He’s one of those lot: in here for sex crimes. I’ve always nodded hello to him, because he would look at me insistently and I don’t want any trouble, but I’d never have dreamed of shaking the hand of someone like that. I really am distracted today. I wrench my hand from his.
‘What’s up with you?’ I ask.
‘Nothing. I’m just happy that you shook my hand,’ he replies, with tears in his eyes.
‘I shake everybody’s hand,’ I say abruptly. I’m trying to play down the significance of the gesture, but at the same time I feel a little ashamed. Could my handshake make such a difference to another human being’s life? I’d never even realised. When all’s said and done, we’re in the same boat: he’s an inmate like me.
‘You’ve never shaken my hand,’ he says.
I’m about to ask why that should matter but I keep quiet. Clearly it matters a lot. This man noticed—since when? Weeks ago? Months?—that I come down, greet each person with a handshake, but just nod and say hi to him.
I look at him a bit more closely: his face is half hardened, half humble.
‘Caliban,’ I say, without even thinking.
The prison rapist is Caliban. (Caliban, in fact, tried to rape Miranda.) The man I’m talking to is a prisoner on the second floor who we usually don’t even want to look at, who we call the worst names day after day and threaten to kill.
He’s Caliban.
And yet we’re no better than him. Sure, men like him committed disgusting crimes, but who do we think we are, the good guys? Hardly. From the depths to which we’ve sunk, who are we to judge what is the more disgusting crime?
Ariel doesn’t reject Caliban. He finds a way to live with him. And Prospero isn’t ruthless towards Caliban, but keeps a watchful eye on him and tries to rehabilitate him, to civilise him. I can keep away from certain people, but I can’t treat them ruthlessly.
We’ll never be good people until we stop judging others. Caliban is our touchstone: if our reactions towards him are balanced, it means that the process is bearing fruit. This character—though I never liked him—is indispensable: he is someone to measure ourselves against; he shows us what we’re becoming.
I’ve got to explain this to the guys as soon as I can. I’ll tell them at rehearsal. In the meantime, I give the rapist a slap on the back.
‘Come on, let’s go check this meat.’
He follows me meekly, reconciled with the world. I know that from this point on I can never take that handshake away from him. And nor would I want to.
‘Ma’am, just follow my reasoning on this for a moment.’ I’m standing before the section head again—by now she must be cursing the day they brought me into this place (not as much as I am, though).
‘What is it this time, Striano?’ she asks, glancing anxiously at the huge books I’ve placed on her table. They’re all damaged, like books that have been leafed through a lot, eaten and drunk and cursed and lived with. They’re the first books I picked up in all my life, and even now, distracted though I am by all the others, I’ve never stopped reading these ones.
‘I’m here to tell you why you have to put me in with the regulars,’ I reply, thumping the cover of the Penal Code.
Since arriving in Italy I’ve tried a number of times to cut down my sentence. In my opinion—but also, I discovered, according to the law—different crimes are paid for individually, not bundled into the one sentence. But in my case they took four convictions and put them on one account, one single sentence, with a total of fourteen years. Easy, isn’t it?
Easy, my arse. In Italy there are a number of different imprisonment regimes. They can’t just stick you in under one regime, whichever one suits them, and then throw away the key. Five of the years I was sentenced to were for regular crimes, so why should I serve time for those ones in maximum security? With regular crimes, you have the right to request privileges, like rewards for good behaviour and even early release, but you can’t do that with more serious crimes: Camorristi don’t get any of those privileges. One article that I found was cited in my conviction, Article 4b, prohibits granting such privileges to certain prisoners, those found to be a ‘social menace’. To work out that I was socially menacing I had to change codes, because this is not in the Penal Code but in the Penitentiary Regulations. I read there that to be able to drop 4b, to get it removed from your conviction, I’d have to collaborate with justice.
‘Ma’am, why have I still got 4b?’ I’d asked her in one of our previous meetings.
