Numero Zero (12 page)

That day I also had a private meeting with Simei. I certainly hadn't forgotten why I was there, and had already sketched out the general outline of several chapters of the book
Domani: Yesterday
. I described more or less the editorial meetings that had taken place, but reversing the roles—in other words, showing Simei as someone who was ready to stand firm against all censure even when his assistants were urging caution. I thought of adding a final chapter in which he received a mellifluous telephone call from a senior prelate close to the Salesians, advising him not to worry himself about the wretched business of Marchese Gerini. Not to mention other telephone calls warning him amicably that it wasn't a good idea to sling mud at the Pio Albergo Trivulzio. But Simei had given a Humphrey Bogart: “It's the press, baby, and there's nothing you can do about it!”

“Magnificent,” commented Simei with great excitement. “You're a fine man to work with, Colonna. Let's continue in this vein.”

Naturally, I felt more humiliated than Maia with her horoscopes, and for the time being, though the chips were down, I had to carry on playing. Also keeping the South Seas well in sight, wherever they were. Or even just the Ligurian coast—which might be more than enough for a loser.

12

S
IMEI CALLED US TOGETHER
the following Monday: “Costanza, in your article about hookers you use such expressions as ‘cock-up,' ‘crap,' and ‘hot shit,' and describe a scene with a hooker who says ‘fuck off.'”

“But that's how it is,” protested Costanza. “Everyone swears now, on television too, and even ladies say ‘fuck.'”

“We're not interested in what they do in high society. We have to think about readers still upset by swear words. You have to use circumlocutions. Colonna?”

I intervened: “One can perfectly well say ‘mishap,' ‘garbage,' ‘bees' knees,' and ‘take a running jump.'”

“Breaking a leg in the process,” sneered Braggadocio.

“Whether they break a leg is none of our business,” replied Simei.

Then we turned to other matters. An hour later, when the meeting was over, Maia took me and Braggadocio aside: “I don't take part any longer, since I'm always wrong, but it would be nice to publish an alternative handbook.”

“Alternative to what?” asked Braggadocio.

“To the swear words we were talking about.”

“That was an hour ago!” exclaimed Braggadocio, eyeing me as if to say, You see, she's always doing it.

“Ignore it,” I told him in a conciliatory tone, “if she's still thinking about it . . . So, Maia, let's hear your innermost thoughts.”

“Well, it would be nice, instead of saying ‘fuck' each time, to express surprise or consternation by saying ‘Oh, coitus, I've had my purse stolen!'”

“She's crazy,” Braggadocio whispered in my ear. “Colonna, could you come to my desk? I have something to show you.”

I went off with him, winking at Maia, whose autism, if that's what it was, I was finding more and more delightful.

Everyone had left the office, it was getting dark, and under the light of a desk lamp Braggadocio laid out a set of photocopies.

“Colonna,” he began, spreading his arms around the papers before him as though he didn't want anyone to see them, “look at these documents, I found them in the archives. The day after Mussolini's corpse had been displayed in Piazzale Loreto, it was taken to the Institute of Forensic Medicine at the university for the autopsy, and here's the doctor's report:

“‘Istituto di Medicina Legale e delle Assicurazioni della Regia Università di Milano, Professor Mario Cattabeni, Autopsy Report No.7241, performed April 30, 1945, on the corpse of Benito Mussolini, deceased April 28, 1945. Body prepared on the anatomy table unclothed. Weight, seventy-two kilograms. Height, one point sixty-six meters, measured approximately due to the conspicuous traumatic transformation of head. Face disfigured by multiple gunshot wounds and contusions rendering facial features almost unrecognizable. Anthropometric measurements of head not carried out because deformed by fracture inflicted on craniofacial skeleton . . .' Let's move on: ‘Head, deformed by complete skeletal collapse, with deep depression of entire left parietal-occipital region and crushing of orbital region of same side, where eyeball appears deflated and torn with complete discharge of vitreous humor; adipose tissue of eye socket extensively exposed by wide laceration, not infiltrated with blood. In median frontal region and left parietal-frontal area, two extensive continual linear gashes to scalp, with lacerated edges, each around six centimeters wide, exposing cranium. In occipital region to right of median line, two holes close together with everted, irregular edges of around two centimeters maximum diameter out of which emerges brain matter reduced to pulp with no appearance of hematic infiltration.' You understand? Brain reduced to a pulp!”

