21 – O ringue da virtude

What a nightmare it is to be out on the open sea without internet, unable to talk to you, or even to check a few facts! Not only I had some sort of hallucination, I think I’ve had yet another episode of crossing paths with the past. Or at least with people who seem to have come from another century.

After the psychedelic experience aboard the yellow submarine, I was still feeling a little dizzy and, to avoid feeling even worse, I decided to turn in early, skip dinner and get some rest. I woke with that strange clarity of those mornings when the world seems to have been going on for a long time without you, surprised that the Captain hadn’t woken me for a night watch.

I started getting ready for the day and, while I was in the saloon drinking a glass of water, I heard someone moving behind me and felt a hand on my hip, firm, casual, as though it belonged there.

“Hey, bela!”

Every alarm in my body went off and, confirming with a quick glance that it wasn’t the Captain approaching me, I pulled the chopping board from the rack above the stove and brought it down hard on the forehead of the figure behind me with one clean movement. The intruder dropped to his knees with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, and then I heard the Captain’s footsteps coming down from the deck.

“Not on the head!”

The man was lying on the floor, his white shirt unbuttoned as far as it would go, with a catalogue tan, tattoos all over the place, leather bracelets, and the serene smile of someone who is always being photographed.

“He… touched me,” I said sharply, my eyes fixed on the man lying on the floor.

“In Sardinia that’s perfectly normal,” the man protested in a vague accent, sounding offended, though theatrically so. “It’s a gesture of friendliness. I didn’t know things were different here.”

I sighed.

The Captain helped him to his feet, sat him down at the table in the saloon and motioned for me to follow him onto the deck. Then he spoke quietly so the man wouldn’t hear us inside.

“His name is Vacchia Meli. He’s making the crossing with us to the United States.”

I remained silent, waiting for a little more.

“And did he fall out of the sky onto the boat?”

The Captain smiled, but didn’t answer straight away. He folded his arms and looked out at the horizon.

“He was with Nemo, but since Nemo had other destinations ahead of him and knew I was nearby, he asked me to take him to Nova Scotia.”

“Nova Scotia? I thought we were heading for Boston.”

“Boston comes later.”

“And what exactly is this… farfalla?”

“He used to be one of Berlusconi’s advisers.”

I shot the Captain a look of astonishment.

“Yes, that very one. Then he became one of those influencers who make videos wearing sunglasses and giving chauvinistic advice to men who want to “live their best life”. Now he wants to change careers.”

“And he decided to do that in Nova Scotia?”

“He said he needed some isolation first, and to see the stars without filters.”

Those last words kept echoing inside me.

To see the stars without filters.

There was something about them that didn’t quite fit.

The man came up onto the deck, smoothie in hand, shirt open and wearing that automatic smile that never seemed to switch off. He sat down with effortless elegance and began talking about leadership, charisma, power, desire and obedience. The examples he gave sounded like a mixture of stories copied from books and others borrowed from films. And yet the vocabulary felt oddly familiar.

“I never expected the Captain to let worms like this set foot on board”, I wanted to say, but held my tongue. After all, the boat wasn’t mine and, strictly speaking, I was just another member of the crew.

“I can see by the look on your face that you’re surprised, but he’s not what you think.”, said the captain. “Vacchia here is on his way to the States to give his career a new direction.” revealed, giving the Italian a couple of light pats on the shoulder.

“I don’t think America is exactly short of manure to feed certain political ideas.”

“I didn’t explain myself properly. He’s changing careers.”

I kept the same expression of contempt.

Whatever change he’s making will only be to satisfy an immediate need for money or power, I thought to myself.

Vacchia Meli fixed that tight smile on me once again and, puffing out his chest, his comb flattened by the ice pack on his forehead, announced “I’m going to become a wrestling coach.”

I looked from one to the other, trying to work out whether they were joking, but they were perfectly serious. The Captain asked whether I’d like something to drink as well, and I nodded. Vacchia struck a pose for his imaginary photographers, as though his announcement had sent shockwaves through the world. A little later the Captain came back carrying two cans of ginger ale and two glasses with slices of lemon.

“Tell us then, my friend Vacchia, what made you turn to wrestling?” asked the Captain, leaning back against the stern with his drink in his hand like someone settling down to watch a film. I stayed nearer the helm, one eye on the autopilot as I kept our course through the gentle swell.

“Ah, the same old reason. After all these years battling in the political arena, I realised that the true stage on which to achieve honour and glory is the wrestling ring. Although my virtù is still as vigorous as ever,” he said, turning towards me with a flirtatious smile, “I’m no longer in my physical prime. Besides, I believe I can be of greater value coaching other athletes.”

“Yes, I can see now why you’re going to be a coach rather than a wrestler. And what exactly do you have to offer them?” asked the Captain, looking genuinely interested.

“New styles of combat, for one thing. Traditionally, wrestlers adopt a role and then try to shape circumstances to suit their personality. I advocate the opposite. They should adopt the style of the lion when they wish to intimidate an opponent, then revert to the style of the fox when they wish to lure him into a trap.”

There was something familiar about that reference.

