by Edoardo Nesi
THE CONCERT
AFTER THE VOL-AU-VENTS, the seafood salad, the champagne risotto, the steamed sea bass, and the crêpes suzette flambées, the lights are lowered and Gloria Gaynor suddenly appears on the small stage of the club. A compact and enthusiastic round of applause immediately erupts from the audience, stopping only with the unraveling of silvery notes from the piano. Then she starts to sing, in a whisper: At first I was afraid, I was petrified…
The venue explodes. Those eight hundred people have been listening to it for nearly three years, summer and winter, singing along to it in their cars and parties and showers, without any fear of getting the words wrong or misunderstanding the meaning of this sad and exultant song of pride they have come to love. Immediately they fall silent and listen to a slow, painful version of “I Will Survive” which, stripped of the rhythm’s hammer blows, becomes totally different from the one they were expecting.
It is a blues, a prayer, and it shows how the insufferable sadness of an abandonment can be sublimated and placed, naked and noble, at the center of our poor lives, and then recognized as deeply ours, and accepted, even celebrated and finally conquered, so that we can live with it instead of letting it kill us, and discover a treasure at the bottom of that agony.
A quiet applause similar to that reserved for classical pianists greets the end of “I Will Survive.” As another song begins, Vittorio grabs the neck of the newly opened bottle of that champagne with a priest’s name and extracts it, dripping, from the bucket. Then he pours himself a full glass. He is enchanted by the way in which the little bubbles rise playfully to the surface, and very surprised by the notes of yeast he can smell: he has never tried anything alcoholic his entire life, not even at birthdays, not even at New Year’s. Never. Not even once.
He takes the glass in his hand, raises it to his lips, and decides to drink it all in one go. He laughs at the thought of it, looks around, sees that no one is watching, and upends the glass.
His first impression is the familiar scratch to the throat from the bubbles of carbon dioxide, but right after it comes the rush of alcohol which hits his teetotal brain hard as a punch, and is then followed by a wave of subtle flavors and perfumes, all mixed together — how could bread and fruit and flowers end up in the scent of champagne, and leather, and the forest? — that leave in his mouth a sense of polished complexity that he never experienced before. Vittorio decides that if this is champagne, then he likes it a lot, and he will always like it a lot.
There is another great burst of applause. The second song, “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head,” is finished. Vittorio applauds and pours himself another glass, which he downs in one gulp. He turns to look at the empty seat next to his own, the one that was reserved for Milena, and pours himself another full glass and slams it back. While another round of applause marks the end of “Feelings,” and Gloria Gaynor starts singing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” Vittorio pours himself yet another glass and also swigs that one back, and then all the songs begin to sound the same and mix with the applause and he loses track a little bit of everything, and then he has a vision of Milena asleep on a tear-soaked pillow, surrounded by all of her shoes, and he whispers to himself.
— I’ll always love you, Milena, even when you’ll be old and crippled and mean. And if you’re ill, I’ll look after you, and if you fall into poverty, I’ll give you money, and if you are taken to prison, I’ll wait outside the gates with a bouquet of yellow roses. Forever.
He is surprised to find his glass empty. As he fills it once more, he wonders how long it will take him to get drunk, and then he realizes the bottle is empty: it’s no use tilting it or standing it on its head, and he cannot wring it out. It’s finished. Poor thing, he thinks, and out of his mouth comes a huge drunken belch. He laughs to himself, shakes his head, and when his mother turns to look at him, Vittorio nods and reveals to the world his first glorious drunken smile.