Braggadocio was almost sweating, his hands shook, his lower lip beaded with drops of saliva, he had the expression of an excited glutton sniffing fried brains, a succulent plate of tripe, or a goulash. And he continued.

“‘At back of neck, short distance from right of median line, wide lacerated hole of almost three centimeters diameter with everted edges, not infiltrated with blood. In right temporal region, two holes close together, roundish, edges finely lacerated, not infiltrated with blood. In left temporal region, wide lacerated opening with everted edges and emergence of brain matter reduced to pulp. Vast exit hole at base of left earlobe: last two lesions have typical appearance of postmortem injuries. At base of nose, small lacerated hole with everted comminuted bone fragments, moderately infiltrated with blood. To right cheek, group of three holes followed by direct deep passage backward, with slight backward skew, with funnel-shaped inward edges, not infiltrated with blood. Comminuted fracture of upper jaw with extensive laceration of soft and skeletal parts of palatal arch having nature of postmortem injury.' I'll jump forward again, as they're observations on the position of injuries and we're not interested how and where he was struck, all we need to know is that they shot him. ‘Comminuted fracture to skull bounded by numerous mobile fragments removed offering direct access to endocranial cavity. Thickness of skull bone normal. Pachymeninx deflated with large tears in anterior half: no trace of epi- or hypodural hemorrhagic effusion. Removal of brain cannot be fully performed, as cerebellum, pons, mesencephalon, and a lower portion of cerebral lobes appear reduced to pulp.'”

He emphasized the word “pulp” each time, which Professor Cattabeni used excessively—no doubt impressed by how the corpse had been battered—and he pronounced it with a kind of sensual pleasure, roundly enunciating each
p
. It reminded me of Dario Fo's
Mistero Buffo
, Fo himself in the role of a peasant gorging himself on a dish he has always dreamed of.

“Let's move on. ‘The only intact parts are most of hemispherical convexities, corpus callosum, and part of base of brain. Arteries of encephalic base are only partly identifiable among mobile fragments of comminuted fracture of entire cranial base and still partly connected to encephalic mass: trunks thus identified, including anterior cerebral arteries, appear as healthy walls . . .' And do you think a doctor, who in any event was convinced he had the body of the Duce in front of him, was capable of figuring out who that mass of flesh and shattered bones really belonged to? And work peacefully in a room where, and it is a matter of record, people were wandering in and out—journalists, partisans, curious onlookers? And where intestines lay abandoned on the corner of a table, and two nurses played Ping-Pong with the offal, throwing pieces of liver or lung at each other?”

As he talked, Braggadocio looked like a cat who had sneakily jumped on a butcher's counter. If he'd had whiskers, they would have bristled and quivered.

“And if you go on reading, you'll see there was no trace of an ulcer in the stomach, and we all know that Mussolini had one, nor is there mention of traces of syphilis, and yet it was common knowledge that the deceased was in an advanced stage of syphilis. Note also that Georg Zachariae, a German doctor who had treated the Duce at Salò, had stated shortly afterward that his patient suffered from low blood pressure, anemia, enlarged liver, stomach cramps, twisted bowel, and acute constipation. And yet, according to the autopsy, everything was normal: liver of regular size and appearance both externally and upon incision, bile ducts healthy, renal and suprarenal glands intact, urinary tract and genitals normal. Final note: ‘Brain, removed in residual parts, was fixed in liquid formalin for later anatomical and histopathological examination, fragment of cortex given on request by Health Office of Fifth Army Command (Calvin S. Drayer) to Dr. Winfred H. Overholser of Saint Elizabeths Psychiatric Hospital in Washington.' Over and out.”

He read and savored each line as if he were in front of the corpse, as if touching it, as if he were at Taverna Moriggi and, instead of shank of pork with sauerkraut, he was slavering over that orbital region where the eyeball appeared deflated and torn with complete discharge of the vitreous humor, as if he were savoring the pons, the mesencephalus, the lower part of the cerebral lobes, as if he were exulting over the emergence of the almost liquefied brain matter.

