Stella Cadente

 

by Joseph A. Ciota

 

The Italian peninsula stretches across the same latitudes as the northeast United States. Naples is about even with New York and Milan corresponds roughly with Boston. But few Ameri­cans can appreciate the scorching intensity of an Italian summer. It is something that stifles all but the most fundamental human instincts.

By July, Italy all but comes to a standstill. Factories grind to a halt, offices close, and shops post up vacanze signs. Even the gov­ernment winds down and prepares to abandon its ceremonial seat of power, letting the country run itself for a while.

Other than the ever increasing incidence of traffic fatalities, it is doubtful that any truly significant event will occur in the summer and so even the media goes on auto pilot. Daily soccer journals usually bursting with scandals, gossip, and soap opera plots become noticeably thin. Skeleton crews at the state-owned RAI plug in endless reruns. Cleverly mixed musical medleys which repeat themselves every two or three hours betray the fact that even the local DJ has gone to the beach for the day. Lulling melodies which, unattended, slow down and occasionally warble, give the music a melancholic quality. It is an eerie soundtrack to the daily dramas and countless passion plays that ferment under the relentless Italian sun.

In Rome, where the ancient mortar and cobblestone heat up like a brick oven, the uncomfortably warm air lingers into the very late evening. The increased metabolism required to sweat and keep the body temperature where God Himself set it, make anything but the lightest sleep physically impossible.

Sonny awoke to this conclusion from the semi-conscious torpor he had been in since midnight. It was now three a.m. Greenwich time. In the oppressive heat he found it difficult to breathe and thrashed about in a vain attempt to reenter blissful forgetfulness. But the wine had worn off and he was not hopelessly awake. As he drifted in and out, he became gradually aware of a dull gnaw­ing in his gut. It started from a point just below his navel and ra­diated throughout his entire being. He had the feeling of being caught in something inextricable and fatal, like a fish hooked through the belly. The more he tossed and twisted away, the more he felt trapped and the more the discomfort grew.

He got up to relieve himself. The marble tiles were uncom­fortably warm beneath his feet. He felt disoriented, detached. He succeeded in emptying his bowels of what he imagined caused his distress, but now he felt numb and hollow. He lay in bed and examined his immediate surroundings.

The room was very large with a high ceiling and no closets, a typical Roman interior. In the room were two cots, a large desk and an elaborate mahogany dresser which Sonny didn’t bother to use. The desk was strewn with books, receipts, half written post­cards, and tourist maps. On the bed near the door that led to the hallway, were the knapsack and suitcase out of which he had lived for the past two weeks. He chose to sleep on the cot near the window in the unlikely event that there be such a thing as a cool evening breeze.

Gradually, Sonny relaxed and the anxiety that had awak­ened him earlier began to rise again. It was only by conscious ef­fort that he was able to keep it from resurfacing. He thought that he recognized the anxiety as a premonition. He wanted to call home, to make contact with a world that was still in the midst of a day which had already ended for him. He needed some reassurance.

Outside, the streets were dark and quiet. Apparently, he had slept because he noticed that it had rained. The empty streets were wet and shiny under the street lamps. Tomorrow, the cars would be covered with a fine silt, desert sand carried across the Mediterranean by the hot scirocco and brought back to earth by the summer rain. It is a kind of air pollution which predates the industrial revolution. The massive fountain in the center of nearby Piazza Repubblica was still and the piazza itself, usu­ally teeming with tourists and taxis, was deserted and peaceful. Like an aging madam in repose, the city at this hour recalled a greater and nobler past, the onetime kaput mundi, not the cheap illusion, the international theme park that it has become in only the past quarter century. Sonny decided to walk down Via Nazionale to Piazza Venezia. There was a caffè with an interur­ban telephone that might be open.

Suddenly, a police car came hurtling around the fountain and down Via Nazionale. The distinctive metallic sound of an Alfa Romeo engine and the small tires screeching off the cobblestone broke the evening silence. The blue light was on but the siren mute as the car veered off a side street about a hundred yards up from where Sonny stood. He could see only the blue light flash­ing off the column of ancient buildings that lined the street. He then heard the sound of running footsteps, thick soled leather in the still of the night.

