1° chapter - Crisafulli, Rodolfo

A life in a blow
Rodolfo Crisafulli
Edited by Barbara Falsetto
Title: A life in a blow
Copyright © Rodolfo Crisafulli 2013
This story is exclusively the result of the author’s
imagination. Names, characters, places and
events are imaginary or used in a fictitious way.
At the beginning of each chapter, one finds
Rodolfo Crisafulli’s paintings belonging to his
homonymous art series entitled ‘A Life in a blow,
inspired by the characters and chapters of this
story.
www.rodolfocrisafulli.com
For my grandmother Bastiana
Chapters
05
Author’s Note
08
The interview
24
The awakening
30
Life as a homeless person
42
The return to reality
51
Characters
52
Useful links
53
Acknowledgments
Author’s note
The last two letters I typed on my computer to
finish this story were a “Y and then a period”.
From that moment on, as has been my habit for
some years, a strange and inevitable sensation
has fallen over me, like when a loved one goes
missing, and it happens every time I finish one
of my stories. In this one in particular, after that
“Y and that final period,” I knew that I would
have suffered from the absence of Luisa, Carlos,
Daniela and Angelica, the four main characters
in this journey. And how could I not think about
them, after having passed entire days reflecting
on the foibles, the nervous tics and the sweetest
side of each of these beings? After a while it was
as if they came to life. But compared to previous
times, something different happened. I reacted:
a kind of enlightenment pervaded my mind, as
somewhat happened to Angelica. Everything
5
happened as fast as lightening, maybe in a
couple of seconds. It came to me that I had
to create a series of paintings inspired by all
these ‘friends’ of mine still trapped in the ink.
The canvas would allow me to revive them, a
bit like when we look at those photos lying on
the desk taken of friends that we cannot see
anymore, perhaps because they live on the
other side of the world. A cathartic experience
that has resulted in a series of paintings with
a mixed technique entitled like this story. Now
‘A life in a blow’ has become a story and an
art exhibition. Reacting in hard times is the
right attitude, as well as being extraordinary.
6
A branch of madness
embellishes the tree of wisdom
Alessandro Morandotti
Men have called me mad, but the question
is not yet settled, whether madness is or
is not the loftiest intelligence. . .
Edgar Allan Poe
The interview
Acrylic on canvas, 27 x 19 inches, 2011
8
Madrid
May 23, 2055
At last, I found myself in studio 23 of the TV
channel Telemadrid, located on the 46th floor
of the Broadcast Tower, a rotating skyscraper
designed by Dynamic Architecture, a company founded by the visionary architect David
Fisher. I was restless, glancing repeatedly out of
the corner of my eye at the presenter and host
Daniela Guerrero, an immense beauty I took in
with evident awe. In the meantime a technician
placed a tiny microphone on my perfectly tailored Hi Tech jacket made of 100% smart fabric.
Previously, behind the scenes, she quickly mentioned how the dynamic interview would go.
She wanted everything to be perfect but at the
same time natural, easy going, was the phrase
9
she used to put me at ease if I remember correctly. Understandable, seeing as the famous interview program, ‘A life in a blow’, was her creation, and Ms. Guerrero was also the author. We
were both seated on odd minimalist chairs while ‘the cash’, as she called the commercial spot,
gave us the last few seconds to finish settling
in before going live and she gave a final glance
at her script. Meanwhile one of her assistants finished covering my dark circles with a bit
of what I believed to be foundation or powder,
although I’ve never understood the difference
between the two. I sensed that we were going
on the air from the production coordinator’s
hand gestures.
He gave us the -3 -2 -1. The makeup artist quickly pulled off the tissue from my shirt collar
used to protect my clothes from the make up.
The set lights came to rest on the humanity of
Ms. Guerrero, who, with the sobriety of a Duchess, began the fourth episode of the second
season.
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“Dear audience, welcome to a new episode of ‘A life in a blow’.”
the close-up shot from the lips of the
beautiful TV presenter, and finished with
my silhouette still concealed in the darkness of the set.
As we agreed behind the scenes, I approached the table in front of us on which
were laid some objects of the twentieth
century found by the production staff: a
wax candle and old matches. Objects similar to those I last saw as a child. Then,
a little clumsily, I was able to light the
flame, which in contrast to all that cold
technology inside that skyscraper which
turned upon itself, gave a slight warmth to all
those present including myself; creating
a momentary sense of nostalgia, until the
tender light was obscured by the power
of the impetuous spotlights which revealed my physicality. In this show the ritual
of lighting the candle so, in the semidarkness of the set, served to mysteriously
and romantically reveal the host on duty
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in each episode, a concept inspired by the
direction style of the father of suspense,
Alfred Hitchcock. All these methodical
performances helped begin the interview.
