Amedeo an immigrant! How strange. Every so often we watched the demonstrations in Piazza Vittorio for the rights of immigrants: the right to work, to housing, to health care, the vote, and so on. I say that the rights of the native-born come first, and dogs are children of this country. I don’t trust immigrants. I read recently in the paper that an immigrant gardener raped an old woman who had given him everything: residency permit, job, place to live, and so on. Is that the reward? Have you ever heard of a dog who raped its owner? You know the Gypsy who goes to Amedeo’s house and sits with him in the Bar Dandini, and sells drugs in Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore while he’s pretending to feed the pigeons? One day that scoundrel said to me:
“In my country we always leave dogs outside the house.”
“What do you mean?”
“The job of a dog is to protect the house from thieves!”
“How can you say such a thing!”
I thought of reporting him for defamation and racism, then I changed my mind, out of respect for Amedeo. That stupid, criminal, racist Gypsy should be expelled from Italy immediately. The problem is that the Gypsies don’t have a precise country to be sent back to!
The truth is that we don’t need immigrants. I heard a politician say on TV that the Italian economy is at risk of collapsing if they stop coming. That is a lie spread by the Communists and the priests from Caritas. We can easily give up immigrants. All we have to do is teach our dogs properly—let’s stop using that horrible word “train.” Now, for example, there are highly educated dogs who accompany blind people when they go out to do the shopping, and who perform various other duties, just as there are dogs who help find and rescue people buried in the rubble of earthquakes. And let’s not forget the dogs who work in airports, train stations, and ports whose job is to sniff out drug smugglers. We don’t need immigrants. It’s absurd that we teach them Italian, give them jobs and places to live, and they pay us back by selling drugs in public parks and raping our daughters. It’s really too much!
Who killed poor Lorenzo Manfredini? I don’t know. Ask the police. I knew the victim well. He was a friend of my son’s in childhood and adolescence, they were always together, like brothers. Lorenzo came to live with his grandmother when his parents divorced, after a legal battle over the division of their assets and custody of Lorenzo. The grandmother wasn’t capable of controlling her grandson, so Lorenzo left school early and has always hung around delinquents. It’s very likely that he was killed by a rival gang. Like what happened in Chicago in the thirties or with the Magliana gang here in the seventies.
The government should take up the question of the cost of living right away. The solution is not to raise taxes and suffocate Italian citizens but to let dogs help: they ask nothing and perform infinite services free of charge. We have to teach them well: to arrest criminals, help old people, fix electrical appliances, prepare food, and so on. Ah, I forgot a very important thing: dogs can even work in factories without making trouble, because they don’t have a union and they never go on strike. Doesn’t the government want to get rid of unions? Isn’t it looking for obedient workers that it can fire without legal repercussions? I believe firmly that what Professor Antonio Marini maintains is true: our big problem is underdevelopment. Unfortunately, Italy is an uncivilized country. I say that the moment has arrived to abandon dangerous ideas, such as that dogs are only good for guard duty.
Look here! There’s an analogy between Amedeo’s disappearance and Valentino’s. I think Amedeo is the victim of a kidnapping. The police should arrest the gang of kidnappers that operates in Piazza Vittorio. Can’t you see by now that there’s a secret alliance between the Sardinians and the Chinese? That’s the conclusion I’ve come to after a long investigation. I don’t have enough proof, but a lot of things are suspicious, and the circumstantial evidence is very disturbing. If Valentino isn’t back safe and sound in the next few days, I’m not paying taxes anymore. In fact, I’m going to emigrate to Switzerland as soon as I can and I’m never coming back to Italy.
FOURTH WAIL
Tuesday March 23, 10:48 P.M.
Our neighbor Elisabetta Fabiani is addicted to two things: dogs and thrillers. It’s pointless to talk to her about anything in which there is no mention of a dog or of Hitchcock or Agatha Christie, Colombo or Derrick, Montalbano or Poirot. Elisabetta watches the police shows on TV every day. She is mad for the series Rex, which is about the adventures of a dog who is the assistant to a police inspector; he has an uncommon intelligence and performs extraordinary feats.
