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April 2022 N. 3

The Open Doors Review N. 3 An Art & Literary Magazine in Italy in English & Italian Website Email Podcast

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Lauren T. Mouat, Norah Leibow,

Michela Guida Cover Image

“Lockdown Door” by Ink-P

re-colored by Wendepunkte © Open Doors Review, April 2022 Issue. All authors and artists retain the copyrights to their respective works.

OpEn Doors MAnifEsto In popular culture, Italy is frequently seen as two things: a soap opera Mafiosi video game or a picture postcard tourist dreamland of the Dolce Vita.

Agli occhi di uno straniero, L’Italia viene spesso vista come il paese della pizza, della Mafia e della Dolce Vita. È l’ora di condividere storie ed immagini per scardinare questa stereotipo e dare un’occhiata più nel profondo. Mettiamo in risalto la creatività e l’abilità delle persone del “Bel Paese.” Adesso. Oggi. L’obiettivo non è di creare qualcosa che sia incentrato solo sull’Italia. Si tratta di diffondere una raccolta di scritture ed arti visive cresciuta in questo posto.

Let’s add more stories to this picture. Let’s look under the surface. Let’s highlight the creativity and skill of the people in Italy. Now. Today. The point is not to produce something Italy-focused. It’s to create a collection of writing and visual art that is Italy-grown. Who do you love? What do you believe in? What do you know? These days, truth is under attack. Reality means different things to different people. While language is increasingly black and white the issues, like our hearts, never are. Art lives in these spaces between.

Chi ami? In che cosa credi? Cosa è reale? In questi giorni la verità è in pericolo. La realtà viene percepita in maniera diverse a seconda del punto di vista delle persone. Mentre il linguaggio è sempre più categorico, i problemi (come i nostri cuori) non lo sono. L’arte fiorisce proprio in questo terreno di mezzo.

We are cracking open, evolving, breaking up with the old world, breaking down the new. That’s where art grows. That’s where conversations happen. There, in that space, we find our humanity when we share and connect with each other.

Ci stiamo aprendo. Ci stiamo evolvendo. Stiamo rompendo con il vecchio mondo e mettendo il nuovo alla prova. È qui che avvengono le conversazioni. È così che cresce l’arte. Qui, in questo spazio, condividendo e connettendoci l’uno con l’altro, ritroviamo la nostra umanità.

I challenge you to step into that place and create. Come on in, the doors are open.

Non ti resta che entrare in questo luogo e iniziare a creare. Le porte sono aperte.

ContEnts 3 Open Doors Manifesto 6 Letter From the Editor 8 Interview with Author & Guest Judge Giacomo Barba 14 Poem by Susan Blevins Letter to Vittorio 16 Art & Poem by Sean Riley The Bar is Closed... & In the Valley 18, 44, 51 Photography by Ahmed Ali 19 Fiction by Giaime Maccioni L’Attrice 26 Fiction by Dominic Viti The Birthday 33 Art by Ginevra Ballati Nebula 34 Behind the Doors with Ink-P Lauren Mouat

37 Poem by “Calling in Sick” Italian Wine Poem

60 Parallel Text I. Me, You, She Lauren Mouat Translation: Alessia Mennitti

38 Fiction by Michael McGuire Time of Death

68 Essay by Roberto Argentina In Otranto, History Owns Me

42 Poem by Jan Ball Lamb Chops

71 Poetry by Simon Perchik Again you hear the Moon

45 Fiction by Judy Upton Man’s Best Friend

72 Interview with Nonfiction Editor Norah Leibow

52 Poetry by Oak Morse Loose Thangs

77 Author Bios

53 Art & Text by Mario Loprete In Cemento Veritas

83 Submission Guidelines

56 Fiction by Giacomo Barba Conosci Vonnegut?

Letter from the editor Lauren T. Mouat

The pieces in the third edition of Open Doors go to our guts, our hungers and desires, our longings. They are about food and sex, the search for connection both physical and emotional. They’re about reading between the lines, looking to our past to make sense of our present, and using words as shields, meant to conceal our weaknesses but in so doing, revealing them. Susan Blevin’s “Letter to Vittorio” and Jan Ball’s “Lamb Chops” are two poems that put the visceral touch and texture of food at the center of our relationships, where hunger, repulsion, and attraction intersect. Time and history are the subject of Roberto Argentina’s Essay “In Otranto, History Owns Me,” as memories of a historic event inspire an appreciation for a sacrifice that centuries later led to life. Mario Loprete’s cement sculptures freeze in time his own clothes, challenging us to look at the present as if we were archeologists from the future. The reflective meditation of Sean Riley’s “The Bar is Closed...” and “In the Valley” are less about time than they are about timelessness. In contrast, Dominic Viti’s “The Birthday” paints a moment when time stands still and life as one community knew it dissolves into something new, strange and uncertain. A fantastical touch characterize Ginevra Ballati’s “Nebula” and Simon Perchik’s “Again you hear the Moon,” encouraging us to explore the surreal, something I also dive into in my piece “I, me, you, she” where identity and perception fragment and the borders between real and imagined shift and blur. Thanks goes to Alessia Mennitti for her translation of this piece into Italian so it can appear in parallel text.

Michael McGuire’s short story “Time of Death” has a rhythm and poetic sparsity that tell a story in an invigorating way and keeps the reader jumping from clue to clue as does Oak Morse’s Poem “Loose Thangs” that has us racing from one connection to the next. We find direct language and refreshing comedy in “Italian Wine Poem” where poetry and sarcasm most definitely blend as well as any Super Tuscan. Ahmed Ali’s Photography focuses on shadows and shapes - the human figures they reveal and conceal. much like L’Attrice” by Giaime Maccioni - a story in which watching another reveals much more about the watcher than the watched. Humor and longing merge in Judy Upton’s “Man’s Best Friend” where lust, love and connection intermingle as the protagonist swings between dreams, desire, disgust, bewilderment and ultimately, hope. In my interview with guest Judge Giacomo Barba (who also contributed a story “Conosci Vonnegut?”) delves into writing and reading in multiple languages and the challenges of translation. He also offers some advice on where to start with Italian or English-language literature. I’m also pleased to welcome friend and fellow-writer Norah Leibow to the Open Doors Review as the new nonfiction editor. In our conversation, Norah discusses what makes a great essay as well as nonfiction English reading suggestions. As Open Doors enters its second year, I want to offer my sincerest thanks and gratitude to all who have been a part of its creation. One of my favorite sections of Open Doors is the “Author Bios”. These couple of lines sketch out a career, sometimes connected to the arts, sometimes not, detail interests and passions of the individualì behind a story or a poem in the previous pages. And above all these brief lines reveal the connection to Italy that our contributors share showing that while many live outside of the country, Italy connects us, our words, our art, ourselves.

-LTM

Interview

with Author and Guest Judge

Giacomo Barba

Giacomo è uno scrittore e insegnante a Roma. Insegna Lingua e Letteratura Inglese presso il Liceo Scientifico “Ennio Quirino Visconti” e ha un dottorato in Lingua e Letteratura Inglese. È l’autore de “La Libertà dell’Oddio,” Graphofeel edizioni, “The Teacher,” un romanzo che ho seguito, anche se in modo inesperto, nella traduzione dall’italiano all’inglese quasi un decennio fa. A settembre 2021 è uscito il suo romanzo “Non Dite a Romeo che Giulietta mi piace.” Nell’intervista, chiedo un consiglio su quali libri leggere, in inglese e in italiano, cosa cambia quando leggi o scrivi in almeno due lingue, sul proprio processo di scrittura e sulle diverse fasi della vita di uno scrittore.

Giacomo is a writer and teacher living in Rome. He teaches Language and English Literature at the “Ennio Quirino Visconti” highschool in Rome and has a doctorate in English language and literature. He is the author of “La Libertà dell’Oddio,” Graphofeel edizioni, “The Teacher,” a novel I assisted, however inexpertly, in translating from Italian into English nearly a decade ago. His novel “Non Dite a Romeo che Giulietta mi piace” came out in September 2021. As a teacher of english literature in Rome, I wanted to ask his advice on what books to read, in English and Italian, what changes when reading or writing in multiple languages, about his own writing process and the different phases of a writer’s life.

Lauren: Raccontaci un po’ del tuo ultimo libro, di cosa parla e cosa ti ha ispirato a raccontare questa storia? Giacomo: Il mio ultimo romanzo parla di quello che accade quando si ritrovano allo stesso incrocio il grande amico, il grande amore, e il sogno nel cassetto e improvvisamente sembra che lo spazio nelle nostre vite per farci entrare tutte e tre queste cose gigantesche non basta più. Parla dei disastri che capitano appunto per questa improvvisa mancanza di spazio di manovra. È una cosa strana perché fino ad un momento prima ci sembrava di avere tutto sotto controllo e quindi di poter avere abbastanza tempo da dedicare agli amici, abbastanza tempo per pensare ai nostri sogni, abbastanza tempo per rincorrere il grande amore. Tutto questo è calato su una cornice moderna che però riprende la storia di Romeo e Giulietta, scoprendola tremendamente attuale soprattutto per il modo in cui lo stesso Shakespeare sembra aver avuto problemi a gestire il terribile urto tra questi grandi sentimenti: l’amicizia, l’amore ed i sogni. Lauren: Questo è il tuo terzo libro. Senti che a questo punto il tuo processo creativo è lo stesso del tuo primo libro? Giacomo: Credo di essere molto diverso rispetto al primo libro che ho scritto, e anche la mia scrittura è sicuramente diversa. Ricordo le parole di una grande scrittrice con cui ho avuto l’onore di lavorare che mi diceva, ”Quando cominci a scrivere sei innamorato di te, poi con il passare del tempo l’amore si trasforma in una bella amicizia e poi nella parte finale della vita, quando continui a scrivere e ti rendi conto di averlo fatto per tanti anni, devi imparare a tollerare i tuoi difetti ed avere pazienza con te stesso.” Credo di essere nella fase intermedia. Non sono più innamorato di ogni cosa che scrivo ma credo di avere una solida amicizia rispetto alle idee ed i sentimenti che cerco di condividere. Lauren: Hai una struttura organizzata fin dall’inizio o inizi a scrivere e poi vedi come l’idea si evolve? Giacomo: Non ho una struttura organizzata nel senso che parto da un’idea che mi sembra particolarmente interessante. Poi amo lavorare su delle parti che non sono necessariamente legate in ordine cronologico. Quindi, messa al sicuro un’idea creativa, potrei tranquillamente scrivere prima il finale e poi l’inizio, o semplicemente cominciare a raccontare dal mezzo ed alla fine mettere tutto insieme. Lauren: Quanto della tua esperienza di vita entra nel tuo lavoro?

Giacomo: Tutto e niente…in realtà questo ha a che fare con quanto dicevo già prima rispetto al fatto che quando cominciamo a scrivere siamo innamorati di noi. Scrivere è un bellissimo lavoro ed un bellissimo lavoro deve essere filtrato. Oscar Wilde diceva che il pensiero ed il linguaggio sono gli strumenti di uno scrittore, e che i vizi e le virtù sono i materiali di uno scrittore. Quindi i vizi e le virtù che racconto nelle mie storie sono semplicemente i materiali con cui cerco di fare il mio lavoro di professionista, e il pensiero e la lingua sono gli strumenti che utilizzo. Non è possibile trapiantare l’esperienza diretta nell’arte perché il risultato è dilettantistico quindi ripeto, senza dubbio i lettori sono portati a pensare che tutto quello che tu hai scritto lo hai vissuto ma non è così. Lauren: C’era una volta... qualche anno fa ho tradotto il tuo primo libro dall’italiano all’inglese e quella è stata, come sicuramente ricorderai, una vera esperienza! Quindi ho una domanda per te sui lavori di traduzione. Insegni letteratura americana quindi sono sicura che leggi i lavori in lingua originale ma li insegni in italiano ai tuoi studenti. Trovi che l’esperienza della storia sia la stessa in entrambe le lingue o cambia qualcosa quando leggi un’opera in lingua originale rispetto alla traduzione? Giacomo: Mi ricordo molto bene del libro che hai tradotto insieme a me, di quanto è stato stimolante e divertente e mi posso soltanto immaginare i problemi di fronte ai quali ti sei trovata affrontando centinaia e centinaia di pagine con tutte le stravaganti idee e le misture linguistiche, lo slang, i dialetti, l’italiano, le voci che ho inserito. Credo che le traduzioni siano un ponte straordinario che è capace di dare ai libri una vita completamente nuova e quindi la lingua originale è senza dubbio più incisiva. La traduzione è un libro nel libro e quindi per esempio io provo molto piacere nel leggere la traduzione in inglese del mio primo romanzo fatta da te. 11

Lauren: Scrivi mai in inglese? Se sì, com’è scrivere in una lingua diversa dalla tua? Se no, perché no? Giacomo: Sì, scrivo in inglese. Mi capita e scrivo in un’altra lingua per liberare una parte diversa della mia creatività. Ogni lingua è un’identità segreta che permette di accedere a parti di noi che normalmente teniamo sotto controllo quando parliamo la nostra lingua madre e quindi, scrivere in un’altra lingua è una vacanza, è divertente e ci permette di essere diversi. Quasi uno straniero che si impossessa di noi che è capace di creare idee che l’altro, la persona che normalmente siamo, non avrebbe mai immaginato. Lauren: Quali sono i tuoi tre libri preferiti? Giacomo: È difficile dirne soltanto tre. Però farò uno sforzo. Allora, c’è più di un libro di Philip Roth che trovo straordinario. Devo assolutamente citare “Il teatro di Sabbath,” “Il lamento di Portnoy” sempre dello stesso autore, “Ho sposato un comunista” e “La macchia umana” o “L’animale morente.” Scegliamone due tra quelli che ho citato di Philip Roth. Calvino “Se una notte d’inverno un viaggiatore” e “Il Barone rampante” senza dubbio. Hermann Hesse. “Narciso Bocca d’oro,” “Il lupo della steppa,” già sono andato oltre ma è impossibile scegliere tra questi. Lauren: Quali sono le differenze principali tra i libri italiani e americani? Si concentrano su argomenti diversi? Hanno toni diversi? Ad esempio, i film americani sono sempre altamente stilizzati e drammatici e i film francesi finiscono sempre con qualche ridicola tragedia ... vedi differenze evidenti? Giacomo: E difficile... Un grande libro polverizza la problematica della lingua e della cultura. I grandi libri parlano di tutto perché rappresentano un risultato straordinario in termini di forma e di contenuto; per esempio gli autori di cui ho parlato hanno tantissimo in comune. Sono capaci di trattare qualsiasi tipo di argomento più violento, il più scabroso, il più scandaloso con un’assoluta padronanza tecnica e quindi rendere nella stessa maniera assolutamente perfetta il romanticismo, la sessualità, la psicologia. Sono ed appartengono alla stessa categoria, quella dei fuoriclasse. Lauren: Quale autore italiano consiglieresti di leggere ad un parlante inglese? Giacomo: L’autore italiano che consiglio di leggere è senza dubbio Italo Calvino. Lauren: Quale autore inglese o americano consiglieresti di leggere ad un parlante italiano? Giacomo: L’autore inglese che consiglieri di leggere ad un italiano è Philip Roth o 12