Ms. Guerrero presented me graciously:
“Our guest of the evening is a specialist in
mental disorders, Doctor Carlos Arroyo Jr.”
“Good evening, thank you for the invitation.” I replied.
“Doctor Arroyo, what is it? Or rather,
what does mental illness mean?”
“A mental illness is a disease that affects
a person’s thoughts, feelings or behavior,
in a way that is strong enough to render
social integration problematic or to cause
the person endless suffering. Mental disorders are behavioral or psychological
changes which cause danger or instability and impede the natural development
of the person.”
“Doctor if I may, I would like to share
a situation with our audience which is at
the borderline of logic that I noted when
reading one of your treatises, when I was
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preparing your interview. Namely, that
your decision to become a psychiatrist
was born from an event that happened in
your own life when . . .”
… Ms. Guerrero continued to relay a personal experience of mine, which I made
public years ago in my treatise, using it as
an example of the distortion of reality.
She undeterredly continued to address
her audience staring at the lens of the hologramatic camera, while I limited myself to looking at the reflection of the soft
candlelight that was lost in her deep blue
eyes, and inevitably all but forgot my own
experience, while the presenter was in the
throes of telling the story of the woman
who had triggered in me a strong desire
to devote my life to studying how mental
illness could, in a manner so vile, slap the
dignity of many human beings, my family being no exception.
Even I became a spectator, suddenly falling prey to the charm and magnetism of
this career woman. In the blink of an eye,
13
I hung on her lips and followed her narration of my story as if I were a stranger.
Parque del Retiro
Calle de Alfonso XII, Madrid
May 23, 2000
The Paseo Venezuela was crammed with
families and tourists inebriated by the
scents of the Spring, which floated in the
surroundings of the dreamy Palacio de Cristal,
the curious building with the staircase
immersed in the man-made lake measuring 918 by 459 feet. If the gardens Real
Jardin Botanico, Campo del Moro, Jardines de
Sabatini, El Capricho and El Retiro, are the
undisputed lungs of the Madrileña city,
then El Palacio de Cristal represents El Retiro’s microcosmos heart.
The season’s warm, sweet air caressed
the legs of each and every woman, who
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with light skirts strolled along El Paseo.
“Carlitos come here, come here! Don’t
be naughty,”Angelica said to her little son
Carlos, a four year old child with an enviable energy. She never missed an opportunity to reaffirm that he was a portrait of
herself when someone, particularly young
women and grandmothers attracted like
magnets by the smile of little Carlos, approached to fawn over and play with him.
All of them diplomatically confirmed
their similarity, but frankly speaking,
Carlitos was a clone of his father, a spitting image, obviously bearing in mind the
difference in age.
On the other hand, in terms of temperament the boy was restless like Angelica, who at that time wasn’t particularly
well.
There was in fact a dark time after her
pregnancy during which she lived day by
day suffering from one ailment or another
such as sluggishness, fatigue, nervous
exhaustion, hopelessness, loss of appetite,
15
insomnia or excessive sleep, crying fits, a
lack of interest in the child, fear of hurting
the child or herself, and sudden mood
swings.This went on until a doctor at the
clinic Nuestra Señora de Atocha where she
worked as a nurse diagnosed her with
post-partum depression, a particular kind
of nervous disorder that affects some women, manifesting itself in some cases as a
real depression accompanied by forms of
psychosis.
Thanks to her partner, the father of little Carlos, and some Doctors and colleagues from the hospital, she managed to
keep the monster of depression at bay. A
terrible thing, ‘the bastard’, as the Doctor
Carlos Arroyo Jr called it in his seminars
around many universities from Canarias
to Galicia, and la Cataluña to Andalucìa. The
need to find a rational response to these
mysteries of the mind brought about, in
those years, a need to seek comfort in an
array of technical justifications like, for
example, that low levels of serotonin in
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neurons could cause depression. Medical
science had not yet provided definitive explanations regarding the cause of the phenomenon, although some studies attributed the onset of post-partum depression to
hormonal changes in women, in particular,
the decreasing level of estrogen and progesterone, with a statistically high number
of cases among women who experience severe discomfort in the premenstrual phase. Actually, there are many other factors
which are crucial to the emergence of postpartum depression, mostly of psychological origin linked to the events immediately
following childbirth, such as the change in
the role of women in their social life, fear
of their impending responsibilities and
their physical appearance. The symptoms
of depression could manifest themselves
in mild form and disappear within a few
days, but if they persist the intervention of
a specialist is required, mainly in the case
of the most severe form of the disease, called
post-partum psychosis.
