La Superba (11 page)
Authors: Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer
Bibi and the beautiful, sad lady traveled in like this in the morning, arriving around nine thirty. Bibi was usually the first. He'd raise the security shutters. He'd put two of the three flowerpots on the pavement outside and then rummage around in his shop. The third flowerpot is kept inside the clothes shop at night and is put out by the beautiful, sad lady. She waters all three of the plants, cuts off the dead leaves, and carefully puts the three pots in the window box. Then she goes back inside.
At that moment, Bibi comes outside to hang up the tin bucket on the nail in the wall between the two door openings. The bucket functions as a communal ashtray. He inaugurates it by leaning indifferently, not to say expressionlessly, against the doorpost smoking a cigarette. When he's done, the beautiful, sad lady smokes a cigarette in her door opening. Usually she wears boots, although I don't know why it's of interest to tell you that. She throws her stub in the bucket.
As I said, there aren't many customers. The entire dayâuntil long after the candles have been put out on the tables in the Bar of Mirrors and the Prosecco twinkles between conversations in the trapeze of art, poetry, and politicsâthey will smoke lots and lots of cigarettes in their respective door openingsâBibi on the right at 74 rosso, her on the left at 72 and 70 rosso. They'll carefully aim all of their stubs into the bucket. The yellow flowers in the three flowerpots will look lovely. They won't talk to each other, not because they don't like each other, on the contrary, but because there isn't much to say without candlelit Prosecco. Various girls will call on Bibi; they won't want to buy bracelets or rings, but each of them believes she is special to him. He will look down on them with scorn. He will hardly speak to them, either. They'll slink off and you can count on them returning in boots with even higher heels.
Very rarely, they'll almost touch, but they don't realize itâI'm the only person who can see it. From the terrace. Sometimes Bibi will reach for a catalogue on the right of his counter at precisely the same moment she is rearranging the skirt suits on the racks to the left of the register. There's nothing more than an old medieval wall, twenty centimeters thick, between their two hands.
They close at seven thirty. The yellow flowers go back inside, two pots in his shop, one in hers. The last thing Bibi does is to get down the tin bucket from the hook. She rolls down the shutters and padlocks them to the marble shop front. She closes the cast iron fence and secures it with a chain lock. Then they exchange a few words. He says “Ciao.” She asks whether he might like to drink a Prosecco on the terrace. He says he's tired. Then they both
return to their own flats with a scooter helmet dangling from their wristsâhis with a Sampdoria sticker, hers sprayed in the tragic red and blue of Genoa.
31.
I could barely repress the urge to tell all my new Genoese friends about my fairy-tale evening. But it turned out to be entirely unnecessary. Everyone knew about it already. I flattered myself with the thought that she'd gone around telling everyone but realized at the same time I shouldn't entertain any illusions, because everyone always knows everything already in Centro Storico. “Entertain no illusions,” she said. “You know I had my bathroom redone recently? The work was done by two
carabinieri
wanting to earn a bit of cash on the side. The day before yesterday I met them in a bar around the corner from my house to pay them. âYou've been hanging out with that foreign poet a lot recently,' one of them said. And I don't even live anywhere around here.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like that.”
She was silent.
“Aren't you happy I completed your quest and found the Mandragola?”
She still didn't say anything and didn't look very happy, either.
“Are you jealous?”
I shouldn't have said that.
