The Penguin Book of Italian Short Stories

by Jhumpa Lahiri

  ‘La mamma’

  Originally published as part of La cognizione del dolore in Letteratura (IV, no.1. January–March 1940). As the original project was temporarily abandoned, Gadda included the short story in Novelle dal ducato in fiamme (Valecchi, 1953) and in Accoppiamenti giudiziosi (Garzanti, 1963). It then appeared as the fifth chapter of La cognizione del dolore (Einaudi, 1963).

  Ennio Flaiano

  1910–72

  Flaiano was born in Pescara, on the same street as the writer Gabriele D’Annunzio. He came to Rome in his teens and later planned to get a degree in architecture. Instead he wrote about the city’s café culture, its vulgarity, its paparazzi-driven vapidity. In the process he captured, with a gimlet eye, the cultural zeitgeist of the 1950s. His perspective was laconic, pessimistic, at times nihilistic. A great enthusiast of Thomas Mann and Charlie Chaplin, Flaiano started out as a theatre critic. In October 1935, he went to fight in Mussolini’s invasion of Ethiopia, and his post-colonial debut novel Tempo di uccidere (A Time to Kill, also published under the title The Short Cut) won the Strega Prize in 1947, but much of his subsequent energy was devoted to writing screenplays for some of the classics of postwar Italian cinema, including Federico Fellini’s La Dolce Vita and 8½, and Michelangelo Antonioni’s La Notte. He collaborated extensively with Fellini and married the sister of Nino Rota, who composed the music for Fellini’s films. Flaiano was also a master of the aphorism, and wrote a column called Diario notturno (Nocturnal Diary) for the magazine Il Mondo. ‘A Martian in Rome’ was the piece which inaugurated that column, and it was collected, along with the other pieces he wrote, into a volume by the same name. The story, written in the form of a diary, is set in Rome and incorporates, in cameo roles, a series of actual cultural figures, including some of the authors in this anthology. Long considered a classic portrait of Roman life, Flaiano’s take on how ‘aliens’ arriving from afar are perceived and received continues to strike a chord. A book called Diario degli errori (Diary of Errors), an omnibus of acerbic observations and travel writing, was published a few years after he died.

  A Martian in Rome

  Translated by Philip Balma and Fabio Benincasa1

  October 12 – Today a Martian descended in his spaceship upon Villa Borghese, in the race-track lawn. So I will try to maintain, in writing these notes, the calm that I completely lost at the announcement of this incredible event, to repress the anxiety that immediately pushed me into the streets to mingle with the crowd. The entire suburban population poured into the city’s centre, blocking traffic completely. I must say that everyone’s joy and curiosity is mixed with a hope that yesterday could have seemed absurd, and is instead growing more intense with every passing hour. The hope that ‘now everything will change’. Rome immediately assumed the slovenly and homely appearance of grand occasions. There’s something in the air that is reminiscent of July 25th, of 1943; the same people hugging; the same old commoner women that walk by heading towards imaginary barricades, shouting the praises of freedom; the same army reserve officers that wore their uniforms, convinced they would be able, in their get-up, to make their way through the crowd and reach the riding track: which is instead guarded by police tanks and two regiments in fighting trim.

  You already can’t get through Piazza Fiume: the packed crowd, swaying, waits, sings, shouts, improvises dances. I saw the first drunks. The roofs of the buses (stuck in the streets like ships surprised by winter in a glacial sea) were swarming with young people and screaming children who were waving large dirty flags. The stores have lowered their rolling shutters. At times the blowing wind brings a distant burst of applause that reignites curiosity and causes disorientation, a greater and more cheerful confusion.

