Life on the move
It has been nearly three years now since the Italian State decided to put me
under protective custody following threats to my life from the Camorra. It
feels as though it will never end.
From that moment, my life became that of an exile, for ever looking for a
place to live and a place to write. I’ve lived in dozens of different
houses, never for more than a few months. All of them small or very small —
and damn dark. I’d have liked them to be bigger, with more light and to have
had a balcony. But I had no choice. Two armoured cars and five guards don’t
make it easy to house hunt, especially in town centres where there are
always traffic jams and where you can’t park.
Only once did I manage to move to a house with a verandah, and I couldn’t
believe my luck. But no sooner had I moved in than it transpired that the
firm of builders who were working on the premises came from my part of the
world, where the gangs sink their entire economic capital into cement,
winning contracts and subcontracts all over Italy. I lost the verandah
before I’d had time to unpack. That’s what happens to people such as me,
living under protective custody in a country whose number of exiles is
exceeded only by that of Colombia.
For three years now my home has been a holdall with socks, boxers, T-shirts
and trousers, a jacket and some shirts. Plus a bag with medicines,
toothpaste, toothbrush and a mobile phone charger; another full of books and
papers and my computer. That’s it.
On fear and envy
I’m travelling towards Milan, with the sun on my shoulders, and I’m going to
meet my editor to celebrate the fact that my book Gomorrah has sold
two million copies in Italy. And nearly four million copies worldwide.
Heaven only knows how it’ll feel to have the symbolic two millionth copy in my
hand. I expect it won’t feel any different to holding any other copy of the
blasted book — the ever-present thorn in my flesh. It’s got a picture of my
face on it, looking melancholy and unknowing. The face of a 25-year-old boy,
with a sort of dark look in his eye but also a profound longing to march
forwards fast.
Two years and two million copies later , I still feel I have little to
celebrate. To be candid, I have a crap life. Public appearances outside
Italy provide the only alternative to my four walls, it’s as straightforward
as light and dark. Nothing in between.
I’ve achieved what every writer dreams of. I’ve reached out to an enormous
number of people; I’ve spoken to millions of individuals in more than 40
countries.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” I’m asked.
And I’d like to be able to say yes. But I didn’t want it on these terms.
In all the interviews, in all the countries where my book has been published,
I’ve always been asked the same two questions. Ideally, they’d like me to
answer by breaking down. They’d like me to explode. But I answer as simply
as I can — by telling them the truth.
The first question is whether I regret having written Gomorrah? I
reply: “Yes” as a man and “No” as a writer. I do this to prove that despite
everything there is still a shred of civic responsibility in me. But the
truth is quite different: I hate Gomorrah. I abhor it. When I see it
in a bookshop window, I look the other way. In the early days when I used to
say in interviews that if I’d known what I’d be up against I’d never have
written it, I’d see a host of mortified faces, full of disappointment. If
this was the last question in the interview, I’d go home with a bitter taste
in my mouth, and with the fear that I’d let them down. It was as though I
should have replied that, despite everything, I would most certainly still
have written it. That I’d have endured the sacrifice in silence. Now, in the
fullness of time, I reserve the right to reveal my regrets and think back
with nostalgia to the days when I was a free man. But the fact remains that
I did write Gomorrah and I pay the price for it every day of my life.
The second question is: “Are you frightened?”
By which they obviously mean: frightened of being killed. I always answer
“No”. It happens to be the truth. I’ve had a lot of fears in my life, but
the fear of death is not something that has ever bothered me. Every so often
I think of the pain of dying, and of the possibility of having a painful
death. But, by and large, my terrors are different.
When I was first put under protective custody, I thought it would all be over
in a few weeks. Then it was a few months. Now what terrifies me far more
than death is the thought that I might have to go on living like this for
ever.
But the worst terror, which attacks me all the time, is the fear that they
[the Camorra] will manage to defame me, to destroy my credibility, to
blacken my name and besmirch all that I’ve lived for and for which I’m
paying the price. They’ve done this to everybody who has spilt the beans.
They did it to Peppino Diana, the priest they killed and defamed the minute
after his death; to Federico Del Prete, who worked in the mayor’s office and
was killed at Casal di Principe in 2002; to Salvatore Nuvoletta, a policeman
who was killed in 1982 when he was barely 20 years old, and buried at once
for fear that he was related to the powerful Camorra family of the same
name.
