Today is the first of November, All Saints’ Day. I Morti. Feast of the Dead. Every year families prepare picnics of cold pasta and roast meats and vegetables and hard biscuits called ossa dei morti, bones of the dead, and spend the day at the cemetery, old people, parents, children, connecting the dead with the living. The day is festive, everyone dressed in their best, chatting with friends and relatives from distant parts of the island on the edge of the grave. There is a greater familiarity with death here than where I come from. Children grow up aware of those who have lived here before them, knowing that at some point they too will lie here in this consecrated ground while their descendants laugh and talk above their bodies. Yet even here things are changing, and people leave the island and never come back and their bones are cremated and the ashes dispersed in places that do not know the weight of their tread.
There is no school because of the holiday. I set off early for a long walk, and then return to my little apartment. I know I have a pile of marking to do but I feel strangely restless and unable to settle down to anything. I sit at my window and try to read but I find myself reading the same sentence over and over again without being able to make any sense of it at all. I try to translate a few lines of Pontormo’s Diario.
Sunday and Monday I cooked myself a bit of veal that Bastiano bought for me and I spent the two days at home drawing and I had dinner by myself those three days.
Tuesday 29th October
Wednesday 30.
At last I put down my book and just stare out of the window at the rooftops and the grey sea beyond. My thoughts flit aimlessly here and there, often returning to the same place and sparking the same reaction, then moving on like a butterfly, an insect. I think of work, of Ugo, of Leonardo and Matteo, of Ispettore Lupo, and I feel a sense of growing unease in my stomach. Tomorrow is Friday and I will have to go and see him. What is it he wants from me? What does he know about me? Then I think of dinner and what I will have to eat at Modugno’s. And then back to Ugo and Leonardo.
Friday 2 November
Rain has closed in over the little village again today. I can’t remember such a grey rainy November in all my years here. I hear that there have been floods all over Italy, that the Po has broken its banks and many farms have been isolated. The water just keeps coming down. It is difficult to distinguish the sea from the sky when I look out, all just a grey union.
It is Friday and I know I must go and see Ispettore Lupo. After school I quickly prepare an overnight bag and rush down to the harbour to catch the ferry. I feel pleased to get away from the children and the island. I can hear the older boys’ voices echoing through the village streets, singing a scurrilous song in mock Gregorian chant:
Qui si celebra il mistero di San Cirillo
che con il cazzo fatto a spillo
inculava i microbi.
They draw it out long on the final note, and then burst into mocking laughter. I try to translate the words in my head but as usual English doesn’t quite catch the sexual nuances. The word prick is so prim. I will first go and see Ispettore Lupo and then maybe catch a train to Florence to see the Deposition from the Cross by Pontormo in the Santa Felicità church.
In his Diario there are some sketches that he did for the Choir of San Lorenzo, which are all that remained after the frescoes were destroyed in 1742. I find them fascinating, these massed bodies, twisted, intertwined, of the dead on the day of the Last Judgement, of bodies entangled, limbs disembodied, parts that do not belong anywhere, arms that appear from under someone else’s chest. When he painted he often used blue. Blue-tinged flesh, blue like the sky, the blue of lapis lazuli which he ground and mixed into his paint. But these sketches are earth coloured, terra cotta, burnt earth.
I take a seat on the upper level of the ferry since all the seats below are occupied. I rub the window with my sleeve to clear the mist and see a taxi stop on the dock, and the stranger emerge. I can’t see his face, which is obscured by the large black umbrella he holds to protect himself from the rain. He disappears from my sight as he enters the wide-open maw of the ferry, then he reappears at the entrance to the lounge. He sits in the only free seat a few rows ahead of me. I try to focus on my book, my rough translation of the Diario:
On Tuesday I had half a kid’s head and soup for dinner.
Wednesday I had the other half and some sweet wine and five ounces of bread and a caper salad.
Thursday evening a hearty beef soup and salad.
