"Pasquale and I became close. He was like a prophet when he spoke about fabric and was overly fastidious in clothing stores; it was impossible even to go for a stroll with him because he'd plant himself in front of every shop window and criticize the cut of a jacket or feel ashamed for the tailor who'd designed such a skirt. He could predict the longevity of a particular style of pants, jacket or dress, and the exact number of washings before the fabric would start to sag. Pasquale initiated me into the complicated world of textiles. I even started going to his home. His family - his wife and three children - made me happy. They were always busy without being frenetic. That evening the smaller children were running around the house barefoot as usual, but without making a racket. Pasquale had turned on the television and was flipping channels, but all of a sudden he froze. He squinted at the screen, as if he were nearsighted, though he could see perfectly well. No one was talking, but the silence became more intense. His wife, Luisa, must have sensed something because she went over to the television and clasped her hand over her mouth, as if she'd just witnessed something terrible and were holding back a scream. On TV Angelina Jolie was treading the red carpet at the Oscars, dressed in a gorgeus garment. One of those custom-made outfits that Italian designers fall over each other to offer to the stars. An outfit that Pasquale had made in an underground factory in Arzano. All they'd say to him was "This one's going to America." Pasquale had worked on hundreds of outfits going to America, but that white suit was something else. He still remembered all the measurements. The cut of the neck, the circumference of the wrists. And the pants. He'd run his hands inside the legs and could still picture the naked body that every tailor forms in his mind - not an erotic figure but one defined by the curves of muscles, the ceramics of bones. A body to dress, a meditation of muscle, bone and bearing. Pasquale still remembered the day he'd gone to the port to pick up the fabric. They'd commisioned three suits from him, without saying anything else. They knew whom they were for, but no one had told Pasquale. In Japan the tailor of the bride to the heir to the throne had had a state reception given in his honor. A Berlin newspaper had dedicated six pages to the tailor of Germany's first woman chancellor, pages that spoke of craftmanship, imagination and elegance. Pasquale was filled with rage, a rage that it's impossible to express. And yet satisfaction is right, and merit deserves recoqnition. Deep in his gut he knew he'd done a superb job and he wanted to be able to say so. He knew he deserved something more. But no one had said a word to him. He'd discovered it by accident, by mistake. His rage was an end itself, justified but pointless. He couldn't tell anyone, couldn't even whisper as he sat looking at the newspaper the next morning. He couldn't say, "I made that suit." No one would have believed that Angelina Jolie would go to the Academy Awards wearing an outfit made in Arzano, by Pasquale. The best and the worst. Millions of dollars and 600 euros a month. Neither Angelina Jolie or the designer could have known. When everything possible has been done, when talent, skill and commitment are fused in a single act, when all this isn't enough to change anything, then you just want to lie down, strech out on nothing, in nothing. To vanish slowly, let the minutes wash over you, sink into them as if they were quicksand. To do nothing but breathe. Besides, nothing will change things, not even an outfit for Angelina Jolie at the Oscars. Pasquale left the house without even bothering to shut the door. -- I imagined Pasquale in the street stomping his feet as if knocking snow from his boots. Like a child that is surprised to discover that life has to be so painful. He'd managed up till then. Managed to hold himself back, to do his job, to want to do it. And do it better than anyone else. But the minute he saw that outfit, saw that body moving inside the very fabric he'd caressed, he felt alone, all alone. Because when you know something only within the confines of your own flesh and blood, it's as if you don't really know it. And when the work is only about staying afloat, surviving, when it's a merely an end in itself, it becomes the worst kind of loneliness.
I saw Pasquale two months later. They'd put him on a truck detail. He hauled all sorts of stuff - legal and illegal - for the Licciardi family businesses. Or at least that's what they said. The best tailor in the world was driving trucks for the Camorra, back and forth between Secondigliano and Lago di Garda. He asked me to lunch and gave me a ride in his enormous vechile. His hands were red, his knuckles split. As with every truck driver who grips a steering wheel for hours, his hands freeze up and his circulation is bad. His expression was troubled; he'd chosen the job out of spite, ou of spite for his destiny, a kick in the ass of his life. But you can't tolerate things indefinitely, even if walking away means you're worse off. During lunch he got up to go to say hello to some of his accomplices, leaving his wallet on the table. A folded-up page from a newspaper fell out. I opened it. It was a photograph, a cover shot of Angelina Jolie dressed in white. She was wearing the suit Pasquale had made, the jacket caressing her bare skin. You need talent to dress skin without hiding it; the fabric has to follow the body, has to be designed to trace its movements. I'm sure that every once in a while, when he's alone, maybe when he's finished eating, when the children have fallen asleep on the couch, worn-out from playing, while his wife is talking on the phone with her mother before starting on the dishes, right at that moment Pasquale opens his wallet and stares at that newspaper photo. And I'm sure that he's happy as he looks at the masterpiece he created with his own hands. A rabid happiness. But no one will ever know."
You know how magazine's sometimes print short stories or pieces from books? I wanted to do just that and this is an excerpt from
Gomorrah: Italy's Other Mafia by Roberto Saviano. The suit was designed by Dolce and Gabbana and was worn at the Oscars in 2001.
Roberto Saviano (born September 22, 1979) is an Italian writer and journalist.
In his writings, articles and books he employs prose and news-reporting style to narrate the story of the Camorra (a powerful Neapolitan mafia-like organization), exposing its territory and business connections.
Since 2006, following the publication of his bestselling book Gomorrah (Gomorra in Italian), where he describes the clandestine particulars of the Camorra business, Saviano has been threatened by several Neapolitan “godfathers”. The Italian Minister of the Interior has granted him a permanent police escort. Because of his courageous stance, he is considered a "national hero" by author-philosopher Umberto Eco. (Wikipedia)
