by Genni Gunn
Finally, one of the doctors prescribed morphine, of which I knew nothing. Sandro explained it was derived from poppy seeds, the juice in the unripe seed pods of the opium poppy, Papaver somniferum. It all sounded very benign to me, because poppies are common flowers here, and I’d never been warned against them. At the time, I knew very little about narcotics, except that the word “narcosis” meant “to make numb, to deaden” — something I was very happy to do to my body and mind.
The injections were miraculous: all pain suddenly ceased. Because morphine acts directly on the central nervous system, it also relieved my restlessness, my anxiety, and my unbearable sadness. I was rendered completely neutral.
As well, it kept me in a state of drowsiness. Somniferum. Sleep inducing. Years later, I discovered that it had been named appropriately after Morpheus, the god of dreams.
I slept through half of the next year, it seems, so little do I recall. To be pain-free, I needed higher and higher doses, which knocked me out completely. I was somnambulant. Weeks would pass without my knowing; Domenica would indicate Catholic holidays and processions I was too exhausted to stand up and watch; Sandro materialized in front of me — both solid and elusive — as if he were in a continual dream beyond my reach; Vito, the children, Mamma, Papà faded to a distant indifferent space in my head.
You can better understand this state I was in when I tell you that even when Clarissa returned from a triumphant run at La Scala, full of stories of glory, I couldn’t muster the energy to get up. She came into my bedroom and sat on the bed. I realize now how alarmed she must have been to see me there, indifferent, languid — her older sister Piera, who was in charge of everything and everyone. I must have listened to her; I don’t know, although I do remember she had signed a contract and was going to New York. But this may have been told to me later. Clarissa left soon after, and within a few days, she had faded in my mind to yet another dream.
Finally, Sandro grew alarmed with my disorientation, my complete surrender to sleep, which I still found preferable to pain. He found a new doctor who switched me from morphine to methedrine — a derivative of morphine that acts on the nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. What it does, really, is alter one’s state of consciousness and perception of pain. I felt euphoric, fantastic, all the pain gone, awake, aware, as if I were floating on air. Nothing mattered. Not that Vito had run up another bill; not that Renato never wrote us letters, not that Mimí was consorting with dubious characters and smoking cigarettes; not that Papà had been diagnosed with chronic bronchitis. These things wafted into and out of my consciousness in a single breath. Nothing mattered except the delicious injections which I could buy over the counter and administer to myself easily — into my thighs and buttocks, where no one could see the tracks.
Soon, I was giving myself up to fifteen methedrine injections a day, sneaking out from one pharmacy to the other. Sometimes, I paid Mimí to get me more. What was fantastic was that I could function normally. I’d give myself an injection, then friends would arrive, and I’d play cards perfectly well. There were no telltale signs that anything was wrong. In the middle of the card game, I would simply excuse myself and go to the bathroom,where I’d inject myself again.
Whereas before I had been depressed and exhausted, now I bounded through the house, instructing everyone on how to do everything. I stopped to chat with Sandro’s clients; I took an active interest in what we would eat each day; I motored out each afternoon to see Mamma and Papà; I invited Sandro’s friends and family to dinner and card parties. In short, I was suddenly so busy and overactive that it was simple to drive from pharmacy to pharmacy, from town to town to replenish my supply, and thus to hide my growing, desperate need.
On Easter Sunday of 1955, while I was sitting in a church pew between Sandro and Domenica, my arm began to itch. I rubbed it, but this seemed to stimulate rather than relieve the itching. I used my nails, drawing them back and forth along my forearm, at first gently, then ever harder, so that red lines appeared on my skin. We had been sitting in the church for over an hour, and I felt restless and out of breath. Domenica, who while in a church normally knelt, head bowed, eyes shut and hands clasped, suddenly turned to look at me, as if she had perceived my distress. She sat back, grasped my forearm, and held it in her lap. The itch did not stop, but intensified. The priest’s voice drilled into my brain: Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper virgini… quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere…
I could feel myself gasping for air. I wrestled my arm away from Domenica, and scratched, panicked, until I ripped the skin open. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
I stood up abruptly, and both Domenica and Sandro tried to hold me back, but I pushed past them, and stepped in front of and over people’s feet to get out of the pew. I felt a sense of urgency, as if I were trapped and would soon be free.
Indulgentiam, absolutionem, et remissionem peccatorum nostrorum tribuat nobis omnipotens et misericors Dominus.
The priest’s voice rose and fell in a Latin sing-song, and though I was not the least bit aware of what he was saying, the sound became a soothing chant urging me forward. The confessional loomed immediately in front of me. I stepped in, sat down, and quickly pulled the curtain across in a gesture that must have made me look pious and repentant. In the darkness, I fumbled in my purse for the methedrine.
A window opened in the wall beside me, and through the screen, a priest said, “Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” He continued a monologue about God’s goodness, and my state of disgrace, while I injected myself in the thigh, not the least bit concerned about God’s wrath or sins or confessions. I sat back, silent, panting, while the methedrine coursed through me.
“Thank you, Father,” I said, before leaving. The itch had stopped and I felt invigorated. I returned to my place between Sandro and Domenica, and sat, calm, for the rest of the service.