Hermann Hesse senza scomodare i grandi classici della letteratura. In quel caso la lista sarebbe davvero lunga. Dovrei citare Oscar Wilde, Emily Bronte, George Orwell, soltanto per dire i più famosi. Lauren: Qual è lo stato emotivo che genera la tua scrittura? Crei quando sei triste? Felice? È una necessità? Giacomo: Lo stato emotivo che genera la mia scrittura penso che sia soprattutto la curiosità. Quando un’idea mi sembra nuova, innovativa, stravagante e funzionante. È quella che poi prende il controllo della mia mente. Su cui poi si possono articolare vari stati d’animo che mi permettono di scrivere differenti parti della stessa trama. Lauren: A quale punto del tuo processo di scrittura condividi il tuo lavoro? Chi è la prima persona con cui condividi i tuoi lavori? Qualcuno con cui sei vicino? Un amico che scrive? Un giudice imparziale? Giacomo: Senza dubbio dopo averlo finito, letto e riletto almeno 50 volte. Le persone con cui cerco di condividere il mio lavoro sono quelle dalle quali non mi aspetto di solito dei complimenti. Diciamo che cerco di scegliere lettori più complicati, più difficili, perché sono quelli le cui critiche, i cui feedback possono darmi dei consigli utili. Dopo che ho ricevuto i consigli cattivi allora posso condividere le cose che ho scritto con le persone a cui sono vicino, i miei amici, la donna che amo e qualche volta anche con persone quasi sconosciute. Lauren: Una volta mi hai detto che scrivere era un atto narcisistico. Cosa vuol dire? Lo pensi ancora? Giacomo: Sì, una volta ti ho detto che scrivere è un atto narcisistico. Ti ho detto questa cosa quando ho cominciato a scrivere. Quando ho cominciato a pubblicare ed ero innamorato di me. Credevo che quello che stavo scrivendo, ed in particolar modo il libro che hai tradotto avrebbe cambiato il mondo, avrebbe cambiato la mia vita, quindi la mia voglia di far leggere, di scandalizzare con qualcosa di nuovo mai sentito prima era totale. Penso ancora che sia un atto narcisistico ma molto meno di prima. Penso che la scrittura sia soprattutto comunicazione e capacità di raccontare una storia. Non solamente e necessariamente la voglia di farsi conoscere nella propria capacità o nella propria tecnica. È anche bello adesso scomparire, anzi adesso mi rendo conto che più un autore è capace di scomparire dalla propria opera più questa opera ha valore.

v 13

Letter to Vittorio Susan Blevins

Another fish dinner, another healthy delight of lightness, and above all, a reminder of you, the love of my life.

You taught me so much about the sea, how to swim, how to dive deep for octopus and urchins, how to hold my breath for two glorious minutes of underwater exploration.

And you taught me how to eat a fish. Never to have it readied by the waiter, rather to perform the surgery myself. The careful removal of the skin, and firm but gentle incision to separate hunks of fragrant flesh from the bones.

But mostly, you taught me how to appreciate the head of the fish, the part most prized by Italy’s knowing fishermen. The delicate cheeks, mere slivers of flesh, but so delectable a mouthful, and so esteemed by sophisticated connoisseurs. 14

You showed me how to gently break open the skull, to expose the delicate brain, soft and slippery, quintessential representative of its home, the sea, and how the migrating fish have bigger brains than the ones which stay close to home. I’ve always wondered if there’s perhaps a parallel here for us human beings.

But it’s the eyes, the eyes that remind me of you, though not because yours were exophthalmic. The fish nestles on my plate amidst its garnish, and turns its blinded eyes on me, excusing me for the murderous act I am about to commit, supplicating me somehow to reverse its destiny. I can’t help myself, when I pop those eyes in my mouth, my thoughts turn to you, every time, whomever I’m with, wherever I am. My darling Vittorio, you will always be my fish-eyed, handsome Neapolitan lover, the delicious love of my life.

The Bar is Closed... Sean Riley 2021, mixed media on paper, 17x25cm 16

in the valley Sean Riley

It was lunchtime. When the rain stopped the shots of the hunters rang like church bells. As the clouds politely excused themselves from the mountains the leaves turned right-side up and hidden contours suddenly exposed a sun. Light conversation resumed. We wintered on like this year after year. Startled by subtle changes and clinging to big ideas.

Ahmed Ali Photography 18

L’Attrice Fiction Giaime Maccioni

Sembrava che parlasse con me. Deve essere un trucco da attori, eppure i suoi occhi… Riflettendoci poi mi dissi che non era possibile. Nel buio della platea gli attori non vedono i volti del pubblico. Eppure, se tornavo con la mente al momento del monologo, lasciando riemergere il viso di quell’attrice nel palcoscenico della mente, sentivo di nuovo i suoi occhi addosso, non al mio vicino o dietro o a nessuno, proprio a me! Uno sguardo è per sua natura univoco, a meno che questi attori non conoscano una tecnica per cui… macché, non ci dormii quella notte, fantasticando che per qualche ragione mi avesse voluto dire qualcosa, fissandomi a quel modo. Ma bastarono due ore di sonno per far evaporare l’illusione e l’emozione. Il mattino era un mattino come tutti gli altri, pieno di sterili concretezze. La giornata si impadronì dei miei sogni e a me non rimasero che dieci ore di lavoro meccanico davanti a uno schermo. Alle sei del pomeriggio ero un uomo nuovo, vale a dire molto peggiore di quello già stanco delle sette di mattina. Eppure lo spettro ciondolante che tornava fiaccamente verso casa a piedi, per sgranchirsi le gambe, ebbe un’idea proibita. Per venti minuti circa essa rimase relegata nell’archivio interiore delle fantasie cui ci si abbandona pur sapendo bene che non daranno mai adito a nulla di vero. Poi però mutò spontaneamente in qualcosa di possibile e infine, con un fremito, emerse alla coscienza come ciò che di certo avrei fatto. Ed eccomi alle nove meno dieci, dopo una doccia e una cena leggerissima (nulla e di secondo nulla), davanti al teatro.

Mi sedetti volontariamente dal lato opposto della platea, in una fila diversa, in un posto molto decentrato. Insomma, ero un altro spettatore.

so, improvvisamente, me, solo me! E da lì non si muove per il minuto successivo, vale a dire fino al momento in cui entra di nuovo il marito, grasso e distratto, e l’annoia con un riassunto della situazione economica senza sospettare nulla dell’affare illecito.

A metà del primo atto entra l’attrice, che finalmente può assumere delle sembianze. Snella, zigomi alti, grandi occhi drammatici, un’ eleganza naturale nei gesti e voce grave. Si muove a piedi scalzi (siamo in casa sua) senza fare rumore. Parla poco (più che altro è lì ad ascoltare la discussione di lavoro del marito con il collega d’affari, che è anche il di lei amante). Finalmente quando i due uomini escono s’avvicina al bordo del palco e ci racconta in un monologo scritto non molto bene le sue pene d’amore.

La commedia era discretamente orrenda. Una noia mortale. Dunque il mio interesse per quella ragazza era tanto più credibile. Non l’ho detto? Ne ero oscuramente attratto, fin dal primo momento in cui l’avevo vista, vale a dire poco più di ventiquattr’ore prima. Risulterà comprensibile, allora, che quel suo sguardo sostenuto (o parvenza di sguardo) era stato sufficiente a farmi tremare come una tenera fogliolina. Io, un “La commedia era discretamente omone di un metro e novanta con una fiera, liscia pancia color orrenda. Una noia mortale. suino.

Dunque il mio interesse per quella ragazza era tanto più credibile. Non l’ho detto? Ne ero oscuramente attratto, fin dal primo momento in cui l’avevo vista, vale a dire poco più di ventiquattr’ore prima.”

Tornai a casa, e decisi di affidarmi a una terza e ultima prova. La sera dopo ero in primissima fila, centrale, elegante, con uno spruzzo di profumo alle erbe nel colletto della camicia e i capelli lucidi.

Ormai conoscevo a memoria lo spoglio intreccio della trama e i suoi miserabili protagonisti. Il marito, il collega, la domestica (per cui il marito ha naturalmente una cotta), una figlia che manda commoventi lettere da un paese lontano, e poi lei, la moglie, vale a dire la mia attrice, che fa la sua comparsa dopo quindici minuti dall’inizio.

Ecco che il suo sguardo si posa all’incirca dove ero ieri, e inizia a parlare. Mistero svelato, un miraggio o una speranza, comunque una falsità assoluta. Non guardava me, guardava lì, ben diverso concetto! Poi però - ieri non l’aveva fatto - muove la testa, senza interrompersi, e guarda di qua (dove sono io). No, non di qua, guarda proprio verso di me e ades-

Dalla mia posizione di quella sera riuscivo addirittura a cogliere dei particolari interessanti che a una certa distanza 20

erano invisibili. Sto parlando di malleoli, calcagni e dita dei piedi, il tutto di un’ ossosità da perdere la testa e l’uso corretto del linguaggio.

tardi, una volta fuori dal teatro, lasciando perdere la qualità letteraria del brano, era il concetto contenutovi che l’attrice voleva dedicarmi. La cosa mi inorgogliva e mi stuzzicava, ma soprattutto faceva sbocciare in me una dirompente curiosità: perché?

A un certo momento della discussione d’affari del marito col collega mi sentii agitato. Sapevo che mancava pochissimo al momento cruciale. E finalmente, con l’ultima battuta, che recitai anche io tra le labbra: Ebbi la risposta «Amore mio noi usciamo, i soldi non dormola mattina no mai!», i due si tolsdopo. Mi amava ero dai piedi, e la mia amabile corrucciò il bel disperatamente, più viso e venne due passi ancora di quanto in avanti.

Non la conoscevo e non mi conosceva, e comunque mi sembrava impossibile che nel mezzo della sua parte, ammesso che si vedesse qualcosa in platea, si fosse messa a cercare con gli occhi qualcuno cui rivolgere quelle parole. Vogliamo credere sia andata così? Benissimo, ma come era spiegabile che mi avesse cercato e ritrovato non l’amassi io. Iniziò a recitare il non solo la seconda sera ma monologo con gli occhi perfino la terza, in cui pur nella direzione del pridi non scostarsi da me avemo giorno. Poi, come la va mantenuto quella postura poco natusera prima, volse lo sguardo dal lato oprale e poco adatta allo scopo, mettendo a posto della platea. Ma io non sono nemrischio, a mio parere, la riuscita della sua meno lì, dissi tra me, come a volerle dare interpretazione? un suggerimento. E lei, quasi facendomi schizzare fuori dalla poltronissima, lo Ebbi la risposta la mattina dopo. Mi amacolse! Chinò il capo in un gesto di dolore, va disperatamente, più ancora di quanto e in quella scomoda posizione terminò il non l’amassi io. monologo. La notte era stata un succedersi di straMa quale gesto di dolore! Tenne gli oc- ni sogni botanici e improvvisi risvegli, chi dritti nei miei per tutto il tempo, non con quella domanda nel cuore, ma verc’era dubbio. Tanto che mi sentii anche in so le sei del mattino, in concomitanza di lieve imbarazzo e mi voltai a verificare se un’alba rosseggiante che penetrava densa i miei vicini di posto stessero notando nella stanza, perché gli innamorati non la cosa. Ma no, erano due millenari che hanno tempo per ricordarsi di chiudere seguivano a bocca aperta quella noiosa le persiane, tutto fu chiaro. tirata sugli amori irrealizzabili. Non poteva che essere così (colazione). A ben pensare però, riflettevo un’ora più Mi aveva visto la prima sera casual-

mente, era esploso una specie di colpo di continuo scivolare nei peggiori cliché, fulmine, e poi mi aveva con pazza sper- aveva assunto un che di piacevolmente anza cercato anche nei giorni successivi familiare, che non disturbava più e anzi (prime ore di lavoro). C’era voluto un inteneriva. Attendevo con bonaria pietà bel coraggio a dedicarmi il monologo l’ingresso del povero marito cornuto, il in una maniera così sfrontata (ultime tipico uomo tutto lavoro per cui il monore di lavoro), eppure non aveva avuto do al di fuori degli affari non è che una l’ardire di precipitarsi fuori del cameri- compatta nebbiolina. E lo scaltro collega no per venire a conoscermi di persona, che invece, oltre i baffi e gli occhiali, didavanti all’ingresso del teatro (uscita dall’ufficio). Di certo, però, desiderava fossi io a fare una mossa (lento ritorno a casa), vale E va bene, alla quarta sera di fila posso a dire bussare - knock knock - alla porta del suo ammetterlo. Per quanto terribile, quella camerino, e chiederle se commediola aveva un briciolo di valore, le andasse di venire a bere e il valore stava nell’umanità dei suoi una cosa con me (doccia e vestizione). Avremmo personaggi. parlato di quella commedia (scale) e non avrei osato esprimere un giudizio sincero (tratto iniziale di strada e vampa di pura passione per le femmine. ricerca di un taxi). Ma di lei avrei potuto E poi la lettera di quella figlia lontana, letspontaneamente dire ogni bene (taxi) e ta ad alta voce dall’avvenente domestica poi di certo le cose si sarebbero messe da (con tanto di belle gambe esposte sotto sole in una maniera confortevole (disce- la marsina). Una famigliola di miei amici sa dal taxi e primi passi verso il teatro). cari, mi pareva ormai, e mi convinsi che Quella sera avrei anche potuto sorrid- quella semplicità, quella ovvietà di ruoli, erle, mentre recitava il suo monologo pur forzata e affatto originale, fornisse in (ingresso nell’atrio). O forse no, meglio fondo un’idea sociale piuttosto veritiera. mantenersi seri (si spengono le luci e iniEccoci finalmente nel salotto, dove ha zia lo spettacolo). luogo il dialogo tra i due uomini. Una E va bene, alla quarta sera di fila posso pianta di ficus (fin troppo di plastica) e ammetterlo. Per quanto terribile, quel- due bicchieri di whisky sul tavolino (di la commediola aveva un briciolo di va- un marrone denso, come acqua colorlore, e il valore stava nell’umanità dei ata). Accompagno le battute con le mie suoi personaggi. Ciò che criticavo alla labbra perché so il momento esatto in prima e alla seconda replica, vale a dire cui deve entrare lei. la fortuità artefatta delle circostanze e il 22

«Caro Molpiani, credo proprio che firm- ciuta indirizzato verso un punto a caso in erò per quel terreno» platea. Dovetti aspettare la fine del primo atto per muovermi. Una volta nell’atrio «Non mi sembra un’idea intelligente, Bomi informai presso il personale. letti» (sorso di acqua marrone) «è una pietraia e non vedo possibilità di farci «Un incidente in macchina questo qualcosa» (l’acquisto di quel terreno e i pomeriggio? Ma è grave?» relativi guai che ne verranno erano parte Nessuno sapeva niente di preciso. A quel integrante del secondo atto). punto me ne andai dal teatro, ed ebbi l’is«Ho una sensazione, come di un affare tinto di mettermi a girare gli ospedali. Poi sensazionale» mi calmai. Nemmeno ti conosce, ricordai a me stesso, e rientrai a casa. «A me sembra un bidone sensazionale!» La sera dopo tornai al teatro per chiedere Bidone sensazionale, faccio eco sottoinformazioni. Recitava ancora la sostituvoce. Mancano solo due battute. ta. Dell’incidente si sapeva solo che era «Non sarà mica invidioso?» un incidente, e nulla riguardo alla sua entità (più comprensibilmente, non davano Non sarà mica invidioso. No, affatto informazioni private). Ero lì anche la sera sono… dopo e quella dopo ancora. La situazione «No, affatto!» (altro sorso) «sono preoc- non cambiava. cupato!» La domenica si tenne una doppia repliEd entra lei, mi dico. E infatti entra lei. ca. Quella serale era l’ultima. Non solo Piedi nudi, leggermente diversi però, della tappa nella mia città, ma dell’intera meno ossuti (sono in quinta fila stasera, tournée. forse quella piccola distanza mi inganna). Gambe anche, non proprio le sue, come più tarchiate. Che aspetto ad alzare il viso? Volevo gustarmela dal basso. Ma invece finisco per guardarla tutta insieme. Sconcerto. Non è lei! Chi è quest’altra? Capelli mossi, fisico più robusto, testa piccola su collo largo. Una variazione nella trama? Ma no, parla, e dice proprio:

Due giorni dopo, affissa all’ingresso, c’era la locandina di uno spettacolo nuovo. La cosa mi mise addosso una velata malinconia. Ma durò poco e già una settimana dopo non ci pensavo più.

