It had been some time since Giuliana had last worked upstairs, cleaning the guest rooms, with her back bent and using quick, efficient movements. She usually worked on the ground floor, helping with breakfast in the dining room. She laid tables, took drinks orders from the guests and made sure they had everything they wanted. For three hours, guests came and went. They arrived looking sleepy or pressed for time, but all filled with the same desire to be fed and to come to gradually, surrounded by the reviving smell of coffee. She filled plates, removed dirty tablecloths and made sure the hot water urn was never empty. She enjoyed herself. As she moved from table to table she heard all the languages of the world being spoken. No one paid any attention to her. She went discreetly about the dining room, alert to the guests’ needs.
Today, working along the second-floor corridor, she was engulfed in silence and the aroma of coffee did not reach her. She was alone. It was like starting out again. It was here she had begun working five years ago as a cleaner. She remembered the long, silent carpeted corridors. You had to go into every room and do exactly the same thing in each one, the same cleaning ritual: open the window, plump up the pillows, make the bed, change the towels, clean the bathroom, then hoover. There she was, outside room 205, knowing that she had a long morning of housekeeping in front of her. She smiled. She had just remembered the two nights she had spent here, at the Grand Hotel Santa Lucia. Twice she had been the one slipping into the luxurious rooms. When Giosuè at reception had let her know at the last minute about very late cancellations. Rooms that had been paid for but were empty. They had leapt at the chance, she and Matteo. That had been before Pippo was born. Two nights. In a beautiful luxury hotel. She smiled. Remembering the pleasure of those two nights made her day’s work seem bearable.
As they turned into Vicolo della Pace, Matteo felt a sense of relief. The street was less crowded. The market was ending so there would be far fewer people to get in their way. Just then the little boy began to cry. He said he was tired, his father was hurting his arm, his lace was undone and he wanted to stop. Matteo didn’t listen. He continued to pull his son along, saying angrily, ‘Hurry up,’ so that the child would realise that until they reached the school gate, he shouldn’t ask anything; in fact, shouldn’t say anything at all, just grit his teeth and follow.
Matteo hesitated for a fraction of a second to decide which side of the road to take. He would have preferred to walk in the shade, but that would mean crossing over, which would use up more time, so he decided to press on in the sun. He was already streaming with sweat anyway.
That was where, at the corner of Vicolo della Pace and Via Forcella, the world fell apart. At first he didn’t notice anything. He pulled on the child’s arm with the same insistence. When passers-by began to scream, he stopped. He wasn’t worried. He didn’t understand what was happening. He looked around. Everything had become strange. Everywhere, he saw faces with mouths wide open. He heard shouts; a woman with a wicker bag was a few feet in front of him on all fours by a car, waving her feet as if a spider were crawling up them. He stood still for what seemed like an eternity, then his body appeared to register what was happening and he threw himself to the ground. Fear paralysed his muscles, his mind, his breathing. He heard gunshots. Then several more in response. He had pulled his son down and held him tightly. He could smell the tar warmed by the morning sun. Shouts came from all around. There were long shrill moans from people trying to expel their fear and breathe again.
He hugged Pippo with all his might. The embrace was the only thing that mattered in that moment. It helped him think straight. He tried to analyse the situation. He was in the middle of the street, caught in a shoot-out. The sound of glass breaking erupted a few feet away, setting off several car alarms. The best plan was not to move until everything stopped. To wait. To wait for the police, the emergency services and for silence to return. To wait until he could stand up again. He was winded. The blood throbbed in his temples. He stayed like that, lying down, his hand on his son’s head. The seconds ticked past with painful slowness. He no longer paid attention to the noise around him. He was praying, saying ‘Hail Mary’ over and over again.
Then slowly silence did return.
