Rosa called it “Christmas in Naples is a Sport” holding a killer hand of cards between burgundy nails on the 25th of dicembre also known as MEAT. She was gambling at the time, her lips the stance. The dinner table became a musical casino in my absence, I see. Standing at the bottom of the steps, I didn’t even make it through the meal. And hardly anyone does.
*
Earlier, as the car ascended into the cliffs of Sorrento at a sharp left, I asked Carmine, in pain, if he was even hungry. Giggino blasted noise at Emilio, his youngest born. His owl eyes shifted. “This is not the point.” Giggino started interrupting our conversation. Carmine did not lose his cool, he did not break, he never does. I wasn’t going to make it, Carmine, I wasn’t going to make it. “MARIA?” “Survival is not the point,” he wagged his finger, instructionally. “MARIA?” “You cannot survive Christmas.” “MA SCUSA…”
“This is not the point.”
Funiculi funicula! on the stereo.
I saw not one but two lasagnas descend from the heavens up above—bianca e rosa or white and red — with bechamel, even, that move blew me away, with fresh mozzarella and fior di latte, nutmeg, and then, of course, tomatoes cheese and meat. We were at “Il Secondo Round,” Carmine told me, as if we were at a boxing match, also known as MEAT. The lasagne took up the whole plate, even at a slight incline — right to the edge. Blew me away. I had eaten 20 courses of FISH the night before at “Il Primo Round,” Carmine said, so I didn’t know that we would be feasting today as well—at noon. I didn’t know, at the outset, that Christmas in Naples was a sport, a real sport, even impressively. There was no way I was going to be able to do this, and we were nowhere near the end of the meal. I had already eaten several, still on the pasta course.
You see, the tricky thing about Christmas in Naples is that the appetizers fool you into thinking that this is all there is, except that’s not true, there’s always more, we’re always giving more. That’s the sports mindset. We get what the goal is: abundance. The end, that’s just a chance to reach immortality. As Vico says, “marathon was a man.”
I could feel the darkness descending, getting up from the table, I lost my ability to construct sentences, operate, by the end of the first act. People were clapping, bravo was firing like canons…along with questions, comments, and reservations. “OLE OLE OLE OLE! I saw DIEGO MARADONA!”
I had eaten for at least three weeks straight, fearfully, but I lost my nerve in a bustling kitchen brimming over with talented boisterous girls buzzing around Assunta in lipstick and chunky jewelry, chic in navy. I didn’t want them to think that I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t going to be able…
Long behold, if not “hark,” Giggino was sitting right in front of me, my main antagonist, my personal coach through the season, my comedic foil, the father who dared to confront this absurd story I came back with after a long disappearance. “You don’t like it?” He asked, right on cue. The chandelier of glass tulips was swirling. The darkness was coming. “What’d she say?” Please, please, do not attract any attention to me. He did.
When the roasted meats hit the table, one stuffed with prosciutto, the darkness descended, I had fever, it was done. I had no more space, literally, within me to think, I shot up upon sight — left — didn’t even say goodbye. Up the tight squat staircase reminiscent of the Bolero print on the wall along with family portraits, I barely reached Rosa’s room upstairs. I fell flat on her bed, cheek squished against the sheets, forehead damp. Passed out.
There’s a print in Assunta’s staircase, before I forget, the cutest person, of a sensually plump woman smoking a long thin pipe, very fine, high art.
My mother gave me to a total stranger when I was four, except, that’s not really the topic sentence of my life: my mother wrapped up a stranger in a protective scheme against my father who she accused of being a child rapist when I was four. That sentence alone: a meaty, hefty content block to digest, an animal. Her name was Joy.
I woke up in the dark to a family singing and laughing. I was in pain, truly, I was about three weeks telling them this epic of what happened to me from that point onward at Christmas which I had not anticipated. Emma made me laugh through the hazy heaviness. I needed effervescent aspirin now.
I tried to come early, “il PRIMO DICEMBRE,” I fired at Giggino on the phone back in Paris a few months prior. My story didn’t go with Christmas, so I decided to go early. I knew the questions were coming. “The first December,” I said. “I COME THE FIRST DECEMBER.” Little did I know, though, that Christmas in Naples is a sport, it typically begins round then. “After summer we are free to put up the decorations,” my friend Marco said, as I even dabbled in a bit of journalism, by investigating the sport. He clarified over octopus and his mother Teresa’s adoring gaze, that “Christmas doesn’t really end… there is no end…”
The 25th of December? Players start going down on this day—it’s a bloodbath, a double feature, and we must, we must, rise again — we must, despite the obstacles. That’s why we watch sports. But could I? Make it through? Alive? With this story in tow — the story was an obstacle course. I could not help that I had it, unable to move.
Yeah, I got really into “the sport” of Christmas here because it was true beyond my wildest dreams, forget my feelings — the Christmas warmth I felt, at the miracle that I lived, over the course of this spectacular season. They rose to their feet, once again, to applaud and cheer beneath my body. Perfect timing. Bravo. Brav. That’s “bravo” in the Neapolitan dialect. We don’t do ending — we elbow that shit right off — it isn’t round or soft here, we’re not those types of Italians, we’re boisterous and HARSH.
Out of bed, head like a wet brick, stomach on emergency closure, my fever had broken a little. I couldn’t see a thing next to her shelves of family photographs, only a multicolored light around the edge of the door. Was I hallucinating? A little. I took a deep breath. I had to pump myself up that evening—Christmas. Putting it in my hips, lightly, I remembered her, though I was tighter back then. I never knew what to do with her.
