Something Great and Beautiful

by Enrico Pellegrini

  “Yep, unlike you, he knows how to move on,” Sachin whispered in my ear. Then he looked up as if something was about to crash on his head. “You want me to take a medium close-up shot of the dog, Franz?”

  “Fuck, Calcutta, this is not a photography course! Obviously, you have to show the dog’s snout and eyes, otherwise they don’t pay us.”

  “So Franz and I handle the alarm. Don Otto, you do the garden,” said Chloé. “And you…”

  Our eyes met. She hesitated, she still didn’t remember.

  “Where did we…Are you part of the gang?”

  “He’s not,” Franz said with a grimace. His eyes shone. “He must be initiated.”

  “Really?” Chloé asked.

  “Really.”

  Complying with the order, she pulled out her Swiss Army knife. She moved the blade close to my cheek. I felt that first pinch on my skin. But then she stopped.

  “Wait,” she said quietly, holding the blade to my face. “I remember you.” She had her back to the gang, but I could see as she lowered her gaze to the scar on my chin.

  “He’s already been initiated,” she said. Our eyes locked. She retracted the knife and touched my skin, running her fingers along the groove of the scar. I felt her fingertips. For some reason, suddenly, everything came flooding back. Marinella’s amber hair and the party, and the tires sliding, and the car flying into the air and crashing into a thousand pieces.

  “You okay?” asked Chloé. She smiled. “With that scar you make women fall in love.”

  I turned away.

  “Come on, Rosso, stop playing the prince,” Franz laughed, though his voice was laced with coldness. “Even after a swim you still stink of cologne.”

  e walked toward the target guided by fire-works. That night was the Feste di Luglio, the July festivities, in honor of the Madonna of Monte Allegro. Down there, in Rapallo, the procession was already crossing the narrow streets, the caruggi. They seemed even narrower from up here. The crucifixes were held high above the crowd, dangling in the sky, heavy and immense.

  The more I walked, the more tense I grew. I dried my hands with my poplin tuxedo-pocket handkerchief, a remnant from my former party life. Before I knew it, we had arrived at the villa.

  After climbing the protective wall, we dropped down inside one at a time. Fireworks lit the sea. An intermittent light appeared and disappeared on the villa’s facade. As if awakened by the explosion of a firework, the dog came to us from out of the bushes.

  “Do I take the picture now?” Sachin whispered.

  “Yes, what are you waiting for, Santa?” said Franz.

  When the Labrador raised his snout to look at us, my Indian friend snapped. The camera’s flash stunned the dog’s sad, sleepy eyes.

  “What the fuck do I write?” asked Franz. He turned to Sachin while pressing a red marker onto the photo. “Come on, Calcutta, you’re the writer!”

  “Three hundred euros per ear.”

  “Not bad, lean and mean.”

  Federico and I muzzled the Labrador. The animal gently accepted the muzzle, bowing his neck slightly forward to make it easier for us. Maybe because his owner was torturing him, the dog seemed glad to be abducted. He looked at us, panting a bit. A stream of saliva had dried in the salt-and-pepper fur of his snout.

  I climbed up the wall, and Federico handed the dog to me. A soft smell came from the bougainvilleas bordering the wall.

  “Why are you part of the gang?” I asked Federico’s good ear after he joined me on the wall.

  “I am doing it to become a painter,” he said.

  “You joined a gang to become a painter?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Art pays very little at the beginning.”

  I still didn’t like the idea of being part of a gang, even if the ultimate cause was noble. Do something great and beautiful, the Maestro had said. He didn’t say, Go kidnap unhappy dogs. To relax, I pulled out the bottle of Drakkar Noir and pressed it against my lip.

  “Do you like being a painter?” I asked.

  “Yes, but there’s a but,” the fourteen-year-old painter said. “I’ve never painted a girl naked. I’d like to paint a girl naked.”

  “I would love to buy one of your paintings,” I smiled, inebriated. The cologne was already working its magic.