A young policeman, gun drawn, ran across Via Nazionale to the other side and peered down a side street. He looked back and signaled to the car which then came roaring back across the Via in reverse. Both the car and the policeman on foot disappeared as Sonny heard more running footsteps and the idling engine.

Sonny got the impression that he was watching children at play. There was something amusing about their exaggerated se­riousness and drama, like a game of cops and robbers. Their ex­cited manner was so incongruous with the serenity of the night as to seem contrived. Nevertheless, Sonny ducked into a nearby ho­tel which had left its doors wide open in the heat.

In the darkness of the lobby, behind the reception desk, he no­ticed the orange glow of a cigarette. There, reclining in a chair, a man half sat up. It occurred to Sonny that he had not startled the man. He was not sleeping, just sitting alone in the darkness. The street light outside reflected off the man’s glasses. It was strange that he would wear these in the dark.

As he got up, Sonny saw a short, heavy-set man with a large head, big chest and thick, oiled-back hair. In the dark, he couldn’t make out his features but something about this man was familiar, in a common sort of way. He was apparently the night porter. Unaccustomed to company at this hour, he seemed wary of this unannounced caller. Sonny explained that he was staying in a pensione nearby. He told the man that he was unable to use the phone and that he needed to make a call. He expressed this all very simply in Italian. His command of the language was such that simple thoughts were all that were accessible to him. Un­embellished by adjectives and unsoftened by the conditional tense, his manner of speaking was unintentionally direct and ur­gent.

The man hesitated for a moment as if he had not understood and then pulled the desk phone up onto the reception counter.

The man lit up a cigarette as Sonny dialed the 001 for the USA. He had trouble reading the numbers off of the dial in the dark and moved the heavy black apparatus into a beam of light from the street. After what seemed like a long time, there was a click and above the hiss of a transatlantic satellite uplink, the numbers connected. His grandmother answered. Sonny’s nonna was from the old country. Like many of her generation, she be­lieved that people could communicate over distance only by let­ter. She was always uncomfortable and brusque over the phone especially when she spoke long distance. There was an echo on the line and the sound of Sonny’s voice coming back to him made him uneasy. He tried to tell her that his documents were com­pleted and that he was leaving for Florence tomorrow but she didn’t seem to understand. The line was weak and fading and so Sonny hurried to tell her that he was alright and that he would call in a couple of weeks.

“Don’t forget Sant’Antonio,” she reminded him.

“Saint Anthony?”, he repeated, his voice echoing back to him. “Pronto, Pasquale? Pronto. . . .” She couldn’t hear him now. There was a loud click and a then a high pitched beep just before the line went dead. As he handed back the phone, he felt the distance pull at his midsection.

Sonny thanked the night porter and reached into his pocket to pay for the call. With a dramatic gesture, the man pushed the money aside. “Private line,” he said in English, “No scatti.” Sonny understood that a call on a private line, like a call from a home phone, gave no immediate indication of the charge of the call and so could not be paid. He knew that the number and rate of scatti—timed impulses that are worth a hundred lire each—vary according to the distance of the call. While a two minute call from Rome to Naples might consume up to ten scatti, a call to the USA registered scatti at a rate of about one every four sec­onds.

Sonny was surprised by the unexpected generosity of this soli­tary man. He was not used to such gracious charity in a city renowned for its cool, often bad, treatment of foreigners. In his stark, direct Italian, he attempted to tell him as much.

The night porter lit up another cigarette. He took a long, thoughtful draw and the cigarette glowed bright in the dark. He stood there for a moment, motionless, engulfed in darkness and smoke. Just when Sonny was convinced that he had not under­stood, the man began to speak.

“You say Roman people are not warm or kind. Maybe you are right.” He paused as if to weigh the significance of this admis­sion. “But I can tell you this, the Roman people have a big heart.” As he said this he pressed his hand over his chest. The cigarette between his thick stubby fingers smoldered like a flam­ing arrow which had pierced him from behind. “Ah yes. A very big heart.”