Due anni più tardi - la mia vita era quella di sempre - mi capitò sotto gli occhi sul giornale il manifesto della commedia. Era di nuovo in programmazione per una «Se Agenore è preoccupato, ti consiglierei settimana in quello stesso teatro. Telefondi ascoltarlo, caro!» ai per chiedere l’unica informazione che La sua orrenda battuta di ingresso! Ma sì, mi interessava. Risposero di sì. è la moglie, certo, tutto procede come al Ero leggermente imbarazzato la sera delsolito, ma l’attrice, non è la mia attrice! la prima quando mi presentai al teatro. Che pena il monologo di quella sconos- Presumibilmente, la strana situazione di 23

due anni prima non si sarebbe ripetuta, e a dirla tutta la mia presenza lì mi sembrava una specie di forzatura e mi pesava. Era pur vero, però, che non sarei mai riuscito a non andare, e mi accontentai di quel fatto per smetterla di rimuginare. La platea era gremita (per qualche mistero la commedia aveva avuto un successo strepitoso la scorsa volta). Avevo trovato posto solo intorno alla decima fila, leggermente decentrato sulla sinistra. Con un piccolo fremito di affetto accolsi l’ingresso sul palcoscenico del marito. Lo stesso attore, lievemente ingrassato. Il suo collega, invece, non era più l’uomo alto con baffi e occhiali ma un tale brevilineo e prestante, che non aveva nulla dell’uomo d’affari tranne le solite vecchie battute. Ecco poi la domestica (stessa attrice e stesse gambe nude) che legge la stessa lettera della stessa figlia emigrata, e finalmente, con un cambio di scenografia, siamo in salotto. Avevano aggiunto due quadri e il whisky sembrava più vero, comunque era il solito salotto. Iniziavo a sentirmi sovreccitato e facevo fatica a rimanere seduto. La reazione era esagerata, se si pensa che ero nascosto in una platea buia e con tutta probabilità lei non si sarebbe accorta della mia presenza, eppure una minuscola frangia dell’invaghimento originale era per qualche motivo rimasta ancora intatta in me e ora, mischiata a un’inconfessabile speranza, aveva preso ad agitarsi e non potevo fermarla.

Ricordavo ancora quelle linee di dialogo, ma stavo zitto a sentirle come una prima volta, e nel mentre tentavo di calmarmi. Intorno a me c’erano facce di sconosciuti rivolte al palcoscenico, vagamente illuminate dal riflesso di una luce giallina. «Ho una sensazione, come di un affare sensazionale» Il cuore perse il controllo, e si mise a galoppare. «A me sembra un bidone sensazionale!» Cercai di respirare profondamente. MI guardai ancora intorno. Tutti concentrati per fortuna, e nessuno s’accorgeva di me. «Non sarà mica invidioso?» «No affatto! sono preoccupato!» Un attimo di pausa, il cuore si ferma un istante (non per davvero, ma dà l’idea di farlo). «Se Agenore è preoccupato ti consiglierei ti ascoltarlo, caro!» La sua cara voce piena e fragile, fuori campo. Un piccolo cambio di regia, evidentemente. Quella battuta la pronunciava in scena. Poi un rumore scorrevole sul legno del pavimento ed ecco appare la mia bella attrice con i suoi larghi occhi. I piedi non sono più nudi ma al sicuro di due snelle pantofole bianche, e con le mani spinge le grandi ruote di una carrozzina per disabili.

Il mio cuore si fermò veramente, il suo «Caro Molpiani, credo proprio che firm- battito evaporò e scomparve dalle orecchie. Guardai la scena che proseguiva erò per quel terreno» come al solito, ma non ascoltai una del«Non mi sembra un’idea intelligente, Bo- le battute. Solo quando il marito disse: letti» 24

«Amore mio noi usciamo, i soldi non poi nei posti a me prossimi, e infine a me. dormono mai!» tornai in me, e iniziai ad Mi sembrò di notare l’increspatura amara avere paura. di un sorriso mentre completava il brano, I due uomini uscirono in fila e lei si av- fissandomi in maniera ancora più intensa vicinò alla platea, spingendo piano la delle volte precedenti, ma forse era solo sedia a rotelle. Iniziò il suo monologo, un’impressione o un luogo comune che guardando come al solito l’ala destra del- apparteneva a me. la platea. Il testo era identico, ma la sua Quindici minuti dopo finì il primo atto. nuova condizione fisica ne stravolgeva il Uscii a fumare. senso. Gli amori irrealizzabili sembravano adesso non più la conseguenza di un Mi girai a guardare le locandine illumimarito ingombrante, ma di due gambe nate, la porta di ingresso aperta dalla paralizzate. Chissà, mi domandai, se agli quale molte persone uscivano e rientrasceneggiatori fosse sfuggito questo punto vano, le luci in fondo, nell’atrio foderato o se invece, utilizzando la situazione per di rosso. Poi me ne andai a casa a piedi, quel che era, avessero appositamente de- cercando di non pensare alla mia verciso di sviluppare quel tema, dando alla gogna. E non tornai mai più. commedia un sapore tragico che le mancava. Io non sapevo rispondere, non volevo rispondere! Solo una cosa volevo, in quel tristissimo momento. Ma lei iniziò a muovere lo sguardo, percorse una linea immaginaria verso sinistra, senza fermarsi, finché non giunse nella mia zona. Già non più nella mia zona, nella mia fila. E

the Birthday Fiction Dominic Viti Friday morning the father drove to the Italian bakery because he was Italian and that’s how he made decisions. If it was next to the church he would have bought the place. After looking at cakes in the display he asked for the chocolate one and the baker said display only. He thought about punching the baker but confession was getting repetitive so he ordered sponge cake, the mother’s least favorite. Like punching with dessert. The boy’s name would be iced on the cake under Happy Birthday. The baker heard the name and smiled as he wrote it down. He was an older man with a belly of great size, therefore he knew his cake. He could be trusted with cake and cake-like things. His wife kept wiping her hands on her apron and smelling her fingers. She was doing that and he was looking at the ceiling. There was something wrong with these people. The father gave his name and number. The cake would be ready Monday morning, the baker said. Then he said it again, still looking up.

v 26

Monday morning, the birthday boy was er said, and the father walked out. He running to the bus stop. He was running walked down the hall trying to underwith a girl whose red hair was bouncing stand. If television is bad for you, why is in ribbons. So many things were bounc- there one in every hospital room? ing. His first present. The church sat across the street. He It snowed as they passed a black-anddrove to feel in control of something. It white cookie back and forth. She asked had been a decent life until now. There what a girl had to do to keep the whole had been work. Fatherhood. He looked cookie. Hearing this, the boy lost his up at the snow falling down on the cars footing and slipped off the curb and was and buildings and bus stops. They all hit by the bus. He rolled on his back, had ceilings. The sky had a ceiling. head under the bumper, He loosened his tie. It legs walking toward the The mother sat by the was hard to move up. sky. The girl held the cookie. Did this mean she hospital bed, waiting The father pulled in could have it? for the boy to wake up. and parked. See how easy it is to stop. He The boy didn’t answer. The father showed up listened to the engine He didn’t cry. He got up and walked toward home, in his interview clothes. ticking. You can’t put counting backwards from The mother didn’t know brakes on time, he thought, and walked yellow. The girl stood who looked worse, the in the church. The sithere. Seriously, could she lence was big enough have it? boy or the father. to make a sound. It The birthday boy told followed him into the his mother the bus didn’t confessional, a voice stop. She held his hands in her lap. He in the dark. would give it to her if she kept bounc“Did you punch someone again, my ing. That’s what he said before he saw son?” the ceiling. “Father, I’m here about my son.”

“You struck your child?”

The mother sat by the hospital bed, waiting for the boy to wake up. The father showed up in his interview clothes. The mother didn’t know who looked worse, the boy or the father.

“He’s in the hospital.”

v The mother was driving home to take a bath. She pulled off the road to let the ambulance pass. It screamed by with red lights pulsing. When she pulled in the

For hours they sat and waited for the birthday boy to open his eyes. At least the bus didn’t run him over, the moth27

driveway, she tried to breathe. Her lungs were not with her. Wind made it hard to open her door. She stepped into the cold and saw her breath, proof she was alive. She had a son. She had a husband. She’d been lucky.

“Don’t give me that. This is the Friendly Bakery.”

The mother walked next door. It was a quarter to three and the man answered in his robe. His left eye was swollen shut. “I can’t do this anymore,” she told him. “It’s over.”

The mother hung up. She needed to do something with her hands. Her left hand dunked bread in a dish of olive oil. The right called the hospital. The boy was sleeping.

Back home, the warmth hugged her. Family photos on the mantle. Drawings on the fridge. It wasn’t enough. She felt for the light in the bathroom. She ran hot water until the mirror fogged.

That’s the word the nurse used: sleeping.

The mother didn’t want to see herself. She wanted to disappear. The water felt like baby oil. She let it take her. Then the telephone rang. The mother jumped out and ran soaking wet through the house. She slipped a little before picking up the receiver in the kitchen. “Hon, my tits are out.” “Your cake is ready for pickup.” The voice belonged to a woman. “What?” the mother said. “I’ve called three times.” “Who is this?” “I left three messages.” The mother looked at the answering machine. It was blinking, and so was she. She held the receiver against her ear, clearing her throat. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“You don’t sound very friendly.” “The cake,” the voice said. “Twenty dollars.”

She slipped under the water, under the weight of it. She ate her bread and shaved her legs. Her son was going to be alright. She thought that before the telephone rang again. She got herself out and hurried through the house, cursing herself for leaving the hospital. It was the same number as before. She picked up the receiver. “I’m trying to take a bath.” The voice said, “It’s a sponge.”

v The father got back to the hospital before the mother. He was sitting by the bed with a fistful of rosaries. He looked at the mother when she came in and then back at their son. There was a bag above his head where fluid traveled down a tube into his arm. “The world’s worst birthday balloon,” the mother said. “Where were you?” the father said. “It’s over,” she said. “With him or with me?” 28

The wife put her hand on the back of his head. She rubbed her husband’s back. “We’re going to make it. He’s going to make it.”

“No, I forgot to cancel the party.”

It was a school night, and the girl with red hair snuck out the back door. She She leaned in and sniffed. “Did you go to was running across the street, and the the bar?” running made her feel alone. The sensor light came on when she “It’s right next to the reached the boy’s porch. church.” It was a school night, There were presents with The nurse came in and and the girl with red ribbons much like her curled her lips back in a own. They were piled hair snuck out the back tight smile. She checked up on the welcome mat door. She was running next to baskets of flowers the drip. She looked at the machine and wrote across the street, and with notes on them. Get on the clipboard atwell soon. Our thoughts the running made her tached to the bed. and prayers are with your family. Call if you “How is he?” the mother feel alone. The sensor anything, I know a said. light came on when she need shrink. Happy birthday. “Sleeping,” the nurse reached the boy’s porch. The girl reached inside said. “The doctor will be her coat pocket. She held in shortly.” the cookie in her hand. “I’m going to kill that bus driver,” the They had taken bites from the top, where father said. black and white met, so the cookie was the shape of a heart. The heart was be“Your doctor will be with you shortly.” ginning to crumble. The girl tied her ribbon around it, slowly, carefully, to v make a bow. “Will we now.”

They watched their son with their hands over their mouths, his small belly rising and falling under the covers. God help us, the mother thought. The father turned on the television to understand. Ambulance lights pulsed on screen. Local baker survives three-car pile-up.

Then she grabbed the biggest present and walked off.

v When the doctor came in, the father was watching a hospital drama. It made it seem as if the doctor was an actor entering a scene. He shook the father’s hand. “Hi, I’m the doctor.”

“Oh my God,” the mother said. “What? Did he wake up?”

The mother said, “We know.”

doctor retrieved it, blade up, and turned it slowly in the light.

He opened and closed several drawers before realizing the box of gloves was on the counter. He searched the cabinets until he found the stethoscope around his neck. It was possible the doctor was overworked. His coat was white and crisp, but his suit looked wrinkled and tired.

“See,” he said, and the blade winked. “Accidents happen all the time.”

v The father sat with that for a while, watching the boy, counting rosaries. He was always counting rosaries. There was no stopping him. “Hon, did you order a cake?”

“Let’s see how the little guy’s doing.” Even the things he said seemed rehearsed. The way he pulled back the covers and examined the body. The way he listened to the heart. The way he went to the end of the bed and scribbled on the chart. The father had to turn off the television.

“My whole life I’ve been asleep,” he said. “You’re just tired.”

The doctor said, “He’s going to be alright.”