A telephone started to ring in one of the rooms on the second floor. The ringing reverberated along the corridors of the Grand Hotel Santa Lucia. At first she paid no attention. She was in room 209. A group had left early that morning, freeing up the ten rooms on the corridor. She had to do them all. The door to 209 was open. She was on her knees, wiping the bathroom floor with a cloth, and did not get up. The telephone rang on. After a while, she put the cloth down, wiped her hands and walked out of 209 and into the corridor. She couldn’t tell which room the ringing telephone was in. She moved along the corridor, trying to work out where the noise was coming from. The telephone was still ringing. Finally, she found the room and went in, approaching the phone with the trepidation of someone who knows that tragedy awaits them.
Matteo was unsure how much time had elapsed. Voices still reverberated around him, but they no longer sounded panicked. The voices were asking if everything was all right, if anyone had been hurt, if someone had called the police. Matteo felt relief when he heard the police siren – far away at first, but getting closer all the time.
He released his grasp. The danger had passed. He began to tremble uncontrollably. His fear left him. How late would they be now? The thought was laughable. None of that mattered any more. He stroked his son’s back, telling him that it was over, that he could stand up now, that the danger was gone. The little boy didn’t move.
Pippo? The child didn’t reply. The colour drained from Matteo’s face. He knelt down. His shirt was soaked with blood. Pippo? He couldn’t breathe. His son wasn’t moving; he was lying face down on the ground, inert. Pippo? He shouted. He didn’t know what to do. He shouted again. Because he didn’t know how to stop the blood he loved so much from spreading over the pavement. His hands were running all over his son’s body, as if trying, unsuccessfully, to find the wound and stop it bleeding. His hands were all red, slippery, bathed in blood and seemed totally useless: he did not know what he should be doing with them.
People came over looking anxious. They stood a few feet away, repeating that an ambulance was on its way, but he could barely hear them. He was concentrating on not crying. More people gathered, but did nothing. He shouted out. That someone should go for help. That they should hurry. No one moved. Everything was unbearably slow.
She had just hung up. She sat on the bed she had made a little earlier, alone in a too-clean room. She was nothing but a void. She was nowhere and felt nothing. The day had just imploded. She could not move. She did not cry out, or get up and run. The people on the floor below, and in the neighbouring rooms, or people anywhere did not know that she was in that room, in a state of nothingness. She did not move from the too-soft bed, convinced that her life had stopped, and that from now on everything was meaningless.
In Via Forcella, men in uniform at last appeared through the crowd and came to kneel beside Matteo. He asked them to save his son. He did not want to let go of Pippo’s head, which was like a dead weight in his hands. But that wasn’t possible. Not his son. Not today. Someone helped him up. The ambulance men had brought a stretcher; he had to let them through and leave them to their work.
Someone was asking him questions. His name, his address. He tried to listen to what they were saying, but couldn’t really follow. He registered on the faces of the people around him the gravity of his situation. He did not want to let go of Pippo’s hand. Even though it was cold and lifeless, that was all he asked. To keep hold of his son’s hand. They could take him wherever they wanted, as long as they did not ask him to let go. They seemed to sense he would not, and let him be. They opened the ambulance doors and he was able to get in behind the stretcher.
Pippo and he were huddled together in the midst of blankets and boxes of dressings. The engine started up. How many times had he seen am
bulances in Naples? How many times had he pulled over to let one overtake him? Now he was inside. He didn’t know where they were going. The important thing was to find somewhere Pippo could be treated. That was the only thing that mattered. In the ambulance they put a tube in Pippo’s mouth. He found that strangely comforting. It meant there were things they could do, actions they could perform, protocols to be followed. They were going to do what they were best at. It would perhaps be long and painful; there might be hours, if not days, of worry, but it didn’t matter, he would never give up. He had decided his son would survive this day. Matteo would rescue him from this street, from the inquisitive passers-by and from this ambulance that smelt of blood and dressings.
The ambulance stopped. He waited a few seconds, and then the back doors opened and he was blinded by the light.
