“What has happened?” – “There was a gas explosion next door in the salumeria. Now, Doctor Noviello is selling his flat.” – “Rompiscatole, what am I going to do with this box?”
One day, about a year prior to this conversation in front of some scaffolding in via Carulli, two boys were on their way to Doctor Noviello’s flat. Between them, they were dragging a suitcase across the busy road up by the San Giuseppe Church when a Vespa pulled up onto the pavement. The boys, out of alarm, dropped their case. With them was an older man, who called out:
“Boys, watch your backs.”
This was the famous Doctor Amir formerly of Gaza City, who now worked as a dental assistant.
Doctor Amir came round behind one of the boys and picked up a boot that had fallen out of his rucksack… “They’ll steal these boots if you’re not careful,” he said. “They’ll steal their own mother’s boots.”
As they went on their way, Doctor Amir was still counselling the two boys:
“Another thing you must remember, boys. Italians are not always on time. In fact, I would say they are not the best of timekeepers, which of course does not mean to say you should not be on time. You must be on time, even if they are not on time.”
As if to prove the point, when Doctor Amir rang the bell, Doctor Noviello was not at home.
Dr Amir rang the bell a second time. He took his phone out of his pocket and dialled Doctor Noviello’s number… Ah, they were in luck. A friend of Doctor Noviello, another doctor who lives in the same building as Doctor Noviello, could let them in.
Doctor Moro, who lived in the flat below Doctor Noviello, could not have been more kind. He invited them into his flat and offered them a coffee. While they waited for Doctor Noviello, he engaged them in conversation. Usually it was Marco, as opposed to Hamid, who answered; Doctor Moro could not have been more impressed. “Marco,” he said, turning and winking at Doctor Amir, “speaks our language better than my giddy aunt.”
“You are very kind, Doctor Moro,” said Marco, who was easily flattered. “My Italian is very poor. It will improve with your help.”
“Mo’, guaion’ , che si dic’?” (Mate, what’s up?)
“Rompiscatole, che fai?” (Box breaker, what you doin’?)
Doctor Noviello, who was a rather small man, was holding a rather large box. They shook hands all round.
“O’, ragazzi, ma chin’.” (Boys, let’s go!)
Still holding onto his box, Doctor Noviello took them up to his flat and into a room full of yet more boxes.
“Aspe’! Dobbiamo spostare tutti questi rompiscatole!” (Lit. Wait! We got to move all these ball breaking boxes!)
Before they could move in, the boys had to move the boxes out of the room into another room which also turned out to be full of boxes. And yet, Doctor Noviello could not have been more kind.
“Ragazzi, siete molto gentili! – Non dimenticare di chuidere il gas!” (Boys, you are very kind! – Don’t forget to turn off the gas!)
The following day Dr Noviello took the boys along to the Questura to organise their permessi. Dr Noviello, who was on intimate terms with the clerk, fixed everything up and showed them how to fill in the “quiz”. The clerk gave them a chit (pezzo di carta) they were to produce when they came back for their permessi.
On the way home they stopped off at the market and bought some cozze (mussels) and datteri (dates). Doctor Noviello prepared lunch (PRAN-zo) in honour of his new guests (ospiti). He invited Doctor Moro and his girlfriend, his amic-A, Marika and of course Dr Amir. Doctor Noviello cooked spaghetti (al dente) with mussels and dates. The dates were a special treat “a-bus-I-vo” for his guests. Marika had made a cream cake (pan di Spagna), and Doctor Moro brought some wine (pri-mi-TI-vo).
In the evening Doctor Amir took the boys off to the mosque in the cellar on the other side of the city. Dr Amir knew of a shop where they sold flour (farina) and sesame seed paste (crema di semi di sesame). The boys made some unleavened bread (pane sensa lievito) and hummus; even Hamid began to feel better about life.
