Chapter Text
Do you believe in fate? In superstition? Sometimes it’s hard to find a foundation for certain things, but there’s a city where the sun shines upon its sea. There’s a city in Italy where believing in these things is in every resident's blood.
The curtain rises, Pulcinella comes on stage to present the most beautiful of villages, the most sumptuous and glittering of tapestries. Welcome to Naples!
The sea breeze scented all of the Posillipo neighborhood, and that day, Vesuvius appeared like a ship on the distant horizon. The ciociara of the Neapolitan people echoed throughout the area, gently reverberating across the gulf of the city, also serenading the islands of Capri, Ischia, and Procida.
Bruno Bucciarati had just stepped out of his white Seicento, shaking himself off as he passed the battered car door, to admire the living painting materializing before his eyes. Historic villas, gardens, and artfully adorned terraces cascaded toward the coast like waves chasing the shore.
He had parked the car, naturally in double file, already used to not caring about the fines that were left like love poems between the windshield wipers and the car's windshield.
The scent of an almost surreal tranquility, so different from the rest of the city, the tree-lined streets, and that residential, luxurious atmosphere made the blue waves, sparkling in the iridescent crystals of the young man’s gaze, seem like a dream.
Nearby was the Parco Virgiliano, a place dear to Bruno, filled with memories from years ago with his father.
The hidden beaches and coves, the constant rhythm of the waves, offered corners of crystal-clear sea that could capture any thought, freezing it in time, now and forever.
The sun of that autumn, which had arrived with such gentle calm, warmed the light breeze; the clouds had dissipated after a long morning rain, and the smell of coffee filled the young man’s nose. With nonchalance and a childlike grin on his lips, he headed to his favorite bar for his daily prize: a well-deserved breakfast.
Bruno was a young man who radiated the unique light of a frozen sun inside. Bruno was a young man whose childhood had been stolen too soon, constantly protecting the small, scared version of himself from the world.
His wasn’t exactly a job, but in order to survive in a forest of wolves, you are forced to become a wolf too.
Even if he was a good wolf. He was good.
Polpo, the regime leader of the organization that controlled Naples, had given him another small job. After bigger things, something simple was needed to relax, even though with a role like his, there’s never any real relaxation.
When you're part of the mafia, whether you like it or not, you have to constantly play with fire, hoping never to get burned; you have to smile like the joker on a poker card and be ready to wear the theatrical mask of Pulcinella to never be defeated.
And if you get burned? What happens?
Nothing.
The curtain falls. A bow. And yet another Eduardo De Filippo play comes to a close.
Bruno loved Neapolitan theater, and Eduardo reminded him a bit of himself.
Sometimes he felt like he was in Ditegli sempre di sì, where the protagonist, Michele, would say: "I’m mad, but the others… what are they? Aren’t they even madder than I am?"
And yes, Bruno felt like a fool, but the kind Erasmus of Rotterdam described, one who has madness in his blood, but not the same madness as everyone else. He was mad precisely because he was different from everyone else.
But he knew that his life was more like that of Antonio Barracano, the protagonist of Il sindaco del Rione Sanità, because “justice is like a net with wide holes: the big fish pass through, and the little fish get caught.”
The young man was walking with his hands in his white suit, heading toward "Chalet delle Rose," the bar where he usually had breakfast, to collect the part of the protection money that belonged to his faction. It was such a peaceful Sunday, a Sunday that didn’t feel like a Sunday. A day that made him feel small.
Laughter, happy families, a beautiful child with an ice cream, and there he was, feeling like a spectator.
“Maybe… some people are born with a different role. And what role do I have in this world?”
He had been asking himself that often lately, but he never managed to answer.
Fortunately, where he lived, there were many young men like him, with the same smile dimmed by hunger and a past only they knew.
Small, but large, they were like a sort of Neapolitan ragazzi della via Pal. They were just boys.
He made a face at the sky and thought that maybe, once home, he would cook something for himself, in that house now empty for two years. He would make pasta with potatoes and provola, just like his father used to.
Curtain. Yes, Dad.
“Buongiorno, Ciro! I’ll have the usual! A decaf cappuccino and this time, a chocolate-filled bombolone!” He approached the counter, extending his hand, and in the fake silence of “everyone knows, but no one talks,” the owner handed him some money that Bruno promptly stashed in his suit before two policemen walked in to enjoy a coffee before starting their patrol shift.
“Giovanotto, are you eating at the counter or sitting down?” Ciro asked, as he prepared the cappuccino, more white than dark, and handed him the pastry to go with his cappuccino. Despite everything, he had grown fond of the boy’s eyes, forced to live like that.
“No, no… I’ll stay here. I’ll keep the cops company!” He gave a mischievous smile, trying to hide the money he had just stashed in the inside pocket of his suit.