Saturday January 16, 11:28 P.M.
The barking of Elisabetta’s dog sounds like wailing; it makes me happy. Stefania can’t bear it. This morning she quarreled again with Elisabetta and threatened to call the police if her dog doesn’t stop barking in the middle of the night. “You’re a racist, a fanatic, you hate animals,” Elisabetta accused her. Stefania was furious, and she asked me with amazement and candor, “Am I a racist and fanatic because I can’t sleep at night on account of that insistent barking?” I answered, “Of course you’re a fanatic, but only of love!” Then she laughed and kissed me for a long time.
Tuesday November 14, 10:57 P.M.
Tonight Elisabetta warned me about the Gypsies who sell things that have been stolen from the market in Piazza Vittorio. She told me that animals are more civilized than Gypsies from any point of view. After a long, circuitous digression she got to the point: “Don’t open the door of your house to that drunken Gypsy who, under the pretext of feeding the pigeons, sells drugs.” I realized that she was referring to poor Parviz. “He’s not a Gypsy, he’s Iranian,” I reminded her, and she answered with great conviction: “It doesn’t matter if he is Iranian or American or Swiss or whatever. The important thing is that he behaves exactly like a Gypsy, and that’s why I say that Gypsies are not born but made.” I said goodbye without commenting.
Thursday March 23, 11:45 P.M.
This morning Elisabetta asked me to support her legal battle in defense of the dogs of the world. She reported that the tenants intend to vote on a building rule that would forbid dogs to use the elevator, and that this law is directed against poor Valentino. She reminded me that racism began in the United States when blacks were forbidden to sit on buses next to whites. She would like me to sign a petition in defense of the right of Valentino and his fellow-creatures throughout the world to use the elevator, the metro, the buses, to take airplanes, trains, ships, to have the right to inherit, to sexuality, to housing, and so on. I signed the petition without discussion.
Wednesday August 27, 10:49 P.M.
This morning I ran into Elisabetta. She was very depressed. She said that she still hopes for Valentino’s return, and that she possesses irrefutable proof that Sardinian kidnapping gangs are involved in what happened to her little pet. It’s obvious that the dog filled her life after her husband’s death and the departure of her only son. Valentino isn’t simply a dog but a true companion who protects her from solitude.
Sunday October 20, 11:08 P.M.
Elisabetta’s condition gets worse every day. I saw her tonight walking barefoot near Piazza Vittorio calling her vanished dog. I feel sorry for Elisabetta. How can a human being become so attached to an animal?
THE TRUTH ACCORDING
TO MARIA CRISTINA GONZALEZ
When I get married and have a child I’m going to call him Amedeo. This is a promise I’ve been making to myself for years. Sadly, so far I haven’t experienced the joy of having children, though I’ve been pregnant plenty of times. I know that the Church, the Pope, and the priests are definitely against abortion, but why do they think only of the fetus? Don’t I deserve a little care and attention? Who thinks about poor Maria Cristina Gonzalez?
Signor Amedeo is the only person who treats me kindly and supports me in difficult moments. I’m unfortunate and stupid, this I don’t deny. My situation inspires bewilderment and surprise. Usually women are so happy when they get pregnant, but I weep, out of fear of losing
my job, fear of poverty, the future, the police, everything. I sit on the stairs and cry after telling Signora Rosa the usual: “I’m going to do a little shopping.” If she saw me crying she would throw me out, because she has often told me that crying brings her closer to death. And she is afraid of dying. In the beginning I used to cry alone in the bathroom. But the bathroom is horrible and sad, no one comes to rescue me. I prefer the stairs, because Amedeo doesn’t use the elevator. He’s the only one who asks me how I am, I tell him my troubles and cry on his shoulder.