I was disgusted, but—I cannot deny it—fascinated by him and by the martyred corpse over which he exulted, in the same way readers of nineteenth-century novels were hypnotized by the gaze of the serpent. To put an end to his exultation, I said, “It's the autopsy on . . . well, it could be anyone.”

“Exactly. You see, my theory was correct: Mussolini's corpse wasn't that of Mussolini, and in any case, no one could swear it was his. I'm now reasonably clear about what happened between April 25 and 30.”

That evening I really felt the need to cleanse myself, be with Maia. And to distance her in my mind from the other members of the team, I decided to tell her the truth, that
Domani
would never be published.

“It's better that way,” said Maia. “I won't have to worry about the future. We'll hold out for a few months, earn ourselves those few lire—few, filthy, and fast—and then the South Seas.”

13

M
Y LIFE WAS NOW RUNNING
along parallel lines. By day the humiliating existence at the newspaper, in the evening Maia's little apartment, also mine sometimes. Saturdays and Sundays to Lake Orta. The evenings compensated us both for days spent with Simei. Maia had given up making suggestions that would only be rejected, and confined herself to sharing them with me, for amusement, or for consolation.

One evening she showed me a lonelyhearts magazine. “Great,” she said, “except that I'd love to try publishing them with the subtext.”

“In what way?”

“This way: ‘Hi, I'm Samantha, twenty-nine years old, professionally qualified, housewife, separated, no children, seeking a man, attractive, bright, and sociable.' Subtext: I'm now thirty. After my husband left, I had no luck finding a job with the bookkeeping diploma I worked hard to get. I am stuck at home all day twiddling my thumbs. (I don't even have any brats to look after.) I'm looking for a man, he doesn't have to be handsome, provided he doesn't knock me around like that bastard I married.

“Or: ‘Carolina, age thirty-three, unmarried, graduate, businesswoman, sophisticated, dark hair, slim, confident and sincere, interested in sports, movies, theater, travel, reading, dancing, open to new experiences, would like to meet interesting man with personality, education and good position, professional, executive or military, max. sixty years with view to marriage.' Subtext: At thirty-three I'm still on the shelf, perhaps because I'm skinny as a rake and would like to be blond but try not to worry about it. I struggled to get an arts degree but couldn't get a job with it, so I set up a small workshop where I employ three Albanians, paid in cash; we produce socks for the local market stalls. I don't really know what I like, I watch some television, go to the movies with a friend or to the local amateur dramatic society, I read the newspaper, especially the lonelyhearts pages, I like dancing but don't have anyone to take me, and to land a husband I'm prepared to take an interest in anything, so long as there's money so I can ditch the socks and the Albanians. I don't mind if he's old, an accountant if possible, but I'd also settle for a registry clerk or a retired policeman.

“Or this one: ‘Patrizia, age forty-two, single, shopkeeper, dark, slender, sweet and sensitive, would like to meet a man who is loyal, kind and sincere, marital status unimportant so long as he's motivated.' Subtext: Hell, at forty-two (and with a name like Patrizia I must be going on fifty, like every other Patrizia), not married, I make ends meet with the haberdashery shop my poor mother left me. I am slightly anorexic and basically neurotic; is there a man out there who will take me to bed? Doesn't matter whether he's married or not, so long as he fucks well.

“And again: ‘Still hoping there's a woman capable of true love. I'm a bachelor, bank clerk, age twenty-nine, reasonably good-looking and a lively character, seeking a pretty girl, serious, educated, able to sweep me off my feet.' Subtext: I don't really get along with women, the few I've met were morons, all they wanted was to get married. They say I have a lively character because I tell them exactly where to get off. I'm not a complete jerk, so isn't there some sex bomb who doesn't pop her gum and say ‘dese' and ‘dose,' who's up for a good fuck without expecting too much else?”

“You don't seriously want Simei to publish stuff like that. Or rather, the announcements might be okay, but not your interpretations!”