  A couple of fireworks lit the sky.

  “You have no idea what I’d do to paint Chloé naked. At least her tits. She’s cute, right?” said Federico, looking at me.

  Now, the sky was dark again. I oddly felt the muscles on my face move.

  “And she’s pretty smart too. She must have the smartest tits in the world, don’t you agree?” he continued excitedly. “Oh, and I think she’s into you…didn’t you see, she caressed your scar as if it was your penis.”

  I couldn’t help taking another hit of Drakkar Noir. Two fireworks exploded in the sky. A loud sound came from the gate.

  “That’s the signal!” shouted Federico, adjusting his hearing aid. He jumped down. “You climb over with the dog, I go to the gate.”

  As I landed on the asphalt with Eugene in my arms, I felt dizzy. The Drakkar Noir—or perhaps it was the conversation with the painter—had left me completely stoned. I felt like I had just smoked ten pounds of marijuana. I was stumbling. The dog was looking at me quizzically.

  “No, Eugene,” I said, slurring my words. “I don’t think she likes me.”

  s if to contradict me, the Labrador barked and headed across the road. It seemed he wanted to take me somewhere. Well, okay. A stolen family dog leads you on a path, you follow. He sniffed his way, then broke into a run. He dragged me down the hill until we reached an empty spot at the edge of the woods.

  The night lit up the tombstones here and there. Some stones were crooked, some straight, and others were yellowish and abandoned. One could make out the etched inscriptions: RUFOLO, 1924–1930; LORD; ORZO, BELOVED FOX TERRIER…It was a little pet cemetery on the edge of the woods that had been there for a hundred years. Back in the early 1900s British aristocracy owned lavish summer homes on the Italian Riviera; they believed that their pets had souls, too, and deserved a quiet place to rest in peace.

  Suddenly, the dog stopped in front of a stone. After sniffing some roots he grew calm. The Labrador looked at the stone, as if he were trying to read: LITTLE LIZA PUT TO SLEEP MARCH 6, 2002. Then he howled a long, beautiful serenade.

  When I thought of love, I usually thought of Marinella, whom I loved and who was dead; but now I thought of someone else, of someone living.

  CHLOÉ VERDI

  May 4, 2009, New York City

  as Rosso Fiorentino’s first idea for the company inspired by market research, his past experience, or his own knowledge of the business?” asked the prosecutor, looking at the magnetic blue flag of the State of New York, which was hanging high above the jury bench. “Or was it inspired by a kiss from you back in Italy, Ms. Verdi?” There was some laughter in the courtroom.

  ROSSO FIORENTINO

  July 4, 2006, Rapallo, Italy

  ever make a baker angry.” This old Italian proverb is engraved on the counter of Don Otto’s bakery. In Italy, bakers are considered more patient than sages and stronger than boxers; yet last night I managed to piss off the best one on the Riviera.

  When I arrived at the bakery, it was two o’clock in the morning. In honor of the Madonna of Monte Allegro, Rapallo’s neighborhoods had competed so doggedly to display the best fireworks that, during the grand finale, a priest had lost two fingers on a firecracker that went off early. The air still smelled of burnt paper. After the harsh sound of the bolt latch, the bakery’s door squeaked open and Don Otto’s face appeared.

  “You lost the dog?” he asked.

  “He was excited. He managed to rip off the leash, and ran back to the villa,” I said defensively.

  “And the police arrived.”r />
  I followed Don Otto down to the bakery in the basement. The only light there came from the oven and from the streetlamp spilling through the grating in the ceiling’s corner.

  “How much do I owe you?” I asked.

  “Three hours at the police station,” said Don Otto.

  “They didn’t fine you?”

  “Lucky for you, they didn’t. Still, we lost good money from an honest ransom. I imagine Chloé is a bit pissed off too.”

