THE FAKE AMERICAN

Ms. Sofia Chiochi, the daughter of Italian immigrants, was taught by her parents that in order to fare l’americana [look/act like an American] she always had to appear optimistic and happy with the world. And she learned her lesson well. Her mouth constantly sprays praise and enthusiasm, gushing sugared fluids and sticky jam. Saccharine pills tumble out of her lips in every occasion and in every moment of her life. Every single sermon she listens to in church is magnificent. The dances she attends are splendid. The lectures she goes to are extraordinary. Not to speak of the receptions! At the end she runs to the hostess, grabs her hand with both of hers, or, if she is closer, throws herself on her and kisses her on both cheeks: “Just marvelous”; “I have never had such a great time”; “It takes you to do things that well”; “A total success.” She rests her voice on “wonderful”; sings again and again “Thank you”; stretches on purpose “how much I enjoyed it” to make it last longer. Then she cocks her little cute head to the side, pouts her lips and appears to be in a constant state of exhilaration; like a child who was just given a piece of candy. Her face becomes even redder than the makeup she wears because her blood goes straight to her head when she slobbers that way.

In her family nobody is ever sick. Even if someone is delirious with fever, she would always say that everything is fine. She uses Italian suffixes for endearment to an excess and she revels in them, in a Tuscan accent that is completely unnatural in a woman from southern Italy. Often she asks one of the Italian teachers she knows if they are willing to go to her house to lead a conversation or to give a conferenzina [tiny little lecture] to a bunch of girls she is tutoring in Italian. I also was asked, and I accepted. As soon as I finished she jumped all over me and almost ate me alive with compliments. “Nobody, nobody has ever spoken so well…” “Your erudition is scary...” “I read all your works and I owe you everything I know in this life…”

In that moment of sullen depression, while I was keeping my glance low to avoid those ridiculous effusions, I noticed the big tow that was sticking out of her sandal, nail painted deep red, covered with the thin nylon net of modern stockings. I didn’t say a word, but I placed my thick shoe sole on the toe and started pressing with deliberate cruelty, as if it were the button of the escape hatch of a submarine about to sink. I thought she would scream “Murderer!” and throw me out of her house. Nothing happened, except a terrifying smirk of pain that lowered my blood pressure. I had to stand there and listen that my conversation was the nicest she ever heard in her life….and that I was a real poet. Then, limping, she walked me to the door.

New York, April 13, 1956