‘Because you haven’t collaborated,’ she replied, as though it was obvious.
‘How can you say I’m not collaborating?’
‘Striano, don’t play dumb. How have you been collaborating with justice?’
‘What, so doing theatre, working, studying, that’s not collaborating?’ On this occasion I got heated talking to her. ‘Do you remember who I used to be? What I used to do? Have you read my file thoroughly?’
‘Striano, it doesn’t work that way,’ she sighed. ‘Collaborating means naming your accomplices.’
‘But they’re all in jail—they’re in more trouble than I am…’
‘You still have to name names.’
I thought about it briefly, and decided not to do it. I was no longer capable of something like that—I’m not sure I ever had been. Besides, I want to do my prison time differently. I don’t want to become an informer, especially on top of all the other trouble I’ve already been in. So that day I withdrew quietly and continued studying and filing petitions. Eventually the Court of Naples declared I was right, determining that I’ve served my sentence for the crime of association, and now only the regular crimes remain. The court cut down my sentence and reclassified the crime I was still inside for.
So here I stand before the section head. I take a deep breath and launch into my closing argument like I’m some hotshot lawyer.
‘Ma’am, I’ve served my time for criminal association: three years. I’ve also served my time for Article 7, extortion: four years. That makes seven. I’ve got another seven years left, but if we consider sentence reductions, that comes down to four years.’ I’ve studied so much and filed so many petitions that I’ve actually been able to get my sentence reduced from fourteen years and eight months to eleven years and ten months. ‘So, can I now serve the remaining four years in with the regulars?’ I ask in conclusion.
The section where regular prisoners are held is the antechamber to freedom. You get released from there, not here—nobody’s ever been released directly from maximum security. I look at her thinking, like Ariel, I want my freedom. Haven’t I done enough for you? Theatre, gardening, study…I’ve done everything possible and more—I’ve done the unimaginable. Give me my freedom.
‘Striano, you can’t go in with the regulars.’ This is a stab to the guts. Prison is a place where eight words are enough to shatter your every hope. ‘Your interpretation of the code is wrong,’ the section head adds, allowing no right of appeal. ‘You’re a high-security inmate; even if you went in with the regulars you’d be going as a member of a criminal gang, a Camorrista.’
‘I’m sorry, but are you making up an internal law?’ I ask. ‘Because this isn’t written in any of these books.’ I thump the cover again, as though the words inside, however cold and complicated they are, might give me comfort.
‘Striano,’ she says sharply. ‘Do this: file your petition directly to the warden. Don’t file it to me, because I won’t accept it.’
Her tone is harsh as she dismisses me. It’s as though the issue is not sufficiently important to deserve any more of her time. But do you have any idea, ma’am, how many goddamn hours I’ve spent sweating over those codes? Do you know how much hope I’ve invested in this meeting, how many sleepless hours? Don’t you know that I’m right?
I stand up.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t file the petition again,’ I say, as brusque and cold as her. ‘Not to you, not to the warden. No inconvenience, no communication. I’ll
stay shut up in my cell, I won’t talk to anybody anymore. No more work, no more study, no more theatre. I’ll stay there until the four years have passed and you turn the key and let me out.’
She looks at me speechless. Then she smiles and shakes her head. And she says something she really shouldn’t say: ‘Come on, Striano, I know you’re a good actor, but don’t put on a show for me now.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I reply through clenched teeth. How dare she treat me so unjustly and then laugh at me? ‘No more shows.’
Maybe she realises she’s overdone it, because the next day Gaetano comes to get me.
‘Sasà, the section head wants to see you.’
I don’t even look up from my book.
‘Sasà, are you deaf? Put your book down for a minute, the section head wants to see you!’
This guy doesn’t get it unless you write it on the wall for him in big letters. I look up and our eyes meet, but I don’t move. I put my finger to my closed lips, to show him I won’t say a single word. Then I continue reading. Silence strike.