Pontormo carries on and on about the minute details of his life, of what he ate, of his bowel movements, as if these were the most important things, the ones he felt it was important to record for his own understanding, for posterity:
On Tuesday evening I ate a green salad and an omelette.
On Ash Wednesday two farthings of almonds and an omelette and walnuts and I worked on that figure above the skull (figure).
Thursday evening a green salad and caviar and an egg; the Duchess came to San Lorenzo and the Duke accompanied her.
Friday evening an omelette, some broad beans and a bit of caviar and four ounces of bread.
Saturday evening I ate two eggs.
Sunday, which was Easter Sunday, I went to lunch with Bronzino and I had dinner with him too.
It is getting dark by the time the ferry arrives in Anzio. In the bustle at the harbour I lose sight of the man. I catch the bus through to Rome and wander along the rainy streets, the mulch of wet fallen leaves clinging to my shoes. By late afternoon I am in front of the Questura again. Nothing seems to have changed from my last visit. Even the faces look the same. I wait in the same tired queue, recognising the particular depressed smell of this place from the last time, a smell of nervous perspiration and poverty. I feel myself falling into a state of helpless lethargy like everyone else. After about an hour my turn comes. I ask for Ispettore Lupo. I am directed to a side corridor, second floor, and third door to the left. I wait for the lift with an elderly peasant woman who looks frightened as the door slides open. She turns away in confusion.
– Mi si schianta il core. My heart is going to burst, she mutters to herself cryptically.
I wander along the poorly lit corridor and at last come to the door. I knock and enter.
He is sitting at a desk writing in a large ledger: a pale man with pale eyes, wearing the grey-blue trousers of the police with a crimson stripe down the side of the leg. He takes no notice of me when I enter, but I know he is aware of my presence because the pen stops moving, hangs suspended for a second in mid-air, and then his pale fingers, bluish around the nails, brush a scrap of dust off the page.
– Permesso? I say.
He coughs but doesn’t reply. I walk up to the desk anyway. The room smells of stale smoke.
– Ispettore Lupo? I ask.
– Si. Mi dica, he says at last without lifting his head from his ledger.
– You wanted to talk to me? You called. You asked me to come. My name is Anna P.
His eyes lift slowly off the ledger, flicker over my face, appear for a moment to be looking for something he can’t quite locate, and then suddenly, almost violently, latch on to my eyes. I pull back with a jerk. He smiles.
– Ah, la Signorina P.
He examines me carefully.
– Finalmente. Era ora.
He opens one of the drawers in the desk and pulls out a small bundle of files. I notice a half-empty bottle of brandy lying next to them in the drawer. He notices my glance and quickly pushes the drawer shut. He sits back in his chair and slowly raises his pale eyes again to meet mine. He stares at me impassively.
– Perchè non si è presentata prima?
That accusing tone again. I am not sure what to say. He drops his eyes to the file and pages through document after document and at last finds what he was looking for.
– Mi dìa il passaporto.
I hand him my passport. He takes it, looks at the photograph, and then gets up and leaves the room without saying a word. I wait standing in front of the des
k for a few minutes and finally sit down on the edge of the bench beneath the high barred window. Half an hour passes. I go to the door at last but the corridor is empty so I sit down again and wait for another quarter of an hour. Eventually I hear his dry cough in the passage and he reappears at the door. He does not excuse himself for his absence but sits down and stares at me again.
– Allora, mi dica. So, what do you want?
I look at him in surprise.
– What do you want? You asked me to come.
He takes a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, puts one between his lips, strikes a match and lights it. The glow from the flame lights up the hollows of his face, emphasising his gauntness. He inhales deeply.
– Lo sa perchè è qui, vero? You know why you’re here, don’t you?
He speaks slowly in a thin dry voice. Is he just a bully, I wonder, or does he know something about me that I don’t know?
I shake my head, no.
– Ma sì che lo sa. Yes, of course you know.
He smiles, a cold, unamused smile.