“Buongiorno, Gennà, I’m so tired today. Why do we have to hand out tickets like traffic wardens on a Sunday? I could have stayed in bed after last night, but instead, I’m here.”
Said the younger officer as he rubbed his sleepy eyes.
“Leone, you know it’s because you’re new to the police force. Unfortunately, that’s how it works! Come on, have a coffee, and you’ll wake up.”
Replied Gennaro, who had seven more years of experience.
Leone was twenty and living his dream of becoming a cop; he was approaching twenty-one, which he’d turn in March, but he already seemed like a sixty-year-old on the verge of retirement.
Bruno was amused by the younger cop’s attitude and enjoyed his cappuccino, chuckling to himself.
“Come on, sbirro, the day is long. I’ll treat you to a coffee. Hey, Gennaro!” He waved and took a bite of the bombolone.
“But excuse me, who the hell is this guy? How does he know you? And besides, who are you!? You talk to the cops like that?” Grunted Leone, frowning in disapproval at life.
“Hey, Bruno!” Gennaro greeted him before turning to Leone: “That one’s a sly fox. Definitely slyer than you. Everybody knows him, and you’re the fool who never knows anything.” He gave a bitter smile.
“Don’t keep things from me. How the hell should I know? It’s already a miracle I woke up today. In fact, why the hell did I even open my eyes this morning?” Leone muttered through gritted teeth.
“Bruno Bucciarati,” Bruno said with a hand full of sugar and a chocolate-smeared mouth. “I came to collect my paycheck, what’s the problem? You know, Gennaro, I’m a pure and chaste angel.”
“I’m Leone Abbacchio,” replied Leone, shaking his hand and ending up covered in sugar. “At least clean yourself up, walking around like that.” He grabbed a napkin and stuck it to Bruno’s face with his usual love for life.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Leo? He’s one of Polpo’s ‘friends,’” Gennaro said, alluding to the fact that Bruno was a mafioso. So the police knew his role? And why wasn’t he behind bars if they clearly knew what he was up to? Because you can imply many things, but without proof, you can’t throw someone in jail, and Polpo was excellent at making his subordinates do things in broad daylight without leaving a trace.
In fact, the police weren’t that different from the mafia, and Leone hadn’t realized it yet. Leone still lived with the fixed dream that he would bring justice and that the law was the most important thing. But the truth was different, and in their department, there were people who, to make some extra money, associated with the same thugs hired by Polpo.
"Ah, one of Polpo’s friends… I’m not afraid of you. I’m not scared to tell you that you disgust me," Leone replied, carried away by his enormous sense of justice.
"And to think I wanted to tell you that you have a nice face. That purple really suits you, you know? Keep your watchdog on a leash, Gennà," Bruno continued, while wiping his mouth with a napkin and finishing his cappuccino.
"I’ll send you to the station for insulting a public officer, you asshole!" Bruno made a disappointed face.
"Look, I’m trying to be friendly. Your breakfast is paid for. I already settled it with Ciro," Bruno tried to make a cute face to avoid being scolded further, then said with puppy eyes, "That way I start paying back all the fines you’ve given to my poor busted-up Seicento."
"There’s no need, we’ve got clean money," Leone huffed.
"Come on, poliziò, Gennaro is my friend. He likes me, don’t you, Gennà?" Bruno smiled again and leaned closer to Leone. "Next time you’ll treat me, okay? Since you’ve got clean money, you’ll take me out for pizza, the one with the stuffed crust." Inside, Bruno was pleased that in front of him was a guy who believed so strongly in his ideals. He had matured too fast and maybe didn’t believe in anything anymore. Leone was a potential enemy, but Bruno wasn’t worried because "poliziò" had made a good impression on him right away.
"You bark, but you don’t bite, do you?" He moved closer to place a hand on Leone’s face. "You’ve got your lipstick smudged, poliziò, like this you won’t impress the right girls. With your build, you must have a line waiting for you. Bye, poliziò, next time don’t get mad at me, you promised me pizza, eh!"
Bruno kept that enigmatic smile until the door of the bar closed behind him.
"I… I didn’t promise you anything," Leone finished, but the door was already closed, and Bruno had slipped away. So, maybe there would be a next time, because a promise is a promise.
"That guy immediately walked all over you, huh. I haven’t seen justice in this country for years, and sometimes I wonder if it ever existed. What are we even doing here? But at least he’s funny…" Gennaro took his coffee cup and started sipping, feeling a bitterness in his mouth, and this time it wasn’t the usual taste of coffee.
"For you, a coffee and a dark chocolate croissant," Ciro said to Abbacchio.
"A croissant even… Leone Abbacchio getting treated to coffee and a croissant by a shady character. Flirting with the thugs now? Didn’t think you were such a sucker," Gennaro laughed, then hid his lips in the creamy foam of the coffee.
Leone frowned and averted his gaze at this unexpected "caffè sospeso."