Vincent Bertolini-Felice / 11.28.24.
The western perceptions of the autumn season fail to apply to Turin. Leaves may fall, colors do change, but this does little to usher in the homey feelings of comradery and tranquil seclusion that suburban America indicates is the status quo.
Call it a cultural void. One may rightfully observe the inextricable tie between modern tradition and capitalism in America and cast judgement. Others identify a post-war shame amongst Italians that contributed to communal identity becoming an afterthought in the Piedmont. However, like most theories of man in addressing phenomena, the rose-tinted lens of an oral tradition and the compulsion for scrupulous empiricism overlooked the matter entirely.
The truth is no one in Turin cares much for the colors. The eccentrics subconsciously met outside more, but the continuous fall of the miscolored leaves only drove the commoners away from the parks or the squares. The attempts to ascribe moral judgment on this phenomenon was lost to this region. The shorter the days were, the less the church bells rang, the earlier the shops closed and despite this, no thought was applied to the matter.
To say no thought was applied is a generalization. The town committees failed to recognize it, and the topic of the public forum was not subverted in any way, but some within Turin unknowingly observed the lack of joy derived from the locals in the fall.
More removed from the decorated piazzas and the peripheral imposition of the cathedrals, the few reside in quaint opulence. No illusion is cast on the masses other than the necessary craning of the workingman’s spine to look upon these domiciles. It is in these momentary glances that the cultural norms of autumn are questioned. In the depths of evening, an ever-fixed star occluding Mount Musine always warrants the disgust of those who spot it.
The frustration is never more than a distaste for the light pollution late into the night or confusion as to why the sporadic flares of conversation can be heard throughout the frigid evenings. The explanation to the permanence of the lights in the quiet periods of the year is because of this cultural void. Americans do little to conform to traditional norms when they are not second nature. When perceived issues of morality are not in question, Americans stick out like a sore thumb. The simple fact that a town may be quiet this time of year is not enough of a deterrent from manifest destiny for Turin.
Hence, the reason the Piedmont has been questioning the unseasonable insomnia and confusion so prevalent amongst those obligated to look upon the hill.
___________
I
A chipped, Garnet, nail drags along the ribbed exterior of the 250’s gear shifter. The tip of the concave nail misses a triangular portion of acrylic no larger than a centimeter. The forced omission of this bit is unnoticeable from more than a few feet away, yet, as the finger slides through the grooves of the aluminum stick, the small chip distorts the smooth whirl of the finger. kdddd- vroop- kdddd- vroop. The instantaneous stutter breaking up the elegant glide of the finger vibrates the skull of the man controlling the shifter.
“Stop nicking my finger.” It was the best excuse to compel the woman to stop continuing that horrid sound.
The woman began to count the innumerable sounds and senses the man could have prioritized over any brief sensation taken from her nail. The cascading gusts of wind across the winding, mountainous roads, the spiraling whoosh of wind occluding ear canals, or even the evident void where a beating heart should reside in the man’s chest.
An imagined particle within the breeze causes a slight wrinkle in the man’s nose. His face is clean shaven, but a hanging portion of his slicked back hair covers up an incoming stubble of sideburn. The idea that one may observe this ungroomed sector would be enough to throw the man in a fit; any hypothetical distraction from his Submariner watch or the finely pressed silk collar of his threaded shirt sunk heavy within the grooves of the boundless trenches of the man’s mind.
“What am I to tell your friends if they ask of my work?”
“Tell them honestly. I do not care.”
“Your work friend would not care that a courtesan is eating in his villa?”
The man waited to reply. He did not hesitate.
“I detest the idea that we are meeting a friend.”
“I believe that is how you addressed him to me earlier.”
“I wouldn’t have. He’s-”
The momentary freeze was not taken to spare the feelings of the person the man described. He feared the idea that he had been so vague and inconsistent with a woman of her standing and dreaded being chastised for something so clear to him.