  Without saying anything more, he began to knead. The race against time had started. Don Otto had to bake forty pans of focaccia before the bakery opened at six, and he had lost three hours at the police station. Although he was as large as a piece of baroque furniture, all his energy seemed concentrated in his soft, pink hands. Don Otto was a bit older than us, and he was so strong and fatherly-looking that, had he not been a virgin, you would have liked to be his child.

  The twins’ arrival interrupted the silence in the bakery.

  “Can we have a round of focaccia, please?” said Virginia through the grating with a drunken French r, betraying her Northern Italian royal origin.

  I caught a glimpse of panties through the tear of her ripped military trousers. In the baker’s trade you see things from the bottom up.

  “C’mon, will you please give us a slice?” said Ginevra. “Virginia had too much to drink and she’s about to throw up.”

  A pair of leather driving moccasins of some new arrival came into view. The moccasins had a lift inside them to make the man look taller, his ankles rose visibly out of his shoes.

  “Leave it to me, girls!” the new arrival said confidently. “Don Otto, it’s me, Renzo Piano. Will you cut us a pound of plain focaccia?”

  “We’re closed,” said Don Otto, unmoved.

  “Then what’s he doing inside?” Ginevra pointed down to me. “Virginia is about to puke.”

  The sound of thick splatter interrupted the flow of the inquiry.

  “Hey, who threw up on my moccasins!” said Renzo Piano.

  Like the inner workings of a magic door, the law of the bolt latch was incomprehensible, perhaps even to the baker himself. Sometimes he would let in some random guy like me, and then he would keep out a world-class architect and the twins who belonged to Italy’s richest family. People came from all over Italy to try a slice of Don Otto’s focaccia.

  Suddenly, two kicks shook the grating like a whip on a bare back. This new arrival moved Don Otto to raise his head for the first time.

  “Do you want a slice?” he asked, drying his face on his apron with a look of concern.

  “No, I want your friend,” Chloé said.

  followed her through the narrow streets of Rapallo. The night was cool, almost cold. A strong Ponentino wind was blowing in from the sea. She walked in front of me without saying anything, her swift arms dang ling a bit. She was still wearing her orange bikini and her striped T-shirt, which outlined the shape of her breasts.

  When we reached the promenade, I noticed there had been a wedding somewhere. Following the Riviera’s tradition, two fishermen had entered the sea up to their ankles, and were lighting small red lanterns and placing them in the water, in honor of the bride. The idea was that when the current pulls them out to the Tigulio Sea the water would look like the train of a wedding dress. Funny, every walk with Chloé seemed to lead me to a wedding.

  “Here,” I said. “To make up for the ransom.”

  Chloé looked at the piece of paper I’d handed to her. “You’re giving me a check?”

  “Yes, that is a check,” I said. As I pronounced the hard k, I felt a slap across my face. Now my bank account was down again to 600 euros. I had already lost the money I had made by selling the crest.

  After slapping me, Chloé slipped the check inside her bikini top, gracefully, as if it were a dandelion. Then she climbed up onto the railing of the promenade and began to walk along it. When she raised her arms for balance, her T-shirt lifted to expose her belly button. It was at my eye level. I walked alongside her, on the ground.

  “You know that being a good-for-nothing will lead you to a bad end?” she said.

  “You’re coming to a bad end, too,” I said. “Weren’t you an aspiring journalist? Why do you steal?”

  “To pay for law school. Franz and I are going to the University of Chicago in the fall. I wonder if you’ve even heard of it.”

  It wasn’t uncommon. Unemployment was so high in Italy, and schools were so expensive in America, everyone had to steal to pay for tuition in the United States.

  “Oh, my mother talks about it all the time,” I said. “Finish your degree, get a master’s in America, and become president of the United States. Except that if you have to steal to pay for your U.S. tuition, it makes it harder to become president even with a master’s.” I paused for a moment, reconsidering that. “Or maybe not.”

  A gust of wind blew out some of the lanterns the fishermen had placed in the sea. Other lanterns were submerged by a wave. It was too windy a night to foster the tradition of the red lanterns.