“I am tired. I’m tired of barely getting by. Waking up early for a job I hate, for a boss I can’t stand, making him money. Then having to pretend I’m grateful for it.”

“He’s in a coma,” the mother said.

“You’re unemployed,” the mother said.

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“I’m trying to tell you something.”

“What would you call it, then?”

“You know I hate sponge.”

“What’d the nurse say?”

“How are you not upset right now?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“I am upset,” she said. “But you’re more upset. That’s the rule with couples. When one person gets upset, the other one stays calm.”

“Then he’s sleeping,” the doctor said. He peeled off his gloves and looked around for the wastebasket. “By the way, I heard about the accident.”

“My whole life I’ve barely got by. I mean, hell, what’s the point in solving They looked at him and waited. a problem if there’s a thousand more “The bus driver, he’s a good man,” the to follow?” The father watched the boy. doctor said. “A family man. I don’t know “Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a if you’re pressing charges but, you know, dream. It seems real but none of it makes it’s always best to do the Christian thing.” sense.” The doctor went to shake hands and dropped his pen. It hit the floor and the cap popped off. It was a penknife. The

“What are you saying?” “I don’t know. I need to figure it out.” 30

“What you need is some rest.” The mother squeezed his hand. “Go home, hon. Try to relax. There’s bread and olive oil next to the tub.”

It was after dark when they brought him back. The mother and father took their place next to the bed. Once in a while, the doctor would come in and examine the boy and say the same things. More doctors. More nurses. They checked on him and smiled with their lips curled back. This went on all night. The boy never woke up. In the morning a new doctor came in. He moved to the bed. He peeled back an eyelid and then the other, examined the body. “His signs are fine. Everything is stable.”

The father pulled his hand away. “I need to pray.” She said, “Pray for a new doctor.”

v Five minutes later, a new doctor walked in wearing a suit, matching tie, cufflinks. He clicked his pen. “We’re taking your son for further tests.”

“I don’t understand,” the father said. “Why won’t he wake up.”

That’s when the mother stood. “What tests?”

“Sometimes you see this.”

The nurse came back, checked the drip.

“It’s his birthday,” the mother said.

“A scan,” the doctor said. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

The doctor hugged his clipboard. “I know this is hard. We’re doing every“It’s something.” The mother got between thing we can. He’s in good hands. It the nurse and the boy. The father put his might be good to go home and get some arm around her. “What my wife is trying rest.” to say is, we were told he was sleeping.” “But it’s his birthday,” the mother said. The doctor made a face. “Who said “We are tired,” the father said. that?” “If you’d like, you can help yourself to “Everyone,” they said. coffee in the lobby.” The doctor looked around the room. v “Nurse, have you seen my coat?” Two orderlies came in. They were talking about leftover cake in the breakroom. They kept talking about cake as they wheeled the birthday boy away. The mother took a step and kicked the wastebasket across the room. The father stood there. “I see what you mean by calm.”

“Lots of cream, lots of sugar,” the mother said. The father walked past the nurses’ station down the hall to the restroom. He went directly into the stall. He threw up in the toilet and a little on himself. Turning around, he saw a doctor’s coat hanging on the hook. He shrugged it on

v 31

and buttoned it up to hide the mess. The father looked at himself in the mirror. For a moment he felt in control. Awake.

“Sometimes you see this.” “Tell me, doctor. Are you Italian?” He said that he was.

Then he got in the elevator, and the doors closed like eyelids.

“Oh thank God,” she said, and embraced him with everything she had. It was then he felt the penknife tucked in his coat pocket. “Sal would’ve wanted it this way.”

The mother turned away from the boy. She stood with her hands on the windowsill and watched the snow fall on the parking lot. A car pulled up and a woman strapped her child into the backseat. The mother pretended she was the woman. She pretended she was on her way home. Then she saw red hair, the girl from across the street, running with the present.

The mother got off the elevator. She didn’t recognize the father from behind. She walked past him. She walked to the girl with red hair standing with the present. It was so big in her arms it took up her body, up to her chin, her bow making her look like part of the gift. His first present.

The elevator opened and the father saw a little waiting area, a family in there, drinking coffee and watching TV, a large woman in a house dress, hair piled up, a wad of crumpled tissues in her hand. She stood and walked to him. He almost didn’t recognize her without the apron.

But the girl, she was looking past the mother. It made the mother turn around, and she looked past the father, which made him turn around, and the woman too. They were all standing like that together—the father, the mother, the girl, the woman—looking at the doctor.

“Sal,” she said. “Is this about Sal?” She didn’t recognize him either.

“Is this about Salvatore?” the mother said.

“Tell me, doctor. Is Sal going to be okay?”

The doctor hugged his clipboard. “He’s no longer sleeping.”

The father wiped his hands on his coat. He looked at the ceiling and back at the woman. “He’s going to be okay. He just needs some rest.”

“He had a stroke,” the woman said. “He was in a car accident.”

Nebula Ginevra Ballati Acquerello, matita e acrilico su carta Fabriano in cotone 300 g 33

Behind the Doors with Ink-p

Lauren Mouat

I found Giulia Castagnoli deep in conversation in the back room of FAF: Female Arts in Florence on Borgo San Frediano. I’d come to photograph the prints of doors she’d created with her partner at Ink-P Antonio Fugazzotto and a few minutes later, found myself outside in the sunshine (so as not to disturb the talk going on in the front room) having a conversation about art, creativity and community.

The concept of art galleries are cold and academic, Giulia was explaining. There’s no interaction, no community, no conversation. You go into a space... usually white walls, nice lighting, you observe the works, read a few sentences about them on a plaque and you leave. There’s nothing wrong with this approach and it has its merits but it’s a shame it has become the only way to experience a painting - something accessible only to a few. It’s a cold, academic style that doesn’t reflect the chaos and organic connections of the creation of a piece of art. At FAF, for one, they are trying to show the process that goes into creating a piece of art with presentation, lectures, discussion groups and workshops that seek to get behind the “closed doors” of the finished, polished project. 34

So, what’s the story behind the doors? These prints were created at the beginning of the second lockdown in Italy in the winter of 2020, exactly at the same time the Open Doors Review was born. I saw the prints on social media – the screen through which I watched much of the world for the last two years. As I was preparing the cover of the magazine, Luca Misuri of Wendepunkte offered to transform one of them into the Open Doors Review the cover. With the news of the Russian attack on Ukraine everywhere, he came back with a transformed door, one that reflected the moment we are in now.

Giulia Castagnoli and Antonio Fugazzotto are the owners of Ink-P, a design shop in Florence that brings together ethically sourced materials with their unique creative design sense honed from travel around the world in Australia, Brazil, and New York. Their ethic is bold & colorful, taking inspiration from nature and natural forms. Giulia is also one of the founding members of FAF – Female Arts in Florence - a cultural association dedicated to showcaseing the artistic creation of women working in arts and crafts. The doors featured throughout the magazine are their creation.

Ita li

the ostrich looks at you and laughs because even he couldnt get his head

ne p

“Ca llin g in

buried in the sand as deep as yours is about italian wine nebbiolo also laughs at you because you can’t figure out how to fucking identify it in a blind tasting lineup with a gun to your head even with all its qualities memorized sangiovese scoffs because you never had a chance at this wine thing and it’s funny that you’re trying to be something in the most trite way possible chianti is still losing it listening to you say the words super tuscan without giving up because there is nothing super about you and you’ll never go to tuscany you dig a sandy hole next to the grape vine root that buries itself deep but never as deep as your head gets in the sand as you attempt to learn about italian wine 37

Sic k”

Time of Death Fiction Michael McGuire

“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.” Il commissario kept his Beretta under his pillow, hardly the cause of a bad night but, before dawn, he slept... Il telefono! “What? Dead body? Where? A dog? What are you talking about? Don’t bother me with dead...” Receiver rising... Click. Then he heard it. Not the sea. Something in it. Clunk. Pillow over his head, he made himself listen to the wind offshore, waves breaking on the long flat beach, short-lived gusts against his windows, not the Scirocco off Africa, just a nasty wind bringing, instead of miserable migrants, sharp grains of sand to scar windows, tap out messages of distress, of damsels—damn them all—damsels in distress. Clunk. “Maledizione!” The commissioner, on cold tiles in old boxers, gazed out at the predawn sea, watched the first faint crack of yellow under low black 38

cloud. He could just see a scrap of pavement where cars looked for access to the beach, gave up, turned around.

hook. Il telefono!

“What dead body? Where? Who? I’ve got one of my own here. What? Dogs Lights off. Parked. Rocking in the wind. die. It’s their nature. Leave me alone, Ragtop Alfa. Silver. Low right front tire, damn it! Call when you have the facts.” top torn on the edges, outline of head in Click. driver’s seat, thick blonde hair, caught by a nasty gust, standing out. Clunk. What’s that..?

Maledizione!

The commissioner stepped out with his boathook, glanced at the roundabout. Alfa gone? No such luck. The beauty—there was always a beauty on days like this—must have heard him, seen him, had been—considerately?—waiting till he got up, had nothing more in mind than a good thick cup of espresso, a warm pane dolce from the panetteria but, in the process, had swung those legs out of the low wreck of an Alfa.

Time for a good thick cup of espresso, a warm pane dolce from the panetteria. But that car parked, in bad weather, in the turnaround, before dawn. A woman alone. That was trouble. That was how you spelled it. Clunk. What the hell? The commissioner pulled on pants, shoes, sweater, jacket, kept the door from crashing, stepped out, leaned into the wind, looked into a wild, a tortured, sea. He’d hoped for a loose stone, a piece of fishing boat knocked loose...

…young…long…and—naturally enough—flesh colored... Somehow familiar. Il telefono! Back inside. Receiver rising…

No such luck.

Click.

A body, face down, unrecognizable, head Blast of wind. against a piling… Tap on the window, sooner than seemed Clunk. possible... The commissioner went for his boat39

…commissario..!

the woman he would, most certainly, now, never get together with. But who..?

…softest of voices, softer than the sea, than something in it…

Secure the body. Turn.

Clunk.

The commissioner turned. No beauty. No legs. No ragtop Alfa. How the..? Had the wind covered her getaway? Maybe, dirt done, she’d put it in neutral, pushed it round the corner, found a little hill she could start it on in second.

Maledizione! Door swung wide, head stuck out, il commissario looked both ways. Not the shadow of a beauty. Alfa there, not hers, not that of the not-so-young woman he would never, ever, get together with. Maybe it was what’s-her-name, priding herself on her racetrack agility, burnt out at the turn around not far from his door. Lonely.

No clues. Nothing. Not a treadmark. Not a spent shell. Get in. Put espresso on the fire. Warm the cup. The door. Wait! Something on the handle. The intentional clue, trademark of the lonely killer, the one who wanted to be caught. There it was…

No. Another. Maybe the wind took her, blew her off to die at sea with the half dead the desert didn’t kill on their way north. No time for pane dolce from the panetteria, maybe an old slice of panettone warmed on the fire, a sip of Sambuca on a wild, windy day…

The long blonde hair. Proof. Not the kind that would hold up in court. Proof for him. Yes… The younger lover of his younger self had polished off the off-and-on lover of his current self, the no-longer-young comissioner of police.

Clunk. Maledizione!

Not your usual revenge killing, wherein older woman knows exactly what to do with younger. Not your acid in the face kind of thing from the other side of the sea. Just young love vs. old and…

Boathook in hand. Into the elements. The side of the quay, looking down. Oh, my God! The currents, the wind, had flipped her. There she was, long hair streaming out,

Murder, plain and simple. 40

Nothing for it now. Implicated by impli- bedroom eyes to watch the man put cation, how could he, a little god playing away with the men he’d put away. Or… at patience, try to see the scales weighted Tap. Tap. in favor of… Did she think, when they got here, he’d Love. be sitting across from her, warmedNothing for it now. Hands off. Call for over panettone between them, smell of backup. Catch the young thing. Call espresso, of murder, of love, thick in the the lab to check on the old. The time of air. death. Not on your life. L’ora del decesso. Momento della morte. Forget those taps, the warm body leaned Call. And wait. After all, they have to against the door, those legs. Have a bite. check on that dead dog. Take a sip. Maybe, somehow, it will all just go away. It always does, doesn’t it? Espresso hot, panettone warm. Chair drawn, napkin to his chin. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“…commissario…”

Clunk. Clunk.

Whispered, of course.

Clunk.

The perpetrator returned to the scene of the crime. See if her little scheme had worked, if she had the irresistable commissario for herself, for an hour, two, before, smiling to herself, she opened

lamb chops Jan Ball

Last night when our host settles us into a charming restaurant in Kalona, Iowa, Amish country, like chicks under a hen, he encourages me to order the eight lamb chop entre’ that is big enough for a truck driver, volunteering to take home what I don’t eat.

When the chops arrive, I request a side plate for the ones I won’t eat, then saw off four like George, the butcher, did in my childhood, but instead of wrapping them in white paper, I place them on the pristine side plate, surprised that I can eat the remaining four 42

with gusto while chatting with our new friends.

Being in polite company, I decide not to pick at the bones and get grease all over my fingers like I would at home since I don’t feel I can lick them here, but my husband has no such qualms so grabs a bone and gnaws at the remaining meat as our hungry border collie might.

When we’re finished, the waitress brings a styrofoam box for the four uneaten lamb chops for our new friends to take home for dinner tomorrow.

I didn’t notice if my husband licked his fingers. 43

Ahmed Ali Photography 44

Man’s Best Friend Fiction Judy Upton

I’m at the bar, getting our seconds in when something touches my arse. Wheeling, I see this massive dog nudging me with its nose. At least it looks friendly and judging by its greying muzzle it’s pretty old and probably toothless. As I stroke its head, the owner turns from the bar to gawk at me. He’s maybe late thirties, a little bit careworn, but with film-star cheekbones and the palest of blue eyes. “Come ‘ere. Lie down.” The dog sprawls beside his barstool, like an old shaggy rug. It’s a pub I’ve not been to before, right opposite the Common. One of them old-fashioned boozers that’s somehow avoided going all gastro, bistro or turned into a ruddy carvery. Ruby suggested it, as it’s a stone’s throw from her latest temp job. She wants to tell me about a few hours going spare in her friend’s cafe. It’s a shame, but the job’s just one early morning and the money wouldn’t cover the peak fare in. Still it’s nice of Ruby to think of me, and we’ve not seen much of each other lately. It’s not like we really need a reason catch up over a couple of glasses. I sit back down with Ruby, but a minute later she’s off for a pee. As me eyes slide back to the bloke at the bar, I catch him staring right at me, just like I knew I would. He doesn’t act at all guilty about it neither. He holds eye contact, all confident and hungry like. His shirt’s the same colour as his eyes, which tells me he knows exactly how good-looking he is. After an eight-month man drought, I think I’ve spotted an oasis. My heartbeat quickens. It’s getting hot in here. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of them women who’d bail on a friend for a possibility or even a promise. I’m just not like that. When Ruby comes back we carry on nattering and honestly I don’t give Blue Eyes another look. When Ruby’s ready to leave, we walk to the bus stop together. We’re at the end of the High Street where it meets the Common and on her regular route home from work. I live two bus rides away, but I’m not planning on going home just yet. If hers comes in first, instead of waiting here for mine, I might pop back to the pub for a quick coffee. I’ll sit there at the bar with it, checking my messages and if that guy 45

and me just so happen to speak to each other, well so be it.

