the pacifist
I was sitting at my post next to the cash register at my neighborhood wine bar the other night, nibbling a plate of cheeses that Giacomo had composed and chatting with the waitresses when I heard a loud English voice over my shoulder barking, "Give me another beer." I rolled my eyes in solidarity with the waitress who was enduring this treatment, happy I could blend in enough to not attract the attention of the Anglophone. Italians aren't fooled at all by my I-don't-understand-English trick, but foreigners are usually oblivious; in my linen pants and sunglasses I do a credible non-American. Dutch maybe? French (rarely)? Some Scandinavian type? I think I look Croatian, but nobody ever comes up with that one.
The loud Englishman was shortly abandoned by his friends and came to sit at the counter next to me. "Godamnit!" he bellowed, "after two thousand years a man can't smoke in this city! What am I supposed to do? Take drugs? Is that what you do, do you take drugs?", looking to me. I shrugged to suggest maybe I didn't understand what he was saying, or maybe I did but didn't care to comment. The new Italian law banning smoking indoors in all public places, by the way, is marvelous. Bravo! Who'd have thought Italy would be the first with such a comprehensive ban?
The Englishman persisted, "Do you understand English?". I quietly answered, yes. "Oh, good. Italians never speak English." This despite the fact that the waitress he'd been haranguing all night speaks as if she'd attended Cambridge.
I answered that I am, in fact, American.
"Really?!" He went on to tell me how he's Irish but not really and he's lived in Paris writing books and making films for the past 15 years, except when his wife got a job in Belgium, then they lived there. Who cares.
The explanation of what I'm doing in Italy launches this man into a diatribe on Nietzsche...
"So Plato was asking, what does it mean to be a being? What does it mean to be a being? Do you understand what I'm saying? Are we speaking the same language here?"...
"And Nietzsche said, "Curse you! How dare you! How dare you challenge the gods, how dare you call into question existence. You've undermined all of civilization. Damn you a thousand times! Do we understand each other? Are we speaking the same language?"
Clearly the man is inebriated and in love with the sound of his own voice. I'm enduring this jerk, out of boredom or politeness or some combination.
Then begins, "I've done things you can't even imagine. I was in the military, you know. I was in Yemen. When I think about the things we did, it's just all so...amusing. These war films have it all wrong, they have no idea what they're talking about."
"We used to take diazepine and then have to stay up all night. We'd have diazepine at 8 and then stay awake until 5 am. Because if you didn't, you were fucked. You'd be dead if you didn't stay awake. It's all so hilarious. And this is the way it was. But it was all covered up. You have no idea, no idea what goes on, and it's all covered up."
Then he rolled up a sleeve to show me a jagged scar, crude stitch marks tracking the entire length of his arm. This is where "so amusing" goes horribly wrong.
"It was all covered up. I did things you can't even imagine. Killing 40 people in one night, can you imagine? Of course you can't. Of course you can't. Shooting 40 people and throwing grenades to finish them off. In one night. And no one has any idea, it was all covered up."
"And then, back in England, you'd go to the pub and they'd ask, how are things in the Middle East. And you'd answer, nothing happened. Nothing happened. Because if you say, great, I killed 40 people in one night, they look at you like you're nuts. And then the nightmares, I still have nightmares." Here his eyes well up with old man tears.
"And my marriage, of course was total shite. I couldn't tell her what happened. Then I couldn't even live with her, the nightmares."
"I couldn't talk to anybody"
Now fully weeping, "I'm such a horrible person. I've done things you can't imagine. You can't imagine killing 40 people in one night. I'm terrible. Terrible. You do things, you know, and then you have to live with them the rest of your life. And now I'm a terrible person."
Uncomfortably human.
The loud Englishman was shortly abandoned by his friends and came to sit at the counter next to me. "Godamnit!" he bellowed, "after two thousand years a man can't smoke in this city! What am I supposed to do? Take drugs? Is that what you do, do you take drugs?", looking to me. I shrugged to suggest maybe I didn't understand what he was saying, or maybe I did but didn't care to comment. The new Italian law banning smoking indoors in all public places, by the way, is marvelous. Bravo! Who'd have thought Italy would be the first with such a comprehensive ban?
The Englishman persisted, "Do you understand English?". I quietly answered, yes. "Oh, good. Italians never speak English." This despite the fact that the waitress he'd been haranguing all night speaks as if she'd attended Cambridge.
I answered that I am, in fact, American.
"Really?!" He went on to tell me how he's Irish but not really and he's lived in Paris writing books and making films for the past 15 years, except when his wife got a job in Belgium, then they lived there. Who cares.
The explanation of what I'm doing in Italy launches this man into a diatribe on Nietzsche...
"So Plato was asking, what does it mean to be a being? What does it mean to be a being? Do you understand what I'm saying? Are we speaking the same language here?"...
"And Nietzsche said, "Curse you! How dare you! How dare you challenge the gods, how dare you call into question existence. You've undermined all of civilization. Damn you a thousand times! Do we understand each other? Are we speaking the same language?"
Clearly the man is inebriated and in love with the sound of his own voice. I'm enduring this jerk, out of boredom or politeness or some combination.
Then begins, "I've done things you can't even imagine. I was in the military, you know. I was in Yemen. When I think about the things we did, it's just all so...amusing. These war films have it all wrong, they have no idea what they're talking about."
"We used to take diazepine and then have to stay up all night. We'd have diazepine at 8 and then stay awake until 5 am. Because if you didn't, you were fucked. You'd be dead if you didn't stay awake. It's all so hilarious. And this is the way it was. But it was all covered up. You have no idea, no idea what goes on, and it's all covered up."
Then he rolled up a sleeve to show me a jagged scar, crude stitch marks tracking the entire length of his arm. This is where "so amusing" goes horribly wrong.
"It was all covered up. I did things you can't even imagine. Killing 40 people in one night, can you imagine? Of course you can't. Of course you can't. Shooting 40 people and throwing grenades to finish them off. In one night. And no one has any idea, it was all covered up."
"And then, back in England, you'd go to the pub and they'd ask, how are things in the Middle East. And you'd answer, nothing happened. Nothing happened. Because if you say, great, I killed 40 people in one night, they look at you like you're nuts. And then the nightmares, I still have nightmares." Here his eyes well up with old man tears.
"And my marriage, of course was total shite. I couldn't tell her what happened. Then I couldn't even live with her, the nightmares."
"I couldn't talk to anybody"
Now fully weeping, "I'm such a horrible person. I've done things you can't imagine. You can't imagine killing 40 people in one night. I'm terrible. Terrible. You do things, you know, and then you have to live with them the rest of your life. And now I'm a terrible person."
Uncomfortably human.
posted by Miss Adventure at 9:34 AM
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