Then “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You” begins and immediately fills the dance floor, because upon hearing the words “I love you baby” repeated over and over, many members of the audience turn to one another and say that it’s true, they do love each other and they have had enough of sitting at a table and sipping champagne and applauding every so often, so the men take off their jackets and undo the top buttons of the shirts and roll up the sleeves and take their women by the hand and start dancing — they who have never even tried to dance the shake, and are unable to move in time with the song, instead jumping about as if someone was repeatedly pinching them — in a whirlwind of white shirts, suddenly mottled armpits, flapping flowered dresses, receding hairlines, love handles, gold watches sparkling furiously, pearl necklaces, and beatific smiles and blushing and even a few tears running down the warmed cheeks of those men and women who can finally realize how very precious that moment of total abandon truly is. And when that formidable song draws to a close, they start to applaud and don’t stop, and beg an exhausted Gloria Gaynor for an encore, so she starts up another rendition of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You,” this time managing to persuade even the eldest members of the audience to escort their wives to the dance floor because, even if their English isn’t perfect by any means, they know what “I love you baby” means too, and it really is a remarkable scene, the sight of those poor Italian people who have just discovered wealth letting it all go on the dance floor, and even Gloria Gaynor notices. When the encore is finished, she starts singing “I Will Survive” in the way it is supposed to be sung, hard and implacable, strong and mean, as the one final gift to her awkward listeners, who have now taken over the dance floor and look like they want to keep going until dawn. “My dancing machines,” that’s what she calls them at the end of the song, as they applaud tirelessly and shout, “Bravo! Encore!” And Gloria Gaynor smiles and thanks them and takes a bow, and then she waves and blows a kiss before retiring to her dressing room, exhausted.
The DJ is quick to get the music started up again, but he chooses “Don’t You Want Me” by the Human League, and the powerful opening of the song — with its inhuman synthesizers and cold rhythm — throws the dancers off, so they look around and find themselves in the middle of a dance floor, unexpectedly surrounded by an alien music, and decide to ignore it and confess to each other they have never had so much fun in their whole lives, and greet one another and introduce themselves, and in a great mix of accents from all over Italy they swear to meet up again and go to dinner together, and perhaps out to dance, if Gloria comes back, and then they look at their watches and see it is two a.m. and they smile at the thought of being out so late and decide they must go home, so they slowly move toward their tables, start collecting bags and jackets and cashmere sweaters, and make their way, still smiling, toward the exit, all together, coming up against the simultaneous influx of the hard up, many of them their children and grandchildren who couldn’t afford the concert but are now magnanimously permitted to come in and dance to the music played by the DJ, and as the clientele changes and the club empties in order to be filled once more, there are many embraces and smiles and kisses, and as the tales start up of just how fabulous the concert was, it would have taken Umberto Boccioni to capture the scene of the passing of the baton between those who are leaving and those arriving; those who are going home after enjoying themselves for a total of thirty minutes just this once in their entire lives, and those who for the next thirty years will consider having fun a right, a duty almost; those who spent their childhoods taking shelter in ditches and basements from the bombing raids of World War II, and those who have the immense good fortune of being twenty in 1982, in the best Italy ever.
THE REAL BEAST
CESARE WALKS OVER TO IVO and rests his heavy, oversized right arm on his shoulder, and Ivo jumps with surprise. He had been lost in thought, admiring Arianna from the balcony as she danced in the middle of the floor surrounded by youths, just underneath him, together with Rosa, and when he turns to see who is embracing him, he sees the surly smile
of Vezzosi. Despite the loud music, he can hear Cesare’s voice loud and clear.
— I admire you, you know? I really do.
He pauses.
— As a sportsman, I can’t help but admire you. You have managed to do something no one else has. Well done.
— I would never have been able to do it without your help, Ivo answers, and instantly regrets it because he doesn’t actually know what Cesare is talking about, whether it is about the evening, the company, the swimming pool, the factory, his enormous success at work, or, God help him — God help him — Arianna.
Vezzosi’s smile thins into a sneer. In that crowded nightclub, there is no one near them. Ivo starts to feel the weight of the arm wrapped around his shoulder, the alcohol on Cesare’s breath, the evaporated scent of his eau de cologne, and immediately remembers the tales of the Beast’s many fights: all those head butts he had administered all over Tuscany, the noses irrevocably knocked out of place over nothing…
— Did I ever tell you why they call me the Beast?
Ivo feels the tension growing and stops dead, his heart beating furiously. He shakes his head. Cesare keeps his gaze fixed on Arianna.