The boys soon settled down and went to lectures at the medicine faculty. Sometimes they went to lunch at Doctor Amir’s flat and tasted his wife’s rice (RI-zo). They settled into a routine, studying together and going to the mosque in the cellar. They made their unleavened bread and hummus. On one occasion, they were invited down to Doctor Moro’s flat. Doctor Moro cooked them risotto with seafood: clams (von-GO -le) and baby prawns (gamberetti). Although they ate it, neither Hamid nor Marco really liked the way he had done the rizo. Doctor Noviello was often busy – either moving boxes or making long distance phone calls to a lady (Signora Rompiscatole) in New York (regarding the contents of his boxes). He found time to take care of Doctor Amir’s parking fine (multa) and sort the chit of their permessi with his friend the clerk.
In the context of such kindness (gentilezza!) the months passed. One day the boys were studying in their room in the flat; Marco began to sing a song. It was an old song sung by his mother. (Marco was not nostalgic in a sad way but merely happy at the thought of his childhood among the olive groves by the sea). Hamid could contain himself no more. “Why are you singing that song?”
“Don’t you like my singing?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t like your singing. It’s getting on my nerves… Mi fai incazzare.”
“Doctor Noviello likes my singing…”
Marco began to wax about the evening when they had all been singing those Neapolitan love songs: Napule’, I so pazz’, Te voglio bene assaje, L’ammore ca’nun vene… Marco had sung a lullaby (ninna nanna) and he had tried to teach Doctor Noviello the words.
“Why do you call him a doctor? His name is Noviello. Signor Noviello.”
“Everyone in this country is a doctor. Soon we will become doctors.”
An argument broke out between the two friends. “Anyway, why do you call yourself Marco? Your name is not Marco. Your name is Marik.”
Marco wrinkled his brow. “Italians don’t understand Arab names,” he said. “I give myself a new name. What of it!”
Tempers frayed. Hamid accused Marco of making eyes at Doctor Moro’s girlfriend. Marco accused Hamid of accusing him of such dishonourable behaviour. Hamid cursed Italy and declared he was leaving. “I do not want to stay here anymore,” he said. “Italy is a heathen place.”
“Italy is not a heathen place,” said Marco. “It is heavenly.”
To annoy Hamid, he broke into heavenly song. Hamid got up to leave. “Where are you going?”
“Well,” said Hamid. “It’s time to go to the cellar.”
Marco refused to accompany him; instead, he sat in the room studying to be a doctor. What’s more, a kind, Italian doctor. – Not a cruel, Arab doctor like Hamid.
Shortly after this, Doctor Amir came over to see what all the fuss was about.
“Why does he want to leave? – I told him Italy is a beautiful country. His future is here. He won’t listen to me, Doctor Amir.”
Although he could see it was going to be an uphill struggle trying to keep the peace, Doctor Amir gave what he thought was a rather fine speech all about kindness, gentility and the Hippocratic Oath. None of these arguments, however, seemed to hold much water with Hamid; his mind was made up. He was going to get the slow boat home.
Neither Dr Amir nor Dr Noviello could make it to the ferry; Dr Moro very kindly offered to drive the boys down to the port.
As he picked his bag off the back seat, Hamid, one could tell, was dragging his feet. He turned to Doctor Moro, who slapped him on the back. “Bravo, ragazzo!” (Nice one, mate!)
Thanking Doctor Moro for his kindness, Hamid began to extemporize on the feelings of his heart. One day, God willing, he would return to Italy. “Italy,” he said, “was a country like no other.”
In the middle of this speech, Marco winked at Doctor Moro who turned away to light his cigarette; the estranged friends embraced.
“I told you,” Marco said on the way home, “he is going to come back to become a doctor.”
One evening, not long after this, in need of assistance regarding the boxes double-parked in his car below, Doctor Noviello knocked on Marco’s bedroom door. The room was in darkness and he turned on the light. – “Marco, che c’e?” (What’s going on?) “Rompiscatole!”
Marco was lying on his bed, with his face to the wall.
No amount of kindness on Doctor Noviello’s part could change the fact a bomb had exploded in his hometown.