He stepped out of the ambulance. They were in the inner courtyard of a hospital. He looked around for the emergency entrance and that’s when he saw her. She was coming towards them. He didn’t immediately grasp why she was there. Giuliana? She didn’t reply. He wanted to ask her how she knew, who had told her they were coming here. He didn’t remember that he was the one who had given the police his wife’s name and the number they could reach her on. ‘Giuliana. Listen …’ He held his arms out to her, but it wasn’t him Giuliana was walking to. ‘Giuliana, you have to be strong …’ She paid no attention to him. She was marching straight over to the ambulance. Her face was contorted, her nose running, her mouth twisted. She said nothing. As she passed, he tried to stop her. He wanted her to come to him so that he could take her in his arms. He wanted to tell her to stay calm. That he knew what had happened back there. He also wanted someone to explain to them what the doctors were going to do for Pippo. But Giuliana ignored him. She didn’t even see him. None of the men standing round the vehicle, ambulance men and police, dared to stop her. She went into the back of the ambulance and they all heard her start to moan.
Something was odd. He was about to join her in the ambulance, but he stayed where he was, quite still, trying to figure out what was strange. And then, gradually, it started to dawn on him, becoming more and more obvious: she knew. Giuliana knew something he didn’t. Perhaps the ambulance staff had told her when they rang to ask her to come quickly, perhaps she just knew with a mother’s intuition, at the very moment it happened. But he knew now, too – Pippo was dead. That was how he found out. Watching Giuliana. It must be true otherwise why was no one moving? Why were they not taking Pippo into the hospital, yelling orders so as not to lose a moment? Why would they leave a mother wailing in the ambulance, instead of telling her to be brave and that they would do everything they could to save her son?
That was how he realised. And there was nothing else he could do but stand there, useless and defeated, in the midst of these men who lowered their eyes out of embarrassment and pity. He should never have let go of Pippo’s hand. That was what he was thinking. Not let go of his hand. Ever. As long as he was holding it, Pippo was alive. He had had to let go to get out of the ambulance. So he wanted to get back into the ambulance and take his hand again and continue holding it. He took two steps towards the vehicle, but two men prevented him from going further. They did it kindly, looking sad and apologetic, although they said nothing. Who were they? Why were they not letting him through? Why could he not go and be with his son again? Was that what was troubling them? He had to get back into the ambulance. His son needed him. Was that a problem for them?
They held him back gently but firmly. The idea crossed his mind that they were there to explain to him. They were letting him know that he would never be able to hug his little boy, or touch him, or kiss him, or ruffle his hair. He wouldn’t be able to do that any more. They were separated. He and his son. That was what he had to understand. His son, Pippo, whom he would never see again, never touch, whose forehead he would never again kiss, his son who had been snatched from him in a second. He would never be able to cuddle him. Ever again. His son. Then his legs gave way and he fell to the ground.
III
Kneeling on My Tomb
(August 2002)
I start the car, screeching away from the kerb. Cullaccio is still groaning in the seat next to me. He can’t take it all in. This is not the evening he had planned. Everything can change in the space of a split second – I should know. The life you imagined turns to dust and you’re left with nothing but a pain that won’t go away. He’s gasping for air, bleeding heavily in his chair. He needn’t worry – he won’t die of his injury. I made sure I didn’t pierce his stomach. The blood is running, soaking through the crotch of his trousers. He’s afraid. I know how that feels. He can see himself dying here after hours of suffering. I know how that feels too.
We drive on. I know the way by heart – I’ve rehearsed this so many times. I glide along Via Partenope, following the seafront. The cobbles jolt us up and down in our seats. With every bump, he groans a little louder. We head down towards the port. He doesn’t ask questions, just grumbles, whimpers and talks rubbish. Maybe he thinks I’m going to hit him. What would be the point? He’s already in pain. The road is covered in potholes – that’s torture enough. I make no effort to avoid them. He clings to the glovebox and tries to catch his breath, but soon he’s wriggling like an eel again. He can’t find a comfortable position. I’ve been there too. I remember squirming, trying to push the pain out of my body, but it was no good. It was a long struggle for me, too, with my father screaming and crying next to me. I remember how white my father’s face was, how he could do nothing but hold me tightly, so I would at least feel the comfort of his arms.
I wonder if Cullaccio’s blood is dripping from the car. I’d have to pull over to check. It would be good if it was – I’d like to see his blood spilt on the streets of Naples, for it to soak through the tarmac and wake my father. It’s dark now. The buildings to our left are as gloomy as a town abandoned to the plague. The lights from the handful of cargo ships docked on our right are reflected on Cullaccio’s sweat-covered face. He looks like a crying clown. No one will hear him whining. Even if they did, people keep themselves to themselves around here. I try not to drive too fast. I want to make the most of this. I hear his gurgles of pain and every so often catch him grimacing. This is good.
We pass the two turrets overlooking Piazza del Carmine. This is where I was born. I tell him so. He says nothing in reply. I don’t know if he heard me or realised I was talking to him, so I tell him again: here, right there, on the lawn at the foot of the turrets. He stares back wide-eyed. He looks more scared than if I’d just told him I was about to give him a beating. I must be mad. That’s the only possible explanation. Nobody’s born here, beneath the turrets opposite the harbour. It’s just a patch of dirty grass strewn with beer cans, where junkies and illegal immigrants sleep, lulled by the constant drone of traffic. But I’m not lying – this really was where I came into the world for the second time. Of course, the first time I was born it was in a hospital, coming out of my mother’s belly, surrounded by her visceral warmth. But years later, I was born again here, purely by my father’s will. The air I breathed in was the air of this filthy dual carriageway and, as at my first birth, I blinked in amazement and screamed as the oxygen burnt through my lungs. I remember it all. Even what came before, which makes me sick and fills my head with screams at night. But I won’t tell him about that. There’s too much to say. Maybe in time he’ll work out who I am. He won’t understand – who could? – but the goose pimples and shivers running over his skin will tell him everything I’m holding back. For now, he’s trying his luck, doing his best to talk through the pain. I’m not listening. He must have decided to try to reason with me. Maybe he’s offering me money, or begging me for mercy. He keeps on talking, but I’m miles away. I’m remembering my mother’s eyes, the deep warmth of her neck. That was so long ago. I remember her smell and her infectious laugh. My mother, who turned her back on me. Dropped me, like a memory she would rather forget.
&nb
sp; We pass the outlines of two black steel silos on our left. Only the shells of the huge cylinders remain, but they loom, redundant, over the surrounding buildings. Soon I’ll have to move into the right-hand lane and leave Naples by the tangenziale.
When I indicate to join the motorway, Cullaccio begins to panic. He’s like a spider caught in a torch beam. He can’t bear the idea of being torn away from the backstreets of Naples. I’m going fast now. The tangenziale rises above the city. We pass the business quarter, its five or six tightly packed skyscrapers rising up out of nowhere like a forest of money amid the grime. The road signs point to Bari or the Amalfi Coast. I change lanes. It’s a maze of bridges, roads, entrances and exits. Capodichino. I follow signs for the airport. A plane takes off in the darkness and passes overhead. I imagine how the passengers would react if the pilot told them the car they’d just flown over contained a man in his sixties bleeding his guts out like a pig. Up above us or driving down the opposite carriageway, people pass by, totally unaware of what’s happening. So many lives sliding past, oblivious to one another.
Cullaccio is panicking. His pain is giving way to terror. He’s noticed the signs for the airport and he thinks I’m going to make him board a plane. To where? If I told him where I’ve come from, he’d be begging for God’s mercy. I leave the tangenziale. We drive alongside the cemetery, looking down over the city. He thinks – I can tell from the pitiful expression on his face – that I’m looking for a place to kill him. I pass the main gate of the cemetery. I don’t stop. I need to go a bit further. Three hundred yards on there’s another entrance, smaller and less frequently used. I park in front of the rusty old gate. I’ve often come here at night and imagined what this day would be like.
Hell's Gate Page 2