She was from Brazil, the unsuspecting stranger who got wrapped up in a sex scandal over a four-year-old. Me. We were always dancing. She was. Love, love, love, life was a dance, she danced through life, space, that was her way.
Down the steps, the sounds grew louder and moved in waves of warm colors, my stomach, too. I tip-toed, not like I needed to. The glass reflected bodies in a blurry Caravaggio behind Vico, the family dealer, singing and selling cards. Dessert round had been cleared, the dining table freshened up with fresh clementines from the farm in a field of liquors: Grappa di Chardonnay, Sambucas, Barricata Privata, Pantelleria, Genziana, frosty strawberry, cherry, blueberry, orange, limoncello (for shits), walnut, laurel, and a box that read: in life, in everything that you do, no matter what it is, put your heart in it.
“Maruzzella!” They announced my return as Assunta, the cutest person, put down a plate of fruit as if it were just, another plate, unassumingly.
Vico held up cards for auction. His nieces and nephews taunted him by tapping their wallets and getting sneaky and manipulative. Rosa counted cash in a Christmas white sweater with a bullish hot confidence. The baby dragons, Gennaro and Persephone’s three boys, were flying around. The eldest, Frankie, as in Frank Sinatra, slapped a twenty on the table, and baby Marco was crawling underneath the table, his little hand appearing over the edge of the table from time to time trying to snatch bills from his family’s hands. And the beauty of it? Nobody cared. They didn’t even notice. They’re just twisting their wrists, carrying on with their conversations because, well, let me put it this way: Silent Night? Not happening here. This is the time for anthems— these are the big leagues round here: Christmas. We’re singing “My Way” by Frank Sinatra, you see. Remember the goal: immortality. The end is just a chance to reach it. Bravo. And I’m not even joking, it’s really like that here. Remember the siren, we trace our origins back to the siren that attempted to lure Odysseus.
I collapsed into a chair next to Rosa with a killer hand of cards between burgundy nails — the star gambler in the family— as if I had washed back up to shore. Nettuno as in Neptune was barking — one with the darkness outside the glass doors reflecting the crowd. A black pup with floppy ears, he insisted to be let in. He broke off the leash again. In a perfect trio, women broke out from the chorus and fired “Neptune” in a cascade, as, by God, the Neapolitans naturally and even instinctually become a Greek chorus when they are in groups: they are truly one and also one body. This is what I mean: they inspired me to desire to become the Bugs Bunny conductor — conducting the symphony of them — a Greek play, classic, yes, but Aristophanes. We do all have our point of view.
Bills tucked under rocks glasses and flutes, their tips caught the light from the tulip chandelier. They appeared to be gambling with tarot cards: a distant cousin of the pack. Vico was in the center of it, the dining now gambling table as the singing dealer, eyes glittering. I was underwater. I needed aspirin. Vico and Giggino shut it down. No, I didn’t. Gennaro appeared, or Hades, as I like to call him, with eyes like green laser beams: you will be judged for making such a request. I was dismissed. I did, though; no, they said outright. “No you don’t.” They ignored me. Could I go to the farmacia tomorrow? The farmacia? It’s the FEAST of la la la la…
Excuse me? I flashed them eyes.
“A FEAST DAY, TOMORROW, SANTO…” Now that, that right there, space warped into some light show — was I hearing things?! I was not expecting that! “SANTO WHAT?” My eyes CRAZY. “WHAT?” Giggino looked away like “seriously?”
“It’s a FEAST DAY TOMORROW MARIA — THE FEAST OF SANTO STEFANO…”
“CAFÉ!” Emma cried with her grandmother’s silver tray.
Rosa checked me out with cards in hand, her lips the stance: my face of shock, confusion, fear… Another festa? I looked at the cash in a pile on the table, Frankie slapping down bills. “It’s true, Meri, it’s really true,” Rosa said in full-featured agreement. “Christmas in Naples is a sport. A real sport…” And that’s when I saw the light break, “yes, Rosa, yes… it is, it’s a sport,” I knew it all along, my eyes desperate to be seen.
“Si Meri,” she said, “a real sport.”
Suddenly full of hope, beaming with recognition, I knew it, I knew it the moment I got here ROSA: this was ancient shit. Remember the siren; these people trace their lineage to this creature. I even needed to train to be able to keep up with them— I mean physical exercise. “You need strength for eating,” a random Neapolitan told me miming pumping weights. “Not exercise,” he flashed me a smile that could steal my money from me on the sly.
I approached the season as if it really were a sport, you see, a sport that never let me down, not from day one, December one, we rise as one, then, she said it here and now on the 25th of dicembre as we gambled as a family — the curtains opened and let God in. “You were right, child, you were right.” I took the news with joy, my mother’s name. Fist in the air. “Sensa sord!” I saluted the family. “Sensa sord!”
“Ahhhh,” they all jumped in. “What’s the expression Meri?!” They taught it to me earlier in the season, and I could not stop repeating it like a good little soldier. “Without money!” I demanded that they FINISH it — FINISH the family motto “WITHOUT MONEY?” What do we know, what don’t we do? Without money, what are we definitely not doing? “Nobody sings in church,” they answered as one. “SENSA SORD!” Fist in the air, once MORE. I want MORE. MORE. “WITHOUT MONEY!” “Here here.” “Go Meri!” I got nothing but crowd support and applause. Without MONEY nobody sings for God! Nobody’s doing nothing, yeah! I celebrated the idea, one I genuinely loved, and money was the first hook that caught this unsuspecting mother, so there’s always shadow, what can I say? How true it is. My mother’s name was Joy.
Merry Christmas.