I can sense him hesitating, but he doesn’t argue—he knows me too well. I hear his footsteps fading into the distance. I continue staring at the page, unable to decipher a thing—it is Beckett, after all—as the rage and frustration building up become too much for me. Do they think they can pacify me? Do they think they can bend me to their will? All I ask for is justice. I demand it.
Only half an hour goes by and I hear footsteps approaching. Has he come back to get me? Whatever, I’m not moving.
‘Striano.’
I jump. It’s the section head. She’s never come to the cells before—a woman in the corridors?
‘So what do we have to do, Striano?’ she persists.
I look at her without replying, like I did with Gaetano.
‘Striano! I’m talking to you! I’ll file a disciplinary report against you!’ She raises the tone of her voice. This must be quite the performance for those in the neighbouring cells.
‘Don’t talk to me. I don’t want to lose my manners,’ I finally say, since she won’t stop yelling. Then I plunge back into silence and turn my back.
After a moment I hear her leave.
I know why they don’t want to put me in with the regulars. It’s got nothing to do with codes, or with the interpretation of the law. It’s not because of what I did, but because of what I’m doing in here. The guards are sneaking in to watch me rehearse and giving me reviews when they see me in the corridors—they say I’m a real talent. The inmates come to me to ask what activities they should get involved in, so they can get something noted down in their file about their progress towards rehabilitation. Each inmate needs to work on this file because, if he’s diligent, after seven or eight years he’ll be able to apply for some privileges, a bit more light in his cell, three days at home, five days, a breath of fresh air. This whole file business is really important…
‘Have you done nothing these past seven years?’ they can ask, if it turns out you haven’t participated, haven’t signed up for activities. And I feel like saying to them in reply, ‘So what if that’s the case? Isn’t nothing enough for you? For a guy who’s caused only trouble all his life to have got through seven years doing nothing—that’s a thing in itself.’
In any case, I haven’t done nothing. In fact, I’ve done a hell of a lot. Too much. And now they won’t let me leave.
He’s too useful a servant, Ariel, on an island hosting untrustworthy types. This lot have become fond of me because I know how to act, I’m good at washing floors, I’m good at reading… but I’m no longer interested. I need to get out of this place. And the only way to do it is to move in with the regulars.
I spend four days in complete silence, shut up in my cell, while outside the floors gather dirt because I’m no longer washing them, and the inmates’ wives wait in vain for their love letters, and the theatre company waits in vain for me. At the end of the fourth day Gaetano arrives.
‘Sasà, the section head said to take you down to where the regulars are.’
He doesn’t seem happy, and I’m pleased that he’s sorry I’m leaving, but apart from that, all I feel is a deep sense of justice. Not victory, because this wasn’t a war, but justice, because I asked for and was granted my rights, like any citizen of this country, of this world. Not an outcast, a citizen.
When I come back to rehearsal there’s only one day to go until my transfer to the other section. Cavalli’s hair is standing on end.
‘What have you done? Are you going to tell me what the hell got into you? Did you really ask for a transfer?’
There’s a mumbling among the others too, a mix of amazement, envy and dismay.
‘I’d been requesting it for months,’ I say, without apology. ‘And they’ve finally granted it.’
‘But Sasà, surely you know that you can’t come in here from the regular section to do theatre?’ Cavalli is almost shouting.
‘I’ll apply for access to maximum security in order to participate in theatre,’ I shrug, pretending to be sure of myself.
‘You know perfectly well they’re not going to allow that!’
Actually, I do. Or at least I suspect it. The different sections are completely sealed off from each other—what kind of maximum security would it be, otherwise? It’s not like inmates can visit each other like little old ladies at teatime, or go back and forth for stage rehearsal.
‘Sasà, it’s six days to the performance!’ Cavalli starts back up again. He almost has tears in his eyes. ‘Withdraw your application. Ask them to keep you here!’