“So you on your way home or…?” he says at last, turning his attention back to me. I shrug.

The stop’s bus-times display shows Ruby’s bus is due but mine’s still six min“I was.” Not very subtle granted, but utes away. I cheerfully we both know what we wave her off, and turn want, and what’s the to retrace my steps. As point of pretending othI do, I hear a dog pant- Now don’t get me erwise? ing. He’s right there. Of wrong. I’m not one of “Right. Well, I’m just off course he ruddy well them women who’d bail to work.” I look at my is. “Wanna get some chips, not wanting him chips?” he says, eyes on a friend for a possi- to clock my disappointmore wolfish than the bility or even a promise. ment. Pure lust, that’s dog’s. all that runs through me I’m just not like that. “Yeah, why not?” veins sometimes, I swear. He stands. I’m perched on a damp bench on the Common, “Come along if you sitting alongside a stranger and his dog. like?” Tearing the little ketchup sachet open, “Err where?” I squirt a comforting zigzag across my chips. A couple walk by arm-in-arm. “Gotta watch over a yard.” I wonder if they met here, in the great “Right? You’re a night watchmen?” swirling mass of humanity that’s London, or did they come here together? “Nah. Not really. They just need someThey could be in a rom com, laughing, one with a dog.” He strides off across carefree, her swinging her small paper the Common. The elderly mutt manages bag from a posh shop, him with his little to keep up but I’m lagging behind, still groomed beard and soft leather jacket finishing me chips. I have, I’ve come to the colour of a toffee. The dog owner and realise, two eating speeds. The ‘scoff it me have hardly exchanged a word. We’ve all down’ one when I’m alone or with not even bothered to introduce ourfriends, and the ‘pick at it delicately’ selves. I wouldn’t say the mood’s turned when I’m in fit male company. It’s not awkward, but there’s a tension between like deliberate behaviour. It might very us, as crisp as a Pringle. I can tell he’s well be a natural instinct, something slightly wary, but still definitely up for dating right back to prehistoric times. it. That’s the thing with blokes - most of “It’s not exactly state-of-the-art is it? I them aren’t difficult to read. He feeds a fat chip to the dribbling pooch. She’s not mean you can see sweet F.A all on that little screen.” This is his security job. on a lead. She sticks to him like glue. 46

Watching the grainy, black and white picture from one rubbish CCTV camera. It’s pointed at a crap angle, and the only security light is so dim I can’t even see what it’s supposed to be watching. We’re in a small hut, with dusty windows, a flickering strip light and a grotty kettle boiling for our after-sex cuppa. It was rough, it was urgent - a chip-flavoured snog, moving quickly to the wall and the floor. Apart from a couple of plastic chairs, there aren’t really that many options in here. I do feel better for it though, with a stupid smirk stuck on me face like the woman in the exercise bike ads, when she’s clocked up a personal best. He pours hot water onto our tea bags and the dog whines to be let back in. I reckon it’s time for introductions. “I’m Vonnie. Short for Yvonne.” “Adam.” He kicks the door open with a boot. We didn’t bother undressing any more than necessary, but I could definitely feel gym-honed abs beneath the eye-matching shirt. He smells of a very nice soap or shower gel too. “This is Bella.” “What kind is she?” “Newfoundland/Mastiff Cross.” “And you’re doing what? Keeping a watch for burglars?”

architraves.” Now I’m not sure I’d know what a ruddy architrave was if it fell on me, but a guy who knows about this kinda stuff could be well handy. I’ve two doors that don’t shut properly and an ever-growing crack between the kitchen-sink and work surface. Then there are me cupboard handles or rather the lack of them. I’m interrupted from my handyman hopes by a flicker of movement on the monitor screen. “Hey – look, is that someone out there, at the gate?” “Stay ‘ere.” With Bella at his heels Adam heads out, shutting the door behind him. I sip me tea. The milk could be fresher. It’s floating in fatty lumps. On inspection, I find the mini-fridge isn’t even plugged in. Just my luck if I get soddin’ salmonella from this no doubt brief encounter. On the screen I can see Adam chatting to a couple of figures at the entrance to the yard. It’s a high gate, made of sturdy mesh with barbed wire twisted along the top. I clocked that when we came in. It’s clearly designed to keep people out, so it doesn’t seem very sensible security-wise to have unlocked it to have a word with whoever’s outside. Well, unless of course they’re the owners or something.

“So what is this place? A junkyard?”

Adam comes back into the hut. Seeing me looking at the monitor, he switches it off.

“Reclamation yard. Stuff from houses being knocked down or done up. Anything from fireplaces to skirting and

“What?” Taking down a key that was hanging on a nail, he locks us inside, dog and all. I’m starting to get a bit of a

“That’s it.”

bad vibe about this. Maybe I’ve let the fact the guy’s dog loves him lull me into a false sense of security. We did ‘Oliver Twist’ at school. Bill Sikes’ dog loved him too didn’t it? And it didn’t end that well for his girlfriend neither.

being moved about and dragged along. Bella growls, a deep rumbling growl that shows she does have a few teeth after all.

“What are you doing?” The shadow of someone moving about outside looms across the wall of the hut behind me. I flinch. “Adam… who are they?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” He sits down and gulps his tea, despite the milk being

Adam sighs, scrapes a well-scuffed boot on the floor.

“Look, s’posing you tell me what’s going on?”

“No, you’re wrong - I do want to know actually, cos this is starting to right creep me out.”

Bella growls, a deep rumbling growl that shows she does have a few teeth after all. “Look, s’posing you tell me what’s going on?” “You don’t want to know.” “No, you’re wrong - I do want to know actually, cos this is starting to right creep me out.”

“Bella needs pills for an enlarged heart, see? Without ‘em she’d die, but it’s cost over a grand so far, this year alone. And I’ve just not got that kinda money. So well, you do what you gotta to do.”

“Right. So does that mean taking money from the people who trusted you to guard their yard, and then accepting a bung from the gang now robbing it?”

more than on the turn. “Did you…” I find meself asking what I already know. “Did you let them in?” He scowls, his jaw tightening like he’s in an action movie. “They’re robbing the place aren’t they?”

“Pretty much. But then what would you do?” He pulls the dog’s floppy ears and she gazes up at him adoringly. “When my business went under last year, my “Yeah.” girlfriend and my mates – all sodded off “Whoa…” This is way too much for me. right away. You can’t rely on other peoI don’t want to be stuck in the middle of ple. You’re stupid if you do.” In the light ruddy ‘Crimewatch’. Outside in the yard, from the flickering tube his mouth is a flashlight darts about, voices whisper thin and mean and his eyes have turned urgently and there’s a cough. I can hear ice cold. scraping and dull thuds. Things are 48

“So what else you bin doing to raise the readies then?” I’m pretty narked off now to be honest. “Robbing banks, mugging grannies, flogging crack to kiddies?”

out on the floor. I watch her chest rise and fall and think of the drugs keeping it that way. Is that story even true, never mind the rich women and thieving something or other from the car park at Aldi? Still, I suppose I got what I came for, and to be fair he didn’t actually disappoint in that department. I just hope the cops don’t show up in a minute and think I’m somehow involved in the nicking of architraves, whatever the hell they are. That would just about make my night.

“Well now,” he says, in a hard, sarcastic tone, “Since you ask…” and he starts counting it off on his fingers, “I done some painting and decorating, helped a family do an overnight flit, sold my suite and the flat-screen online, jacked a couple of catalytic converters from Aldi’s car park. Oh yeah, and I bedded three rich birds, cash-inhand.” I stare at him, I just hope the cops me mouth wide open.

Adam says he’s sorry I had to get caught up in this don’t show up in a min- bollocks. He’d been told “And me?” I say when ute and think I’m some- the theft was gonna hapI recover the power of pen much later tonight. how involved in the speech. “I mean you Clearly he expected me to don’t think I’m one nicking of architraves, be long gone by then. I bet of them ‘rich birds’ he didn’t bring those posh who’d be daft enough whatever the hell they women here, though they to pay you for a rubbish are. were hardly likely to have shag?” He laughs at gone round his neither, if that, the bastard. he’s flogged all the furniture. Nearby in the street, “Nah, course not. a van starts up and rumbles away. Adam You’re alright.” I don’t feel alright. I’m listens for a minute, and then unlocks wishing I’d waited them six minutes the hut door. Bella and me follow him after Ruby left and caught me own bus home. I’d an aubergine moussaka ready- outside. The robbers have cleared off, even closing the gate behind them. meal all lined up to eat in front of the latest David Attenborough. “What’ll you tell ‘em? Your employers?” Outside in the yard someone drops something and it smashes. There’s muttered swearing and ‘shushes’ and then it all goes a bit quiet.

“Had a long day, must’ve fallen asleep. They’ll claim for the lost stock on the insurance. Nobody loses.” Except me, I think to meself.

“So what happens now eh, Adam?”

While tonight’s events aren’t quite what me dad meant when he’d told me never to go anywhere with a stranger, I’m still

“We wait for ‘em to leave.” Bella flops

pretty narked to be honest. I tell Adam there’s no need to walk me to the nearest bus stop. He insists, claiming it’s so quiet round here at night, even he wouldn’t feel safe without the dog. The bus-times display says my night bus is twenty minutes away. After what’s happened, that seems like forever and a day. To cap it all off, it’s only started to rain. Bella squeezes up under the thin plastic bench in the shelter, trying unsuccessfully to keep dry.

be arsed. A young man’s face appears on the changing advertising screen behind him, flogging toothpaste. The bloke on the poster looks bright, wholesome and somehow untouched by life. I realise with a jolt that it’s not really blue eyes or half-decent cheekbones that’ve brought me to this point. It’s something else I saw in Adam’s face, back there in the pub. It’s the mirror reflection of my own disappointments and crushed dreams.

Adam looks up from checking his The wet night air makes me shiver. I’m phone. “I’d offer you my number, but I freezing my arse off and wondering why don’t expect you want it.” I hear myself I never bother to buy a proper waterlaugh. He’s got a nerve, you’ve got to give proof coat. I’m also wondering why I him that. He’s also still annoyingly sexy, moved away from me mates, me dad and dammit. Grabbing hold of his shirt, I sisters to live in this city of fakes, phopush him back against the advertisement nies and posers. Like a mug, I’d found screen. It’s now showing a night-time meself a job in an office here online. It photo of the New York skyline, with all was one of those things where you have its lights a-twinkling. I know it’s trying to apply through an agency and they’re to sell some crappy aftershave, but for a as vague as possible about what you’ll moment I could almost believe we’re in actually be doing. I was thinking of posh a movie. I kiss him hard and muss his coffees, famous places and celebrities, hair. Behind us it’s midnight in Manhatfiguring a little bit of all that success and tan and according to the bus-times disglamour might somehow rub off on me. play above, we have exactly twenty-three Then the office turned out to be a poxy minutes. call centre and the job a six-month trial “But you’re not gonna see him again?” period leading only to a universal credit Ruby asks, when I call to tell her the claim. tale. “Dunno, I might…” I say. “I mean The bus-times display tells me my bus there’s definitely something, ‘bout a guy is now not twenty minutes away, but who loves his dog?” twenty-five. Is it running in reverse? Has the earth stopped turning? At this point The End even that would hardly surprise me. I glance at Adam, slouched all moody against the side of the shelter, despite my telling him he needn’t wait. I ought to give him an earful but honestly I can’t

Ahmed Ali Photography

loose thangs Grandma had Hulk hands; she knew how to slam a car door, how to high-speed swerve around a curve as if she was fleeing from hell like the gatekeepers on Judgement Day misdirected her. Ooooooooh boy,

shut the door—when the passenger side would fly open. A sunny day in an ancient white Oldsmobile can easily become an intense scene from a horror film.

Grandma, why don’t you get the door fix— something may happen? It is fixed boy, you just don’t shut it all the way. We leave the gas station, Grandma slams on the brakes at the red light, makes the sharpest left turn as if we were skidding on the Earth’s axis. The door flies. A prostitute jumps in it. 52

Oak Morse

in Cemento veritas Mario Loprete Painting for me is my first love. An important, pure love. Creating a painting, starting from the spasmodic research of a concept with which I want to transmit my message this is the foundation of painting for me. The sculpture is my lover, my artistic betrayal to the painting that voluptuous and sensual lover that inspires different emotions which strike prohibited chords. This new series of concrete sculptures has been giving me more personal and professional satisfaction recently. How was it born? It was the result of an important investigation of my own work. I was looking for that special something I felt was missing.Looking back at my work over the past ten years, I understood that there was a certain semantic and semiotic logic “spoken” by my images, but the right support to valorize their message was not there.

The reinforced cement, the concrete, was created two thousand years ago by the Romans. It tells a millennia-old story, one full of amphitheaters, bridges and roads that have conquered the ancient and modern world. Now, concrete is a synonym of modernity. Everywhere you go, you find a concrete wall: there’s the modern man in there. From Sydney to Vancouver, Oslo to Pretoria, this reinforced cement is present, and it is this presence which supports writers and enables them to express themselves. The artistic question was an obvious one for me: if man brought art on the streets in order to make it accessible to everyone, why not bring the urban to galleries and museums? With respect to my painting process, when a painting has completely dried off, I brush it with a particular substance that not only manages to unite every color and shade, but also gives my artwork the shininess and lucidity of a poster (like the ones we’ve all had hanging on our walls). For my concrete sculptures, I use my personal clothing. Through my artistic process in which I use plaster, resin and cement, I transform these articles of clothing

into artworks to hang. The intended effect is that my DNA and my memory remain inside the concrete, so that the person who looks at these sculptures is transformed into a type of postmodern archeologist, studying my work as urban artefacts. I like to think that those who look at my sculptures created in 2020 will be able to perceive the anguish, the vulnerability, the fear that each of us has felt in front of a planetary problem that was covid 19 ... under a layer of cement there are my clothes with which I lived this nefarious period. clothes that survived covid 19, very similar to what survived after the 2,000-yearold catastrophic eruption of Pompeii, capable of recounting man’s inability to face the tragedy of broken lives and destroyed economies.