Signora Rosa is eighty. She was paralyzed ten years ago, and she only leaves her wheelchair to go to the bathroom or to lie down in her bed. She has four children, who take turns coming to see her every Sunday for a few hours. When one of them arrives, my weekly holiday begins: from noon to midnight! I don’t know what to do to enjoy my brief time off. I look at the hands of the clock on the wall and hope from the bottom of my heart that time will stop, so my freedom will last longer. I do all I can not to waste precious minutes, I make a plan filled with activities, but in the end I do the same thing every time: I go to the station where the Peruvian immigrants gather. Their faces satisfy my thirsting eyes and their words warm my cold ears. It seems to me I’ve gone home, to Lima. I greet them all with a kiss even if I’ve never seen them before, then I sit on the sidewalk and eat Peruvian food, rice with chicken and lomo saltado and ceviche. I talk for hours, I talk more than I listen, that’s why they call me Maria Cristina the chatterbox.
When the sun begins to set, I get more and more depressed, knowing that my journey to freedom is about to end. So I cling to the bottles of beer and Pisco to shelter myself from that storm of sadness. I drink a lot to forget the world, to forget my problems. I’m not the only one who has to deal with old age and imminent death every day. There are a lot of us, united by the destiny of our work with old people who at any moment will move on to another world. As the time passes we are transformed into stray dogs. Some let their tongues go, hurling insults in Spanish and Italian. Some provoke the people sitting nearby, and so in an instant fists are raised, and kicks and punches fly. I, instead, move silently out of sight, and under the wing of night go with a young man who resembles me in every way. Each of us empties into the other’s body our own desire, hope, anguish, fear, sadness, rage, hatred, and disappointment, and we do this quickly, like animals afraid of missing the season of fertility. We lie on an isolated bench or on pages of a newspaper spread out on the ground. Lots of times I forget the pill and here begins my pregnancy problem, the mad attempt to abort. I know that the pill is very important, but I always forget because I’ve had so much to drink.
I often wish old Rosa would die. Yet when I think of the consequences I’m filled with a strong feeling of regret—I’m afraid that her death also means the end of me. Where can I go? How can I support my family in Lima? What will become of me? This life is just not fair. Must I live out my youth a prisoner among phantoms of death? I want a house, a husband, children. I imagine waking in the morning, taking my children to school, going to work, embracing my husband at night, and finally seeing our bodies join on a comfortable bed and not on a sad park bench or an abandoned train car or under a hidden tree.
I would like to feel at peace but I don’t even have documents. I’m like a boat with torn sails, subject to the will of reefs and waves. If I had a residency permit I wouldn’t let that Neapolitan concierge make fun of me and insult me. She always calls me the Filipino. I’ve told her many times, “I’m not from the Philippines, I’m from Peru!” I’m from Lima, I don’t understand how someone can confuse Peru with the Philippines! I don’t even know why she persists in insulting me. One day I lost patience and said to her, “Why do you despise me? Have I somehow been disrespectful to you without realizing it?” For example, I know she’s from Naples but I’ve never insulted her by calling her la Napolitana. So many times I’ve said to her, “Why are you so rude to me, don’t you see that we belong to the same religion, that love for the Cross and the Virgin Mary unites us?”
I’m afraid of the concierge because she could report me to the police. I don’t have a residency permit, and if I fell into their hands they wouldn’t be indulgent with me and in the blink of an eye I would find myself back in the airport in Lima, back in the inferno of poverty. I don’t want to return to Peru before achieving my dream of a house, a husband, and children. When I have a residency permit I won’t be afraid to say whatever I want, I won’t call her Signora Benedetta, I’ll say “Neapolitan concierge”! I pray to the Virgin Mary, only she will save me from these cruel people.
I suffer terribly from loneliness, and sometimes it makes me caress madness. I watch TV all day and eat, I devour huge quantities of chocolate. As you see, I’m very fat. I’d like to lose weight, but in these conditions I can’t manage it. It’s not a big deal, losing weight isn’t so hard. When I get married I’ll feel calmer and then my weight will go down automatically. They wouldn’t let me have my friends in the house after the neighbors complained. The truth is that that damn Benedetta said bad things about me to the old lady’s daughter, Signora Paola, telling her that I bring men home and stay with them all night, so then I don’t take care of the sick woman. Then they said my weight was responsible for breaking the elevator, they say it’s more than the capacity of the poor elevator. They said to me, “First lose weight, then use the elevator!”
