assist at the unusual, diverting spectacle of an army throwing its arms and its flags at the feet of the first comer. Not, indeed, that our army was any worse or any better than countless others. In that glorious war—let us be fair—it had not fallen to the lot of the Italians alone to turn their backs on the enemy: that experience had been shared by all—by the British, the Americans, the Germans, the Russians, the French, the Jugoslavs—by all, victors and vanquished. There was not an army in the world which in that splendid war had not, on some fine day, had the pleasure of throwing its arms and its flags in the mud.
The order signed by the King's Gracious Majesty and by Marshal Badoglio actually contained the following words: "Officers and men of the Italian Army, throw your arms and your flags like heroes at the feet of the first comer." There was no possibility of error. The actual phrase used was "like heroes." Even the words "first comer" were written with great distinctness, so that there might be no room for doubt. To be sure, it would have been far better for all, victors and vanquished, and far better for us too, if we had received the order to throw down our arms not, indeed, in 1943, but in 1940 or 1941, when it was the fashion in Europe to throw one's arms at the feet of the conqueror. Everybody would have said "Well done!" It is quite true that everybody had said "Well done!" on September 8th, 1943. But they had said it because, in all honesty, they could not say anything else.
It had been in truth a most beautiful spectacle—a diverting spectacle. All of us, officers and men vied with one another to see which of us could throw our arms and flags in the mud most "heroically." We threw them at the feet of everyone, victors and vanquished, friend and foe, even at the feet of the passers-by, even at the feet of those who, not knowing what it was all about, stopped and looked at us in amazement. Laughingly we threw our arms and our flags in the mud, and immediately ran to pick them up so that we could start all over again. "Long five Italy!" cried the enthusiastic crowd, the good-natured, laughing, noisy, gay Italian crowd. All— men, women and children—seemed drunk with joy, all clapped their hands, crying: "Encore! Well done! Encore!" And we, weary, perspiring, breathless, our eyes sparkling with manly pride, our faces alight with patriotic fervour, heroically threw our arms and flags at the feet of victors and vanquished, and immediately ran to pick them up so that we could throw them in the mud once more. Even the Allied soldiers, the British, the Americans, the Russians, the French, the Poles, clapped their hands and threw large handfuls of caramels in our faces, crying: "Well done! Encore! Long live Italy!" And we, with sickly smiles, threw our arms and flags in the mud, and immediately ran to pick them up so that we could start all over again.
It had been truly a glorious spree, an unforgettable spree. In three years of war we had never had such a feast of entertainment. By evening we were dead tired, our faces ached from our Homeric laughter, but we were proud because we had done our duty. The celebration over, we formed a column, and just as we were, without arms, without flags, set off for new battle-fields, seeking to win at the side of the Allies that same war which we had already lost at the side of the Germans. We marched with heads high, singing, proud at having taught the peoples of Europe that in these days the only way to win wars is to throw one's arms and one's flags heroically in the mud, "at the feet of the first comer."
CHAPTER III - THE WIGS
THE first time I felt afraid that I had caught the contagion, that I too had been stricken by the plague, was when I went with Jimmy to the "wig" shop. I felt humiliated by the loathsome disease in the very part of my anatomy which in an Italian is most sensitive—the sexual organs. The genitals have always played a very important part in the lives of the Latin peoples, especially in the lives of the Italian people and in the history of Italy. The true emblem of Italy is not the tricolour but the sexual organs, the male sexual organs. The patriotism of the Italian people is all there. Honour, morals, the Catholic religion, the cult of the family—all are there, in our sexual organs, which are worthy of our ancient and glorious traditions of civilization. No sooner had I crossed the threshold of the "wig" shop than I felt that the plague was humiliating me in what, to every Italian, is the only, the true Italy.
The vendor of "wigs" had his shack near the Ceppo di Forcella, in one of the most miserable and sordid quarters of Naples.
"You are all rotten, in Europe," said Jimmy to me as we walked through the maze of alleys wliich wraps itself, like a coil of intestines, round the Piazza Olivella.
"Europe is the land of men," I said. "There are no more virile men in the world than those born in Europe."
"Men? You call yourselves men?" said Jimmy, laughing and slapping his thigh.
"Yes, Jimmy, there are no nobler men in the world than those who are born in Europe," I said.
"A lot of dirty bastards, that's what you are," said Jimmy.
"We are a wonderful race of conquered men, Jimmy," I said.
"A lot of dirty bastards," said Jimmy. "At heart you're glad you've lost the war, aren't you?"
"You're right, Jimmy, it's a real stroke of luck for us that we've lost the war. The only thing that irks us a little is that it will be our job to rule the world. It is the defeated who rule the world, Jimmy. It's always like that after a war. It's always the defeated who bring civilization to the victorious countries."
"What? Do you really think that you're going to bring civilization to Amer
ica?" said Jimmy, looking at me with amazement and fury in his eyes.
"That's just the way of it, Jimmy. Even Athens, when she had the good fortune and the honour to be conquered by the Romans, was forced to bring civilization to Rome."
"To hell with your Athens, to hell with your Rome!" said Jimmy, looking at me askance.
Jimmy walked through those filthy alleys, in the midst of that miserable populace, with an elegance and a nonchalance which only Americans possess. No one on this earth save the Americans can move about with such easy, smiling grace among people who are filthy, starved and unhappy. It is not a sign of insensibility: it is a sign of optimism and at the same time of innocence. The Americans are not cynics, they are optimists; and optimism is in itself a sign of innocence. He who is blameless in thought and deed is led not, to be sure, to deny that evil exists, but to refuse to believe in the necessity of evil, to refuse to admit that evil is inevitable and incurable. The Americans believe that misery, hunger, pain and everything else can be combated, that men can recover from misery, hunger and pain, that there is a remedy for all evil. They do not know that evil is incurable. They do not know, although they are in many respects the most Christian nation in the world, that without evil there can be no Christ. "No love, no nothin'." No evil, no Christ. The less evil there is in the world, the less of Christ there is in the world. The Americans are good. Faced with misery, hunger and pain, their first instinct is to help those who suffer hunger, misery and pain. There is no people in the world that has so strong, so pure, so genuine a sense of human solidarity. But Christ demands from men pity, not solidarity. Solidarity is not a Christian sentiment.
Jimmy Wren, of Cleveland, Ohio, a Lieutenant in the Signal Corps, was, like the great majority of the officers and men of the American Army, a good fellow. When an American is good, there is no better man in the world. It was not Jimmy's fault if the people of Naples suffered. That terrible spectacle of grief and misery offended neither his eyes nor his heart. Jimmy's conscience was at rest. Like all Americans, by that contradiction which characterizes all materialistic civilizations, he was an idealist. To evil, misery, hunger and physical suffering he ascribed a moral character. He did not appreciate their remote historical and economic causes, but only the seemingly moral reasons for their existence. What could he have done to try and alleviate the appalling physical sufferings of the people of Naples, of the peoples of Europe? All that Jimmy could do was to take upon himself part of the moral responsibility for their sufferings, not as an American, but as a Christian. Perhaps it would be better to say not only as a Christian, but also as an American. And that is the real reason why I love the Americans, why I am profoundly grateful to the Americans, and regard them as the most generous, the purest, the best and the most disinterested people on earth—a wonderful people.
The Skin Page 6
