Dead Voices, page 11
Without much fanfare I brought them to my car in the tiered parking garage. Nick sat beside me up front and didn’t seem too kindly disposed towards his compatriot. They didn’t say much in the car, their eyes fastened to the sights of mass freeways and cars and high rise hotels on the airport strip. Allen had suggested all three of us stay at one of the downtown hotels close to the CBC building, but I was against that. If these guys wanted no fuss and bother, then they’d be more comfortable in my modest townhouse in a complex beside Centennial Park. It had three bedrooms upstairs. My wife and I had separated. She had gone back to live up north, where most of her family still lived. Our grown-up son lived downtown.
At one point, as I got off the expressway and came closer to the complex, I tried to get some information on this game show that they were scheduled to appear on.
Nick didn’t know much about it, he said. Only that he was supposed to present his political views, while Francesco was supposed to present his religious views. And a panel of judges or whatever was supposed to identify them. He laughed at the implications.
I thought I was in a time warp. The show sounded very close to Front Page Challenge, a long-running CBC game show that featured up-to-the-date news-makers hidden behind a panel of noted journalists who were supposed to identify the people and the stories with a series of questions. With the hidden challenger standing behind them and the audience fully aware of the story, it was always a play of mind and wit. I could remember the regular panellists, especially the portly curmudgeon with the comb-over, an avowed atheist in a bow-tie, who’d always challenge any religious person to prove their faith in the Q and A afterwards.
Such questions would cause me to squirm in my seat back in the Soo, where I had grown up on the CBC. Later, he’d be replaced by another popular curmudgeon, this one an analyst on Hockey Night in Canada who wore peacock suits and pontificated in Yahooese.
I asked Francesco if he was looking forward to the show.
“Sì, sì, brother Marco,” he said. “We need the money to repair our church.”
“Allen tells me you’re a poet.”
“No, no. My soul only sings the praises of God and all His creatures with my all too humble words.”
That shut me up, although I heard a sarcastic humph from Nick.
“What sort of writing do you do?” I asked Nick.
“Serious work on political matters and unserious plays and poetry. The sort that’s more concerned with the salvation of the fatherland than the salvation of the soul.”
The last sentence sounded much better in Italian, with patria and anima rounding each other out al Dante, though I couldn’t respond to that, either.
All I knew was that Italy was going through some rough times, as was most of Europe. Unemployment, especially among the young, was at an all time high. One in every two kids didn’t have work. The national debt was an embarrassment. The number and interests of the political parties were choking the country by the throat. It was mired in historic bureaucratic quicksand, stifled by favouritism, and prone to the cancers of corruption and cynicism. It wasn’t so much merit that advanced a career as one’s connection to a family, a region, or a protector. An acquaintance of mine who had lived in Italy for a long time had told me that the average citizen, and especially those who were self-employed in small businesses, of which there were many, couldn’t get along without little favours, personal connections, and tips from friends in order to make up for the inefficiency of the public administrations. It was just how it was done, he said. Government coalitions came and went on a regular basis. The country had gone through a period of corruption in which many people in business and politics, all the way up to the Socialist prime minister, were disgraced and jailed by the Clean Hands movement, le mani pulite. And the Mafia and Camorra and ‘Indrangheta had a way of greasing the hands of politicians or assassinating anyone who got into their way, including judges like Falcone. The Clean Hands investigations had only lasted a short time, however. Afterwards, a billionaire media baron had dominated politics for two decades, governing the country like a Banana Republic, as one cynic said. The common conception was that he had only gone into politics to make himself and his empire immune from justice. And then he had been expelled from elected office after being found guilty by the courts for tax fraud, not to mention bunga bunga parties and improprieties involving dubious sexual behaviour with minors. Things seemed as bad as when the country was composed of warring city-states, including the papacy.
In the end, the most important loyalty was to one’s family.
In spite of all this, however, almost every visitor knew there was no more beautiful country to the heart and the soul than Italy.
“Allen also tells me,” I said to Nick, “that you’ve been some sort of envoy and travelled quite a bit.”
“That is correct, my friend. But those days are over. I’m more of a consultant now, writing on the shortcomings of governments and priests.”
“I am not a priest,” Francesco protested from the back.
“Priest or friar, it’s all the same to me.”
I could see I was in over my head. These guys had a force of personality that I rarely saw in my circles. Francesco, though humble and childlike — to an almost foolish extent in his mannerisms and disposition — was like a raw and beneficent force of nature. Nick, on the other hand, who was intelligent and enigmatic, had a sharp worldly edge to his practiced and smooth delivery, like a politician who could hide his designs all too readily behind his engaging smile. It was as if the city mouse had met the country mouse. And I had been chosen to keep the cats at bay. Or was I the cheese?
I could’ve killed Allen for putting me in a tight spot. The last thing I needed in my calm retirement years was to play nursemaid to a couple of Italian visitors who’d be at each other’s throat for a couple of days. Their show was supposed to be taped on Monday. It was now Saturday afternoon.