Sonny smiled because he could detect the smell of alcohol. The man had only the slightest Roman accent, not the unintelligible “Romanaccio” that was used around Italian-speaking foreigners such as himself.

“Yes, we Romans are an irritable people. We get annoyed eas­ily. Perhaps we are not courteous. Many times we are even rude.” The night porter reached beneath the desk to produce a glass and a bottle of wine. He offered the glass first to Sonny who courte­ously declined and then filled it for himself.

“We cannot be bothered with the problems of other people,” he added unapologetically. “But I have never seen a Roman turn his back on someone in need. Never.”

Sonny smiled politely but his smile betrayed just a hint of irony. Indeed, he attributed the generosity of this noble Roman more to the wine than to any inbred humanitarian instinct. Be­sides, it was the hotel’s money and not his that would pay for the call. Like the experienced lecturer that he obviously was, the night porter picked up on this cue.

“You do not agree? Very well then, let me put it to you another way. If I ask another Roman for a courtesy and I am refused, whose fault is it?” He paused as if awaiting a response but, be­fore Sonny could speak, answered himself, “Colpa mia . . . colpa mia.” He softly beat his palm against his breast as if praying.

“Why should we burden ourselves with the problems of oth­ers? Have we not all problems of our own?” He paused as if to consider something he hadn’t yet resolved.

“No!”, he declared, jutting his chin forward. “If I am refused an accommodation, the fault is mine . . . because I do not ask in the right way.”

“The right way,” Sonny repeated curiously. He wanted to in­terject but his Italian was not up to speed. He understood much better than he could speak. In Italy, he was obliged to play the part of the good listener.

“Ah, my friend, there is a right way to ask for everything in this world,” the man added solemnly. “For example, when you came in and asked to use the phone, I could have refused you. Af­ter all, I don’t know you. I have no obligation to you. But, you asked in the right way. Your tone was right. Your manner con­vinced me that it was a matter of importance. You asked me as one should ask. And when one asks in this way, who can refuse?” The night porter paused to drink.

Sonny wasn’t aware of anything in his tone that would have convinced the man to accommodate him. But this was not the first occasion in Italy when a total stranger came to his aid. It oc­curred to him that in America, he rarely had to rely on the help of strangers and therefore never asked.

“My friend, life is short. And Italy is an old land. We have survived countless wars and invasions. Survived, because it is always more important to survive than to win. Look around you. Rome is two thousand years old. And where are we in the midst of this history? I tell you, one day we are here. And the next . . .” He made a whistling sound as his cigarette traced the arc of a falling tree.

“Così, like that,” he repeated the gesture and the red ash from the cigarette fell to the marble floor.

“So, if this is life, why should we assume the problems of oth­ers? Why trouble ourselves? Surely, the world will go on as be­fore, no better nor worse for our effort. Surely, we will all come to the same sad conclusion.

“You see, we Italians, pretend nothing. We have no illusions of immortality, of justice, or perfection on earth. An Italian knows that man is incapable of true and lasting happiness. If a man cannot be happy here, amidst the beauty and splendor of this country, where then? Our history has taught us that there is no more dangerous and deadly purpose than the pursuit of total happiness. It is pure folly and ambition.

“We Italians seek to be content, but not too much so, allegro ma non troppo. We believe in purgatory, the power of saints. We are at our best when we suffer a little. Suffering brings community and community brings understanding of what is important.

“My friend, Italy has a very big heart but you must not ask too much of her. For it is a heart that has been broken many times.” The pale light of a dawning day had filled the sky and threat­ened to consume the blackness inside the hotel lobby. In the fad­ing darkness, the night porter seemed diminished or perhaps he was simply talked out.

After a moment’s silence, when Sonny was sure that speech had run its course, he offered his thanks and shook the man’s meaty hand. “Prego,” the night porter said bowing courteously. Sonny left the night porter alone with his bottle and big Italian heart.

Sonny noticed that the anxiety that had haunted him earlier had vanished. He was very tired now but he would not sleep. The train would leave early tomorrow and he would be on it.

The air outside was cool and still. But with each minute of growing daylight, this too would pass.