Books & Rough Business

XIII

191 Tullio Pironti XIII For The Presepe of Naples, I found my writer and photographer where I’d hoped to, among the crowd who’d come to my aid during my days as a felon. As the book came together in the fall of ’87, as I saw the text and pictures, I knew I had something of serious value. I had art and society, history and religion, a Christmas book that would matter year-round. So I got the idea of an introduction—and with that, discovered that even a period of renewal could have its missed opportunities. Even as Pironti Editore reasserted its impact, with authors like DeLillo and Naguib Mahfouz, I also had dealings with writers I would’ve loved to publish, but couldn’t quite bring to the table. Let me begin the story of my comeback, then, with three of these near misses. One of these may have frightened me more than Licio Gelli, while another was a dream, perhaps the one man that would’ve added most to my list. But I’ll begin with Leonardo Sciascia. I’ve mentioned him before, a Sicilian writer who, after decades of splendid investigative journalism and essays on his island culture, turned late in life into my country’s greatest mystery writer of the century. To call his novels mysteries, in fact, doesn’t do them justice.They’re favorites of Gore Vidal, among others, and probe a Byzantine legal system corrupted further by the Mafia. Yet even at his most Kafkaesque, as in Open Doors, Sciascia displays a stubborn fondness for Southern Italian folkways. Crime and punishment may seem a hypocritical game, but the comforts of home and hearth feel genuine. He was just the man to write the introduction to the Presepe book. 192 Books and Rough Business For once, I left the telephone alone, feeling a written request would be more appropriate. The way I watched the mail, after that, I must’ve looked like I needed the calming influence of Pink Floyd. Sciascia, however, proved the one to pick up a phone. The conversation began badly. At the first words out of the writer’s mouth, I could hear how old and weary he was. When he said he couldn’t write the introduction, adding a sweet apology, at first I thought I should just leave it at that. But Sciascia added, “I just don’t know much about the art of the presepe.” Apologizing myself, I explained further. I don’t deny that I wanted his name on my list, few would make me prouder, but also this writer needed to know that I wasn’t asking for anything scholarly. “I’m hoping you’ll write about the emotions involved. The feelings of a child as he stands before a presepe, or perhaps while he’s making his first with his father.” “Mm, si.” Already Sciascia’s tone had changed. “Isn’t that the one time when every Southern Italian child is a bit of an artist? Doesn’t the work say something about the entire community, as well?” His voice considerably more vigorous than before, he agreed that such a piece was something he could do. “The way you put it now, it’s just right for me.” So: bad beginning, happy ending. Warmly I thanked the man, telling him I’d send another letter right away. He’d get all the information he needed about the book, and I’d be sure to specify how much I’d pay. By the time I was off the phone, though, I’d thought of something else I should slip into the mailing. I left the shop—in those days, the first steps out the door always gave me a shiver—and trotted over to Via San Gregorio Armeno. Just as booksellers had their own ghetto, in the old downtown, so did the artisans who sculpted the figurines for a presepe. San Gregorio Armeno, for two or three hundred years now, had been the street on which you found the best. At my favorite workshop I picked a shepherd down on one knee. One of the big ones, the terra-cotta molded to a wire frame, standing about as tall and sturdy, actually, as a fat book in hardcover. You couldn’t miss the craft in the detail: the fingers wrapped around the crook, the waves of fur in the cloak. I had the shop package the piece, they knew how to prepare...