  “If your mother had gone broke paying your medical bills like mine did,” Chloé said without looking at me, but I felt the weight of her gaze, “you wouldn’t act so spoiled.”

  The two fishermen, relentlessly, decided to place a second batch of lanterns into the water despite the wind.

  “Can you explain to me how you managed to lose the dog?” she asked.

  I searched for the words to say something that, in fact, had nothing to do with her question. I was somewhere else. I walked in silence for a bit.

  “So?” she asked.

  After Marinella and the accident, I had promised myself I would never run after a woman again. And yet I was now standing on the Rapallo promenade with my heart on my sleeves.

  “You know that Sachin wrote a book?” I said.

  “And what does that have to do with the fact that you lost the dog?” she said impatiently.

  “In his book the protagonist searches for his great love, the Venus with the Singing Nipples.”

  “And what the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  I looked to the sea, faltering. “It’s you.”

  “The Venus with the Singing Nipples?” Chloé laughed, lost her balance and landed on the ground. She looked down at her breasts covered by the orange bikini top. “I don’t know if they sing…Is this a declaration of love?”

  “Yes,” I said. “What were you thinking…a tax audit?”

  She climbed back onto the railing and continued walking on it. Either the sea breeze or the check had blown away her bad mood. In a mere hour’s time, Chloé’s eyes had smoldered at me, darkly, then sparkled with a desire so bright it could awaken a white tiger—nothing like the cold, changeless, unreadable eyes of Marinella. Her light tan contrasted with the pale scars along her arms.

  At last, it seemed the two fishermen had conquered the wind. They were placing hundreds of red lanterns in the water, which were gently floating out to sea. It was like looking at New York City from an airplane.

  “What happened here?” I asked, reaching to touch her arm.

  Chloé pulled away and sat down astride the railing in front of me.

  “What happened to you?” She said placing her index finger on the scar on my chin and moving it gently. “Is it true that you’re a prince?”

  “Well, my father sold the title and yesterday I sold a copy of our family crest. We’re broke.” I couldn’t tell if she was more attracted by the fact that I came from a princely family or by the fact that I was broke. “What happened here on your arms? Are these the medical bills?”

  Instead of responding, she kissed me.

  She was darting her tongue fast, like a girl kissing for the first time, and I felt as though I was walking into the cold sea up to my navel. She still tasted a bit of focaccia. Then
she pulled back and looked at me with her stunning green eyes, now happy.

  “He was cool, the Maestro, right?” she said. “You’re not so bad yourself. Pity you’re a good-for-nothing.”

  hen I returned to the bakery, the sky behind the houses was lit up a faint gray. The crisp scent of dawn was mixed with the warm, oily smell of focaccia permeating the narrow streets.

  Don was putting the last pan into the oven. He was working solely with his left hand because his right one was locked in a cramp, his apron drenched with sweat. His face wore the grimace of a she-wolf that has just given birth. The other pans were cooling in front of the grating.

  “Don Otto, it must be because you’ve never fucked anyone that you’re such an asshole!” Ginevra shouted, finally grabbing the tray of focaccia Don was handing to her. Then the echo of her boots disappeared at the end of the caruggio.

  “So what do you think it means?” I asked him.

  “Well, if she kissed you it means she’s no longer angry,” he responded curtly. He didn’t like to discuss questions of the heart.

  “You’ve really never fucked, Don?”

  “No.”

  I looked at the pans where the crusts were cooling, the stracchino cheese crackling. I touched my mouth; it still tasted like Chloé.

  “Don Otto,” I said slowly. “I’ve got it.”

  “You’ve got what?”

  “I have a great idea,” I said. “We export focaccia to America.”

  He closed the oven and stood up, without nodding, listening.

  “Well?” I said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “First you call your own idea great, now it’s beautiful too?”

  “Yes,” I said. Though I wasn’t sure yet that exporting bread to the United States was along the lines of the Maestro’s vision.