Up until now, Sandro had looked the other way, probably because it was better to have me functioning on medication than to see me in chronic pain. When we returned home this Easter Sunday, however, he launched into a prolonged reprimand which began with the fact that I had humiliated him in the church, getting up like that, then not speaking to the priest, who had approached him about it in the vestibule. Didn’t I ever wonder what people would think? Didn’t I realize what kind of an impression I was making, and how this impression would cast an unfavourable reflection on him and Domenica? He went on in this particular vein for a while, then moved on to my drug addiction, which surprised me more than anything, because he had never before spoken to me about it. Domenica stood by, rubbing her hands, trying to calm Sandro and keep the housekeeper out of hearing range. I listened impassively, because all these things did not matter to me. Rather, I was pondering how soon after this lecture I could leave the house, and who I could call to get more methedrine, because there surely would not be a pharmacy open on Easter Sunday.
11. Letter from Aldo
“Look, I’ve kept this letter from Aldo. He has always wanted what’s best for me.”
My dear Piera,
I am worried about you, because you have not written for months. Sandro says you have not been well. Are you all right now? Papà sent us a nice letter, but he did not tell us much about you or the family.
I have finished my articling in Bologna, and have been asked to be a partner in the law firm. You can be proud of me, Piera. I know how important education has always been to you.
And now a surprise. Clarissa is coming to visit this month. We have been writing, and we both think it would be marvellous if you would come and visit too. I’m sure Sandro would do without you for a few days.
Piera dear, I think that the northern air may do you good.
I hope you will consider this invitation. Please, think about it seriously and let me know as soon as possible.
All my love,
Aldo
‡ August 1955. Bologna, Italy. I understood immediately that Aldo and Clarissa had been told about my methedrine addiction and were determined to get me off it; nevertheless, I agreed to go. Sandro accompanied me on the train, and even then, when I knew the purpose of this trip, I sneaked needles into the washroom, and plunged them into my thighs and my feet. I had stashed methedrine everywhere in my clothes, my bra, my panties.
We arrived at the station in Bologna in late afternoon, the sun bright. I had fallen asleep on Sandro’s shoulder for the last couple of hours of the journey, and my clothes felt wrinkled and damp against me.
“Are you all right?” he said gently, helping me out of our seat.
I nodded, though I didn’t feel all right. I needed to find a washroom. Sandro pulled down my suitcases, and pushed me ahead of him down the aisle.
“Do you have to go?” I asked, though I knew he was very busy this time of year, and we had agreed that he would return to Belisolano on the next train.
He reached down and kissed my cheek “You’ll be fine, Piera,” he said. “Aldo and Clarissa will keep you busy.” He smiled. “You’ll hardly have time to think about me.”
“How cruel you are,” I said, but I took his hand and squeezed it lightly.
Then we were on the platform, and Clarissa was walking toward me, all smiles, her hair tinted auburn, her crimson lips saying, “Piera! Piera,” in a delighted tone of voice that warmed me. She was wearing a green tweed fitted suit and dark green pumps. Behind her, Aldo waved. What joy. As if I were returning from a long journey abroad to my loved ones. Clarissa embraced me long and hard. When she pulled away, both our eyes were wet.
Then Aldo stepped forward and embraced me as if I were porcelain, which made me wonder what Sandro had written them.
We put my suitcases in the car, then went into a restaurant nearby to wait until Sandro’s train was to leave in less than an hour. Once seated, a knot began in my stomach. Partly it was the fear of being left alone. I slipped my hand into Sandro’s and whispered, “But must you go, really?”
He shook his head, as an adult does to a child who continuously asks the same question.
I excused myself and went to the bathroom, where I injected myself in the foot.
By the time Sandro boarded, I was calm and indifferent to his leaving. The sun felt too bright in my eyes, so I took my sunglasses out of my purse and put them on. Clarissa must have assumed that I was crying and overcome with grief, because she reached out and patted my back in a reassuring way. I waved gaily to Sandro as the train moved out of the station.
Clarissa leaned into me and asked, “Are you still using those medicines?”
“Sometimes,” I lied. I tried to compose myself, to appear more unhappy, more as I had been when I got off the train.
While we walked to the car, I invented a proper story to tell them. It was a blessing, I thought, that Sandro had not changed his mind and stayed. Later, I explained to them that I had indeed been addicted to morphine, but that now, my doctor had been giving me methedrine to wean me off it. In fact, I said, I was almost out of it, and would need more soon.
They had no reason to disbelieve me. I, who Clarissa knew would never lie. And so, I counted on this, and Aldo said he’d get me the drug.
They were not stupid, however, and Sandro had had plenty of opportunity to speak to them privately. That night, Aldo slept in the spare room, while Clarissa and I shared his larger bed. She watched me incessantly, following me even to the bathroom. I had to give myself an injection through my nightgown.
I thought I was being so clever, but I had been taking drugs for about two years now, and I no longer realized that I was not myself, that I existed in a painless, sexless, timeless state. I had become this other person who was my opposite: instead of being responsible, sensible, and caring for others, I had become devoid of all emotion.