“He’s a man who helped me earn a lot of money. Nothing more.” The conclusion of this statement coincided with the Ferrari turning into the ceramic tile of a long driveway. Innumerous multicolored polygons lined a winded, uphill stretch concluding in an oak-colored French door, barricading the scents of rich cheeses and nights lost to wine.
The man did not bother to unlatch the ovular handle to the cherry swing door housing his date for the evening. While the women oriented herself to exit the vehicle, the man was proceeding to enter the next phase of the evening, approaching the double doors with a hasty yearning to omit the pleasantries ahead.
“Private!”
“Colonial.”
The chipper fellow welcoming in the guests was a stouter figure than the woman expected. He was described as “the type of capitalist who likely sleeps in a board room”, but the description meant nothing to the woman. She had no knowledge of the common perceptions of American working culture but had less experience dealing with wealthy men who fail to look after themselves. The man explained the nicknames the two shared as a reference to the men’s shared service in Naples during the liberation. She failed to see how a man involved in the liberation could bear more chins than an ox.
“Old worlds are plentiful! Sandra tells me not to call them those here, but I can’t figure out how to say it the right way.” The man struggled to finish the latter half of that sentence before breaking into robust laughter.
“Barolo Tradizionale”
The man and his capitalist, as well as the capitalist’s wife looked over to the woman who had failed to be introduced.
“We in Turin like the Borolos. The... grapes, the grapes are the best. When you speak of the wines you call ‘old world’, we too think of tradition.”
The man raised the bottle in approval with a hearty grin to affirm the gesture.
“My fair lady, I regret not knowing who you are sooner.”
“Giulia. Dominic has paid me for the evening.” Sandra was taken aback at how blunt her description was, but the man was so fixated on her charm, she may as well have introduced herself as Venus and it still would have failed to resonate.
“Richard Frank. This is my wife, Sandra. Sandra’s father sold me this villa a few years ago. I was... uhhhh..... Dom’s boss for a good while before we retired and settled out here.” “Signore Frank. I do not believe I was told, what work is that?” Richard let out a chuckle that shook his stomach.
“Hell it may have been anything the way I remember. My title was Vice President of Global Development at Welsch and Lloydboro. It was the shittiest hedge fund in Manhattan, but they didn’t pay like it!”
Giulia glanced over at Dominic, who was clearly not amused at Richard’s willingness to degrade his work. He looked back at her and attempted to feign a smile that failed to conceal a budding rage indenting itself on the wrinkle free creases of his lips.
_____________
II
The table they dined at barely had enough room to accommodate the plethora of dishes the four dined on. Any expectations Giulia had for the Americans were subverted following a braised lamb reduced in a duo of tang vinaigrettes infused with local produce. By the time coffee saucers lined their settings, Giulia could not fathom another dish.
More than the food, she was surprised at a lack of servants lining the villa. She had spent much time around the hill lying with men who felt the need to isolate themselves in barren wings overlooking nothing simply to avoid running into them. She had seen one woman collecting empty trays and imagined another occasionally seen folding laundry in distant rooms. She was not used to a homely environment amongst those who resided on the hill.
Her fascination with the decadence and culture housed amongst her clients in Turin had originally instilled a fear of saying or acting incorrectly, but the more time she spent upon the hill, the more she felt an imposing sense of confidence that leaked out amongst the Franks.
Her first client upon working in the evenings was a professor at the university. He was an older man widowed in his late thirties who cared to do no more than talk and be heard. He introduced her to Schopenhauer on his second meeting, and by the end of their first month, she was ready to conclude Sartre’s works on early existentialism.
He was a humble man who admitted he planned on leaving everything within the walls of his flat to her upon his passing. The more she saw him, the less she cared about anything he could give her other than his time. As she began to work more and more, she found herself seeking out the refuge of the professor, once hearing him speak at the university.