Conosci vonnegut? Giacomo Barba

Il primo giorno di scuola è una faccenda strana per un insegnante. Iacopo aveva deciso di trascorrere gli ultimi minuti che lo separavano dall’inizio delle lezioni dentro al bagno dei maschi, per una sigaretta. Quella sigaretta Iacopo se la gustava leggendo le scritte sui muri lasciate dagli studenti: piccole arguzie, detti volgari, dichiarazioni d’amore affidate alle mattonelle sbreccate e ai muri sporchi. -I ragazzi- pensò -Davanti a una spilletta di computisteria con su scritto “Tema” diventano muti, anonimi; invece sulle pareti di un cesso si scoprono filosofi e poeti; ma soltanto lì, tra la puzza di urina e l’umidità che fa crescere il muschio sui finestroni; lì riescono a dar voce alle loro idee, alle loro piccole vanità, e allora scrivonoNella mente di Iacopo era in corso un serissimo processo di valutazione teso a identificare la scritta più bella e soltanto dopo svariati minuti di scrupolosa analisi il “Premio Letterario Iacopo Barbato” riservato esclusivamente a componimenti eseguiti all’interno di servizi igienici scolastici, aveva dei vincitori, che, in ordine inverso, risultavano essere: 56

Terzo classificato:

dove i titoli, i voti e le pubblicazioni non fanno molta differenza, mentre te ne stai in fila ad aspettare il tuo turno per l’ennesima iscrizione alle liste.

“Il mondo è una torta di merda, in cui la scuola è la fetta più grossa” accompagnato da una rappresentazione grafica del concetto, non del tutto all’altezza del componimento.

A Iacopo era andata meglio; subito dopo la laurea, conscio delle lungaggini della scuola italiana, aveva deciso di convogliare tutte le sue energie in un unico sforzo risolutivo e si era fatto raccomandare, ritrovandosi di colpo insegnante di Italiano in una scuola superiore nella periferia di Napoli. Nina invece aveva trascorso la sua attesa facendo l’unica cosa nella quale si sentiva davvero brava: studiare.

Secondo: “Chi ama la figa, metta una riga” perentoria coscrizione seguita da centinaia di linee orizzontali. Primo classificato, premio speciale della giuria riservato alla sezione poesia: “Il puzzo di desideri

Quella sera, entrando nell’appartamento di Nina per festeggiare l’evento, Iacopo mi rende pazzo di desiderio” aveva potuto fare il punto preciso di quanto lei si fosse dedicata a quell’ arte. Iacopo in realtà in quel bagno c’era andato perché era un po’ nervoso. Ogni Libri, libri, libri, di ogni genere, colore e formato. Rompevano gli argini degli primo giorno di scuola a lui tornava in scaffali, se ne stavano impilati per terra mente Nina, e la sera passata insieme come pouf postmoderni. Nina lo aveva circa un anno prima, alla vigilia del fatto sedere su di un divanetto verdoprimo incarico di ruolo di lei, la prima gnolo anch’esso sommerso dalle fotocattedra. copie e lì, Iacopo le aveva dato un’attenta Il Ministero della Pubblica Istruzione se occhiata dalla quale risultava chiaro che l’era presa comoda. Nove anni per affiNina era a pezzi, non solo per i dieci dare una classe a Nina. Nove anni per anni che le erano scivolati di dosso, ma Nina Scognamiglio, laureata con lode e per un costante fremito che le attraversamenzione accademica nel corso di laurea va il corpo come un circuito elettrico in Lettere Antiche con indirizzo archeo- e che da un momento all’altro avrebbe logico presso l’Università Federico II di sfondato quegli occhietti verdi lascianNapoli. dole il cervello senza corrente. del pozzo dei desideri

Nove anni in un limbo dove primi e ulti- Poi lei si era portata una mano alla fronmi galleggiano insieme nel pantano della te burocrazia in attesa di un po’ di marea e 57

“Madonna mia, la cena! Mi sono scordata di cucinare”

non avessero metodo, ma per il semplice fatto che erano ignoranti” aveva detto lei

ed era scoppiata a piangere.

“Perché non avevano idee, non conoscevano il cinema impegnato, le letterature straniere, la pittura astratta”.

Tra le lacrime Iacopo aveva raccolto le seguenti informazioni:

- La fisica nucleare no? - aveva pensato 1) Che lei non ce la faceva, era terrorizIacopo. zata, non era mai entrata in una classe in vita sua. Avrebbe voluto dirle che “L’attimo Fuggente”, il film, era piaciuto pure a lui, 2) Che aveva trascorso praticamente aveva persino comprato il DVD, ma ogni minuto dei 20 giorni successivi alla nella realtà le cose erano diverse. Nella nomina alla ricerca del materiale didattirealtà lo studente e non l’attimo è fugco più disparato che le servisse a mettere gente; la partecipazione e l’entusiasmo insieme una lezione perfetta: citazioni degli alunni è addirittura sfrecciante, letterarie, ritmi incalzanti, letture mozmentre la paga è solo indecente; tutta zafiato. una serie di aggettivi che il regista si era ben guardato dal menzionare nel titolo. 3) Nina non aveva più un bel culo. Così Iacopo, che non era mai stato particolarmente brillante nella sottile analisi psicologica, le aveva fatto quella che gli era sembrata l’unica vera domanda degna di nota:

Ma Iacopo non se l’era sentita di parlare. Interrompere il discorso di un’idealista è un reato stupido, come non fare più l’amore solo perché l’orgasmo dura troppo poco.

“Ma tu, perché vuoi fare l’insegnante?”

“Sai come ho pensato di cominciare la mia lezione?” gli aveva chiesto Nina di colpo.

Nina era rimasta in silenzio e per un attimo il fremito aveva lascito il posto a uno sguardo convinto e affilato, dopo un profondo respiro aveva cominciato a dire…

“Con una frase di Vonnegut, lo scrittore americano” “Buona idea!” aveva detto Iacopo, che non aveva mai sentito quel nome in vita sua.

Banalità! Banale, scontato, stereotipato, ecco com’era sembrato a Iacopo l’intero discorso di Nina su come i suoi professori al liceo fossero una merda.

“Che Dio mi dia la serenità per accettare le cose che non posso cambiare, la forza per cambiare quelle che posso e la saggezza per capire sempre la differenza.”

“Non perché non sapessero spiegare o 58

“Bello!” aveva detto lui sinceramente colpito,

mato la preside, la preside aveva urlato e aveva chiamato la polizia, la polizia aveva urlato ed era accorsa sul posto; solo Nina non aveva detto una parola.

“E allora qual è il problema?” “Che sono terrorizzata, non ho mai insegnato davanti a una classe”

La campanella fece trasalire Iacopo, era ora di andare. La sigaretta era oramai La serata era andata avanti tra consigli e consumata e un po’ di cenere era caduta sulle falde del vestito. Se la scrollò di crisi di panico. dosso. Un’ ultima occhiata al vincitore Poi lui era tornato a casa e aveva aspetta- del primo premio per non dimenticare to con impazienza che il giorno passasse, quelle parole: che il pomeriggio passasse e poi la sera si era deciso a telefonare a Nina per sapere -Il puzzo di desideri come era andata. del pozzo dei desideri Dall’altro lato del telefono, una voce mi rende pazzo di desideriomaschile gli aveva acceso dentro una punta di gelosia e l’impulso di riattacca- Gli alunni erano già tutti in classe e re. Iacopo entrò a passi lenti senza dire una parola. Si avvicinò a uno dei grandi fine“Pronto, c’è Nina?” stroni spalancati. Era di spalle alla classe quando prese il primo profondo respiro. “Chi è al telefono?” aveva detto la voce Qualcuno negli ultimi banchi ridacchiò. senza traccia di aggressività. Iacopo si voltò verso agli studenti fissanIacopo si era presentato e aveva chiesto do gli occhi su di una ragazzina seduta di nuovo di parlare con Nina. al terzo banco della seconda fila, poi con voce chiara disse: Poi la voce aveva cominciato a raccontare una storia strana su Nina che doveva cominciare a lavorare al Liceo Elio Vittorini quella stessa mattina alle nove in punto. Nina era arrivata in classe, al terzo piano dell’edificio, quando gli studenti erano già seduti dietro i loro banchi. Nina (o la voce aveva detto la signorina Scognamiglio?) era apparsa visibilmente agitata. Nina aveva posato la borsa sulla cattedra e poi era corsa verso la finestra lanciandosi nel vuoto. I ragazzi avevano urlato e avevano chia-

“Allora ragazzi, qualcuno di voi ha mai sentito parlare di Vonnegut?"

I, Me, You, she Fiction Lauren Mouat Translation by Alessia Mennitti

1. Trouble with depth perception. Knock your shoulder on a door frame and that sudden warp in the kitchen tiles as if the floor is bending upwards. Sit down. Dehydration, malnutrition, inner ear unbalance? Drink a glass of water. Call your boss. “No need to go into the details, just work from home. See ‘ya tomorrow, babe.” 2. You first notice it when walking: a flicker at the corner of your eye. And sometimes there is a wind in your hair when standing still. A breeze moves the curtains by the windows though they’re sealed against the heat, trapping in stale air conditioning. Back home, it was never this hot. Tickle your neck, brush lightly on your skin, invisible fingertips linger. Ignore this and continue. You can get used to this country. 3. A week passes. You see your boss for a drink, and you go back to the apartment. It’s not the first time. He doesn’t stay and that is also normal. You don’t see the point in asking about the visa, again. Being with him isn’t about that, though you’re not sure what it’s about. Alone, you feel something pressing on her head. The lightest pressure, straight down.

Italian Translation 1. Problemi di percezione della profondità. Inchiodi le spalle allo stipite della porta e all’improvviso percepisci le piastrelle della cucina distorcersi come se il pavimento si stesse piegando all’insù. Ti siedi. Disidratazione, malnutrizione, labirintite? Bevi un bicchiere d’acqua. Chiami il tuo capo. “Non ho bisogno dei dettagli, basta che lavori da casa. Ci vediamo domani, dolcezza.” 2. All’inizio lo noti mentre cammini: uno sfarfallio sulla coda dell’occhio. E a volte c’è un vento fra i capelli quando sei immobile. Una brezza muove le tende della finestra anche se sigillata per non far entrare il calore, intrappolandosi nell’aria condizionata viziata. A casa non era mai stato così afoso. Solletica il collo, sfiora leggermente la pelle; polpastrelli invisibili aleggiano su di essa. Ignori tutto questo e vai avanti. Ti puoi certo abituare a questo paese. 3. Passa una settimana. Bevi qualcosa col capo e te ne torni all’appartamento. Non è la prima volta. Lui non rimane e anche questo è normale. Non vedi il motivo per cui dovresti chiedergli del visto, di nuovo. Non stai con lui per questo, anche se non sei sicura del perché tu effettivamente ci stia. Da sola, percepisci qualcosa fare pressione sulla testa di lei. Una pressione leggera, verso il basso.

English 4. You receive an e-mail from him: Please find attached the docs for this afternoon. Do them right this time. See you later? You lean back in your chair and see her on the ceiling: on the ceiling another woman, leaning back in her chair. She is like you, positioned as if sitting like you, suspended directly over you. She looks back but cannot make eye contact because her face is slightly out of focus. There is nothing around her but a white expanse of ceiling. She moves her hands forward as if pushing herself away from an invisible desk, or as if refusing something. Her legs straighten as she stands and walks out of the room where you remain. 5. As the days pass, you continue to glance up at her. Friends from back home call but you don’t want their non-understanding. She is always there. Though she is most often in the same position as you are, sometimes she will be in another corner of the room doing something that looks like washing her hands or folding clothes or making a phone call. Sometimes when you are in sync and as you walk and as she walks above you, she will have to step around something that doesn’t exist in your room. She moves through empty space that for her is filled with tasks, obstacles. 6. You return to work. Time imprisons you in the face of your watch. The convex glass warps your features into something foreign, alien. Aren’t you? Your reflection in the bathroom mirror always looks different. Do they see? You attend to detail: smell of hand sanitizer, dig of a fine-toothed comb, click of heels on stone. The steel garbage basket on the beige rug in the corner of the office is the deadest thing you’ve ever seen, collapsed in two dimensions so far away that you’ll never reach it to throw away the note that says: Don’t act crazy. You know I’m already risking a lot employing you with things how they are. Talk at my place?

Italiano 4. Ricevi una sua e-mail: In allegato trovi i documenti per questo pomeriggio. Mi raccomando riscrivili bene questa volta. Ci vediamo più tardi? Ti appoggi allo schienale della sedia e la vedi sul soffitto: sul soffitto un’altra donna, appoggiata anche lei alla sedia. Lei è come te, seduta nella tua stessa posizione, sospesa proprio sopra di te. Si guarda indietro ma non riesce a stabilire un contatto visivo perché il suo viso è leggermente sfocato. Non c’è nulla intorno a lei se non una distesa bianca. Inizia a muovere le mani in avanti come se volesse spingersi via da un tavolo invisibile, o come se stesse rifiutando qualcosa. Le sue gambe si allungano mentre si alza ed esce dalla stanza dove rimani tu. 5. Col passare dei giorni continui a lanciare occhiate su di lei. I vecchi amici da casa chiamano ma tu non hai bisogno delle loro incomprensioni. Lei è sempre lì. Anche se il più delle volte si trova nella tua stessa posizione, a volte la troverai in un angolo diverso della stanza mentre fa cose tipo lavarsi le mani, piegare vestiti o fare una telefonata. A volte quando siete sincronizzate e mentre cammini, e lei cammina sopra di te, lei dovrà/deve? agirare attorno a qualcosa che non esiste nella tua stanza. Si muove in uno spazio vuoto che per lei è pieno di cose da fare, ostacoli. 6. Torni al lavoro. Il tempo ti imprigiona nel quadrante dell’orologio. Il vetro convesso distorce i tuoi lineamenti in qualcosa di estraneo, alieno. Lo sei, no? Il tuo riflesso nello specchio del bagno non è mai lo stesso. Gli altri lo notano? Segui i dettagli: l’odore dell’igienizzante per le mani, i denti del pettine che sgrafiano il cuio capelluto, il rumore dei tacchi sulle piastrelle. Il cestino dell’immondizia di acciaio sul tappeto beige all’angolo dell’ufficio è la cosa più squallida che tu abbia mai visto, collassato in due dimensioni così lontano che non lo raggiungerai mai per gettare l’appunto su cui era scritto: Non fare la matta. Sai bene che sto già rischiando molto ad assumerti viste le circostanze. Ne parliamo da me? 63

English 7. You notice more of them as time goes on. Reflections in the mirror that stay, looking out when you move away. Your likeness in the window explores depths within the glass. Lack of symmetry. In the warped silver reflection on the faucet or in the closet mirror: you are again. On the back of a spoon you examine, or a melted puddle where you leave the ice out on the counter: me, her, them. They seem to have their own lives. They move into your dimension and back into theirs, following rules unexplained to you. You feel the stirring in the air. The many-faceted multiple personalities of I that are detaching one by one, glommed together, clustered in this apartment like a honeycomb, a soap bubble, proliferating and diminishing, some sharp, defined, some blurry, indistinguishable from the confines of their universe where their skin blends with the wall in places and the features of a face become a pattern on the carpet. 8. The air conditioning breaks. You can’t concentrate. You can’t breathe sometimes. They press in. The sound of your breath in them is a low, thunderous roar. You watch them move above you at times so quickly that they are like a whirlpool that you fear to fall up into. At times, you sleep. At times, when you open your eyes, they are all lying down, so still that only their breath moves them like a breeze just barely rippling the surface of a lake. The air is humid, heavy, close, a blanket pressing you further into your sweat-soaked mattress. You lie in bed panting and ache to touch them.