On the third day of my stay, Clarissa and Aldo sat me down and told me that they knew I was sneaking injections, and that they had come up with a plan to help me. Of course, they had no real experience in this area. They decided that it would be better for me to take belladonna instead of the methedrine injections.
I agreed because I had no choice. They gave me a bottle and told me to take ten drops or so. I did as told, then fell asleep. When I awakened, I didn’t know how much time had passed. I stumbled to my window and looked outside. The sky was black, no moon, and the air still. I could see my family lined up in front of me, their faces pressed to the window, their voices accusatory. Piera, save me, Daniela cried. Piera, why did you have to leave? I said, No, I did it for you, but she couldn’t hear me; I thought you loved me, Vito said. I did, I do. I didn’t know. Forgive me; Mamma’s tongue wagged, How could you take all those drugs and let us all down? I tried to explain about the pain, but she turned away; Clarissa’s scorn was evident in her eyes; It’s all your fault, Renato said. All your fault. Even Papà, whom I loved so dearly, shook his head in bitter disappointment. I took some more belladonna drops to stop their voices. I slept, and when I awakened, they were still there, still pressing. Duty. Duty. Duty. I took ten more drops, until by morning I’d swallowed the contents of the entire bottle.
I awakened strapped into a hospital bed, in terrible pain, suffering from methedrine withdrawal and belladonna poisoning. The doctors and nurses loomed over me with the faces and bodies of hideous beasts, their hands brutal, their voices demonic. I was convinced they were not doctors and nurses, but lunatic impostors who had escaped from an asylum. I screamed each time they came near me.
Now and then, Clarissa’s face would float in front of me, and for a moment, I’d see the two of us innocent in Locorotondo, walking up the hill in winter, holding hands, the sky, the earth, the air — all so beautiful, I felt my heart would burst. Then, just as quickly, this unbearable beauty would become the most intense anguish. All around me, familiar objects came alive in a furtive existence only I could see: the bars of my bed began to writhe; my pillow sighed; the hair on my arm spelled out incomprehensible words. My nose ran, my eyes watered, I sneezed and gasped for breath. I vomited, over and over.
For eight days and nine nights, I remained in that psychiatric hospital bed, screaming in pain, vomiting, hardly drinking anything. Sandro arrived from Belisolano.
Nurses and doctors came and went. I heard them say, “What a shame, so young. But why doesn’t she want to live?” I kept screaming, and finally someone gave me a shot of morphine and called a doctor.
“These artificial means don’t help anything,” the doctor told me. “We want to cure you.” He explained that he would prescribe something that would detoxify me — I’m not sure what it was, perhaps apomorphine. He told me that each night, before I went to sleep, they would give me one injection. This helped immensely. It didn’t completely eliminate the symptoms of withdrawal, but it did make them tolerable. Sandro came up to see me often, sometimes staying for several days. I took great comfort in his presence, his fortitude. We decided that once I was detoxified, it would be best for me to recuperate for a few weeks with Clarissa and Aldo at the seaside, away from the familiar haunts where I had indulged my addiction.
We went by bus, Sandro, Aldo, Clarissa, and I. In Fregene, I walked up and down the beach — five kilometres a day in the fresh air, and after a week, I felt much better. Once they were all satisfied that I was much improved, Sandro returned to Belisolano, and Clarissa to America. Aldo had rented the house for the summer, so I talked him into going back to work, while I remained a little longer. I wanted some time to myself, to think, to reflect on my near death.
This program, via satellite, is seen simultaneously in all the countries of Europe and the Mediterranean basin.
Our answering machine receives approximately 40,000 responses a year.
August 7, 2002
Update
(Episode of July 17, 2002)
Aldo Santoro has identified the property where his brother, Vito Salvatore Santoro, was murdered as one that he ren
ted for the summer of 1955. “I hadn’t seen the original program,” he said, when questioned as to why he hadn’t come forward sooner. “It was only when I saw the episode of July 31st that I recognized the house.”
Mr. Vito Santoro’s murder remains a mystery. The family had assumed that he was living in Argentina, and thus have never declared him missing.
Police are hoping someone will come forward who knew Mr. Santoro during the summer of 1955, and/or particularly anyone who remembers him in Fregene during that time.
If you have any information regarding this victim, as well as any information regarding the circumstances of his death, please call the number at the bottom of your screen.
7
Belisolano, Italy/en route August 7–8, 2002
After supper, everyone disperses, leaving David and Teresa at the table.
“Would you like some coffee?” Teresa asks, though no one here drinks coffee at night.
He shakes his head. At home, he’d drink decaffeinated coffee, but asking for that here in Italy is close to blasphemy.
“There you are,” Oriana says from the doorway. She’s wearing a light jacket and carrying the camcorder.
“Are you going somewhere?” Teresa asks. “It’s late. This is a small town, you know. People talk.”
“I have to get back to Rome,” Oriana says. She holds up her cellphone as proof. “I’ve booked an overnight train.” She looks at her watch. “Marco’s taking me to Bari soon. I’ve already said my goodbyes, even to Zia Piera with the door between us.”