Christmas is Naples is Coming…
We’ve been training all year for this moment—Christmas. One month, one desire. In Naples, Italy, Christmas is a sport, not some family gathering, pass the string beans. This is a sport of the ancient order—feasting. “My Way” by Frank Sinatra is a Christmas institution. Kick a trash can, slam your hands on the table, and prepare to burst into song. It is your way amongst a nation who feel the same way. We are the team, the audience, the amphitheater itself. Separation is an illusion, and spirit courses through our veins. This is a natural material, not some ethereal concept. Swinging our glasses in the air to La Traviata, we cheer, cry, applaud, and say BRAVO as many times as we say ciao—many.
We end with “brav,” we use “brav” to boost morale from down low because in Naples, it is required that you eliminate the ending of all words.
It is NOT capisco.
Wagging my finger, correctively, this does not mean “I understand” in Naples. It’s capisch—k. You must elbow the consonant at the end of a word, slap it, and let it hang. The end is simply a material to bounce back from. Are words not real? Is sound not real? This is a harsh world. Got a story? Who doesn’t? Next. Intense? We are on a supervolcano. If the volcano in Puzzuoli blows, only this one, it will change the axis of the earth. These are the stakes.
Why do we celebrate Christmas?
To honor the ancestors.
We hit Al Tennis almost daily in Zeus sportswear. Then, we got to Joan’s for pre-lunch cocktails and snacks—bright red. Into the house, Christmas glowing, the TV is on: tennis, soccer, skiing, ice skating, pole vaulting, discus throwing, track and field, pool, formula one, basketball, volleyball…this is all sports for one epic game through the depths of winter. We must make it to spring, we must. Gambling is a Christmas prerequisite. You will not be treated kindly if you do not gamble. You will be rejected. And yes, there is only one way to gamble—with money. Even babies must put in, the eldest baby dragon slamming a 20 on the table, the baby heading under the table to snatch money out of people’s hands. Break the rules, change the rules, what rules? What is this word—rules? These are soft lines, a malleable material. Traffic lights? They flash colors, how extraordinary. Aspirin? You will be judged for making such a request.
We do not talk; we make deals. There is no other way to exchange with a person. It doesn’t matter what you’re talking about—deals. If you cannot converse like this, you will not survive. Scan a palm, a finger, begin to point to the deal on the table, and then say you had a nice time. Then, develop the deal, turning your hands, looking at everyone involved, not involved. Separation, once again, is an illusion. We will gesture with few words but meaning in shades over the deal that was just made, how well you made it, and assure you that the choice you made was yours, “brav,” it will be said, “bravo in Neapolitan.” Brav. In the end, eh beh, next deal. We have no time for the past—it’s over. We are in a drama, which changes genre: in the play, outside of it, commenting on it. Your story is a sport, up for debate. Entertain us. Have a business idea? Let us discuss it. A supernatural experience to share? Now, we’re listening.
In my acid green hoodie, I wake up the house with jumping jacks, Carmine bursting into my room with his mother’s yoga mat from the 70s mat complete with instructions. I do not need a soft material, I say to him, brushing past him. It’s time for round one—Franco Franzese. Holding my breath, avoiding the creaks in this house, I will test Flora’s skills as a mother and Franco Franzese as a urologist. She can detect your footsteps before you make them. Urologists are like Gods here, so the food offerings for dottore Franco pile up on dollies. I am a cousin. I am the target. It is said that “everyone in Naples has a strategy,” and I have mine.
“Corro primo,” I say.
“I run first.”
Luckily for me, a cousin means something here. I have a place, a duty, a responsibility—to represent the family in all external affairs and serve as a necessary outside perspective in internal conflict resolution.
“THESE ARE THE EYES OF SANTA LUCIA…”
I back up, transparently, to exit the framework of his expectations, and hide behind the Christmas tree. Sugar-glazed cookies, I see. I must get to the kitchen—checkpoint. Appearing back-lit between curtains, I lift the Pope’s fingers: round one. In one swift move, I’m under the plate, on the ground, further thwarting Franco out of the confines of what he believes to be possible. I run first. Maria, why are you on the floor? You see? He is confused, forgetting the cookies a second, enough time for me to recuperate my footing. Coming at me at all angles are plates of tiny fried balls of dough with sprinkles, the donut as hard as rock, chocolate diamonds, panettone in the plural: cream of pistachio, orange, pecan, dried fruits, the plain pandoro with powdered sugar, and torta caprese. Emilio’s girlfriend’s tartes are next—apricot this morning. This isn’t food, they say, this isn’t food. Primo corro. And then, I say intensely, which is simply normal, deals will be made. I will open up my hands and land on two thumbs, feeling the weight of them. What did my clown professor teach me? It takes someone very smart to play stupid. It works, and perhaps a touch too well.
“Maria, what’s this act?”
Family. I do not come from this. Family was nothing but problems, a natural disaster over and over again. I don’t want to be adopted, or semi-adopted again, and I can’t quite get over this response when I begin telling my story. I cannot even tell them the full story—this isn’t Christmas material, but in Naples, it was, regardless of what I said and what I didn’t. Vesuvius blows. That’s all he does. Then, the dark days come. Whole cities destroyed. And then, an IMDB credit was randomly added to my name—a Neapolitan film about a girl named Maria who trafficks surrogate mothers…a strange coincidence to fall upon on Mother’s Day, a year after I went through hell over some 5 AM message that seemed to open up a flood of memories or questions I didn’t know I had. But there is a dark version of my story that already exists, I guess. I learned. And, in the end, my parents remain in the dark. This past Sunday, I had a disturbing nightmare again of a particular nature. I woke up at 5:05 AM…it rattled me thinking what it meant about back then. It makes me wonder if the 5 AM message was the same person who added this credit to my page. Who did? Random? Is it all in my head? Paranoia, espionage, suspicion, shady dealings—this is also Naples. I was four years old.
The Neapolitans call me “a little Dante.”
—End, Part I.