Is it right that they forbid me to use the elevator while they let Signora Fabiani’s dog pee there? That dog is happier than I am, he goes out more than ten times a day, he wanders in the gardens in Piazza Vittorio like a little prince or a spoiled child. Instead I can’t leave the house even for a minute, because Signora Rosa has heart problems. What would happen if her heart stopped beating while I’m not there? I don’t want to think about the consequences. I envy little Valentino. I’ve often dreamed of being in his place. Am I a human being? Sometimes I doubt my humanity. I don’t even have time to go to Mass on Sunday or put myself in the hands of a priest to confess and wipe away my sins. So I’ll be damned, and Hell will be waiting for me in the next world.
Signor Amedeo a murderer! That’s ridiculous. I’m sure he’s innocent. And they accuse him of being an immigrant. Is immigration a crime? I don’t understand why they hate us so much. Fujimori, the ex-President of Peru, was an immigrant from Japan. You hear so many lies about immigrants on TV. And yet in spite of that I can’t do without television. Once the TV broke. My hands shook, my heart was pounding. I called the four children of Signora Rosa one after another and asked them to come right away. They thought their mother was dead or about to die, Signor Carlo even called a funeral home before he came, and when they arrived they found a depressing situation. Signora Rosa was there yelling at me to stop crying. I gathered my strength and said to them, “I will not remain in this house a moment longer if you don’t get the TV fixed immediately.” Signora Laura asked her husband to get a new television. The four children of Signora Rosa left the house when, reassured, they saw me watching a new episode of The Bold and the Beautiful on channel 5. TV is a friend, a brother, a husband, a child, a mother, and the Virgin Mary. Can one live without breathing?
I watch the Mexican and Brazilian telenovelas every day, and I know all the details of the actors’ lives. It’s enough to tell you that the last episode I saw upset me as if it were my own mother’s funeral. Anyway, I don’t consider myself simply a spectator but an actress who plays an important role in the serial. I often shout advice at the characters. “Marina, watch out, Alejandro doesn’t love you, he’s a cheat, he wants to get your money and throw you out of your father’s castle,” or “Talk to her, Pablo, tell her you love her and want to marry her!” or “Caterina, don’t be hard on your husband, you’ll drive him into the arms of his new lover, that whore Silvana!” Often I feel solidarity with the poor, the unfortunate and despised. I get up from my chair, go to the TV, stare the bad man or woman in the eye: “What do you think, you rat, you’ll get what you deserve, the
good will win in the end!” or “Carolina, you are vile, why are you so mean to Eleonora, that poor orphan? Damn you, you deserve to go to hell,” or “Julio, you’ll never find peace, you’re a criminal and you’ll get your punishment—that young, good-looking Alfonso Rodriguez will see to it!”
Yesterday on RAI 3 I saw a program about infertility, and I learned that the main cause of it is anxiety. I said to myself, for consolation, that abortion has at least one positive aspect—it proves that I’m healthy. And this means, fortunately, that I can hope to have children and a husband and a house, and weigh the same as Claudia Schiffer, Eva Herzigova, Naomi Campbell, Laetitia Casta, and the wife of Richard Gere, whose name I can’t remember. It’s possible that I’ll become a famous actress in the near future, especially after that young Dutch Johan insisted on having me in his next film. I told him I don’t have a residency permit, but that didn’t matter to him. I asked him to give me some time to lose weight, but he got angry: “I hate Hollywood cinema because it betrays reality. Don’t lose weight. Being fat makes you more beautiful.” After calming down he apologized: “I’m against any form of catenaccio.” I didn’t understand what he meant and I wondered: “What is catenaccio?” I heard some tenants say that Johan is nuts. It doesn’t matter, I wouldn’t marry him, have children by him. What matters to me really is to become a famous actress. Then who will dare prevent Signora Maria Cristina Gonzalez, thin, beautiful, the mother of Amedeo, Jr., from using the elevator?
Clash of Civilizations for an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio Page 5