Blogical Conclusion

THE AGE OF NOT-QUITE-INNOCENCE

MAY 31, 2008 - SPRING HAS DESCENDED ON A SEASIDE TOWN in the Italy of Federico Fellini’s nostalgia, in Amarcord – and the Wicked Witch of Winter is about to be set ablaze in a ritual bonfire, which according to a local, is “bigger this year than it was last year.” So the roads to the piazza – the centre of excitement – are dotted with droves of people: the fabulously busty tobacconist who warns her invalid father that he could watch the lighting of the bonfire, then it’s off to bed; the blind accordionist who’s teased by a child who pulls at his cane; the local prostitute who’s quizzed by leering men about the number of customers she’s serviced that day; and a callipygian beauty in red, who prompts a youngster to whisper in awe – to his mates, to us – “Here she is.”

This youngster is a friend of Titta (Bruno Zanin), and “she” is Gradisca (Magali Noël) – the special guest, the star attraction. (“Greta Garbo’s got nothing on you,” goes one of the compliments that comes her way.) “Burn away, oh witch so old / Burn the winter and the cold,” chants the townsman with the unlit torch, and it’s Gradisca he picks to do the honours. “I don’t have a match,” she simpers. “But your beloved has,” exclaims the anonymous man standing nearby. Gradisca accords a smile and accepts his offer. The match is struck, the torch is lit, the bonfire goes up in flames. It rages all night – as children burst firecrackers, as revellers hold hands and scamper around in circles, as the elders sip wine and watch the heat purge the last vestiges of cold.

After a while, the bonfire subsides, now merely piles of soot and stray wisps of smoke. But the fire in Titta’s adolescent loins – ah, that still rages. He goes to church for confession, with his friends of similar age, similarly afflicted by burgeoning adulthood. “Who’s the first?” asks the priest. Titta walks up, with ready answers to the Father’s questions: When was the last time you confessed? (Roundabout Christmas.) Do you go to mass? (Not when I’ve got the mumps.) Do you honour your parents? (Oh, yes.) The priest is suddenly distracted by the ongoing floral arrangement. “Not like that,” he barks. “White flowers on one side, yellow on the other.”

His attention returns to Titta: Do you tell lies? (I have to.) Do you covet what belongs to others? (My pal Bragger’s got a raincoat with a lot of metal buckles…) The priest blows his nose and launches into the final round of questioning. Lowering his voice ever-so-slightly, he asks, “Do you commit impure acts? Do you touch yourself?” Without waiting for Titta’s affirmation – after all, what’s to affirm in a rhetorical question? – he continues, “Do you know Saint Louis cries when you touch yourself?” Titta looks up at a statue of the beatified figure and makes a resolve. “Let him cry. I’m not going to say whether I do, because you’ll only tell Dad.”

Titta remembers the various women who incited acts capable of reducing Saint Louis to heaving, wracking sobs – the tobacconist, “stacked as she is;” the math teacher who “looks just like a lion;” the amply-rumped peasant beauties who seated themselves on bicycles on Saint Anthony’s day, when they gathered for the benediction of their animals; and, of course, Gradisca, last summer, when she walked into the cinema hall alone, when Titta gradually slid his hand up her thigh and when, without missing a beat, she turned and asked if he was looking for anything in particular. “Father Balosa can’t understand such things,” Titta concludes, and mumbles something about touching himself once, just a little, and repenting immediately. The priest gives Titta “three Our Fathers, Hail Mary’s and Glorias,” and – after Titta walks away – proves that he does understand such things. Titta’s friend – the next in line – has barely knelt down, when the priest dryly dismisses him with “three Our Fathers, Hail Mary’s and Glorias.”

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