I look at him, and then at all the others, one by one. I’m sorry, I really am. But if I back down now they’ll never transfer me, I’m sure of it. This is my chance to make that essential step towards reaching the end of my jail term.
‘You see, Fabio,’ I say, ‘I’m Ariel.’
‘Huh?’ he looks at me confused.
‘I’m Ariel,’ I repeat. ‘I must have my freedom.’
I know the others understand. If they were in my position they’d choose to go down the same road. But that doesn’t make it any easier to do what I have to do: turn my back on everyone and leave.
12
‘If I have too austerely punished you, Your compensation makes amends, for I Have given you here a third of mine own life, Or that for which I live.’
Prospero in The Tempest
Act IV, Scene I
The atmosphere is electric behind the curtain, which remains closed.
I did it. Or perhaps Cavalli did it, I don’t know. Finding another Ariel in five days—and I reckon even if they’d had more time—was impossible, so the warden gave permission for me to go back into the maximum-security section, just for rehearsals and the performance.
‘Provided you’re always escorted by the guards,’ he insisted, trying to look stern.
I looked from him to the guard.
‘Sir, it doesn’t cost me anything to be escorted,’ I said. ‘But I spent years up there. I know everybody. What do you think I’m likely to get up to? What’s changed? It’s not like you gave me superpowers by putting me in with the regulars. You just guaranteed me some rights, some privileges: it’s a little step forward, and it’s one that I earned.’
The passion in my voice surprised him, but in that moment I was Ariel. Ariel who had nothing against an escort, but who was tired of being in chains.
‘What has changed, really?’ the guard said, cautiously backing me up.
‘What’s changed is that we’re creating a precedent, putting a regular inmate in with those in maximum security,’ the warden replied, as severe as Prospero.
But because he’s also as generous and just as Prospero, here I am now, checking over the set—bunk beds and twisted sheets rigged up all over the place—pacing nervously back and forth in the wings.
‘All good?’ Fabione asks, seeing that I look worried. He’s holding his bucket—a giant metal thing that looks no bigger than a coffee cup in h
is hands.
Fabione is a colossus, a wardrobe of a man with shoulders as wide as a major highway, who—no kidding—has to go through the doors of the prison sideways. That’s why when his mother died and his morale was very low, everyone was worried he’d cause havoc. So they called me at once, and I dragged him into the theatre group. He can’t act to save himself, but I gave him a bucket and I said, ‘Fabione, you’ll play…the tempest.’
And our Tempest begins, in fact, with him beating on his bucket like there’s no tomorrow. There are several drummers in the show, making an unimaginable racket, but Fabione is the most vigorous of them all. Shakespeare therapy worked on him, too, and he’s as grateful to me as if I’d saved his life. I give him a thumbs up. I know it’s important to him. This is the crazy thing about theatre, it brings you closer to other people, it makes you more human. Because without others, and without the company, you can’t do a thing on stage. Sure, you can do a monologue, but it’s not the same thing. At the end, the audience leaves, but the company sticks with you after the show.
That’s why I’ve put a lot of work into finding more members for the theatre group, to get them out of their cells. I tell them that even in here you can find a life, a direction, a new way of thinking. Spending time outside of their cells is a way of getting out of their heads, and away from that lovesickness, which is really nostalgia, for a world that seems lost. See, prison is also a state of mind, something inside your head, so that’s the first place you need to drive it out of.
‘What foul play had we that we came from thence? Or blessed wast we did?’ says the sweet voice of Miranda, now on stage.
Huh, I think, looking around me at each of these men as they pace nervously, mumbling their lines. Was it a tragedy, ending up in here, or a blessing in disguise? Would we have found ourselves if we hadn’t first found the island that is prison, and on it this other island that is the theatre?
‘I can’t remember a thing,’ says Lello, grabbing me by the arm. ‘Nothing. Not a single line.’
Set Me Free Page 13