– Le autorità chiedono notizie di Lei. Ci sono delle irregolarità. Questions are being asked about you. People upstairs want to know more. They want information.
He gestures upward with his chin.
I feel myself spinning, falling into confusion.
– Questions?
He smiles.
As if we were just chatting, chance acquaintances on a train, he asks:
– Da quanto tempo è in Italia? How long have you been in Italy?
I stare out of the barred window at the darkening sky. A bird flies past heavily.
– Perchè è venuta qui? Perchè ha lasciato il Sudafrica? Why did you leave South Africa?
I don’t reply. He pauses for a minute and then continues, irritated.
– Non mi risponde. Ma che, è muta Lei? Why don’t you answer me? Are you mute or something?
I breathe deeply.
– E poi, abbiamo controllato la sua pratica. Mancano dei documenti. You had better know something. We’ve checked your records – there are documents missing.
He points at the file.
There is a sinking feeling in my stomach.
– What is missing?
– Ma come, non lo sa? Don’t you know?
I shrug.
– Manca il certificato di nascita per comminciare. Your birth certificate is missing. Perchè manca? Why is it missing?
I look at him in surprise. I had been expecting much worse than that. They must have my birth certificate. It was part of my application years ago. They must have lost or mislaid it.
– What is it that you want from me?
He looks at me again with cold eyes.
– We are going to apply to the South African authorities for this document. While we are about it we will also ask for a Nulla Osta, for your police record. Just in case. I think it will not take long. You must come back so that we can talk. Capisce?
I shrug.
– Stia attenta, Signorina. Be careful. Things are not what they seem.
He looks at me intently.
Flame tugs at the edges, at the dark whorls of my mind.
There is a knock on the door. A uniformed policeman steps into the room and salutes.
– La vogliono di sopra.
Lupo grunts, nods and rises. He looks at me.
– I am wanted upstairs. Ora puòandare. You may go. But we need to talk further. Torni ancora a vedermi. Venerdì prossimo. Next Friday. Le va bene?
I open my mouth to object, but he interrupts at once.
– Dobbiamo parlare ancora. There are other matters. Capisce? Come again next Friday.
It is not a question. I nod, feeling trapped.
He shows me to the door and disappears down the corridor. It suddenly occurs to me that he has not returned my passport.
I make my way back to the main hall, but the queue is now gone and there is no one about. I go to the entrance. There is a policeman on duty there. I try to explain what has happened, that my passport has been taken, but his task is simply to keep the entrance clear and he pushes me rudely away and outside. When I try to come back inside he tells me that the offices are now closed and that I should come back on Monday.
I wander through the streets uncertain what to do or where to go. I am reluctant to go back to the island without my passport, but I haven’t brought my identity card with me and I can’t stay overnight in a hotel without a document. I stop at a caffè and order a coffee, which I drink standing up, then walk on. It is dark already, cold and drizzling, and workers are rushing from their offices to the comfort of their homes, to a warm meal and to an evening spent dozing in front of the television. I can feel the damp penetrating through the fabric of my worn coat.
I wander aimlessly towards the centre of town getting more and more lost in the maze of tiny streets and alleys. None of them runs straight so I have no idea after a while what direction I am going in. I have no idea where I am, nor does it seem very important to know. My feet are growing sore and tired so I go into the bar next to the station, which stays open all night. I push open the door, wipe my feet in the sawdust spread across the entrance, and enter.
