“How bright your nonexistence.”
Franco Fortini
Cover art: Hans van der Ham, Study for a portrait.
Mr. Babelsberg was only five years old, and there wasn’t a person in Debrama who hadn’t already heard of him. He never left his home without wearing a top hat, bow tie and dark suit. Everyone greeted him obsequiously and knew everything about him, for they most likely had in their homes a copy of I am Adam, Mr. Babelsberg’s autobiography written at the age of three, which had aroused amazement and interest in the press around the globe. Adam Babelsberg lived alone, but having no guests in his home was indeed a rare occurrence. It was his custom to invite to dinner the painter Adrian Malick, with whom he loved to discuss art and history; the Marchioness Yvonne de Saint Jacques, a brilliant pianist who adored Händel’s Passacaglia as much as he did; Timo and Teo, the marchioness’ twin sons; the poet Dorando Marradi, who would turn one hundred on the same day that Mr. Babelsberg was to turn six; and the actress Maeva Westwood, a silent movie diva with whom Mr. Babelsberg was incurably in love.
“As I know you detest surprises,” Maeva Westwood told Mr. Babelsberg one day, “I think it’s only fair to inform you that I am working, with our friends, on a memorable birthday party for you and Dorando.”
“Actually, I surmised as much,” said Mr. Babelsberg, stroking Maeva’s hair. “I wish it would be I that surprised you and our friends on that day. I’ll have to come up with something…. I could pretend to die on my very birthday.”
Maeva Westwood’s beautiful face lit up. “Adam! What a wonderful idea!” she said, hugging him, “A coup de théatre… but come to think of it, Dorando would have a stroke from the heartache it would cause him. He would actually die, don’t you think so?”
“My poor friend. Maybe it’s not such a good idea after all,” said Mr. Babelsberg, “what if we announced our marriage instead? Everybody would be stunned.”
“Yes,” said Maeva, laughing, “that would be fun.”
“But I really do want to marry you,” said Mr. Babelsberg, suddenly turning serious. At once everything became saturated with silence. Mr. Babelsberg was convinced that Maeva could distinctly hear his heart beating in turmoil.
Maeva Westwood had earned her fame by way of The Black Angel Knows, the first feature film by controversial director Ray Denver. She played the title role: the beautiful and cruel Gloria Atkinson, a London billionaire who tortured her young lovers.
When Maeva told Mr. Babelsberg, “You are so handsome. They should carve your face on a Highgate tombstone,” Adam knew it was a line from Ray Denver’s movie. “Give me a kiss,” he replied.
“Just one,” Maeva said, “one will suffice to ignite the fires of hell”. Still from the script of The Dark Angel Knows. Maeva Westwood kissed Mr. Babelsberg on his cheek. She paused a few seconds to gaze deep into his eyes. Then she walked away, leaving him in his chair as if on a raft in the middle of a storm.
Painter Adrian Malick had spent most of his existence painting portraits of people’s navels. Hundreds of people’s navels. He argued that the navel was “that narrow temple where the mystery of human life dwells,” and was fascinated by its many forms. “No two are alike,” he claimed, “and those that are very similar are nothing but the result of the work of the same midwife, bent on cutting in the same manner any umbilical cord that happens to come her way.” Hardly ever did his audience agree with him, but Adrian Malick did not care, and his calendar was always filled with appointments with men and women who wished to see their belly buttons portrayed.
Before Maeva Westwood became a famous actress, she worked in the newsroom of the “Debrama Daily.” At that time, she was the budding journalist who one day happened to interview the solidly established painter Adrian Malick. “Where does your obsession with navels come from?,” Maeva asked him and this was Malick’s reply, “I was just a child when I was struck by the intuition that Adam, the first man, being a motherless creature, could not be endowed with a belly button since he could not be tied to any umbilical cord. The absence of a navel, therefore, made Adam a man who was different from any other man. The presence of that mark, which forever branded the children of Adam and Eve and their descendants, began to exert a great fascination on me. I’ve always railed against all those great artists who, from the ancient, illuminated, medieval manuscripts to the most famous frescoes, have depicted Adam with a navel. Even Michelangelo, in the Sistine Chapel, was guilty of this crime: that navel he painted on Adam is a heresy, though masterfully painted.”
“Your birthday is drawing near, Adam,” Adrian Malick told Mr. Babelsberg, “for that occasion I would like to gift you with a beautiful portrait of your navel. That is, if you agree to pose for me.”