17
The walk on El Paseo de Venezuela, in the
park El Retiro, marked the ultimate return
and persistence of the darkness in the life
and mind of Angelica, like a wax seal on
centuries old parchment paper, when in a
moment of distraction little Carlos wandered from the small sculpture where
Angelica was chatting away with an old
colleague found there by chance.
Carlitos was attracted by the glittering
water of the man-made lake and by a couple of teenagers who were laughing hysterically while they approached the shore
with their little dinghy. Smiling with his
hands held forward, he rushed towards
them without noticing a boy who, on his
left, was flying on his bicycle at breakneck
speed. The recognition that they were utterly helpless appeared instantly on the
petrified faces of the kids in the dinghy,
who understood what was about to happen. Only the cries of the passers-by, an
ear-piercing siren, snapped Angelica back
to reality and made her conscious of her
18
absent-mindedness. When she turned towards
the lake, she saw the boy with the bicycle
on the ground, screaming from a bloodied
face, bracing his arm which was fractured in several places. She quickly glanced
to the left in the direction of the dinghy
only to see the girl sobbing desperately
while pointing to a spot on the sidewalk
next to the lake. At that moment, Angelica
went into shock, no longer able to hear
anything around her. Neither the screams
of the passers-by, nor those of the kids in
the dinghy, but only the intense beating of
her heart. Almost aware of the horror, she
resisted turning in the direction indicated
by the girl. While a crippling fear continued to climb up her legs and arms, she
eventually found the courage to turn her
head and saw her Carlitos on the ground,
unconscious, wrapped in the sour smell
of his own blood which flowed incessantly from a deep wound in the shape of a ‘ T ’
on his little right arm, quickly bathing his
clothes and the sidewalk of El Paseo.
19
Clinic Nuestra Señora de Atocha
Calle de Modesto Lafuente
December 14, 2000
Carlos’ seventh month in a coma left indelible traces on all of his closest relatives, his father and inevitably Angelica,
who from that day in May, sank into the
darkness to stay.
The depression, or better ‘the bastard’,
returned this time cementing its roots so
deeply that it went far beyond her mind
and reached her heart, filling it with rage
which immediately transformed itself into
insane cynicism.
‘The bastard’ spoke to her during the
long nights, or rather, tormented her. Angelica was not only angry with herself,
but now in silence wanted revenge against
the entire world.
The colleagues and managers of the clinic were exceptional and very sensitive,
all of them taking his case very much to
heart, arranging everything necessary in
20
order to maintain Carlos’ vital signs without charging them anything. They did
even more: the head of the clinic encouraged Angelica to the point of convincing
her to return to work in the clinic, and to
once more take charge of the position she
left seven months ago. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the best choice that could
have been made, even though during the
following two months everything proceeded as per usual. Working in the clinic
Angelica had the privilege of spending
more time with her Carlitos. Often, while
working on the night shift, she made the
patients’ monitoring rounds not quite as
she should have: everyone knew it, that
she spent most of the time in her son’s
room. But the colleagues who shared the
same shift did their best to help her out,
filling in and compensating for her whenever they could. In all that time nobody
ever complained. Maybe because deep in
their hearts they felt pain for her and her
tragic and trying situation.
21
One of those nights, she silently observed him, staring wide-eyed, hoping that
maybe he would at any moment wake
up. After a while her gaze trailed to the
scar in the shape of a ‘T’ that marked his
little right arm, and she shuddered. She
began caressing it and whispered:
“Don’t worry, when you’re all grown
up you’ll see that it’ll get increasingly
smaller, and if it doesn’t get small enough, maybe we’ll remove it with plastic
surgery.” She then fell silent, a cold shiver sliding down her spine.
In reality she hated that scar, because it
represented the indelible memory of that
horrible day. That scar coexisted in symbiosis with her feeling of guilt. And she
felt tremendous pain every time she saw
it. Like pain-filled betrayals that hurt and
from which you cannot escape if the one
you love continues to slam it into your
face. But this wasn’t the only means she
had to come to terms with life.
22
Six months later . . .
The clinic found itself in the eye of the
storm, under investigation for a series
of inexplicable deaths. The homicide division of the Madrid police department
took little time to solve the case of the four
alleged murders. The tiny cameras hidden inside in the rooms of some patients,
revealed the horrific answer to this question. During one of the night shifts, Angelica, convinced that her colleagues were
certain that she was with her son, entered one of the rooms and with a syringe
injected air through the drip into the vein
of an unfortunate patient.
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