IL FATTO BELLO
Shoulder talk
Spalla-the word for ‘shoulder'-is the term Italians use to describe the ‘straight man' of a comedy routine duo. Front-and-center comedians need a straight man to act as a sounding board for their frequent one-liners.
Writers intent on understanding the ways of this world need something similar.When I'm desperate for some semblance of clarity in life, I call my friend Enrico and ask him to be ‘my shoulder'.
In response, he'll usually take me to dinner to someplace loud. Restaurants with ample background noise are therapeutic, he says. When you have to yell to make yourself heard, you only bother shouting things that really matter. And besides that, foolproof advice most often comes from those who can't hear half the problem.
Fortunately, the curative nature of noise is the only place our views converge. I say ‘fortunately' because the antagonism of his many opinions is even more restorative than raucous.
In other words, Enrico has an inquiring mind and his friendship-no matter how argumentative he gets at times-is nothing short of a privilege.
Someone so capable of handling cultural questions and generating new queries cannot be overappreciated.
Enrico spent his childhood working alongside his bricklayer father, lugging cement blocks and mixing mortar.
‘Children nowadays are treated like pastries behind a bakery window,' he says, ‘but in those years, there was virtually nothing they wouldn't let me do.' Enrico works with numbers now, rather than bricks, and knows every secret hatch in the house when it comes to avoiding fines and proliferating tax evasion. That said, his advice-fiscal or otherwise-always scares the misery right out of me.
In Italy, he says, you have to save your receipts ‘til you're 100 meters away from wherever you bought, and you should hoard your paid bills from as far back as the Stone Age. The sales tax police may be roaming the streets and the neighborhood where you lived in 2005 may decide to charge for retroactive electricity.
Other fees, luckily, are simply meant to be ignored. Refuse to pay tax on the right to watch government television from the get-go and you should be safe for time indeterminate. Should the control squad arrive to see if you lied about not owning a set, simply refuse to open the door.
They have no legal right to enter without permission,' he says.
‘So why do they come?'
‘Well, because you might not know it.'
Quite true. Unless, you have an Enrico too, or someone equally willing to verse you on the plethora of wacky and wonderful laws that crowd the Italian consciousness, there is simply no way one could fathom all that's illegal and obliged in this country. Because, while the RAI channel people play ding-dong-ditch with TV tax evaders, there are much more important concerns to consider. Those who wish to avoid being asphyxiated by possible leaks in their flat's water heater, for instance, need to get busy drilling holes in their walls. One 15-centimeter hole is mandatory by law, but having two is best, especially for those who've never heard that in Italy, the annual boiler clean-up is more practiced a law than the right to remain silent.
‘With what it costs to heat my place, why would I purposely look for ways to let all the hot air out?'
‘Do what you want,' he shrugged.
‘But it's illegal not to drill it. And mi dispiacerebbe se muori asfissiata. It would displease me if you were to die in your sleep from methane poisoning.'
‘Thank you, darling, and I certainly wouldn't want to displease you.
But if death is the threat, then it's more likely I'll die one night from VAPE pesticide poisoning.'
He smiled. Italians combat worrisome vampire mosquitoes with ruby-red plug-in machines whose replaceable tablets effectively expel eight hours' worth of vaporous pesticides. Inexplicably, no one except those with newborns worries about what this electrically diffused repellent may someday do to human bronchial trees. While window screens must exist somewhere between the pages of Leonardo da Vinci's sketch books, in Italy, they are still perceived as a recently patented invention that is barely time-tested enough to be trusted.
Unfortunately for those who are open to ground-breaking technological innovation, gothic balconies and medieval windows are simply not fitted for them, and unless you want to fight the city and modify cultural-heritage-of-humanity window frames, you'll be hard pressed to find an overpriced rental that doesn't include mosquitoes for free.
‘You worry about the most insignificant things,' Enrico said.
‘Yes, well, more than half of my neurosis can be traced back to you. Your warnings make me nervous to no end.'
‘Warnings? Who said anything about warnings? Let's leave those to the Americans-they're so very good at recommending how the world should work. Italians are much better at threats.' Wow. The man had hit two pigeons with one bean and I didn't quite know which statement would fill our evening with better arguments. The threat discussion was slightly less threatening, however, and I was glad when Enrico let the political slight slide and returned to his original premise.
‘Threats are the only things in Italy that are not negotiable,' he said.
‘Maybe, but you still don't know whether they'll happen or not.'
‘It doesn't matter. They sound like they'll happen. And there's comfort in that.'
‘Threats make you feel secure?' I asked. ‘Obviously.'
So, there's the main thing. A good spalla will tell you obvious things that are not at all obvious. And if I really could rightly recommend just exactly how the world should work, I'd suggest you get yourself a shoulder. Italian living isn't quite the same without one.
Teacher by profession and writer by necessity, Linda Falcone is celebrating her fifteenth year of Italian living. Author of Italians Dance and I'm a Wallflower and If They Are Roses, she delights in experimenting with both poetry and prose. Only the grocery list should never be written.
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