  Around seven I met my friend Fellini, pale and devastated by emotion. He was at the Pincio when the spaceship landed and at first he thought he was having a hallucination. When he saw people running and yelling and heard sharp orders being shouted from the spaceship in a somewhat cold, scholastic Italian, Fellini understood. Immediately stampeded and stepped on by the crowd, he woke up without shoes on, his jacket in shreds. He wandered around the park like a dolt, barefoot, trying to find any exit whatsoever. I was the first friendly face he met. He cried while embracing me, shaken by an emotion that was communicated to me soon enough. He then described the spaceship to me: a saucer of enormous dimensions, yellow and bright like a sun. And the unforgettable rustling, the rustling of a silk foulard, upon its landing! And the silence which followed that moment! In that brief instant he felt that a new period was beginning for humanity. The prospects are, he tells me, immense and inscrutable. Maybe everything: religion and laws, art and our very lives, will soon appear to us illogical and meagre. If the solitary traveller who descended from the spaceship is really – and by now after the official communiqué it would be foolish to doubt it – the ambassador from another planet where everything is known about ours, this is a sign that ‘things are more simple’ elsewhere. The fact that the Martian came alone proves that he possesses means of self-defence which are unknown to us; and such knowledge that could radically alter our system of living and our conception of the world.

  At the Policlinico, where I take him to treat the wounds on his feet, I meet Giovannino Russo and Carletto Mazzarella among the injured. The first one had lost his glasses and does not recognize me, the second one lost his shoes and I don’t recognize him. They are still devastated by their emotions. Before the crowd let loose in its enthusiasm, they had enough time to see the Martian! Hence, it is true! Their irony (they suspected a publicity stunt) suddenly desisted when they saw the blond pilot of the ship disembark. Russo describes him as a tall man, of noble appearance, a bit melancholic. He dresses like anyone, like a Swede might dress – Mazzarella added. He spoke in perfect Italian. Two women fainted when he passed, smiling, through the police cordon to reach the police commissioner’s car. No one dared get too close to him. Only a child ran towards him. The scene that followed caused shouting and tears among those present. The Martian spoke to the child, softly, caressing him. Nothing else. He smiled and was tired.

  Mazzarella is particularly enthused about the Martian. He deduces that Martian girls are surely better than Spanish girls, and maybe even better than American ones. He hopes the Martian has brought the poetic texts of Martian literature with him.

  October 13 – The Martian was received by the President of the Republic, last night. Around 2 a.m. Via Veneto was swarming with people like on a Sunday morning. Small groups were forming around the fortunate ones who saw the Martian up close. It seems that the Martian knows our economic, social and political situation well. He is a man of simple, but polite ways. He does not offer many explanations, and he requests none. When they asked him why he chose Rome in particular for his visit, he smiled subtly. It also seems that he will stay in Rome for quite some time, maybe six months. Around two-thirty I met Mario Pannunzio with the usual group from Il Mondo. They spoke of the Martian, but with a certain scepticism which surprised me. ‘There still is no official news –’ said Sandro De Feo ‘– the communiqué has been disproved.’ To which Pannunzio added: ‘I won’t believe it even if I see him.’

  At three the special editions of the newspapers, forbidden by the authorities up to that point for reasons of public safety, were made available. The Martian is called Koont. He has peaceful intentions, even though, he claims, other spaceships are cruising the stratosphere. The voyage from Mars to earth lasts no longer than three days. There is no information on the exchanges taking place between the Martian and the authorities. This is all. While returning home I stopped to read a poster for a political party, full of insults for another party. Suddenly everything seemed ridiculous to me. I felt the need to scream. I believe in the Martian, and I especially believe in his good faith! I was deranged. And who do I run into? The old man who looks after the cars on Via Sicilia, the one with the hat that says Journaux Suisses. I gave him all the money I had on me, not much, I kissed his hands, b
egging him to forgive me, like a good Christian. The scene did not appear at all strange to two or three people who witnessed it and hurried to give the old man money. At home I collapsed on the bed and fell asleep all of a sudden, happy and weightless as a child. Great and terrible days are to come.

  October 14 – The authorities had the spaceship fenced off, and from now on one will be able to see it upon payment of a fee to certain Catholic charity services. The Martian gave his approval. The fee was fixed at one hundred lire, to allow even people of modest means to see the spaceship. Nevertheless, injured veterans, officials from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, card-carrying members of the press can enter for free. Members of ENAL, schools and large groups can obtain a discount.