I got them safely to the townhouse, showed them upstairs to their respective bedrooms, and was trying to make some quick plans for the evening when Allen called long distance.
“What the fuck did you get me into?” I told him.
“Not to worry, buddy-boy,” he said, the cavalier guy he was. “I’ve got it all scoped for you. I got you guys box seats to tonight’s Leafs game, all drinks and meals free. And tomorrow you can see Turandot at the Four Seasons Centre.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. These guys don’t know anything about hockey, and I seriously doubt they’d like to go to an opera.”
“You’re the ambassador, man. It’s all spectacle anyways. And you know how Italians love spectacle. Hey, you think it’s easy to get these seats at the last minute? You should be thanking me, Trecroci.”
“Sure, I’ll be thanking you even more when you take them off my hands.”
He laughed and gave me instructions on how to pick up the tickets.
Afterwards, the more I thought about it, the better it seemed. Both events would take up the whole two evenings. All I had to do was fill in the afternoons. I could take them to the CN Tower and the downtown ethnic areas one day and maybe spend the next day in Woodbridge, the new Little-burb-Italy. Though I wasn’t too crazy about opera, I hadn’t been to a Leafs game in ages — and these seats would be a prized possession for any fan.
When I went upstairs to give the guys the news, Francesco was kneeling beside the bed and Nick was still freshening up in the bathroom.
“What’re you doing?” I asked Francesco.
“Praying.”
“Well, your prayers have been answered. We’re going to see a spectacle tonight the likes of which you’ve never seen or will ever see again in your whole life.”
He gave me his little foolish grin. “A spectacle? What kind of spectacle?”
“Have you ever heard of hockey, a game played on ice?”
“No.”
“What part of Italy are you from?”
“Umbria.”
I could only shake my head. Being what it geographically was — a long stretch from the Alps almost to the tip of North Africa — Italy was a study in contrast, as if the yin and the yang had been slipped into a long tight boot in the middle of the sea.
I knocked on the bathroom door and told Nick to put on some casual clothes. We were going to take the subway into town, see a hockey game, and eat at the game.
Since it was quite chilly outside, I told Francesco to wear an extra sweater underneath his hoodie and gave Nick my fashionable black leather jacket, which he greatly admired. I drove them to the end of the east-west line, left the car in the parking lot, and led them to the subway station.
“I’m not going to go out of character and go by taxi,” I told them. “This is how I would do it and you guys can get the experience of riding on the subway.”
They were basically quiet during the subway ride, observing the people entering and leaving the car.
“I’ve never seen such a wide diversity of people,” Nick said at one point.
“This city is supposed to be the most ethnically diverse city in the world,” I said. “What part of Italy are you from?”
“Firenze.”
“Ah, Florence,” I said. “The Boboli, the Palazzo Vecchio, the Duomo, the David.”
“David is such a handsome boy. You’d never know the strap is behind his back, the stone hidden in his hand.”
“That’s where I learned that art is longer-lasting than pop culture.”
“And I’m here to learn as well as to make some money, of course. How is it possible, for example, to govern such a wide variety of people? How can they ever agree on anything?”
I had to pause. Was he putting me on?
I tried to explain our system of government, based on the British model and influenced by the American. He shook his head.
“In my homeland we can’t agree on anything,” he said. “We have been too influenced and kept infantile by the Church and the pontiff. And we are too emotional and diverse to be rational like the British, who have calmer heads. The only thing that can save the Republic is a strong leader, a saviour, someone who’s willing to do whatever is necessary for the good of the country, or we will never extricate ourselves from our troubles. There’s more power in being feared and respected than in being loved or hated, wouldn’t you agree?”
At this point, however, our attention was distracted by Francesco, who had gone over to the other side of the car to sit with this homeless-looking guy who had entered the subway a few stops back. The guy reeked of cat piss and alcohol. He was middle-aged, bearded and coarse, in a torn and soiled parka, with unlaced overlarge sneakers clearly not his own, and drooling at the mouth. Francesco was trying to talk to him in his broken English and the homeless guy was looking for a handout and getting belligerent.
“Francesco,” I called out to him. “Come back here. He’s not in his right mind.”
“I do not have any money,” Francesco said above the sound of the subway. “Do you have any money?”
“You think you will solve his problems by giving him money?” Nick said with a sneer.
The old guy had enough wits about him, however, to understand Nick’s tone. He got up and snarled like a deranged wolf, making as if to attack us. Francesco quickly grabbed his hand.
“No, no, brother,” Francesco said. “We will give you some money. Please, Marco.”
I quickly took out my wallet and gave him a twenty. Francesco put the bill in the guy’s palm, closed it in a loving fashion, and kissed his hand. The guy’s eyes opened wide, as if he had no idea whether to swat him or embrace him.
“Brother, we are the same,” Francesco said to the homeless guy. “Tutti i soldi sono sporchi. All money is dirty.”
“Then the Vatican must be the dirtiest place of all,” Nick said, laughing.