— It’s a great story, educational even…In little towns, sons take their fathers’ nicknames and, if they are worthy, they can keep them. The Beast, the real Beast, was my father, Giuliano. Do you know what he did?
As if aware of the weight of those twin looks, Arianna turns toward them and sees Cesare with an arm around Ivo’s shoulders, their heads close, their expressions dark, and immediately begins to worry. She has seen Cesare make that move with his arm before, and they have been drinking, all of them. She throws an anxious smile toward the balcony, but it is left unanswered.
— So, my dad had a friend. A great friend. They were always together. Giuliano was a large man, robust, strong as a bull, a mountain farmer, you know…His friend was small and skinny. They were always together, walking through the fields, hunting hares…Always together, always. Every day. Friends. Real friends. Then one day, war broke out and Giuliano was called up while the other, Paoli, was declared unfit. Dad was sent to Russia, and after a year, nothing more was heard from him. No letters, no telegrams, nothing. His parents, my grandparents, were old, and all they had to live on was the milk from these two old, tired cows they had left, their last two. They used it to make cheese, butter…They ate something, and sold the rest. But the war went on and poverty arrived, the most complete poverty, and still no word from Giuliano. So one day, Paoli goes to my grandparents’ house and takes their cows. He takes them away. He makes no secret of it. He tells them. He goes to them and tells them that he is going to take away their cows. He says to the two old people: “Mors tua, vita mea,” and leaves them there, to survive on radicchio and vegetables. On charity, too. Then, one day, the war ends and Dad comes home. He isn’t the same man. He is thin, pale…But he is alive and he has come home. He goes to his parents to embrace them and he can see they are alive by the skin of their teeth. He asks them where the cows are and what happened, how they have fallen into poverty, and at first they don’t want to tell him, because they know he has a bad temper, and because…Listen up, Ivo…they felt bad for Paoli. They were devout Christians, you see? Love thine enemy and all that crap…
Arianna is increasingly concerned; she can’t take her eyes off them. She tries waving but even if they are both staring down at her, no one responds. Even Rosa turns to watch the balcony.
— In the end, after a lot of insistence, they tell him Paoli has stolen the cows. Dad stands up, goes to Paoli’s house, and batters him. Badly. He keeps going at it until Paoli’s almost dead. He leaves him there, on the floor, passed out, beaten to a pulp, and then the ambulance comes and Paoli is taken to the hospital and kept there for a month. When he gets home, Paoli is still not in good shape, and goes to the only bar of the town to have a coffee. Dad walks into the bar, sees Paoli, goes over to him, and batters him again. He leaves him on the floor again, a bloody mess, and Paoli is taken back to the hospital. When he comes out for the second time, Paoli locks himself in his house, but after a month he goes out for a walk, early one morning. He meets Dad in the street and Dad beats him up again.
Ivo’s eyes begin to dart around, desperately searching for someone: Citarella, Carmine, Barbugli, but he spots them all on the dance floor with their wives. Andrea Vecchio is nowhere to be seen, nor is Cipollini. Brunero is watching them from afar, but it’s useless to call over Brunero. Arianna notices Ivo’s terrified look, stops dancing, and stands right in the middle of the floor, flushed and frightened and beautiful, surrounded by people dancing happily while her life is about to fall to pieces.
— So the Carabinieri go to Dad and tell him he has to stop, that he has made his point. They tell him they understand, and in fact they hadn’t done anything about the three beatings, but that’s enough. It has to end there. Dad looks at them and says…Listen up Ivo, this is good…He says, “Dear sirs, that dickhead brought me far too much pain. To me and my parents, who are old. And every time I see him, I’ll do it again. You do what you have to. Arrest me, put me in prison, but I will batter him every time I see him…”
Ivo closes his eyes for a moment.
— He was the real Beast, you see? I’m just his son.
Cesare moves away from the balcony railing, and now they are standing one in front of the other. Even the sneer has vanished from Cesare’s face, and he slowly stretches out his left arm until he just touches Ivo’s shoulder with his fingertips, giving him the perfect reference point for a punch. If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen now. But a second passes, then another one.