Italiano 7. Col passare del tempo ne vedi altre. I riflessi nello specchio che rimangono lì, affacciandosi poi quando ti sposti. La tua figura riflessa esplora la profondità del vetro della finestra. Mancanza di simmetria. Nel deformato riflesso argentato sul rubinetto o nello specchio dell’armadio: ci sei tu, ancora. Sul retro di un cucchiaio che stai esaminando, o una pozza d’acqua formata dal ghiaccio che lasci sul bancone: me, lei, loro. Sembrano avere le loro proprie vite. Si muovono nella tua dimensione per poi tornare alla loro, seguendo regole senza spiegazione per te. Senti agitazione nell’aria. Le personalità multiple di “IO”, ricche di sfaccettature, si staccano una per una, incollate insieme, ammassate in questo appartamento come un alveare, una bolla di sapone; si moltiplicano e si riducono, alcune nitide, definite, altre offuscate, indistinguibili dai confini del loro universo in cui la loro pelle si fonde con la parete circostante e le fattezze di un volto diventano una trama sulla moquette. 8. Il condizionatore si rompe. Non riesci a concentrarti, a volte neanche a respirare. Loro iniziano a fare pressione. Il suono del tuo respiro dentro di loro è un basso, fragoroso rombo. Le osservi muoversi sopra di te a volte così velocemente che sembrano un vortice in cui temi di cadere. Delle volte dormi. Altre volte, quando apri gli occhi, le trovi tutte sdraiate, così immobili che soltanto il loro respiro le sollecita come una leggera brezza che increspa la superficie di un lago. L’aria è umida, pesante, viziata, come una coperta che ti preme ancora di più nel materasso madido di sudore. Rimani stesa a letto ansimando e con una smania insopportabile di toccarle.

English 9. He finds you balanced on an upturned mop bucket on the bed, wavering, hand pressed against the flat plane of the ceiling. “They don’t exist,” you say, eyes roundopen, right before you fall. The blood on your hands is real. It’s blood from your head. It surprises you. Not the hospital, they ask too much. A Band-Aid is enough. “What were you doing on the ceiling anyway?” he is annoyed, sees only your inconvenient injury, not the expression on your face. You tell him he can follow them right out of your apartment. “Follow who?” 10. He can’t stop me from quitting the next day because to some, to those who write official things on paper, I don’t exist. I learn the language, walk the streets until the city feels like a place I won’t get lost in again. I search for a job that will let me sign my name to something: I am here. I learn not to think of them so much, these other yous, these other mes, these shes who float through my universe, suggesting other ways to be. Now, only the familiar wind catches in the curtains, unfurling them around me as I look out. If I breathe in very deeply, I feel the world like a tiny pearl at the back of my throat, still and waiting, vast.

Extract from “Intermezzo.” A short story collection published in parallel text by Ali Ribelli Edizioni. 66

Italiano 9. Lui ti trova in bilico sul secchio dello straccio capovolto sul letto, vacillante, la mano premuta contro la superficie piana del soffitto. “Loro non esistono,” dici, con gli occhi sgranati, proprio prima di cadere. Il sangue sulle tue mani è reale, viene dalla testa. Questo ti sorprende. L’ospedale no, fanno troppe domande. Basterà una fasciatura. “In ogni caso cosa ci facevi sul soffitto?” è irritato, vede solo la scocciatura del tuo incidente domestico, non l’espressione sul tuo viso. Tu gli dici che può seguirle direttamente fuori dal tuo appartamento. “Seguire chi?” 10. Lui non riuscirà a far sì che io non mi licenzi il giorno seguente perché per alcuni, tipo quelli che redigono documenti ufficiali, io non esisto affatto. Imparo la lingua, cammino per le strade finché la città non sembra più un luogo in cui perdermi ancora. Cerco un lavoro che mi permetta di imprimere il mio nome su qualcosa: Sono qui. Imparo a non pensare troppo a loro, a queste altre “tu”, queste altre “me”, queste “lei” che fluttuano nel mio universo, suggerendo altri modi di essere. Ora soltanto il vento abituale attraversa le tende, srotolandole intorno a me mentre guardo fuori. Se inspiro profondamente percepisco il mondo come una perlina in fondo alla gola, immobile e in attesa. Immensa.

In Otranto History Owns me Roberto Argentina

There again. Not sure how long I stood there staring, immobile, or why I keep going back to that place. I can’t ever remember making actual plans for it, but there I find myself, every few years, without thinking about it. The place is a side a chapel in the cathedral of Otranto and behind the altar, presided by Mary, a wall of skulls and bones looks down on all who visit. They are real. They are real people. They were real people. The skulls and bones are artfully arranged, we are in Italy after all, and aesthetics and composition matter. Regrettably, that means that most bones have not been placed in anatomical order with the other bones that formed a singular body, but rather, will spend the foreseeable future piled next to bones of friends and neighbors in eternal community.

air, and looking around in hushed awe at the dates and the names, expecting, knowing, my own bones would end up in there at some point. My name is represented in stone throughout the centuries, and in that place, generations of my family embrace me with a cold, stony, benevolent hug. As an adult, when I visit, walk out of the cemetery and step into the town, history keeps embracing me. Many grand historic buildings belong, or have belonged, to my family, streets bear our name, a XVI Century balcony with a national landmark has a sign on it named Balcone

Argentina. I am recognized as Nino’s boy, at fifty-six, by old people I don’t know or remember. But they do. Things Maybe they remind me of my own fami- don’t change much there. I can step into ly’s bones in Francavilla, a town close to the newspaper shop where I bought my Italian translated Mickey Mouse comic Otranto. Our family mausoleum at the books back in the early seventies, and it town cemetery was spacious when first still smells the same. The owner’s kids, built, but that was a few hundred years back. Place got crowded as time passed. now my age, run the shop. Despite this sense of standing still in time, the town My dad tells me that about every hunthrives with the Italian hipsters who dred years or so, they go in there, pull the older coffins from the wall and com- have found Francavilla to their liking, bine bones together... to make room for setting up coffee shops in old stone the new ones. I remember ritually visit- storefronts like the one where Premio, ing there as a child, entering through the the guy who fixed wicker chairs when I creaky iron gates, feeling the cold humid was a boy and always greeted me, used 68

to work and live. Although the stability of old is comforting, I am thankful to see growth and change since so many rural Italian towns are on the verge of demographic collapse and abandonment. I walk by houses where beloved relatives lived – I could travel there blindfolded – those centenarian stone paved streets so indelibly etched in my subconscious by juvenile footsteps. My aunts, my uncles, my family’s older generation that I will remember forever as they were in 1978, when I left, are not there anymore. They are ghosts now... bones. I can only commune with them in memory. I live on the other side of the world, and most of the time I have no thoughts for the future location of my bones, until I go back, as I occasionally do, and then it starts again. That melancholy yearning every immigrant has. My shoots may have stretched far, but my roots were planted back there, solid, my DNA is from that land, where I no longer belong. Could all those people in Otranto have considered, on the morning of August 14, 1480, in their final moments of consciousness, moments of solitary terror, that they would be declared martyrs and that for hundreds of years their bones would be publicly displayed together to benefit the reflection of believers and amusement of visitors? Would that have made a difference to them while waiting in line for a scimitar to sever every single cell that attached the

freely. It was a vagary of weather that doomed the population of Otranto. The intended destination for the invading Ottoman army had been Brindisi, a port town earlier used by Greeks to send troops to colonize the lower Italian peninsula, by Romans to send troops to colonize the Grecian peninsula, by crusaders to go do whatever it was that they were doing, and incidentally, the town that gave birth to me. Anyway, in an era of wind sailing and unpredicted storms, instead of landing in Brindisi, Otranto it was. Otranto is located on the lower part of the heel of the Italian boot, just South of Brindisi on the Adriatic Coast. The town is no more than a day’s sail from Corfu in Greece, directly due East. Above it is the rest of the Italian peninsula, and after a day’s hike to the South is the end of the land. The Mediterranean takes over from there. The earth around Otranto is dark red. As a child I squeezed the earth around Otranto in my fingers and wondered at that rich red color, and sweet, fresh earthy aroma. The red blood pouring out of 800 headless bodies would not have made a noticeable stain on it.

There could not have been a more terrifying sight for those who looked out into the sea from the walls of Otranto on that morning of July 29, 1480, than dozens of sails with crescent moons. Constantinople, the symbolic remnant of the Roman Empire had been sacked just a generation earlier in 1453, and reports of the head to their body? Would that have horrors inflicted on that conquered popbeen consolation of any sort? Possibly, ulation made for horrific tales. When since it appears that they chose their fate thousands of Ottoman soldiers disem69

barked with siege machines it would have raised existential questions for the four hundred soldiers and untrained citizens inside the walls. Much as they might have mentally explored pathways and stratagems to survival, deep inside, all in Otranto knew that along with their families, after an undetermined, but too short, period of resistance, their bodies would be mortally sliced by the metal of the scimitar. The Ottomans were in the midst of an imperial expansion, something that was frightening European Christendom, and that would eventually take their armies all the way to the gates of Vienna. Their failure to breach those gates gave birth to the crescent moon shaped croissant, but that story is for another day. In 1480 they had their sights on Rome, and taking Brindisi was the ticket for heading on the ancient Appian Way to the home of the Popes who incited horrors on Muslims for the preceding three centuries. But they landed in Otranto instead. Incidentally, Otranto is where 12,000 crusaders were blessed as they set sail for Jerusalem in 1095, and there it is, such is the stuff of history. The hopelessly outnumbered and underequipped soldiers and citizens of Otranto lasted for a couple of weeks. A remarkable feat. They were offered immunity if they surrendered, but three times refused and finally symbolically threw the keys of the main gate into the Sea after the last offer. After the walls were breached on August 12, the survivors gathered in the cathedral in the hope of divine intervention. The priests

were immediately slain in front of everyone. Women were sold to slavery. The last 800 men who survived the battle and sack of the city were presented with the simple choice of conversion or decapitation. The walls in the chapel in Otranto reveal their answer. But the delay in taking Otranto proved fatal to the Ottoman ambitions. Pope Sixtus IV and King Ferdinand I of Spain made defensive arrangements. Rome would not be taken. The Turks made only modest advances before abandoning designs on the Italian Peninsula. Had the Ottoman army succeeded in overtaking Otranto more expeditiously, it would have then passed through the town of Francavilla on the Appian Road to Rome. That’s where Roberto de Arcentino would buy property a few years later in 1486. Had the Ottomans come through town on the way to Rome, it is doubtful I would be here to write this story more than 500 years later. Maybe that’s what brings me back in that chapel. Deep inside, I have a primal awareness that among the incalculable multitude of events, significant but also absolutely banal, that had to happen over the centuries for me to exist, this also had to happen: an entire city delaying its own slaughter for a couple of weeks. It was the only path through which one day I might emerge. History owns me in that land and the bones of Otranto make sure I remember. People of Otranto, I owe you one, and so does my son.

v 70

Again you hear the moon

Simon Perchik

Again you hear the moon - it forgets just minutes ago it asked and you sing over and over the same lullaby that’s used to loneliness. sure your lips were once blossoms, would open as the soft breeze still wandering keeping watch for a voice that could be hers bending down scraping the ground to hear again where love goes when it falls asleep still listening for what is now grass and the step by step among the small stones broken off though you sing all night without a sound from the pieces closing their eyes with your fingertip.

Interview

Introducing

Open Doors Review Non-fiction editor

Norah Leibow 72

I’m beyond pleased to introduce Norah Leibow to the team at Open Doors as our new Non Fiction English editor and social media manager. Norah is the author of the weekly newsletter “Be Soothed” an exploration of time, memory, human connection, human dignity, frustration, nostalgia, shame, growth as reflected through architecture, design, and philosophy.

“Truth is the ultimate key to an essay, and that truth includes

how you really feel, as well. Not how you want to feel, not how you would casually explain the experience at a dinner party, but how you deep down, ugly feel.”

Lauren: If I told you, I have three incredible essays I want you to read, what would you hope they are about? Norah: I hope they are about something I know nothing about. I want to read an essay that takes me somewhere I did not expect to go, or puts ideas together I would never have paired with each other. Also, I find negative reviews to be very interesting because when someone doesn’t like something but they still have to write about it for work, there is a very incredible delicacy and vagueness that emerges which is such a skill, and also like a little secret if you can read between the lines. Finally, there are so many essays right now about motherhood and the nuances and shifts that role is going through. I would love to read some essays about how fatherhood is changing, too–it must be, right? Lauren: What are your top three tips for writing a great essay? Norah: Do not hide who you are when writing an essay–I think sometimes people think because it is not fiction, this style of writing needs to be informative and emotionless. Truth is the ultimate key to an essay, and that truth includes how you really feel, as well. Not how you want to feel, not how you would casually explain the experience at a dinner party, but how you deep down, ugly feel.