Seeing he had a twenty in his hand, the homeless guy quickly got out at the next stop, probably thinking we might change our minds.
Afterwards, I kept the two of them secularly next to me as the train brought us into the bowels of the city.
We got off at Union Station and followed the fans in their Leafs jerseys streaming through the station to the short tunnel to the arena. The box office area outside the gates was packed. I managed to get the VIP tickets very quickly, however. The concourse inside was a mass of humanity. People were congregated at the concession stands, the bars, the restaurants, and at the TV screens. It was very colourful and noisy.
We went through the VIP entrance and took the elevator up to the box seats, high up over the penalty box. A hostess ushered us into the area. The enclosed space had a counter and stools facing the ice, a few tables, a TV screen on the wall, and a row of chairs. It could’ve easily accommodated more people.
Just before the start of the game the arena was dimly lit, with spotlights flooding the ice surface, where the Zambonis were making the final flood. Booming music ratcheted up the anticipation. The huge scoreboard was showing ads for various products. The banners of the great Leafs from the past and of the championship years hung from the rafters like icons of the glory years. We could’ve been in a cathedral, the atmosphere of the sights and sounds like an intense ritual to our country’s most intense faith.
Nick was all excited.
“It is like the Coliseum, no?” he said. “What is that white substance with all the markings?”
“You mean the ice?”
“Certo, but it’s not cold.”
I had to smile. At least they were so awe-struck by the strangeness of the place they weren’t at each other’s throats. Francesco was clearly out of his element, unused to the large arena filled with boisterous fans. And when the players came out, filing onto the ice and skating crisply through their paces in their colourful gear, with the thunderous noise and the ice surface suddenly exploding into a sea of bright light, he reared back as if blind-sided.
As they played the American and Canadian national anthems, Nick and I stood in solemn attention, while Francesco was still trying to feel comfortable in such a strange milieu.
Once the game started, however, I had to explain a few rules — and it wasn’t easy by a long shot. I used the analogy with soccer, of course, and they got that, but the puck moved so quickly, the skaters so big and fast, the ice surface much smaller, that the two Italians couldn’t keep up to the pace. And whenever there was a collision against the boards, the sound resounding through the arena, the fans whooping it up, the two guys reared as if hit themselves.
“Why is bumping allowed?” Francesco said.
“It’s part of the game,” I said.
“It’s part of life,” Nick said.
Francesco shook his head. “No. It doesn’t have to be.”
“Ought and is are two different things, imbecille.”
“I know, brother. But we can make the present is into a different is, can’t we?”
“Boys,” I said. “Let’s watch the game and not argue, OK.”
A couple of guys brought over a rolling counter with a buffet of main courses on hot plates. We were also given a choice of drinks.
“Take anything you want,” I said. “It’s compliments of the CBC.”
“You mean it’s charity?” Francesco said.
“Well, I don’t know about charity. Maybe. Sort of.”
“In our Order we have to make vows of poverty,” he said. “We cannot eat at good restaurants. But we can accept the occasional charitable donation.”
“This is not a charitable donation, my tonsure-brained friend,” Nick said. “This is being treated with respect. Why, I have dinned in some of the best restaurants in Lyons and Paris and Rome and Venice.”
“Man does not live by bread alone, brother.”
“No, he lives by the food of the gods, cooked by some of the best chefs in the world.”
Francesco smiled and nodded.
Nick and I chose the chicken and vegetables and ordered a bottle of wine. Francesco had the pasta con pesto and a bottle of water.
Everything was going well enough till the second period. We were sitting on the seats in front of the counter. The two Italians weren’t too impressed with the game. The huge screens on the scoreboard seemed more of an attraction than the play on the ice. At one point the star offensive player for the Leafs went into the corner to retrieve the puck and was slammed into the boards with a resounding thud. He crumpled to the ice and had to be helped to the bench. On the next shift, the two opposing enforcers, both huge and mean-looking guys, skated ominously to the face-off circle at our end of the ice, right underneath us. Before the puck was dropped, the gloves flew off, and they squared off for a fight. The fans rose in thunderous approval, screaming for blood.
“The gladiators are finally at it,” Nick said, standing up and clapping.
Francesco, however, didn’t like it. He refused to get up, trembling in his chair like a defenceless bird.
I must admit, I was at two minds. While I stood up between them and watched the combat, I knew it was dastardly of me to be excited. The fight had nothing to do with the game. The two guys would get a few scratches and a bloody nose, perhaps, and penalties, and that would be it. In this fight, however, the opposing goon was hit flush in the face with a hard right hand and went down unconscious, his face hitting the ice in a bad angle. Blood immediately soaked onto the glaring ice in a sickening way. The arena fell silent as the body lay unconscious. What had been an exciting spectacle had now been injected with hard dose of reality. The players from both sides commiserated. The medics came out with a stretcher.
The TV screens on the scoreboard showed the replay repeatedly in slow motion. Our own TV screen to the side of us showed the same replay.
And when I looked to check Francesco’s reaction, he wasn’t there anymore. He had slipped away unnoticed.
