they have to be filmed,” he would say. For he thought that on the screen they would lose much of their original magic. He kept his ideas on cards arranged by subject and pinned to the walls, and he had so many they filled an entire room in his house.
The following Saturday we took Margarito Duarte to see him. Zavattini was so greedy for life that we found him at the door of his house on the Via di Sant’-Angela Merici, burning with interest in the idea we had describedto him on the telephone. He did not even greet us with his customary amiability, but led Margarito to a table he had prepared, and opened the case himself. Then something happened that we never could have imagined. Instead of going wild, as we expected, he suffered a kind of mental paralysis.
“Ammazza!”
he whispered in fear.
He looked at the Saint in silence for two or three minutes, closed the case himself, and without saying a word led Margarito to the door as if he were a child taking his first steps. He said good-bye with a few pats on his shoulder. “Thank you, my son, thank you very much,” he said. “And may God be with you in your struggle.” When he closed the door he turned toward us and gave his verdict.
“It’s no good for the movies,” he said. “Nobody would believe it.”
That surprising lesson rode with us on the streetcar we took home. If he said it, it had to be true: The story was no good. Yet Bella Maria met us at the
pensione
with the urgent message that Zavattini was expecting us that same night, but without Margarito.
We found the maestro in one of his stellar moments. Lakis had brought along two or three classmates, but he did not even seem to see them when he opened the door.
“I have it,” he shouted. “The picture will be a sensation if Margarito performs a miracle and resurrects the girl.”
“In the picture or in life?” I asked.
He suppressed his annoyance. “Don’t be stupid,” hesaid. But then we saw in his eyes the flash of an irresistible idea. “What if he could resurrect her in real life?” he mused, and added in all seriousness:
“He ought to try.”
It was no more than a passing temptation, and then he took up the thread again. He began to pace every room, like a happy lunatic, waving his hands and reciting the film in great shouts. We listened to him, dazzled, and it seemed we could see the images, like flocks of phosphorescent birds that he set loose for their mad flight through the house.
“One night,” he said, “after something like twenty popes who refused to receive him have died, Margarito grown old and tired goes into his house, opens the case, caresses the face of the little dead girl, and says with all the tenderness in the world: ‘For love of your father, my child, arise and walk.’ ”
He looked at all of us and finished with a triumphant gesture:
“And she does!”
He was waiting for something from us. But we were so befuddled we could not think of a thing to say. Except Lakis the Greek, who raised his hand, as if he were in school, to ask permission to speak.
“My problem is that I don’t believe it,” he said, and to our surprise he was speaking to Zavattini: “Excuse me, Maestro, but I don’t believe it.”
Then it was Zavattini’s turn to be astonished.
“And why not?”
“How do I know?” said Lakis in anguish. “But it’s impossible.”
“Ammazza!”
the maestro thundered in a voice that must have been heard throughout the entire neighborhood. “That’s what I can’t stand about Stalinists: They don’t believe in reality.”
For the next fifteen years, as he himself told me, Margarito carried the Saint to Castel Gandolfo in the event an opportunity arose for displaying her. At an audience for some two hundred pilgrims from Latin America, he managed to tell his story, amid shoves and pokes, to the benevolent John XXIII. But he could not show him the girl because, as a precaution against assassination attempts, he had been obliged to
The following Saturday we took Margarito Duarte to see him. Zavattini was so greedy for life that we found him at the door of his house on the Via di Sant’-Angela Merici, burning with interest in the idea we had describedto him on the telephone. He did not even greet us with his customary amiability, but led Margarito to a table he had prepared, and opened the case himself. Then something happened that we never could have imagined. Instead of going wild, as we expected, he suffered a kind of mental paralysis.
“Ammazza!”
he whispered in fear.
He looked at the Saint in silence for two or three minutes, closed the case himself, and without saying a word led Margarito to the door as if he were a child taking his first steps. He said good-bye with a few pats on his shoulder. “Thank you, my son, thank you very much,” he said. “And may God be with you in your struggle.” When he closed the door he turned toward us and gave his verdict.
“It’s no good for the movies,” he said. “Nobody would believe it.”
That surprising lesson rode with us on the streetcar we took home. If he said it, it had to be true: The story was no good. Yet Bella Maria met us at the
pensione
with the urgent message that Zavattini was expecting us that same night, but without Margarito.
We found the maestro in one of his stellar moments. Lakis had brought along two or three classmates, but he did not even seem to see them when he opened the door.
“I have it,” he shouted. “The picture will be a sensation if Margarito performs a miracle and resurrects the girl.”
“In the picture or in life?” I asked.
He suppressed his annoyance. “Don’t be stupid,” hesaid. But then we saw in his eyes the flash of an irresistible idea. “What if he could resurrect her in real life?” he mused, and added in all seriousness:
“He ought to try.”
It was no more than a passing temptation, and then he took up the thread again. He began to pace every room, like a happy lunatic, waving his hands and reciting the film in great shouts. We listened to him, dazzled, and it seemed we could see the images, like flocks of phosphorescent birds that he set loose for their mad flight through the house.
“One night,” he said, “after something like twenty popes who refused to receive him have died, Margarito grown old and tired goes into his house, opens the case, caresses the face of the little dead girl, and says with all the tenderness in the world: ‘For love of your father, my child, arise and walk.’ ”
He looked at all of us and finished with a triumphant gesture:
“And she does!”
He was waiting for something from us. But we were so befuddled we could not think of a thing to say. Except Lakis the Greek, who raised his hand, as if he were in school, to ask permission to speak.
“My problem is that I don’t believe it,” he said, and to our surprise he was speaking to Zavattini: “Excuse me, Maestro, but I don’t believe it.”
Then it was Zavattini’s turn to be astonished.
“And why not?”
“How do I know?” said Lakis in anguish. “But it’s impossible.”
“Ammazza!”
the maestro thundered in a voice that must have been heard throughout the entire neighborhood. “That’s what I can’t stand about Stalinists: They don’t believe in reality.”
For the next fifteen years, as he himself told me, Margarito carried the Saint to Castel Gandolfo in the event an opportunity arose for displaying her. At an audience for some two hundred pilgrims from Latin America, he managed to tell his story, amid shoves and pokes, to the benevolent John XXIII. But he could not show him the girl because, as a precaution against assassination attempts, he had been obliged to
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