Don’t be afraid to rewrite. I often get to what I think is the end only to realize, oh, what I thought I was writing about is irrelevant and the last paragraph is what I was really trying to say. It’s tempting to hold the reins tight to the original thought because you’ve spent time in that direction, but if it’s not strong or not conveying what you really mean, chuck it. It’s still getting you where you want to go, so not wasted at all. Structure. More than another other type of writing, essays are about structure. In a sense, you are making an argument. I always think of learning how to construct a convincing five-paragraph essay in high school–this is the same. Say what you are going to say, say it, then say it again. Every sentence must support your thesis, your argument, your main thread. Sometimes I write what I think is a lovely sentence, or there was a moment I want to describe that felt relevant to me but in the essay seems out of place–if it doesn’t support what I am trying to say, remove or rewrite. Lauren: When does an essay not work? Norah: I think this applies to any writing, but an essay doesn’t work when the writer is trying to write with the hallmarks of writing. Clichés, tropes, tired perspectives– these don’t feel genuine. When there is no soul, or it sounds generic, that is when an essay fails. For example, write about what you love about Italy, but don’t write about the pasta being good, about the wine being delicious, the evening light being pretty. Write about when those things meet your soul, about all the experiences that brought you there to appreciate those things, because that alchemy can never be replicated by anyone else. Lauren: You have a regular weekly, newsletter called “Be Soothed” - tell us a bit about it and what inspired you to start writing it! Norah: It is an exploration of time, memory, human connection, human dignity, frustration, nostalgia, shame, growth…. all reflected through architecture, design, philosophy…and sort of whatever I am focused on at the time. It comes out each week covering such wide-ranging 74

topics such as the joy of writing out “BOOBIES” on your calculator when you are a kid, to the confusion of defining who you are without any concrete titles. It ranges. I hope it’s funny and interesting and engaging. I started writing it because I was stopping myself from producing any work because I felt like I wasn’t ready, as a writer. I didn’t want to fail, so I did nothing at all. Starting this newsletter became a way to be forced to formulate ideas and to give myself permission to put what I create out there because that is more important than if my writing is perfect. I’ll tell you now, it is far from perfect! Lauren: What are some essayists or essay collections you love/admire? Norah: Here’s a list: • Taffy Brodesser-Akner is an amazing essaist and her profile of Gwyneth Paltrow in the New York Times is one of the funniest and most human things I’ve read in the last few years. • “Trick Mirror: Reflections on Self-Delusion” by Jia Tolentino is modern and crisp and delicate. • Noble Rot–it’s a wine magazine but it really is about life, eating, drinking, traveling, family. • “Here Let Us Feast” by M.F.K. Fisher it is a book of essays about eating and drinking. • “Slouching Toward Bethlehem” by Joan Didion. You’ve heard of it and maybe read it, but read it again. Subtle, prickly, distant. She reveals herself through her observations. And now a few non fiction books or what I really think of as long essays: • bell hooks, “All About Love” • James Baldwin, “The Fire Next Time” • Ta-Nehisi Coates, “Between the World and Me” • Robert Sapolsky, “A Primate’s Memoir”

Lauren: Writing is often described as a “spiritual practice” - do you agree or disagree? Norah: I disagree. For me it feels compulsive. It follows me around, haunting me until I exorcise whatever it is out and onto the page. Maybe if I was more disciplined and treated it with the ritual worthy of a spiritual practice it wouldn’t build up like a demon inside me? I’ll probably never know…. Lauren: Tell us about your writing practice… do you favor discipline? Inspiration? Music? Silence? Time of day? Norah: I have literally no schedule or discipline at all. I write early in the morning, late at night, after dinner, quickly between meetings, during a run I stop to jot things down. I used to read a lot about writers’ routines and how they wrote and it made me feel like I had to do that, like in order to be a writer I also had to wake up at 4am or something. But that made me concentrate on the wrong thing, because the schedule doesn’t matter if you’re writing. All that matters is the writing. If you want to, you will–if you don’t want to, you will find a way not to, no matter how many times you put it in your calendar. And I can’t have any sounds of any kind. No music, no TV in the background–nothing. Lauren: What is some great writing advice you’ve received? Or life advice you could apply to writing? Norah: My best advice is instantly going to disqualify itself but: listen to yourself. If you have a message or a story or vision you want to convey, do it. And if the people you show it to don’t understand, just keep going, refine it or evolve it, but never doubt the worthiness of your work. Lauren: Does art change things or does art reveal changes? Norah: Both!

Author Bios Michael McGuire Time of Death

Fiction Giaime Maccioni L’Attrice

Michael McGuire was born and raised and has lived in or near much of his life; he divides his time; his horse is nondescript, his dog is dead. Naturally, McGuire regrets not having passed his life in academia, for the alternative has proven somewhat varied, even unpredictable.

Giaime Maccioni scrive narrativa e sceneggiature. Vincitore di concorsi, alcuni suoi racconti sono pubblicati su riviste, e-book e antologie. Nel 2019 ha fondato insieme ad altri scrittori e registi il sito eventoscatenante.com, che fornisce servizi di coverage e coaching per sceneggiatori. Lavora come story editor e writing coach in collaborazione con la scuola di “Come scrivere una grande storia” di Francesco Trento.

Judy Upton Man’s Best Friend Judy’s an award-winning playwright with plays produced by Royal Court, National Theatre. Hampstead Theatre, BBC Radio 4 etc. She’s had two feature films and a TV drama produced, plus novella ‘Maisie And Mrs Webster’ published by Orion Books. Her first two novels ‘Out Of The Frying Pan’ (Hobart Books) and ‘What Maisie Didn’t Know’ (Wrecking Ball Press) were published in 2021, along with ‘Judy Upton: P!has Two’ (Methuen). www.judyupton.co.uk.

Dominic Viti The Birthday Dominic Viti is an Italian-American writer. His short stories appear in Harvard Review, The Penn Review, Beloit Fiction Journal and Chorus (Simon & Schuster). He was educated at New York University and Savannah College of Art and Design, and he guest lectured at Temple University. He works in advertising.

My first connection with Italy was through my good friend Nazzareno, whom I met when we were both living in Cricklewood, London in the 1990s. I visited him in Milan and explored the city and Venice and Pavia. I very much look forward to returning to Italy soon.

Poetry

Sean Riley In the Valley

Susan Blevins Letter to Vittorio

From 2017 to 2021 I was living full-time in Colle di Tora in Italy’s Turano Valley. I now live in Washington DC, USA for part of the year for work related reasons but I consider Colle di Tora to be my home as it is where my studio is located and where I draw my creative energy from. The dramatic landscape has had a profound impact on my work which seeks to emulate the valley’s ever-changing colors, shapes, lines and textures. In some of my works, like this one submitted, I will include original poetic fragments.

I was born in England, moved to Italy in 1965, when I was 20, and lived there for 26 blissful years, then left permanently for the USA in 1991. I miss Italy every single day. My heart is still there. I basically grew up in Italy. It suited my personality much better than staid and stuffy England. I came to life in Italy. One time I had to have surgery in Rome, and when the medical team told me I had been speaking in Italian under my anesthetic , I knew I had fully arrived. I lived the first year in Pesaro, on the Adriatic, and learned the structure of Italian society, which stood me in good stead after I moved to Rome. After a few years I wrote a weekly column on food in the International Daily News (now defunct). After leaving Italy for the States, I told my American husband that as long as he was alive, I was afraid to return to Italy. I warned him that if I went back I may never return to the USA. He died in 2006, but I am still afraid to return to Italy. It will be vastly changed, and I refuse to return as a tourist. It would be a going home for me, but without a place to call my own. Whenever I do pluck up the courage to return I know that when I land I shall fall to my knees and kiss the ground.

I was born in 1977 in Wareham, MA. In 1999 I received a BFA in Painting from the Massachusetts College of Art and Design. In 2004 I received an MFA in Sculpture from the University of Pennsylvania. My work has been shown in solo and group exhibitions throughout the Northeast including; Danese/Corey in New York City, TSA NY in Brooklyn, NY, Gallery 263 in Cambridge, MA, Lamont Gallery in Exeter, NH, Arthur Ross Gallery in Philadelphia, PA, The Arts Center of the Capital Region in Troy, NY, and several others. I have received grants from the Joan Mitchell Foundation, The Rhode Island State Council on the Arts, and the Berkshire Taconic Foundation. I have been an artist in residence at the Joan Mitchell Center, Yaddo, and the Vermont Studio Center. seanrileystudio.com 78

Jan Ball Lamb Chops

in the Classroom honor from the Houston Texans. Recently a recipient of the 2021 Cave Canem’s Starshine and Clay Fellowship, his work appears in Black Warrior Review, Tupelo, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Nimrod, Cosmonaut Avenue, Solstice, among others.

Jan’s 341 published poems have appeared in various journals, for example: ABZ, Mid-American Review and Parnassus. Three chapbooks and one full length poetry collection, I Wanted to Dance With My Father, were published by Finishing Line Press. Orbis, England, nominated her for the Pushcart in 2020.

Simon Perchik Again you hear the Moon

I have traveled widely in Italy at different points in my life alone then with my children. I had been a nun for seven years when I first saw the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. I had to leave because I was so moved by it. Most recently, about three years ago, we were in Milan for a conference. In the Duomo, the convent experience all came back to me. Even now, I’m smiling to think of Italy.

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Family of Man Poems published by Cholla Needles Arts & Literary Library, 2021. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at simonperchik.com

Oak Morse Loose Thangs Oak Morse lives in Houston, Texas, where he teaches creative writing and performance and leads a youth poetry troop, the Phoenix Fire-Spitters. He was the winner of the 2017 Magpie Award for Poetry in Pulp Literature, a Finalist for the 2020 Witness Literary Award and a Semi-Finalist for the 2020 Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry. Currently a Warren Wilson MFA candidate, Oak has received a Pushcart Prize nomination, fellowships from Brooklyn Poets and Twelve Literary Arts as well as a Stars 79

project whose aim is to provoke any kind of reaction that could differ from the superficial and purely aesthetical. Instagram: @wende.visual.

Essay Roberto Argentina In Otranto History Owns Me Sono un’Italo-Americano che abita a Houston, nel Texas. Ormai in’America da un vita, sono arrivato qui’ all’eta’ di 13 anni. Ho vissuto a Houston, Chicago e Los Angeles e mi sono divertito. Ho avuto carriere da attore di teatro, chef con il suo ristorante in California, e finalmente, adesso insegno Geografia al Liceo. (High School). Leggo quanto posso in Italiano, ma scrivo principalmente in Inglese.

Ahmed Ali Photography Photos by Ahmed Ali, an Iraqi amateur photographer living in Rome. Ahmed discovered photography as the world started to get used to the new normal following the pandemic. While loving to work with light and shadows, he found his Fujifilm camera and lens a great way to step out of the lock down and connect with the people and world around him. You can find more of Ahmed’s photos on Instagram @annexmoments_photography with prints on demand.

Visual Art Ink P Doors

Ginevra Ballati Nebula

A Firenze, dopo la formazione accademica in Illustrazione e Tecniche pittoriche, ho conseguito la Laurea magistrale in Filologia moderna con una tesi su Carlo Dossi. Lavoro come artista free lance, insegnante di disegno e pittura ed educatrice museale in collaborazione con vari musei, fondazioni e enti tra Toscana ed Emilia Romagna. Dal 2018 al 2021 mi sono occupata del corso di disegno presso L’Incontrario, una bottega pistoiese

Wendepunkte Cover Art Collaboration Wendepunkte is a visual and musical 80

dove artisti e persone con disabilità producono oggetti d’arte. Il mio rapporto con l’Italia è ambivalente: da un lato la lingua e l’arte italiane continuano a fornirmi infiniti stimoli ed elementi di stupore, dall’altra sono molto amareggiata per l’incuria e le continue difficoltà che paralizzano il mondo della cultura e chi ci lavora.

Parallel Text Lauren Mouat

Lauren is the editor and creator of the Open Doors Review. Her short story “I, me, you, she” is part of a seven story collection of ficitonal pieces that will be published this year by Ali Ribelli Edizioni in parallel text.

Alessia Mennitti

http://ossacave.blogspot.com/

Mario Loprete In Cemento Veritas Mario Loprete, Catanzaro 1968. Painting for me is the first love. An important, pure love. The sculpture is my lover, my artistic betrayal to painting. That voluptous and sensual lover that gives me different emotions, that touches prohibited cords…

Alessia Mennitti (Roma, 1997) è una traduttrice freelance, transcreator e localizzatrice. Ha conseguito la Laurea in Lingue e Culture Straniere presso l’Università degli Studi Roma Tre e un Master in Traduzione Settoriale presso la SSIT di Pescara. Ha una forte passione per le lingue straniere, in particolare la lingua inglese, la scrittura e la poesia, componendone lei stessa.

Norah Leibow Non Fiction English Editor

Staff Lauren Mouat Editor in Chief

I’m Lauren T. Mouat. I was born in California but since 2010 Italy has been my home, first Rome and more recently on the Tuscan coast in Livorno. Reading and writing are an essential part of my life. When I write, I think. When I read, I grow. In my time in Italy, I’ve written for numerous publications and I’ve sought to bring writers together in a series of writing groups to share our work and ideas. I’ve also worked for many years as a tour guide and, in discussing Italy’s art and history, I found myself wanting to explore and share more of the contemporary writing and creative endeavours that are growing in and around Italy today.

Norah Leibow grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area—and first met the Mediterranean when she was 16 on an exchange trip. She is a running enthusiast, lover of architecture, art and taking long walks around San Francisco where she lives with her husband Adam and two cats. She is the author of the weekly newsletter “Be Soothed.”

Michela Guida Italian Copy Editor

Michela Guida è un’insegnante di lingua italiana a stranieri. Durante la sua esperienza di docente, ha collaborato con diverse istituzioni tra cui università americane, case editrici e piattaforme per l’insegnamento online. Ha lavorato come redattrice per riviste online, e continua questo lavoro come autrice di testi didattici, redattrice di articoli e content Open Doors is a way to share enthusiasm editor per siti di apprendimento online. and encourage the exchange of ideas that only art can bring to the surface. My aim “Ho la fortuna di insegnare la mia splenis to connect writers and artists to reveal dida lingua agli studenti stranieri. Quesanother side of Italy, a country that is to lavoro mi ha dato tante opportunità so much more multifaceted than we are di crescere e di fare nuove esperienze used to seeing in mainstream culture. professionali, anche perché sono un’apThe world is going through vast chang- passionata delle parole. Adoro leggere e es and I believe that what we create now scrivere su tutto e di tutto quello che mi and the conversations we have today, will piace. E quando non trovo le parole, fodecide our future. tografo e cerco di immortalare qualsiasi cosa mi lasci a bocca aperta!”

Submit your work to Open Doors! Do you have a connection with Italy? Do you live here? Do you travel here? Do you dream of here? Whatever your connection to Italy (even if it’s just enjoying Open Doors), we invite you to submit to the next issue of The Open Doors Review.

Hai un legame con l’Italia? Viaggi o vivi qua? Leggi semplicemente Open Doors Review? Ti chiederemo di raccontarci del tuo rapporto con l’Italia nell’email di presentazione del tuo lavoro.

We accept literary fiction, poetry and thought provoking essays. Content is up to you. We are NOT looking for things that are specifically Italy focused. If your work happens to be about Italy, that is fine, but Italy is by no means a theme. We accept work in English or Italian.

Ci interessano la narrativa letteraria, la poesia ed i saggi stimolanti. Il contenuto dipende da te. Non stiamo cercando componimenti basati specificamente su tematiche “Italiane.” Potete mandarci i vostri lavori anche in più di una categoria e anche in combinazione (per esempio racconto + arte visuale). Accettiamo lavori in inglese o in italiano.

Make us think. Make us laugh. Make us cry. Make us question. Make us uncomfortable. Make us feel.

Facci riflettere, ridere, piangere … ricerchiamo emozioni. Per inviare le proposte vai su

For details on how to submit visit our site: