‘What’s wrong with the idea, ma’am? We want to get things tidied up. It’s gross down there. It’s ugly and we get hurt playing football. Maybe we could even grow vegetables.’
Needless to say, the idea came to me thanks to a line in The Tempest, when I go to tell Prospero the parts of the island where the shipwreck victims have wound up.
‘The king’s son have I landed by himself; whom I left cooling of the air with sighs in an odd angle of the isle and sitting, his arms in this sad knot,’ says Ariel, who has treated the young prince Ferdinand with the utmost respect. This line always makes me sad. It reminds me that I was born a hundred and fifty metres from the sea, and I miss it desperately. I picture Ferdinand sitting on a bed of aromatic seaside grass. I’ve never seen anything like that before, though, so I went to the library and got Bennett to give me a big book with drawings and descriptions of flowers and plants. While I was flicking through it, I got the idea.
‘Guys, how about we make a garden?’
‘A garden, where?’ At first, the other actors were sceptical.
‘Down in the yard, where we have our exercise hour.’ The space we use for the exercise hour is just a patch of dry ground with a few weeds, as barren as a war zone. On one side there are the cells of prisoners who have been given extra punishment, on the other side there’s a covered area for hanging out washing, and beyond that the cement area where we play football. It’s a space that could make a whole troupe of clowns miserable.
Several of us belong to an environmental group, where we do what we can with a donation of ten euros a month from prison. Those who have leave permits sometimes clean up public parks and piazzas when they’re on the outside. So why not turn our hellish yard into the garden of Eden, to put it in a way Dante might like? What’s more logical than that?
So off I went to ask the section head.
‘Striano, leaving aside the fact that you have a hundred ideas for each one you actually follow through on, I’d be happy to allow this. It would be nice, and it would be something I’d feel proud of,’ she tells me. She has the tone of voice of a person explaining something that ought to be obvious even to an idiot. ‘But you’re maximum-security prisoners. How can I allow you to have picks, shovels…’
I hadn’t even thought of that. It’s true: what might be simple garden tools on the outside take on a whole other appearance in a place where even a belt is considered a weapon…And how can you do gardening without digging, without breaking up the soil?
‘But we wouldn’t use them as weapons! We’re normal people!’ I try to protest.
‘Striano, you’re really not all that normal.’
I look around the office in search of inspiration, praying to Shakespeare for a brilliant idea. Then my eyes fall on the coffee maker.
‘Ma’am, if I wanted to, I could kill you with that coffee maker,’ I say.
‘Excuse me?’ She doesn’t leap back. This line of work gives you strong nerves.
‘I bash you on the head with it nine or ten times until you die,’ I calmly explain. ‘Or, look, I could kill you with a blade. I run behind the desk, grab you like this and cut your throat.’ I demonstrate the action. She stiffens. She glances across at the guard.
‘I don’t have a blade, ma’am,’ I hasten to add, before she gets me thrown into solitary—that’s the last thing I need with rehearsal tomorrow. ‘I was just making a point. That if I want to kill, I can kill. And so can the others.’
‘Striano, don’t frighten me.’
‘Frighten you? The point is, ma’am, we don’t want to kill.’
She nods to the guard, who is standing behind me.
‘Did you hear him? He’s going through the thousand ways he wants to kill me.’
‘Ma’am, nobody wants to kill you. But let us do this,’ I insist.
There is a heavy silence in the room as she looks at me and reflects. I know I haven’t convinced her. She’s thinking about the right way to say no kindly.
‘What if I’m with them?’ It’s the guard speaking. I turn in astonishment.
‘In what sense?’ the section head asks.
‘The picks and shovels…If we let them have them, but I’m standing right there armed, what can they do?’
Thank you, spirit of Shakespeare, I think. You inspired the guard!
The section head stares at her subordinate as if to say: ‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’ But I can see she’s trying not to laugh. She’s my age, and we get on well.
‘All right then,’ she sighs deeply, partly in exasperation and partly in amusement. ‘Let’s fill out some forms and send off an application. I’m not promising anything, Striano. The warden will be the one to decide, okay?’
She calls me back two days later.
‘Striano, I’m to inform you that the warden is enthusiastic about your project. And he’s approved it.’
And so it is that five of us—two Romans, an Apulian, a Calabrian and I—meet up in the middle of the yard. At first we feel despair. The garden space, which is minuscule when crowded with inmates, now seems vast. It all needs digging over.
‘We have to till the soil,’ says one of the Romans, who knows his stuff. So of course he starts studying the area and different seed types, while the rest of us break our backs with spades and picks. But I don’t mind hard work, or at least, I don’t mind this kind of work. I feel like we’re creating something.
We plant tomatoes, eggplant and capsicum, thinking that maybe others will harvest them after us. In prison, you think of the long term, and you do things for those who’ll be coming in further down the track. In the big clearing we plant grass and with two rows of stones we mark off a little path that winds through the field to reach the other area. We line it with roses, which we’ll be able to pick for our wives. We plant bulbs—strange things that look dead as stones but will become the most colourful flowers of all.
As I turn over the soil I see it regain life and I’m already thinking of the splendour that will one day transform this abandoned patch of earth. Just like in the theatre, we’re not interested in doing an amateur job. We’re no dilettantes. We want a garden as beautiful, if not more so, than the gardens on the outside. We want to measure up to that standard…Of course, it’s the same old story—we’re a bunch of swaggering guappi and this damn attitude of ours is exactly what got us into trouble in the first place. But you can’t simply get rid of that kind of attitude in people. You just have to give them a chance to use it positively rather than negatively. For example, through gardening instead of dealing.
As my sweat drips into the soil I start reciting lines. Gonzalo’s monologue, the speech that is almost a promise:
I’th’ commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things, for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate;
Letters should not be known; riches, poverty
And use of service, none; contract, succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard—none;
No use of metal, corn, or wine or oil;
No occupation, all men idle, all;
And women, too, but innocent and pure;
No sovereignty—
[…]
All things in common nature should produce
Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,
Would I not have; but nature should bring forth
Of its own kind all foison, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people.
INTERMEZZO
Ever wondered why prison screws you over? Because, bit by bit, you start to feel like you’re owed something. They don’t know how to rehabilitate you, they don’t know how to reskill you, they don’t know what the fuck to do with you. You move from a situation of debt, as you’ve committed a crime and have a debt to society, to one of credit, as you have to battle to be granted the rights you’re owed.
Ladies and gentlemen
, you shouldn’t make us feel like we’re owed something. You should help us understand our own story, understand where things went wrong, where we lost our way. And not just understand where one individual prisoner went wrong, but where we as a society went wrong. Having a story is like having a direction. That’s why theatre is therapeutic: it tells you how not to degenerate, where not to go.
It’s not just theatre. It’s books, too. When Prospero finds himself all alone with his little daughter, exiled to an island by the wickedness of men and also perhaps by his own mistakes, he doesn’t let himself be overcome. Why? Not only because he is a great master, but also because he has books to keep him company. Books are humankind’s memories; they’re like men who can no longer hurt you. Within them, in distilled form, lies all the goodness of the humanity that left them behind. All you need is to encounter books, and choose well in what you take from them.
You can attain anything from books. Any light, any mission. Easily. On the streets it’s hard to find goodness. It’s hidden under piles of stupid, useless, dangerous stuff. In books, the good stuff is right on top. It emerges, alive, from the words and from the pages because, when people write, unlike when they live their lives, they are able to stop and reflect. People almost never do that in everyday life, and this is how they cause trouble.
You see, we’re all in debt—to ourselves, to our neighbour, to life. In books we can find wealth, maybe not enough to pay off this debt, but enough to reduce it, to be able to manage it. That’s why I say, instead of setting your alarm for seven in the morning, set it for quarter to seven, and try reading for fifteen minutes.
Then, maybe, you’ll cause less trouble out in the world.
10
‘The dram of evil Doth all the noble substance often dout To his own scandal.’
Hamlet in Hamlet
Act I, Scene IV
‘Carminati said to tell you, nice work.’
I look up from examining the meat, which this time isn’t green. It might seem obvious that meat wouldn’t be green, but in prison you can’t be so sure. The prison catering contract isn’t just about feeding the inmates. It’s a business. And let’s just say that quality is not always guaranteed. So we convinced the guards to allow some of us to be present at food deliveries, to do quality control.
They wouldn’t have granted us permission for this if it hadn’t been for the theatre project. Ever since we founded the Company of Free Asocial Artists—that’s what we call ourselves—things have changed. Even the guards’ periodic inspections of our cells have become less disrespectful and destructive. The warden trusts us now. We’ve given him our guarantee that there will be no mobile phones, drugs or weapons. They, in turn, will respect the little things that help us maintain some dignity in this grey world: the shelves we build out of cigarette-packet papier-mâché, the little curtains we put up in our cells for a little privacy…
‘I care for you all and I’ve never treated you like prisoners,’ the warden likes to remind us. It’s true. And here we are, checking that the meat’s not green, the spinach yellow, or the tomatoes brown.
In this job you also get to meet prisoners from other blocks. It’s our only point of contact with inmates who aren’t in maximum security. Today, it’s a couple of white-collar prisoners taking the delivery. These are guys with privileges, militants who are in for political activities. They’re from section G8.
In Rebibbia, section G8 is the central area, where they keep the inmates who are ready for rehabilitation. For those of us who are in for a different kind of crime, and who are in many cases considered dangerous, G8 is the finishing line we long to reach. It’s the last stage before release. And because they’re all a bit freer over in section G8, it is also the centre of the prison’s socio-cultural world: bands, theatre, drawing, painting.
I knew it was only a matter of time before the regular inmates saw us on the news or read about us in the paper, and began to wonder: ‘Hey, what’s this theatre group doing in maximum security? Why aren’t we running this?’
They’re the intellectuals, while we’re the wild animals. How did we manage to start a theatre company capable of attracting media attention? If there’s a certain actor in Rebibbia who the newspapers say is better than those on the outside (in all modesty), how is it possible he’s not one of theirs?
So here they are, sniffing around.
The problem is that we can’t stand the guys from section G8.
‘Carminati sends his regards,’ the tall, bald guy tries again, since I didn’t reply the first time but kept on working.
‘What’s Carminati got to do with us?’ I ask, looking up at him from the case of tomatoes.
‘He heard about the theatre project and says he can help you,’ he replies.
‘Help us how?’ I ask in a flat tone. The tomatoes are showing more expression than my face right now, I don’t want to let on that the rage is starting to bubble up inside me. Go on, say it. You want to take over the group for your own purposes. Do you think we were born yesterday?
How dare they, I think, furious. How fucking dare they?
‘Well, I’ll let him know I passed on the message. Maybe he’ll write you a note,’ the bald guy says, retreating. I guess my face wasn’t so expressionless after all.
I know it seems absurd but ours is a respectable section of the prison. The Calabrians don’t even like it if we go out without a T-shirt on during the exercise hour. It offends their sensibility. We’ve had to create a separate section that we call ‘Nudists’ Walk’, where you can hang out in shorts and a singlet on the days when the heat is deadly. Otherwise it’s long trousers and, at best, short-sleeved shirts. And, since the theatre project’s been up and running, there has not been a single brawl, not a single breach. We’ve become model prisoners. And now we’re supposed to wheel and deal with these political militants?
The following week at food delivery inspection time, it’s not the bald guy I encounter, but Carminati himself. He heads straight for me—not that I was under the illusion he was there to accompany the spinach.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asks, addressing me politely. He really makes an impression, I can’t deny it. There is a hard look in his eye and in his demeanour the infinite arrogance of a man who is used to being obeyed, even by the powerful, and even from inside a prison.
‘No, I don’t know who you are,’ I say out of contempt. I know perfectly well who he is, and he knows it.
‘I’m Massimo Carminati,’ he says regardless. He then makes a point of specifying: ‘I’m not in here for the kinds of crimes you are. I’m a political prisoner.’
I weigh up a dozen different responses. From the first one that comes to mind: ‘Political, my arse’, to one Shakespeare might come out with: ‘There’s small choice in rotten apples’.
‘What do I care,’ is all I say. He stiffens visibly and because I don’t want a fight, I quickly continue. ‘If it’s about the theatre group, don’t talk to me, talk to Cosimo. He’s head of the company.’
‘Cosimo’s not head of anything. He hasn’t studied like I have. I can help you guys improve,’ he says, with the dangerous calm of a snake.
‘Maybe. But Cosimo’s the one you have to convince.’ I shrug. ‘And I imagine that could be difficult for a right-wing militant like you. Cosimo is a leftist through and through.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll send him a letter. He has to do what I say.’ His tone is sinister, and he cuts the conversation off there.
If he’s bothered to come and speak to me in person, it means he’s serious. He’s worked out that something important is happening—he’s no fool—and he wants to take over the company. He’s not without power, either: we have no way of knowing how many prison activities are in his hands.
At rehearsal that afternoon I pose the problem to the group. I address the head of the company directly.
‘Listen, Cosimo, you’ve got a nasty enemy in here,’ I say.
‘Who’s that, then? I’ve
got loads.’
‘Carminati.’
A smile spreads across his lips.
‘I want that guy as my enemy with all my heart.’
‘Are you sure? He’ll be your enemy and the whole company’s enemy, if we turn down his help,’ I remind him. I’m in complete agreement but the others need to be, too. In case there’s trouble.
Cosimo looks around the room.
‘Does anyone here want to accept Carminati’s help? Does anyone want to let him join the company?’ he asks.
The thick chorus of ‘No!’ makes Gaetano jump; he’s standing guard in the usual spot near the door.
‘We don’t want his sort!’
‘They’re not worthy of being involved! It’s our company!’
Who’d have thought these men would bring me such satisfaction? I already knew we weren’t a bunch of sissies—after all, it’s not like we’re in here for stealing lollies from children—but seeing such a united front against an aggressor is a whole other thing, and it fills me with pride.
We don’t want his sort. Firstly, because they stole indiscriminately from everybody—on the outside, in here, everywhere. And secondly, because they’re militants—they are truly evil people. If I’ve got a score to settle with you, I’ll come and see you and—maybe—I’ll kill you, but I won’t go planting a bomb in the piazza to kill you, taking out fifty innocent bystanders, too. We’re all lawbreakers, but they didn’t just succumb to the undeniable appeal of being an outlaw, they had the sinister determination of the criminal. The politics of bombings disgusts us. And when someone responsible for that sort of crime accidentally ends up in a cell with us, it takes less than forty-eight hours for him to realise he’d be better off with a change of scene. He ends up going to the guards himself and saying, ‘Send me away cause this lot’ll kill me.’
And now they’d like to help us? They want to run the company? Oh, please! I exchange glances with Cosimo.
Set Me Free Page 11