“Who do you think you are?” she said. “Who do you think
you are? You parachute yourself and your colossal body into our streets and then you think you understand everything. You're still messing up the subjunctive and you don't understand anything, Ilja. Ilja Leonard. Leonardo. You don't even deserve that honorable title you invented for yourself. You still have to earn it. Go and write it all down in your little notebook. All those things you think you've understood. Have you already explained why the English flag is identical to the Genoese flag? That because for a long time our fleet was the mightiest and that we rented out our flag to the English for a lot of money so that no one would dare attack their ships anymore? It's a famous story, you know. Your readers in the Far North are really fascinated by that kind of thing, I'm sure of it. And no, I'm not going to dictate it to you. Go and google it yourself, Leonardo. You're the writer. And have you already written down that the city's old nickname is La Superba? I guess so. And I'm sure you've given it a literary twist? Since you understand everything, don't you, Leonardo? Let me guess. It means superb and reckless, beautiful and proud, alluring and unapproachable; you must have learned Latin and I don't doubt you've given it a deep, etymologically justified slant. And what have you called me in your notebook? Cinzia? My real name? If that so-called novel of yours is ever published, I'll set my family's lawyers on you. They'll tear you to shreds. You won't stand a chance. You don't understand anything, Ilja. And what have you called her? Or don't you dare? Do you know where she comes from? Do you know her family? Do you know which of her brothers, lovers, or lawyers will come banging on your door tonight, if they haven't already soldiered their way into
your miserable apartment? Everyone knows you. Everyone knows where you live, Ilja. I'm trying to make that clear to you. You think this is Europe because you can get here on EasyJet within an hour and a half from your efficient fatherland. You're mistaken. You're in Genoa. This is Africa. This world is totally foreign to you.
“And another thing. Imagine it all goes well. Imagine it all goes as you've gotten it into your head that it should go. Imagine she does become your girlfriend. Imagine. How on earth can you imagine that? How on earth are you going to keep a girl like that happy? You can't afford an Italian girlfriend, Ilja. You've no idea how demanding she is. And not just in a material sense. You think she'll find you interesting because somewhere far off in a foreign country you're a famous writer who writes books in a language we can't even read, but don't fool yourself that will be enough. You'll have to be constantly on your toes, like you're in a porcelain grotto, and think up more and more new romantic places where you can spend a fortune on her aperitifs. And I also hope for you that you have an indestructible prick. And you'll have to change your life, be home at half past twelve for
pranzo
and eight o'clock for
cena
. After that, you'll have to watch television because she wants to, then she'll complain you never do anything fun together and only watch television, or, you'll take her out somewhere and she'll complain that she's tired and would have preferred to stay home and watch television. You won't be able to drink anymore, even if it's just for the simple fact you no longer have time to. And yet she'll keep on complaining that you drink too much. And if you do everything right and manage to pull off the improbable and keep her more or less happy, your reward will be that she'll
want to marry you and have children. Then you'll get a whole Italian family on top. With Christmas dinners and seaside holidays in August. Just think about it, Ilja.”
So she was jealous. I had to think of a way of staying friends with her.
“Give me a new quest, please.”
She said nothing. She stared into the distance. I had plenty of time to tug at her top in my thoughts, if I'd wanted to, but I didn't want to because I was officially in love, everyone knew that. The sanitation department's van came to empty the containers. Somewhere in the distance a dog started up. And then she said, “Ask her about her wounds.”
The fat lesbian grinned at me from behind her sunglasses.
32.
Like an old hand, I waited a few days. I avoided the Bar of Mirrors, even though it physically hurt to have to do without the intoxicating sight of her. It almost felt like cold turkey. I'd become addicted to my daily dose of staring at her. But now I'd been promoted to the next level. The time of just gawking was over. I had penetrated into her life. I knew her name. She had kissed my cheek. She'd said we'd see each other again soon. So I couldn't just go and sit at my table and let her serve me as though nothing had happened. That would be tantamount to a denial of the most beautiful evening in Genoa, the evening that we found the Mandragola together and gazed into each other's eyes. From now on, I'd have to play the game according to different rules.
For a few days in a row, I had my aperitif on Piazza delle Erbe.
Three days was what I'd thought of. Just long enough not to come across as too eager and pushy, and not too long to seem indifferent. In the best-case scenario, she'd miss me. She'd certainly miss meâat least as a customer. Missing is good. But it shouldn't last too long. So on the fourth day, just before nine, just before closing time, I went to the Bar of Mirrors. I didn't sit down but waited at the door until she came out. I asked her whether she might be thirsty the next evening.