“The important thing is mantenere lo stato,” he went on. “Any athlete who wishes to maintain his position in the rankings must learn that the end justifies the means. Wrestling rules invite you to make use of every possible resource in the ring. Every kind of villainy is permitted, provided the objective is stability, whether of the athlete during the contest or of the spectacle itself.”

“The spectacle itself?” the Captain repeated with a smile. He seemed to be enjoying the conversation.

“Yes. I’m referring to the crowd that sustains wrestling. Although the athlete is allowed to do anything in the ring, he must appear before the spectators as a man of fine qualities, full of compassion and integrity, without revealing that he is, in reality, a great liar and hypocrite.”

I was about to interrupt, but the Captain quietened me with a slight gesture of his hand.

“The rabble are so naïve, and so ruled by their immediate needs, that a skilful impostor will always find an audience ready to be deceived,” Vacchia continued, visibly carried away by his own speech. “They know that what they see in the arena is a circus, yet they embrace the charade with such enthusiasm that they are capable of anything in defence of their idols. The important thing is to keep your hands off their possessions… or their wives.”

He turned to me once again with a sinister smile.

“Men forget the death of a father sooner than the money they lose on a ticket to a bad wrestling show.”

The Captain smiled, visibly pleased.

“I shall bring virtue to wrestling, true virtù.”

As he said this, he thrust his digitus impudicus towards the sky.

“We cannot leave the fight to fate. Fortune favours the brave. Luck smiles upon the bold.”

He clenched his fists, his arms bent like a triumphant champion.

“The bullies and the blockheads,” I muttered under my breath.

“Fortune is a woman who must be mastered by force and delights in those who seize her by the reins!” he thundered.

I was becoming more and more exasperated, while the Captain remained intent on the speech, as though weighing every single word.

Then, quite suddenly, recognition shot through my brain from one hemisphere to the other.

“Those are Machiavelli’s ideas,” I murmured, almost without realising I had spoken.

The Captain raised a hand, asking me to be quiet without giving offence.

“It’s not Machiavelli. It’s Vacchia Meli. Remember the name,” the Captain whispered.

I fell silent. But inside me a small suspicion had begun to germinate. It wasn’t only the way he spoke. It was the rhythm, the precision, the calculation behind the seduction. The feeling of déjà vu was too strong to ignore.

Could it really be possible that he was…?

Silva had been right after all. Perhaps times do intersect, perhaps they fold over one another. Perhaps certain figures inscribe themselves upon reality like fractals and return again and again, wearing different clothes, speaking with different voices, yet carrying the same relentless logic behind their eyes.

The Captain seemed to anticipate the thoughts racing through my mind.

“I know what you’re thinking. We’ll talk later, okay?” he murmured before turning his attention back to our new crewmate.

Vacchia Meli, meanwhile, had become more animated than ever, oblivious to the brief exchange between the Captain and me.

“And another thing! I want to bring a religious element into wrestling! Religion can be used both to inspire and to terrify the rabble. Just as the Roman generals proclaimed that the auguries favoured victory, wrestlers should embrace and magnify everything that is religious. Even though they know religion is one enormous lie, they should proclaim that God, whichever God that may be, is on their side!”

He leapt to his feet, electric, a fascist modernistic dynamo, his arms flung wide into the air. At that very moment, as the Captain moved to make him sit down again, the boom swung across to midships and struck Vacchia on the head, knocking him unconscious.

“Oops…” I let slip, with undisguised satisfaction.

“Not on the head!” the Captain shouted, rushing to his side. “Again?” he sighed, glancing briefly at my hand on the helm.

“Must have been a sudden shift in the wind,” I suggested.

“Either that, or Maradona’s Hand of God,” the Captain replied dryly.

I came back from the saloon with some ice while the Captain made Vacchia as comfortable as possible as he slowly regained consciousness.

“Do you realise that everything you just said is a second-rate adaptation of The Prince, published centuries ago?” I protested.

“I never published anything. It was a covering letter I wrote when I was applying for a job,” he murmured.

“Shhh… try not to talk,” the Captain advised.

“Those were different times. The old political manuals, Quique, Seneca, they all told us to follow morality and virtue. And yet my city, my republic, my homeland was ravaged by every foreign power.”

“Easy, my friend. Leave all that behind. Before long you’ll be in the world of wrestling,” the Captain reassured him. Then he winked at me. “Better there than in politics. He’ll do less damage.”

Still unsteady, Vacchia disappeared below, supported by the Captain.

“Please keep an eye on the helm. We’re approaching the coast, and this is an area of sudden shifts in the wind. I’ll be back and then we’ll have our talk.”

I remained at the helm, trying to make sense of everything I had witnessed while writing this message to you. Even now, after putting it all into words, I find it hard to believe it really happened. Who is this Vacchia Meli? A modern chauvinist who happens to share Machiavelli’s ideas, or could he actually be Machiavelli reincarnated? Whether it’s reincarnation, perpendicularisation, or whatever it may be, the Captain has to explain what he was doing aboard Nemo’s submarine. Or the cargo ship. Blast it… I don’t even know any more!

And the other three are beginning to seem familiar as well. Could they be other perpendicularisations? What’s happening to them aboard the submarine?

The Captain’s coming.