No sooner has the national press shown an interest in your existence than the
rumours and ambiguous stories about you start. In my world, you are guilty
until proved otherwise. And then the media withdraws, like a snail into its
shell.
And on it goes, until the next death, of someone whose only crime is to have
been born in a country where truth has ceased to exist.
I’ll never forget what the ex-husband of Anna Politkovskaya [the campaigning
Russian journalist murdered in Moscow in 2006] said the day after she died:
“It’s just as well that they killed her. That’s preferable to defaming her.
Anna could not have borne that.”
That’s what wears my soul out and saps my strength: the fear that I too will
be discredited by the Camorra’s devious and unpredictable methods, and that
I’ll be unable to defend myself and, above all, my words.
So I do nothing. I don’t put a foot wrong or make a false move; I’m a
29-year-old journalist with a writer’s impulsive streak, and I have been
lucky. That’s all there is to it. And I must be careful not to upset the
status quo. None of us chooses his own destiny, all I can do is choose how
to respond to it.
On cooking I don’t know how to cook. I’m a man from the south of Italy, who
was brought up in the old-fashioned way: women in the kitchen and men in the
workplace. Incredible, I know, but that’s how it was, ever since I was a
kid.
There are very few mothers from my part of the world who would hand over this
responsibility to their sons. I made my first hard-boiled egg when I was 18
when I left home. If nothing drastic had happened to me that’s how things
could have stayed for ever. So when my lifestyle changed I felt that in many
ways I couldn’t fend for myself. And I’ve had to learn to do all sorts of
things: housework, washing, ironing and — obviously — cooking. During the
first few months I was fine. I had a permanent team of police escorts who
cooked for me.
I was convinced that my exile wouldn’t last long and therefore I was idle.
But months came and went and nothing changed. And here I am still on my own,
incognito and unable to ring anybody even to ask them to bring me a pizza.
Soon I started to feel bad about keeping the bodyguards with me till late,
just to eat with me. I preferred to think of them having supper with their
families.
My boys accompany me everywhere and their work is more mind-blowingly dull
than mine. They’re in a permanent state of suspense and always on the alert.
They have to be aware of anybody who comes near me. It soon became an
unspoken agreement between us that I don’t bother them in the evenings
(aside from having a residual police guard outside the house), except if
there’s an emergency, and that weekends are family time.
So I made my mind up and got cracking at the stove. The results were terrible.
I looked up recipes on the internet, but they all seemed very difficult. I
never bonded with the kitchens I was living in, nor with the flats that had
previously housed others under police protection like me; poachers turned
gamekeepers. People who were forbidden to set foot outside for months on end
and who, I imagined, were all male because of the bare kitchens. I couldn’t
even do my own shopping. On the very few occasions when I tried it was a
disaster: five police officers, armed to the teeth, and me. And aside from
that, I took absolutely no pleasure in cooking for one. Eating’s meant to be
for two.
Recently, in Naples, a woman got into the habit of knocking shyly on my door
every day, having got permission from my guards to bring me something
delicious to eat. She’d bring the kind of dishes that mothers cook for their
soldier sons when they come home. The sort of things that we southern boys
dream about when we’re far from home. Egg-plant with Parmesan, lamb cutlets,
sometimes buffalo mozzarella, or home-made cakes. I was happy that month,
before being asked to move again. Just looking at those dishes made me feel
at home.
So eventually I simply couldn’t face it and chucked it. I haven’t stopped
eating altogether, but I ate only when I had to. And I eat anything that’s
going.
I take no pride in my surroundings any more, either. I used to be really
attached to the rooms where I lived as a student: they were full of books,
my own and those of my fellow students. We used to put our prints on the
walls, and my bed was multifunctional, like the beds of so many other
penniless students or workers. Sometimes it doubled as a sofa for my friends
to sit on during our mega-chats, at other times it was my refuge on those
cold winter nights in the old, unheated Neapolitan palaces where I’d huddle
under the blankets. Now my walls are bare; and the houses full of kit to
which I’m indifferent. I often wake up at night and can’t remember what room
I’m in. I’ve lost all sense of direction.
Equally, I have been surprised by those things that have become important to
me. In October 2006, right at the start of my confinement, I started to box
to try and keep fit and stay sane.