She smiled. “Sure.”
I took her to a chic bar I'd discovered on the square on Via di San Sebastiano opposite the Best Western City Hotel, between Via Roma and Via XXV Aprile. It was an un-Italian hip designer bar with expensive cocktails in designer glasses with a buffet of seafood and oysters. The venue didn't fail to have an effect. I could see that she felt celebrated. She imagined she was in London or New York, or in another city far from Italy where real, fast, frantic life was lived. At least, that's what she said.
After that I took her to dinner at Pintori. On Via San Bernardo. My favorite restaurant run by a Sardinian family, with mamma in the kitchen. Normally I only go there when someone else is taking me out. It's one of the most expensive restaurants in Genoa. I said she should order the
spaghetti neri alla bottarga
and then lamb shank. She did what I said and was impressed afterward that I'd given her such good advice.
And when, after a full, sparkling evening, I'd walked her back to her scooter and was saying goodbye, she asked me, “Why did you come to Genoa, Leonardo?”
“For you,” I said.
She slapped my face as punishment. I went to kiss her cheek but she'd already put on her helmet, though I only realized that once my face was right by hers, so I clumsily jerked my head back. She smiled. She took my face between both hands and kissed me on the lips. Then she drove off, without saying a thing.
33.
“I have to tell you something, Leonardo.”
“If I could invite you to my table, signora, that would make my day.”
“You're still making mistakes in the conditional tense.”
“What are you drinking, Signora Mancinelli?”
“Stop trying so hard. I'll order myself.”
“What was it you wanted to say?”
Her drink was served. It was a kind of indefinable alcohol-free cocktail with pear juice, coconut, and strawberry. She drained the glass in one slug, got a bottle of rum out of her handbag, filled her glass to the rim, and held it up for a toast.
“I've heard that you talk to that Moroccan regularly,” she said.
“You mean Rashid?”
She laid her finger to her lips to show me I was to keep my mouth shut. She looked around to check no one had heard.
“But he's a good, intelligent young man,” I said.
She shook her head.
“Do you have something against Moroccans, signora?”
She gave me an angry look. “I've been going to India for years, Leonardo. I used my alimony payments to set up a school there.”
“What's India got to do with Morocco?”
“The basic principle. That's the difference.”
“What do you mean?”
“I go to India to help. But the Moroccans come to us.”
“So?”
“It's the same difference as inviting someone to join you at your table for a drink and someone who sits down uninvited.”
“Like you.”
“Don't try to be clever, Leonardo. And whatever you do, don't try those politically correct arguments on me. I'm wise to that kind of talk. You just cannot trust those Moroccans for the simple reason that it is impossible for them to survive on selling roses and even more impossible for them to find a decent job. Because no one trusts them. And so sooner or later they'll start stealing or selling drugs. Because it's the only option. In no time, your so-called intelligent friend will be in Marassi prison, mark my words!
“What's more, we're in Genoa and it's a porcelain grotto. You have to associate with the old aristocracy here, or at least pretend to. Investing family money in a school in India is noble. Drinking beer with the first Moroccan rose seller you run into isn't. What do you think my friends will think of me if I'm friends with a foreigner who associates with foreigners? You need to take my status in my network into account. You owe that to me as a friend. Can I make it any clearer? You want to be part of this world, don't you? Then make sure for starters that you don't have the wrong kinds of friends. Otherwise I won't be able to invite you to my wedding.”
“Are you getting married, signora? At your age?”
“Viola needs a grandfather, let's put it like that. And I've found
a suitable party. He's a widower and quite a bit older than me. Bernardo Massi. You know him. I've discovered that he's even richer than I thought. Now all he has to do is ask me. But I'll take care of that.”
“I'm getting married, too.”