  October 15 – We walk around Rome like crazed ants, seeking some friends to communicate our inebriating happiness to. Everything appears to us in a new dimension. What is our future? Will we be able to prolong our lives, combat diseases, avoid wars, give food to all? We speak of nothing else. Even more so than in the preceding days we feel that something new is to come. It’s not the end of the world, but the beginning of the world. There’s the wait before the curtain is raised, made harsher by a play we do not know. This wait is only disturbed by predictable prophecies, told by those who had always said so and now are ready for the new challenge; by the Communists, who have already tried to secure the Martian for themselves, by the Fascists, who raise the question of his race.

  October 18 – I finally managed to see the spaceship. It is impressive. The police guards are kind, they speak softly, almost as if to have their presence forgiven. After all, no one commits the slightest disrespectful act. A child who tried to write something in chalk on the shiny surface of the spaceship has been spanked by his parents. I too, like everyone, touched the spaceship, and in that metallic warmth I felt a profound sweetness I had never experienced before. A stranger and I were smiling, looking at each other, and in the end we shook hands, moved by the same fraternal impulse; and later on I did not feel embarrassed by my state of commotion. It seems that the spaceship has already performed two miracles, but there is no proof, even though some women have insisted on leaving memorial marble tablets on the ground, with their thanks. A municipal employee has already been contracted to sell candles, but it seems that the proceeds will benefit a Catholic charity.

  Leaving the enclosure I see Mario Soldati. He’s there, sitting on the grass, his tie undone, wearing a shirt and vest. He was sighing, actually devastated by the reality that was a few steps away. ‘It’s over!’ he said when he saw me. He held my hands and I felt that his emotion was sincere. ‘C’est la fin!’ he added then in French, and he repeated the phrase many times, until both of us lost track of its meaning: we looked at each other bewildered, not knowing what else to say. We then went to have a drink instead, in one of the many improvised kiosks which popped up illegally in the riding track. Soldati wanted a soda, the kind that used to be sold at fairs, with a ball floating inside, and he insisted in vain. They don’t make them any more. The curious incident caused by a young thief who had managed to make his way into the spaceship distracted us from our extremely favourable considerations on the Martian. Recognized by a guard as one of those guys who steal from foreigners’ cars, he tried to escape feigning an epileptic seizure. He has an opaque face, suspicious and hardened by his work. Fear made him a savage.

  October 19 – The reception at the Campidoglio had some great moments, they tell me. I was not even able to get to Piazza Venezia because of the crowd. There was a calmer curiosity in the air which I liked. This calm degenerated perhaps into indifference in the bus drivers and ticket salesmen, who looked tired and nervous. Trapped for hours, always hoping that the crowds would disperse, they did not abandon their vehicles. A few idiots were already getting mad at the Martian: ‘What the heck did he come here for?’ said a ticket salesman. A colleague of his answered: ‘Do you think that life on Mars can measure up to life in Rome? Would you live on Mars?’ ‘I’d sooner die,’ replied the first one. A bit later, walking by again, I heard the same two talking about football. Next Sunday there will be a fairly important match.

  At the Campidoglio, the mayor made a fool of himself speaking of Rome, master of civilization. There were a few coughs, the gaffe was unfixable by now, and the mayor did not insist on the subject, limiting himself to praising the planetary system, the discovery of which was aided by Galileo, with his telescope and his studies on the sun. The Martian was smiling, and at a certain point it seems that he leaned in close to the ear of a cardinal sitting beside him to tell him something. The cardinal smiled paternally. When they offered him a certificate of honorary citizenship, the Martian said a few words. The loudspeakers broadcasted them, but not clearly. The press reports them, it’s nothing special, maybe we expected more effort out of him; but you must also keep the delicate situation of the Martian in mind, he feels he’s a guest.

  October 21 – The first photograph of the Martian, they say, was sold the very evening of his arrival for three million to an American news agency. The fortunate photographer could have made more, but he gave in real quick at the sight of the banknotes.

  The political life seems to have come to a halt. Today the Martian attended a session of the Chamber of Deputies. The speakers stuttered. A proposed law to increase certain customs tariffs has been unanimously approved, euphorically. The deputies were all dressed in black tie, and they gave way to each other with courteous detachment. ‘It seemed –’ Vittorio Gorresio told me – ‘like the last day of school.’ Everyone pretended not to look at the Martian, well knowing that the Martian was observing everyone. It seems that the Martian had a good impression of it all.