They met invariably for thirteen months before he passed. The man was an atheist and admitted he dreamed of being buried in a church. He believed that this would have necessitated he was open to the change that he wished he could fathom but ultimately could not in his lifetime. She had persistent dreams of visiting him where he was buried. She did not know where he was buried or who had buried him but lamented never being able to see where he rests.
It wasn’t more than two weeks after his death that she saw her first client on the hill. A rough and angry writer from Madrid who had used his fortune to flee when Franco came to power. She often lied mum on his bed as he slammed away at his typewriter, muttering about characters with no sense of story. He spoke of his hatred for Kafka and other Jews frequently while writing.
“Sin dios, sin dios, todos ellos. El tiempo en mundo quo no tiene la palabra estara crear un cielo vacio.”
“Tu tienes un argumento que presupuesto la palabra estara crear la vida buena en el mundo.”
“¿Que?”
“Si tu crearia un realidad que sirve el cielo solo, no habria vivido la vida buena en el mundo.”
By the time the writer perceived he was being challenged he slapped her. He would do it again almost as a shock reaction.
Despite her existent fears about speaking up essentially being reaffirmed through this physical bout, she felt more assured in her action than she could previously fathom. She felt as if she had observed a primal reaction that existed to a greater degree amongst those on the hill, a fundamental inability to accept the shortcomings of what their mind could believe.
It would not be her last time being struck, but it was her first of many experiences with the response to the challenge posed by the woman they handsomely rewarded to ravish for a night.
She was consumed in the moment by this odd pleasure taken in the animal mechanisms of the societal recluses and wished to test this out on someone so seemingly asinine as Richard. She had decided against it a while ago consciously, not wishing to impose this in a new setting. However, the thrill of her subconscious paired with the seemingly endless flow of deep reds had this sensual pleasure, the animal sickness in her head.
The moment presented itself naturally when conversation drifted onto the recent wave of liberation amongst British colonies in Africa.
“The way I see it, Darwin was spot on! To culturally degrade those smart enough to innovate and create opposes the values of Bacon. We are put on this earth equal to create, to conquer, and to govern, but those who happen to do it best are treated as villains when they expand their jurisdiction.”
Richard provided this nuanced perspective as if it were a revelation entirely unique to his inner mechanisms.
“Absolutely.”
Dominic attempted to emphasize his point through an assertive and dictatorial tone that would solidify himself as someone knowledgeable enough on this topic to confirm a quality opinion.
“What gives them this justification?”
“Darwin!” Giulia could not differentiate Richard’s laughs. It was equally plausible they were indicative of a hidden superiority complex or of a love for conversation and those who comprised the occasion.
“Darwin’s theories of animal evolution?”
She sounded almost French in her pronunciation of evolution. Dominic felt the need to interject to shut her down from being too mouthy in this setting he did not care for.
“The theories may have been observations of animal instinct. But to deny their value in explaining the character of humans is as ignorant as to deny humans are animals!”
“You continue to explain the what without explaining the why?”
“Please explain this." Giulia read this reply from Richard as a genuine inquisition and not an attempt to trap her in some fallacious form of thought.
“The form of this action by those in power to expand their power on those weaker is the what. It is what occurred. To call this the why is the ignorance. What authority gives them the justice to act on this?”
Giulia worried the small gaps in semantics had caused them to fundamentally misunderstand the content of her perspective.
“Christ. I can’t even piece together what the hell it is you’re saying. Are you trying to die on this feeble cross that the British are some sort of cartoon villains?”
The delivery of this message did not convey to Giulia that she was misunderstood. Rather she came to understand more about the character of Dominic from his reactionary attempt to diagnose an issue into a value judgment.
“Reducing governance to simply who can do what indicates the only way to go about things is by those who are strong enough to act ruling all.”
“And you are cynical enough to believe that is not how things have always functioned?”
“The issue is not how things work. It is in how they ought to function. If you excuse all who act unjustly as those simply expressing their power, you have no idea about what is good.”