— So, Paoli…, Cesare says, his voice almost a growl, so Paoli left town and never came back again. Never. Understand? Do you like this story, Ivo?
Ivo realizes he must answer.
— Yes, he murmurs, and his gaze leaves Vezzosi’s ferocious eyes and moves toward the enormous windows that look over the calm sea and the star-filled skies and stops there.
Cesare looks at Ivo and is astonished to find him at his mercy, mute as a child who has just been told off by his father, immobile, guilty, ready to be beaten, certain to be about to be beaten, and as Cesare admires the scene of his greatest victory — forget the Italian championships — the moment passes, and he loses both the desire and the need to beat Ivo. He has already been beaten. His pride is lying bloody on the floor, and he will remember this moment of utter inferiority for the rest of his life.
— Paoli is still alive, you know. He sells wool now, with his son, who’s a thief just like him.
One final mocking smile, and Cesare makes his way down the staircase toward the American bar, a cuckold and a victor, with the same lithe walk he uses to approach the net to shake hands with his defeated adversaries. He won’t say anything to Arianna. He’s already beaten her too. He has won it all this evening. Game, set, match, championship. So why does he feel so empty?
Ivo doesn’t move. He just stands there on the balcony, full of shame, relief, disappointment, sarcasm, rage. As his breath and his pulse slow down, his eyes turn from the sky and the sea, and he realizes Arianna is on the other side of the balcony across the ballroom. She is right in front of him, and he thinks he must somehow tell her what has happened, so he points to himself with his right index finger, then points at her, then he makes the sign of the cross. Arianna doesn’t understand immediately, as those confused gestures seem like a blessing to her, but then she sees him nod in the direction of the bar, where Cesare is laughing about something with Sergio Vari and Brunero, and so she finally understands.
They are separated by a thirty-meter drop and a large disco glass ball, under which, in the middle of the floor, Vittorio is dancing blind drunk, surrounded by his friends. Arianna brings the index finger of her right hand to her lips, closes her eyes, and blows a kiss to him, then she turns and disappears into the crowd, and Ivo is once again pleased with her, and filled with admiration, and proud of having chosen her and
loved her, and if it were up to him, he would never leave her and would always keep her close to him until the day they became old and wrinkled like tortoises.
Ivo realizes he is exhausted. He finds Cipollini and pays the bill of three and a half million lire with a smile on his lips, handing over to the waiter a roll of banknotes tied with elastic that had swollen the pocket of his trousers throughout the evening. He adds an extravagant tip and the cost of a case of twelve bottles of champagne, which he asks to be brought directly to his car.
Heartened by having paid — Barrocciai truly likes to pay, and the more he pays, the more he likes it, because only a truly exorbitant bill can become glorious, memorable, and therefore necessary — he descends the staircase and walks into the American bar and, with arms open wide, intones a booming “Good night, my friends!” to his guests sitting at the table, and quickly leaves the club before they can get up to say goodbye and thank him. Or beat him up.
Barrocciai gives a ten-thousand-lire note to the disheveled kid in Bermuda shorts who brings his Pagoda, asks him to open the canvas top and help Cipollini load the champagne onto the rear jump seat, then he sits in the driver’s seat, turns on the headlights, slips a cassette of Sinatra into the stereo, and sets off.
He will go home, but not right away. He will enjoy the slow ride on the empty highway, and when he arrives in his city, he will go and find those factories that are still open, and offer some of that champagne with a priest’s name to those who are still working for him on that Saturday night in August: Angelo Camputaro, who is weaving in his vest, a Nazionale cigarette stuck in his mouth, so Ivo would find his new samples ready on his desk when he returns from holiday; the workers at Fidias, who are still dyeing, brushing, trimming, and rolling his fabrics with the same care they would show a child; and all of those guys who are still breaking their backs for him in the dozen or so microscopic third-party businesses his crazily fragmented production chain is made of — the precious, silent heroes to whom he owes each of his hopes and each of his dreams and everything that he owns.