  October 27 – What is the Martian doing? We await new information, and hope there is big news. For now the papers limit themselves to informing us on how he spends his time. One could point out that he participates in too many receptions, banquets and cocktail parties: but he does have some diplomatic obligations, and he’s the only one to fulfil them. Perhaps there is a conspiracy of silence concerning his intentions, which he may have clearly expressed to the government. The Communists already say so, albeit covertly. There were rumours of his decision to leave, and an evening paper sold a hundred thousand copies publishing the news, refuted later on, that the Martian had left. Many photographs of the Martian are still published. They say that the aristocracy, however, has abandoned him. But these are inevitable tall tales. And already some shady bon mots, some atrocious witticisms are repeated. I won’t relate them, as they are very humiliating to the human race.

  November 3 – Life in Rome is almost back to normal. The police have re-established the usual closing time for the bars, and major raids take place during night-time hours, in the public parks that by now had become the meeting place for lovers. Nine films about the Martian are in preparation, one with the comedian Totò.

  November 5 – The Martian has been received by the Pope. The Roman Observer gives news of this, however without publishing photographs, in the column ‘Our Information’. In this column, as it is known, the names of the people to whom the Holy Father granted a private audience are recorded in order of importance. The Martian is among the last, and is so mentioned: Mr Koont from Mars.

  November 8 – Today the Martian suddenly agreed to be part of a jury of artists and writers for the crowning of Miss Vie Nuove. When they pointed out to him that the jury was made up of leftist artists and writers, the Martian showed a certain disappointment: but he had already given his word. The evening was marked by a very joyful atmosphere, and the Communists did not conceal their satisfaction for this first victory. The Martian, seated between Carlo Levi and Alberto Moravia, did not say a word. The photographers literally blinded him with their flashes. The competing beauties went unnoticed. Alberto Moravia broke his chair by nervously shifting around.

  That evening, I met Carlo Levi with other friends. I joined them to hear his impressions on the Martian. Favourable. The Martian kn
ows about the southern question, certainly not like Levi himself. He’s an intelligent man, even though his upbringing is affected by the flaws of Martian education. All in all, Carlo Levi finds him very likeable, and he’ll go far if he follows Levi’s advice. Levi gave him some books to read, and, among them, Christ Stopped at Eboli, that the Martian was already familiar with in the American edition.

  November 19 – I meet Amerigo Bartoli. We talk about the weather. He shows me some red wool socks which he bought in a store downtown at a good price. Then he asks me if I received his postcard. – ‘What postcard?’ – ‘I had sent you a postcard to ask you for a cigarette, did you not receive it?’ He tells me that now, with the cold, he’s forced to go to bed early because he has to get up late in the morning. In the end, he confesses that he’s looking for an idea for a humorous sketch of the Martian. In truth, the topic is a bit passé: everything has been done. Mino Maccari conceived a good sketch, in Il Mondo. It shows some old imperialist Fascists in uniform shouting ‘O Roma o Marte!’ Bartoli wants to do something literary, not political. I advise him to try this drawing: the Martian looks at his little, distant, native planet from the terrace of the Pincio. ‘It’s not funny,’ observes Bartoli. ‘It’s not supposed to be funny –’ I reply – ‘but rather, it’s supposed to move you.’ Bartoli does not answer and we speak of other things. Bartoli will never understand the Martian.

  November 20 – As of today the Martian has received around two hundred thousand letters. A team of secretaries is at work reading them. They are, for the most part, from misunderstood inventors, dissatisfied women, good children. In a letter, postmarked from Catania, they found a single word: cuckold. But letters also arrive in which the Martian is asked to act, soon, and he’s reproached for wasting precious time. Disappointment is already rife. Mario Soldati, whom I met today in a bookstore, whispered in my ear: ‘Treason!’ And he went away, bent forward under the weight of his thoughts, like a conspirator pondering his resignation.