was always “a good mood.” That’s what tourists carry in their rucksacks when they trudge through the streets and look at the map on every corner to try to find out where on earth they are. And why was that again? Finding every building pretty, every square nice, and every little shop cute is a matter of survival. Sweat pours from their foreheads. They think they understand everything, but they’re suspicious at the wrong moments, while not fearing the real dangers. In Genoa, they are more helpless than anywhere else. Incomprehension and insecurity are written all over their faces as they hesitantly wander around the labyrinth. I like them. They’re my brothers. I feel connected to them.
But I want to be part of this world. I want to live in the labyrinth like a happy monster, along with thousands of other happy monsters. I want to nestle in the city’s innards. I want to understand the grinding of its old buildings’ teeth. I went outside and walked along the Vico Vegetti, the Via San Bernado, past the garbage cans and the Piazza Venerosa, down to the Via Canneto Il Lungo to do some shopping at Di per Di. I bought detergent, grissini, and a bottle of wine. Then I took the same route home. But I did happen to be walking along with a plastic bag from Di per Di. My bag was my green card, my residence permit, my asylum. Everyone could see that I’d been admitted. Everyone could see I lived here. I had spoken scarcely more Italian than the words “prego” and “grazie,” but when they spotted my plastic bag from the supermarket, no one could consider me an outsider any longer. I stopped at a kiosk and bought Il Secolo XIX, Genoa’s local paper. I had resolved to read it every day. I clamped it proudly under my arm, making sure it was folded in such a way that everyone could see that it was Il Secolo.
When I got home, I looked at the wall of my building. I live on the ground floor of a tall palazzo in a narrow alleyway that climbs steeply. “Ground floor” is a relative concept for an alley at such a steep gradient. To the right of my entrance, there must be a large area under my bedroom that is probably storage space for the restaurant at number one rosso, which has been closed since my first day here. The whole building is made of deeply-pitted, grayish chunks of rock, crumbling cement, and patches of old layers of plaster here and there. All in all, the entire thing is rotten, peeling, and decayed. But it has been for centuries. And proud of it. When this was built, there was no gas, electricity, running water, television, or Internet. All these amenities had been tacked onto the outside in a makeshift way over the years. There are wires running from the roof along the front wall, entering through holes drilled into the various apartments. The plumbing and sewage have been added to the outside too—a disordered tangle of lead piping. Next to my front door, I noticed a thick pipe entering my house through a hole. And then I saw the sticker again:
derattizzazione in corso
non toccare le esche
The same sticker I had spotted all over the city over the past days had been placed on the water pipes going through the wall into my house, too. I smiled contentedly. I didn’t live in a hotel. I lived in a real building, a real Genoese building with the same sticker as so many other buildings in the city. I must look up what it means at some point, just for the fun of it.
4.
My waitress has had a nasty fall. Or something else happened. I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days in the Bar of Mirrors. Then I saw her walking along the Salita Pollaiuoli in her own clothes. She said “Ciao” to me. She had a bandage around her left elbow and her left wrist was stained red with iodine disinfectant. There were red patches on her left leg and foot, too. Later I was relieved to see her serving in her neat waitress uniform. Her white shirt was short-sleeved so the bandage and the red patches on her arm were visible to all. The patches on her leg were concealed by her black trousers, but she’d rolled up the trouser leg to her ankle, probably because the seam irritated the wound on her foot too much otherwise. It was clearly visible because she was wearing open shoes. Closed-toe shoes would hurt too much, I was sure of that. I repeatedly ordered drinks from her, and each time I wanted to ask what had happened and whether she was alright. But I didn’t dare. I was worried she’d take the question the wrong way. I was afraid that she’d think of her tall boyfriend with the gel in his hair, that bastard, even though I didn’t see him that night.
I’ve noticed how good friends greeted each other. Imagine this: you’re a fat man wearing a dark blue polo shirt. You’re wearing your sunglasses on the top of your head. You heave yourself up onto the terrace, puffing and panting. With visible reluctance, you go and sit down at a free table as you remove your mobile phone from your trouser pocket all in a single, fluid movement. The waitress comes and asks you what you want to drink. The question is not unexpected but still it annoys you. You stare at the floor and in your mind’s eye run through all the drinks in the world. Each one seems even more disgusting that the previous. Finally you order a Campari and soda with a dismissive gesture. You order it in such a way that it is clear to everyone on the terrace that you understand that you’ll have to order something and you’ll just order a fucking Campari and soda then. After that, you immediately continue messing with your mobile phone, causing you to puff and pant again, meaning: I’m an important man and that’s why everyone’s bothering me, but I hate this damn thing, this phone, if I designed one it would be so much better, but that doesn’t interest me, and, what’s more, that’s how things always go in this country, no wonder the economy’s doing so badly and that it’s unbearably hot. It means: I just got a message from the prime minister but I don’t know how this phone works and I wish he’d leave me alone for a moment and decide himself whether to invade Afghanistan or not, but he’s incapable of it, he can’t even hitch up his own trousers without me. Next the Campari and soda is served. You don’t even glance at the drink, nor at the waitress who brings it. You’re much too busy puffing and panting and not understanding how your own phone works, not understanding how anyone can invent a device that even you can’t figure out. The waitress asks if you’d like anything to eat. You growl something incomprehensibly exotic like: just a small bowl of green, pitted olives with Tabasco on the side. Or: gnocchi with chili sauce, hold the pesto, lemon on a stick. Or: peanuts. Then your friend turns up. He’s happy to see you and particularly happy that he’s not the first one to arrive today and that you’re already there. He shouts, “Ciao!” even before he’s walked onto the terrace and then “Ciao!” again, and then a third time “Ciao!” as he sits down at your table. All this time you don’t look at him. You’re much too busy.
A waitress comes over to him, too, and he orders a drink. You’re just in the process of sending your message to the prime minister and you can’t understand why the damn thing won’t send. Your friend says “Cheers,” but you try the prime minister’s other number first. Doesn’t work, either. You huff and puff. Things are like this all the time in Italy these days. You slap the phone onto the table dejectedly. Only then do you look at your friend and say something like, “If Milan bought Ronaldinho, I could have told you Abramovich would put down 150 million for Kaká. It’s crazy they’re not investing in a center back this season. Crazy!”
The Bar of Mirrors is like a porcelain grotto inside. People walk up and down the inclined street outside. The street goes up to the Piazza Matteotti before the Palazzo Ducale. You might also say that it goes to the Via San Lorenzo or the Piazza de Ferrari. It goes down, too. But not many people dare go that way. You get to the San Donato, the touristy bit, which is alright, but then it begins to rise up again. The Stradone Sant’Agostino is the least adventurous. It leads to the monastery and Genoa University’s Faculty of Architecture and, behind that, the Piazza Sarzano. From Piazza Sarzano you can go back down again to the harbor, the sea. If you really have to. But it’s not recommended. The medieval Barbarossa Walls are in the way. And the small streets that do exist can’t be found on any map. “Small streets” is not a good description, they’re more like staircases or improvised temporary walkways over crumbling stones.
The street that ascends and descends is called Salita Pollaiuoli. If you dare turn right before San Donato, you come out on the Via San Bernardo. As the crow flies it is about another fifty meters or so to the Torre dei Embriaci where