“Of course! It shall be a pleasure, Adrian. I would really appreciate that,” said Mr. Babelsberg amiably, adjusting his lapel.
“Then, if it’s alright with you, I’ll come and paint your portrait tomorrow,” Adrian piped up, “so that the portrait will be ready by your birthday.”
“Sold,” said Mr. Babelsberg, “my navel is looking forward to it. Even in the literal sense of the phrase.” The two friends laughed and shook hands vigorously.
Mr. Babelsberg received a letter. It was from his friend, the marchioness. Yvonne de Saint Jacques was inviting him to dine with her at the Grey Swan, an exclusive restaurant in Debrama. “Please wear something colorful,” the letter said, “Count Marsicano will also be dining with us, and as you know, he detests your dark clothes.” Mr. Babelsberg smiled. “I adore you, Yvonne,” he said, kissing the letter.
“Sit down and uncover your belly button,” said Adrian Malick, sitting down in front of his canvas.
“Is this okay?” asked Mr. Babelsberg, leaning his belly forward.
“Just be natural,” said Adrian, “all you have to do is just sit there comfortably. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“All right,” said Mr. Babelsberg, “out of fear of getting bored, I asked Maeva to read something for me. I hope you don’t mind, Adrian.”
“Not at all. Go ahead and read, Maeva,” said the painter, mixing colors on his palette.
“I shall read the short story The Egg,” Maeva said, holding wide open a copy of Always Here, Always Elsewhere: the only short story collection ever written by Dorando Marradi.
From the Foreword to the novel by acclaimed author Renzo Paris
Davide Cortese is a poet. One of his chapbooks is entitled: The Unicorn or the Book of Nonexistent Poems. The nonexistent is also at the center of Malizia Christi, his second novel, set in 1912, in an imaginary English town, a few years before the Great War. The protagonist is a young boy of six years of age, who has already achieved fame with his autobiography, I am Adam, published three years earlier.[…]
As a backdrop to his entourage of doting bohemian friends, one can find secondary characters such as a Marsican count, i.e., a plush bear who lives together with a marchioness, a pair of twins, and the most famous ventriloquist in Debrama, the English town in the grayness of which all the characters move with great ceremony. Besides looking forward to celebrating Adam’s birthday, their days go by with the boy insisting on building his list of nonexistent books in his Bibliobyrinth, the others on making silent movies, visiting cemeteries and wax museums, or inviting beautiful florists to dinner. And they are all preparing to bid farewell to Adam and Maeva as they are to board the Titanic on their way to America, where the great actress is expected to receive a coveted prize.
You may have surmised by now that Davide Cortese swims against the tide. He is attracted to the grotesque elements of today’s nonexistent, half-lived life taking place mostly in virtual spaces. Malizia Christi is the title of the only real book that Adam borrows from the centenarian poet Dorindo Marradi, whose story he need not tell because it is the very one the reader is about to finish reading.
Hints of Borges and Calvino? Barely. In order to recount Reality, other writers today choose to write about shattered lives, feature protagonists who are stricken by serious illnesses, or produce hasty autobiographies. Davide Cortese, on the other hand, loves the nonexistence of his generation, sunk in social media, an audience to which, with Palazzeschi-like levity, he likes to recount,how things truly are today.
Rome, February 2024, Renzo Paris
Davide Cortese was born in 1974 on the island of Lipari, one of the Aeolian archipelago, off the coast of Sicily and has been living in Rome since 2004. His first poetry collection, “ES”, was published in 1998, followed by several others, including “Babylon Guest House”, “Storie del bimbo ciliegia”, “ANUDA”, “OSSARIO”, “MADREPERLA”, “Lettere da Eldorado”, “DARKANA” e “VIENTU” a collection of poems in the dialect of the Aeolian islands. In 2015 he was awarded the prestigious Premio Internazionale “Don Luigi Di Liegro” for poetry. He is the author of the novel “Tattoo Motel”, two short story collections, the monograph “I Morticieddi – Morti e bambini in un’antica tradizione eoliana” and the fairy tale “Piccolo re di un’isola di pietra pomice”. He is also an illustrator and has exhibited in many group and individual shows. He has been part of the performance group “Artisti§innocenti” since 2013. His short “Mahara” was awarded the Maestro Ettore Scola award at the first edition of EOLIE IN VIDEO in 2004 e was shown at the EscaMontage Film Festival in 2013. His latest collection is Tenebrezza, published in 2023.
