Drawing by Judith Wolfe
CLAUDIA MARINELLI
A Tragedy
The wide Manhattan streets, that January morning, swarmed as always with cars and busses, cabs and limos, ambulances and people that, tired of motor vehicles, had chosen bikes, roller-blades, or skateboards to reach their jobs. A wan sun, firmly decided to make its way through the pearl grey clouds, sprinkled a pale yellow light over the wet asphalt, and the hard skyscaper's cement, giving slippery glows to the numberless windows. The City, awaken and fizzy like the air that filled up Clara's lungs, looked washed and ready to live the beautiful but cold day that was starting up.
Clara had just dropped her children off at school, but she didn't feel like going back home. The City seemed to invite her. She decided to challenge the cold weather and reach a little store on First Avenue, for she knew she would find the Italian newspaper there. Afterwards she would probably walk by the bakery shop and breathe the scents of sesamy, poppy seeds, and freshly baked bread, and then... who would know?
A ten minute stroll divided Clara from the little store, but with the freezing January wind blowing up to her face, a ten minute walk seemed much longer to her. She felt relieved when she pushed the shop doorknob and heard the familiar tinkle over the door that announced new customers, as she entered the well heated small store. The shopkeeper welcomed her from behind the counter with a friendly smile and a "Good morning" that revealed his strong accent: he was Indian and had long, gnarled hands and witty eyes.
"Good morning," Clara answered, and started to look for the Italian paper.
Again the tinkle announced a new customer. He was a middle aged man who took a lotto ticket and started to fill it up leaning on the counter at the shopkeeper's right. Clara found the newspaper she wanted, she slipped it off form its spot, and neared the shoopkeeper with the intention of paying. At that moment she heard the familiar tinkle again: with a gust of cold wind, from the open door, entered a... a.... man...
A MAN!?
He was a medium sized, black man who tried hard not to totter from the top of his high heel shoes. The black fishnet tights enhanced his powerful claves, as the hem of a long beige coat, tight at the waist with a black belt, covered the knees. The deep V-neck showed the naked skin under which stuck out the clavicles. It was easy to guess, further down, a manly chest, but the broad coat lapels were pumped up with fake breasts. He was holding, through the bloody red long nailed fingers of one hand, a golden, smoky cigarette holder. A beautiful crocodile purse was hanging down from the other gloved hand. Neither the pink blush and the bright blue eye shadow, that covered the upper eyelids up to the eyebrows, the black mascara, and the cherry red lipstick couldn't soften his masculine features, nor could the golden, whorish earrings that dangled on the two sides of his jaw. But it was the little narrow brimmed, black hat with purple fake tiny fowers on top, and its short black veil covering the forehead that gave to the character his final touch.
Clara couldn't prevent herself from stopping and staring at him. The customer that had entered after her, had stopped filling up his lotto ticket.
"Do you have Camel cigarettes?" Asked the black man in a low, velvety voice.
The shopkeeper tried to pretend to have noticed nothing, he held the cigarettes out to him, but said: "Yes, sir..."
"I AM A SHE!" Burst the black fellow. " I am a she, how dare you call me sir?"
The man with the lotto ticket started to sneer as the shocked shopkeeper mumbled: " But... I... but... – and then, without meanness, in a terrible mistake, he just let out the fatal word again: "Sir..."
As a thunderstorm came the answer: "YOU'RE INSULTING ME, I AM A SHE, I AM A WOMAN!" Screamed the black man. He snatched the cigarettes from the shopkeeper's hand, threw the money on the counter, opened the door making it tinkle again in a cynical sneer, and rushed out of the store still yelling out loud: "I AM A SHE, I AM A SHE!"
The door banged. For a few moments a heavy silence fell upon the store.
Finally the shopkeeper started to mumble: "But... But..." He was confused and looked at the man with the lotto ticket, who was laughing sarcastically now, then he met Clara's eyes, "How can he live like that?" He asked her.
And what could Clara answer?
Her nice, promising Manhattan morning, had started like a nightmare for that miserable fellow who, certainly, had spent an incredible amount of time, and many energies to try to look, to himself and to the world around him, like somebody he wasn't, and would never be.
A tiny little three letter word, in a fraction of a second, in the country and the city where, as everybody says everything is possible, had destroyed all his dreams!
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CONTENTS