I felt embarrassed when we walked into the house. Pretty, though spartan. It was early May and still cool. She lit a fire, and as soon as it got going, she stood up and looked at me brightly, her face reddened by the first flames: “I’m . . . happy,” she said, and that happiness of hers won me over.
“I’m . . . happy too,” I said. I took her by the shoulders and kissed her, and felt her take hold of me, thin as a mite. But Braggadocio was wrong: she had breasts, and I could feel them, small but firm. The Song of Songs: like two young fawns.
“I’m happy,” she repeated.
I tried to resist: “But I’m old enough to be your father.”
“What beautiful incest,” she said.
She sat on the bed, and with a flick of a heel and toe, she tossed her shoes across the room. Braggadocio was perhaps right, she was mad, but that gesture forced me to submit.
We skipped lunch. We stayed there in her nest until evening; it didn’t occur to us to return to Milan. I was trapped. I felt as if I were twenty or perhaps a mere thirty like her.
“Maia,” I said to her the next morning on the way back, “we have to go on working with Simei until I’ve scraped a little money together, then I’ll take you away from that den of vermin. But hold out a little longer. Then, who knows, maybe we’ll go off to the South Seas.”
“I don’t believe it, but it’s nice to imagine: Tusitala. For now, if you stay close, I’ll even put up with Simei and do the horoscopes.”
11
Friday, May 8
ON THE MORNING OF MAY 5, Simei seemed excited. “I have a job for one of you—perhaps Palatino, since he’s free at the moment. You’ve read over the past few months—the news was fresh in February—about an examining magistrate who started investigating the state of old people’s homes. A real scoop after the case of the Pio Albergo Trivulzio. None of these places belongs to our proprietor, but you know that he owns rest homes, also on the Adriatic coast. It remains to be seen whether sooner or later this magistrate is going to stick his nose into the Commendatore’s affairs. Our proprietor would therefore be pleased to see how we might raise a shadow of suspicion over a busybody magistrate. These days, you know, to answer an accusation you don’t have to prove it’s wrong, all you have to do is undermine the authority of the accuser. So, Palatino, here’s the fellow’s name. Take a trip down to Rimini with a tape recorder and a camera, and tail this honest and upright servant of the state. No one is one hundred percent upright—he may not be a pedophile, he may not have killed his grandmother or pocketed bribes, but surely there will be something strange about him. Or else, if you’ll pardon the expression, you can strangify whatever he does each day. And Palatino, use your imagination. Get it?”
Three days later Palatino came back with some tasty nuggets. He had photographed the magistrate sitting on a park bench, nervously chain-smoking, with ten or so butts at his feet. Palatino wasn’t sure whether this could be of any interest, but Simei said yes, a man from whom we expect careful consideration and objectivity was showing signs of being neurotic, and above all a shirker who rather than sweating over files was wandering around in parks. Palatino had also photographed him through the window of a Chinese restaurant while he was eating—and with chopsticks.
“Splendid,” said Simei. “Our readers don’t go to Chinese restaurants, perhaps there aren’t any where they live, and they’d never dream of eating with chopsticks like savages. So why, our readers will ask, is this man hanging around in Chinese restaurants? If he’s a serious magistrate, why isn’t he eating minestrone or spaghetti like everybody else?”
“Not only that,” added Palatino, “he was also wearing colored socks, a sort of emerald or pea green . . . and sneakers.”
“Nooo! Sneakers . . . and emerald socks . . . well!” exclaimed Simei jubilantly. “This man’s a dandy, or a flower child, as they used to say. And it doesn’t take much to picture him smoking joints. Not that you will say this, readers will figure it out for themselves. So, Palatino, work up these details to create a portrait full of dark innuendo, and that will take care of him. Out of a nonstory we’ve created a story. And without lying. I’m sure the Commendatore will be pleased with you—I mean, with all of us.”
“A serious newspaper has to keep files,” Lucidi said.
“In what sense?” asked Simei.
“Like pre-obituaries. A newspaper must never find itself unprepared when news of a major death arrives at ten at night and no one’s around to piece together a proper obituary in half an hour. That’s why most obituaries are written in advance—pre-obits—so when someone dies without warning, you have a ready-made obituary and all you have to do is bring it up to date.”
“But our dummy issues aren’t being produced one day for the next,” I pointed out. “If we are working on one for such-and-such a date, all we have to do is look at the newspapers for that day and we’ve got our pre-obit.”
