My satisfaction was enormous. The special smock allowed me to feel that I had bella figura. This concept, which might be understood as “cutting an impressive figure,” is of course almost a secular religion to all Italians, but especially to Sicilians, for whom the elegant appearance has traditionally masked and to some degree transformed the impoverished reality. I have more than once asked a friend, after giving a speech, how it went, and received what I must admit was a satisfying response: “Luca, you talked a load of nonsense, but you had bella figura.”
Returning home after choir practice in my special smock, I found no deep appreciation for music there, either. It’s true that my father would frequently sing a few lines of some aria to help him underline a point he was trying to make, and attending the opera in our family box at the Teatro Massimo was another ritual in our lives. But while we never missed an opening night, I am sad to say that music was not part of our soul. It was an elegant dress one wore on certain occasions and part of the language of our social class, a language whose most important phrase, it sometimes seemed, was bella figura.
The rebellious spirit I repressed at home exploded at Gonzaga. During my first six years there, I was always at the bottom of the class. I refused to study and chose friends who had the same attitude. The result was that at the end of each academic year I had to endure a conference with my parents in which they were told, “This year we’ll promote him…” There was another clause not spoken though strongly implied: “but probably not next year.” And indeed, year by year more of my friends dropped behind. Then, at the age of eleven, I found myself alone. The last of my obstinate friends, Attilio, had failed because an exasperated teacher had discovered that he could barely read. So I spent that year at the bottom of the class by myself.
The next fall, though, something clicked. It was as if I said to myself, “Enough!” Expending not much more effort to succeed than I had at failing, I soon reached the top of my class and stayed there. The fact that one could completely change the course of his life was a lesson that had a continuing impact on me. If an individual could say “Enough,” it occurred to me later on, why not a group? If a group, why not a neighborhood? If a neighborhood, why not a city?
I was now a good student, but still had trouble behaving. To be promoted each year, one had to receive a grade of 8 in condotta. I was lucky to get a 7, which meant a continuation of the year-end negotiations between my parents and school officials.
One teacher I had particular difficulty getting along with was Father Barbosio, who taught science. I regarded many of the things he said as both scientifically and morally questionable, and arrogantly went out of my way to ridicule him. I also played infantile pranks on him. In the middle of an experiment, for instance, I would sneak to the power switch and turn it off, rendering all the work done up until then useless. During a test, I would pass my own invariably excellent notes to other students—in particular to those who hadn’t studied.
After putting up with such behavior longer than he should have, Father Barbosio finally took me aside: “Look, it’s useless continuing this way. You misbehave, I have to throw you out, and you stand in the hall the rest of the hour. Let’s save time. The moment I enter the classroom, you exit.”
So for two years I passed every science hour out in the corridor, forced to stand up straight near the door with folded arms—no lounging, no leaning against the wall. Father Barbosio questioned the other students about the content of past lessons in strict alphabetical order, which gave them a sense of when they’d be called on. But not me. At any time I could be asked to step in from the hall and answer a question. A perhaps unintended consequence of this arrangement was that I was the only one in the class who thoroughly studied everything.
I made trouble in large part because I was confused about practically everything, although I thought I had everything well under control. This arrogance was shaken in high school when I heard there were one or two boys who knew about or had had sex. We used the phrase “having sex” with braggadocio, but for me at least, the reality behind it was a mystery. I had grown up believing firmly in the equation that is central to a certain kind of Catholicism: body + sex = sin. Everything that had to do with the body, in fact, was not only sinful but stupid. I remember once during our infrequent gym exercises we were climbing a rope. I was barely able to clear the floor, and felt quite virtuous about it. “Look at him!” I remember thinking about a classmate who nimbly shinnied up the rope, “He’s really stupid!”
It was little wonder that I drove all of the teachers and administrators crazy. As I look back on this, I am not particularly proud. There was nothing funny in my behavior. Yet I cannot help but smile at the memory of the dean, whom I had one day driven entirely out of his wits, chasing me down the corridor in an effort to place a (probably well-deserved) kick on my backside. I swerved to escape the kick and his shoe flew off and landed on the head of an innocent student, an open-mouthed spectator to this extraordinary scene.
In another country at another time, perhaps, school would have been the transitional stage out into civic life. But not in Sicily in the 1950s. It was still inside the family where most of the social lessons were learned. I have a vivid memory, for instance, of an afternoon during the period when I was having such behavior problems in school, when my father was late for lunch. This in itself was unheard of. We children peered through the shutters—closed to keep out the heat—on the lookout for the arrival of his car. We never would have considered eating without him. We couldn’t have, even if we wanted to: Giuseppe was with him, and for us to eat, he would have to remove his chauffeur’s hat and jacket, then put on his white jacket and white gloves and serve at the table.
My mother told us that Papa was seeing Cardinal Ruffini, archbishop of Palermo, a figure I thought of as being only one small step down from the Pope, who was himself but one step down from God. But this did not make the waiting any easier. Finally, at two o’clock, the car turned into the driveway.
Papa came in and brusquely apologized for his lateness, and then we sat down.
“Have you been with His Eminence?” my mother asked after we had been eating in silence for several minutes.
“Yes.” My father did not look up.
“You’re quite late,” she prodded a minute or so later.
“Yes. A long conversation.”
As we continued eating, it suddenly seemed as if my parents were alone together in a room where the rest of us could watch but not enter. This was a room filled with looks and strategic pauses more than words.
“What did you talk about?”
“You know, Pina,”—my father’s rare use of my mother’s nickname heightened the sense of a privileged communication between them—“His Eminence asked me to stand as candidate for the Christian Democrats at the next elections. He assured me that I would have the full support of the Church.”
“And?” my mother prompted.
“And I refused.”
Why? My mother didn’t ask the question. I did—silently and without even looking up. Why didn’t you become a candidate? My father could have become a member of Parliament and he refused! He could have been in Rome with ministers and heads of state and he refused!
My father spoke again, almost as if responding to me directly: “If I were to stand for the Christian Democrats, I would have to accept votes from the Mafia.”
He had finally said the word! My mind was whirling. I felt almost drunk from this unexpected cocktail comprised of these strong ingredients: the cardinal, the Christian Democrats, the Mafia and my father. What had the cardinal to do with the Mafia? What were Mafia votes, and why would Papa have to accept them if he stood for the Christian Democrats? The pieces might have fallen into place