To paraphrase Homer, there is no better undertaking than that accomplished by
one’s own hand. Boxing became my salvation. It’s a kind of controlled rage,
a channelling of one’s strength. When you’re in the ring you either give
your all to stay upright or you give in. There’s nothing in between. Boxing
is the exact opposite to the way of life and the rules of the criminal
gangs: man against man, face to face. Nobody to stab you in the back or grab
you unawares. You experience the exhaustion of training and a respect for
defeat. And the slow climb back, brick by brick, towards victory.
That’s what it’s like for me: it will be a long and arduous task to rebuild my
life, but one day I’m sure all this will be over.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
Like a child in the snow
I often ask myself when I’ll be able to go for a walk again or wander about at
my leisure. I ask it every day so as to remind myself that the life I’m now
leading is far removed from normality. I often think of my longing for the
sea and my fantasies of snow; I was born in Naples and I’ve always lived
near the sea. I regard snow as something decidedly exotic. We Neapolitans
consider it to be something of a luxury. It’s seen as a direct link to
middle-class Christmas holidays for those who can afford them.
But since last winter snow has come to have different associations for me. It
was at the end of November and I was on my way to Sweden. The members of the
Nobel Academy had invited me to Stockholm to take part in a debate with
Salman Rushdie. At that time I felt my life was hanging by a thread. The
Camorra had said that they would blow the car up in which I was travelling
before Christmas. And the world seemed to have surrounded me in a great big
protective embrace. Those embracing me were intellectuals, anti-Mafia
organisations, journalists and members of society who all felt their rights
were under threat. There was a powerful sense of affection, esteem and
solidarity around me that made me feel invincible, despite the death
threats.
So the invitation to Stockholm was fraught with significance, about the
importance of freedom of speech and the condemnation of any kind of
censorship. And the fact that Salman Rushdie and I had been invited implied
a sense of topical Christmas peace. When the fatwa condemning Rushdie had
been declared in 1989, some members of the academy had wanted to invite him
to Sweden to show solidarity, but at that time the powers that be decreed
that literature and politics should not meet.
Twenty years on, in 2008, those powers had reached the conclusion that nobody
is secure without a free press, freedom of speech and freedom of thought. So
I was delighted to see Salman again.
Ever since our first meeting he had always given me basic advice on how to
face my own situation. More than once this advice proved to be very useful.
I recall one instance when I was being prevented from boarding a plane. The
authorities were scared that my fellow passengers would recognise me and be
terrified of travelling on the same plane. Salman had told me that if such a
situation ever arose, I should ring the biggest local newspaper I could
find, and tell the editor what was happening. “You’ll soon find that pretty
quickly the airline company will be on its knees,” he said, “and beg you to
fly with them.”
That’s exactly what happened: I rang the biggest daily newspaper of the
country I was in and told them that I was having trouble getting on to a
plane. It took a few more minutes and some profuse apologies for me to be
allowed on board. Fear of the media had overcome fear of association with
me.
When I arrived in Stockholm it was snowing, and I was as happy as a child. As
a young boy I once asked my father to take me to see some snow. He thought
my request was one of the strangest he had ever heard. My father, man of the
earth and sea, and true son of the south, had a certain contempt for snow —
he saw it as an entertainment for cissies.
But he took me to a mountain in neighbouring Campania anyway. We set off by
car and, after queuing in traffic for hours, we arrived at a lay-by where
there was a small mound of ice, half melted and blackened by exhaust fumes.
My father turned the engine off and told me to get out of the car. He bent
down, grabbed some of the slushy stuff and said to me: “Here’s your snow.”
He put a bit on the bonnet, turned the car round and we drove home.
So seeing a whole city covered in snow, at the age of 29, was a completely new
spectacle. Added to which my Swedish bodyguards had allowed me the freedom
to go out at night on the snowy streets. They were there, in the distance,
letting me sit on the drifts and gather the soft snow to make snowballs like
a child. I hurled them into space. It was bitterly cold and the streets were
deserted.
Ever since that moment I have associated my invitation to the Nobel Academy in
Sweden with the colour white. White to symbolise the snow, and white to
symbolise my life, hanging by a thread. White too for my thoughts, frozen in
time and incapable of looking into the future.
© Roberto Saviano 2009
Published by arrangement with Roberto Santachiara Literary Agency
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