“How would you define good in this context then?” Dominic was bordering on the accusatory, gesturing over towards Richard as if to affirm the absurdity of her statement.
“Locke believed that governance could only happen through the consent of the masses. The willingness to rule is no greater a burden that the acceptance that one may be ruled. Dostoevsky believed to be ruled by an objective leader is an ‘awesome fate’. When one does not have the consent or acts in fairness, it is hard to believe that anyone from that situation has the right to rule.”
Richard heard a passing reference to Dostoevsky and attempted to orient himself towards the idea that anyone may hold skeptic or passing beliefs towards the vogue ideals of capital Christianity.
“Dostoevsky? Would I be mistaken to identify you as a Christian?”
“To call me a Christian is to call the ocean a large puddle-”
“Yet you choose to quote Dostoevsky as the arbitrator of truth?”
This interruption was not done out of Dominic’s malice. It was done in an attempt to solidify a thought he could not fully verbalize about the woman he chose as his dinner guest.
“Ignoring what is good about Dostoevsky is no different than calling Jesus Satan. It falls victim to one fallacy above the others.”
“Picking and choosing is a philosophy for the weak.”
“Maybe. Is authoritarian thought any better?”
“I believe faith is a virtue.”
“It may be. But that does not excuse failing to accept merit when you see it.”
“Why would you settle for mediocrity when everything is explained?”
“Is it?”
“It is.”
“You are confident in what you know.”
“I am confident in the extent of what I follow.”
“You speak as if you have seen the world twice over and only know what you already believed.”
It was in this instance Sandra felt the need to interject with a moment of peacemaking intended to appeal to the peacefully ignorant aspect of the human mind.
“I don’t get why we concern ourselves with matters that don’t concern us. Everything’ll sort itself out.”
Sandra’s wishes to highlight the inherent gap of ignorance between enlightenment and the essence of humanity would have tracked if not for the wishes of the ego to be brought to light in any context. This would not be the case if the men in this situation believed it was OK to not know everything, and Giulia was not bright enough to realize spineless pandering.
“The assumption the universe is self-governing ignores the heart of man to pursue what the heart wants above all else.”
Dominic, who instances ago, would not have cared for Sandra if it did not impose on the perspective truly held by himself.
“Do you think you are fit to deal in the absolutes of this earth.”
“To call situational knowledge an absolute is to deny contextual truth with worldly truth.”
“Schopenhauer reborn, I guess!”
“I think you know little of the man you speak of if you call my statement incorrect. The possibility that I may say something objectively true is not obligated to indicate anything more than I recognize a true statement when I see it.”
The recognition of the knowledge of this prostitute silenced the room to a greater degree than Giulia believed was conceivable. She was utterly stunned at the fact a room of adults claiming to be so versed on the workings of the world were suppressed by a woman who had never left a region of her homeland. To see the world and to leave with no greater conclusions than what was started was as hilarious and cruel a fate than never being able to see a world beyond what is in front of a person.
Dominic was seething at this perceived embarrassment. If Sandra could fathom the situation, her traditional worldview would likely be shattered to the point of an existential crisis. If Giulia could understand the immense empathy behind Richard’s eyes, her perspective on the inability for some to grow would be challenged. The rage behind Domnic was borderline unconcealable. The loose straddling of his fork above the sparse remains of a forgettable dessert indicated an unrest beyond what could be physically manifested.
“Giulia, I’m sure you can attest to how lovely the art is in Turin.”
“The exhibits held locally are excellent.”
“Oh I mean beyond that! Isn’t it true Michaelangelo spent time around here to encourage him for his works in the Sistine Chapel.”
“I could believe it.”
The need to interject and diminish what was left of the confident woman of the night had consumed Dominic to the degree he could not filter himself beyond the instantaneous need to cripple some intellect.
“Turin is no different than Piedmont, Italy, Alpinessee, Germany, or Countryside, France. Call this country beautiful and I’ll raise you a nation that makes this region look like ash.” Giulia knew the recognition of how this statement sounded would make itself known to Dominic.