“Even then, we’ll only run it if, let’s say, it’s the death of a government minister or a big industrialist,” explained Simei, “and not some minor poetaster our readers have never heard of. Their only purpose is to take up space in culture sections that major newspapers fill each day with worthless news and comment.”
“Pre-obits were just an example,” said Lucidi, “but files are important for background information on a particular person in articles of all kinds. They save us last-minute research.”
“I understand,” said Simei, “but these are luxuries only large newspapers can afford. Keeping files involves tons of research, and I can’t let any of you spend all day doing research.”
“But you don’t have to,” Lucidi said, smiling. “All you need is a student, you pay him a few lire to go around to the newspaper libraries. Don’t think files contain anything new, anything that hasn’t already been published, and I’m not just talking about newspapers but the secret services as well. Not even the secret services can afford to waste time that way. A file contains press clippings, newspaper articles that say what everyone knows—everyone, that is, except for the minister or opposition leader for whom it’s intended, who’s never had time to read the newspapers and treats these things like state secrets. Files contain pieces of information that have to be recycled so that suspicions and innuendoes surface. One clipping says so-and-so was fined years ago for speeding, another that last month he visited a Boy Scout camp, and yet another that he was spotted the previous night in a discotheque. From there, you can easily go on to imply that this is someone who recklessly flouts the traffic laws to get to places where alcohol is consumed, and that he probably—I say probably, though it’s perfectly apparent—likes young boys. Enough to discredit him, all done by sticking to the simple truth. What’s more, the advantage of a file is that it doesn’t have to be seen: it’s enough for people to know it exists, and that it contains, let us say, interesting information. So-and-so learns that you have information on him, he doesn’t know what information, but everyone has some skeleton in the closet, and he is caught in a trap: the minute you put a question to him, he’ll see reason.”
“I like this idea of files,” observed Simei. “Our proprietor would be pleased to have ways of keeping tabs on people who don’t much like him, or on those he doesn’t much like. Colonna, be so kind as to compile a list of people with whom our proprietor might have dealings, find a hard-up perpetual student, and get him to prepare a dozen or so files. That should do for the moment. An excellent idea, and cheap at the price.”
“That’s how it’s done in politics,” concluded Lucidi with a knowing air.
“And you needn’t look quite so shocked, Signorina Fresia,” snorted Simei. “You mean to say your gossip magazines didn’t have their own files? Maybe they sent you off to photograph a pair of actors, or a TV showgirl and a footballer, who’d agreed to pose hand in hand, but to get them there without complaint, your editor would have told them that he would hold back more intimate revelations: perhaps the girl had been caught years earlier in a
high-class brothel.”
On seeing Maia’s face, Lucidi decided to change the subject—perhaps he had a heart after all.
“I’ve brought other news today, from my own files, of course. On June 5, 1990, Marchese Alessandro Gerini leaves a large fortune to the Fondazione Gerini, an ecclesiastical body under the control of the Salesian Congregation. To this day, no one knows what happened to the money. Some suggest the Salesians received it but are keeping it under wraps for tax reasons. Most likely they haven’t yet received it, and it’s rumored that the transfer is being handled by a mysterious mediator, perhaps a lawyer, who’s claiming a commission that looks very much like a bribe. But other rumors suggest this operation is also being helped along by certain sections of the Salesian Society, so that we’re up against an illegal share-out of the cash. For the moment they’re only rumors, but I could try to get someone else to talk.”
“Try, by all means try,” said Simei, “but don’t create any bad feeling with the Salesians and the Vatican. Perhaps we could run the headline “Salesians Victims of Fraud?”—with a question mark. That way, we won’t cause any problems.”
“And if we put ‘Salesians in the Eye of the Storm’?” asked Cambria, inept as usual.
“I thought I’d made myself clear,” I butted in. “For our readers, ‘in the eye of the storm’ means someone is in trouble, and some also bring trouble on themselves.”
“Right,” said Simei. “Let’s just stick to spreading suspicion. Someone is involved in fishy business, and though we don’t know who it is, we can give him a scare. That’s enough for our purposes. Then we’ll cash in, or our proprietor can cash in, when the time is right. Well done, Lucidi, carry on. Maximum respect for the Salesians, don’t forget, but let them get a little worried, won’t do any harm.”
“Excuse me,” asked Maia timidly, “but does our proprietor . . . or will he be approving this policy, if we can call it that, of files and innuendo? Just so we understand each other.”
“We’re not accountable to the proprietor for any of our journalistic policies,” Simei replied scornfully. “The Commendatore has never sought to influence me in any way. So to work, to work!”
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
Monday, May 11
SIMEI 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 ja
w 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?”