It is dimly lit. A jukebox is playing hits from the seventies in the corner, something by Orietta Berti and Massimo Ranieri, competing with the voices on the TV. Two or three men slouch in white plastic chairs watching TV on a screen suspended from the ceiling. The tired-looking barman idly polishes a glass with a stained cloth. I don’t normally drink spirits but I am cold and suddenly very weary and weak, so I order a caffè corretto with brandy. I pay and carry it over to a little table in the corner where I sit down and unbutton my coat. The TV is showing Formula One racing, the cars whining like insects as they pass the camera. One of the men starts talking, a rambling story full of invectives against the government, which in his opinion is squandering taxpayers’ money. He describes it all as a Pozzo di San Patrizio, a bottomless well that they keep dipping into. He falls silent for a while and then orders another glass of wine. He drinks it in a single gulp and points with his finger to show that he wants it refilled. He begins to speak again to no one in particular and indeed no one seems to be listening, except me, but I have my eyes closed and am pretending not to, or perhaps the barman who is maybe listening more to the man’s tone of voice than the words. He speaks of prison, of how he always commits a small crime and allows himself to be caught just before the winter really starts, so that he will have a roof over his head for the very cold months. The problem is how to calibrate the offence so that he will be given a sentence long enough to last the winter but that will set him free once the sap starts to rise in his veins again in springtime. He goes on and on about people he has met inside, about a woman he knows outside. My eyes grow heavy and my head aches. I order another coffee with brandy, but it just makes my stomach burn and I push it to one side at last. I look at my watch. It is already 4 am. Too late to do anything else. I will just have to stay until morning or until they close. It is as good a plan as any, and at least it is dry. I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes. The background noise continues lulling me into sleep. From time to time I wake up and become conscious that my mouth is open, my posture sagging, and I straighten myself and try to bring order to my disordered thoughts until sleep overcomes me once more. I half wake at one point and find that the man is sitting by my side, his arm around my shoulders, but I can’t rouse myself and at last I fall into a fitful sleep, full of disturbing dreams. Black birds tumble, roll, slide, heave, a shapeless mass of unformed, seething life, the primordial confusion of life and death, of body parts fragmenting, decomposing and recomposing. A policeman sits in the shadows and laughs and offers me a platter with a bloodied head on it. I try to escape, I try to run but my legs are trapped in the black decomposing matter. My dreams are interspersed with moments of uncomfortable wakefulness in which I become aware of my stale mouth, my damp clothes, of unknown hands touching my body, of
my discomfort at sleeping on a hard chair.
Saturday 3 November
At six o’clock I stand up and go to the bathroom. I tidy myself as best I can in the tiny bathroom stacked high with empty beer crates, then go next door to the bus terminus.
I catch the first bus to Anzio, but traffic is heavy and the ferry has already left when we arrive. I check the timetable on the board. The next one leaves at 10 am. I will have to wait for three hours. No caffès or restaurants are open at this time of the morning out of season, so I huddle on a bench outside the ticket office. It is cold and damp in my thin coat and the hours pass slowly. I get up from time to time to stamp my feet when they grow numb. My mind keeps going back to Lupo’s question – why are you here? How long have you been here? What are you doing here in Italy? Why did you leave South Africa? I try to work it out but I have no explanation. Such confusion in my mind.
Sunday 4 November
Monday 5 November
There are many deaths at this time of the year. The children came across a dead sparrow in the playground this morning, fallen from its branch in the chill of midnight. I touched it with the toe of my shoe but it was stiff and cold.
Tuesday 6 November
After school I see Matteo and Leonardo standing at the edicola gazing intently at the pornographic magazines on display, until the newsagent shouts at them to go away.
Wednesday 7 November
Dinner at Modugno’s. It feels more dingy than usual tonight. I order pasta and wine. Out of habit I pull out my book and prop it up in front of me on the table. My mind is again caught by Pontormo:
On Tuesday the weather was fine and in the evening I dined on 10 ounces of bread.
Wednesday morning it was cold and I stayed at home; I dined on 9 ounces of bread and the finest lamb.
Thursday I worked on those two arms and I dined on 9 ounces of bread, meat and cheese and it was quite cold.
Friday I did the head with that rock beneath it. I ate 9 ounces of bread, an omelette and salad and my head felt dizzy.
Saturday I did the chest and the hand and I dined on 10 ounces of bread.
The Story of Anna P, as Told by Herself Page 4