“Dom, I know the Borolo is fantastic, but I did not know how strong it was.”
Richard recognized how the statement could be construed as a criticism and lamented the fact he failed to imply any humor beyond the words stated.
“No bother Richard. I hope we are able to continue to share these occasions. I agree with your sentiment on the wines. I should be leaving soon.”
Despite failing to speak in pluralities, Dominic assumed Giulia would comply with his single first-person tense and take orders. Due to the obligation of her profession, she would choose to follow him in his pleasantries leaving the villa. She was struck with air crisper than she remembered. She knew not if the stark contrast between the interior and the cool embrace of autumn was a reflection of the Americans or her comfort in a variety of situations, yet she failed to care. That contrast was not lost to her as the open-air blast from the Ferrari 250 would compel her to alertness with every turn throughout the hill.
There was a plethora of routes that could be taken to the piazza that the pair met at and was the agreed upon drop off location, yet the route taken was not one that would lead them to that spot. Rather than pushing further uphill to congregate closer to the stars and amongst the starlets, the two plateaued in their height, moving laterally to an observation spot less than a mile from the villa they spent the evening at.
The GT rattled to silence in a spot comfortably caressing a dimmed shade from a shroud of birch trees failing to fully obstruct the moonlight. Before the engine fully terminated, Dominic was out of the vehicle pacing aggressively, kicking up the frigid dirt over one suede shoe and across the other. Giulia threw her arms up, not in protest, but in questioning his haste to exit the vehicle and ponder his next decision.
“Smoke. I fucking need it.”
Giulia nodded along in approval, she quietly wished he would offer her the courtesy he was so willing to extend to himself, but did not expect it.
“Please don’t make me smoke alone. It’s the only thing I hate more than looking stupid.” Giulia considered apologizing as she exited the Enzo. She did not regret her actions but feared she had been conditioned to her environment and was often necessitated to make her knowledge known for the sake of self-preservation.
“It is nice we can share this together.”
Dominic embraced this with a wry smile, as if to acknowledge defeat in a bout Giulia did not know she was participating in. She considered it close enough to apology to make her message known.
The duo shared a quiet acknowledgement of the chirp of crickets but failed to verbalize how surprised they were by the sound. It was the first thing they agreed on since she entered the vehicle. Giulia wished they could share a laugh without the attachment that had been established through an unfortunate series of elementary disputes.
“Orion there.”
Dominic spoke as if he prayed she would look up. It was uncertain if he simply needed acknowledgement that he was right about something or if he simply wished to enlighten Giulia to something she may or may not have been aware of.
Every step she took to view the miracle of the skies was omitted, the closer she stepped to the ledge of the point, the further she feared she may fall down.
She need not worry about such frivolous fears. Well, such fears that do not exist beyond her nape. Small and fragile twigs made their presence known from spine to artery. Their loving touch progressively losing its affection and growing a disconnect bringing the pair closer and closer to degradation than before. The stars and the touch so pressing it could do nothing but bring the woman to her knees, failing to even look at the figure who showed her such beauty as before. The subtle, soft moonlights left her eyes, and drew closer to the less cold, more welcoming embrace of the ground. The man so kind as to ensure her clavicle was warmed as her body began to freeze.
In the waning moments in which her breath stopped and her eyes welled, she became entranced by the beauty in front of her. Her glance passed the stars and became the dirt.
The dirt was more pressing a perspective than anything else Giulia’s fleeting mind could stand to look. The winces and cracks from the hand failed to impart the pain onto their victim. As the Ferrari sped off in the night, it would only have provided the man more anger if he knew in her final moments, Giulia could only fathom the beauty her mind conjured in those final moments. From dirt to dirt, she was never polluted by those who could not see the beauty so plentiful to those who sought. Try as he may, the man was left confined to the ignorance the woman tried to free him from.
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