It gives me a sense of freedom to walk around in the afternoon between the aisles with a trolley and buy the most useless things, the most unlikely foods, books with twenty per cent discount, electronic articles – which I then never use – on special offer. By the time I get back to the office I feel better: not exactly raring to get down to work, but definitely better.
So that afternoon I was in my favourite supermarket. A vast hangar bang in the middle of one of the most rundown areas on the edge of town. An almost unreal place.
I was in the ethnic food aisle, stocking up with Mexican tacos, basmati rice, cans of Thai noodle soup, when, from my jacket pocket, I heard the first rising notes of “Oh Susannah”, the latest unlikely ringtone I’d chosen to personalize my mobile phone. I didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Guido Guerrieri?” A woman’s voice.
“Who is it?”
“Claudia.”
I was about to say Claudia who? Then I recognized her.
“Oh, hi,” I said, and then immediately remembered we were usually more formal with each other. Why I’d suddenly said hi I don’t know. There was a moment’s silence.
“… hi.”
I felt embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say next. By saying hi, I’d already made things less formal. Sometimes I think I’m socially inadequate: precisely the kind of person who, when they meet someone in the street and they’re not sure how to address them, says hi.
“Is everything all right? Is there any news?”
“I phoned your office and they told me you weren’t there. Then I remembered you’d called me on my mobile and I’d memorized your number. Am I disturbing you?”
Well, I should be dealing with the delicate matter of the international traffic in spring rolls, but I’ll try to fit you in, sister.
Obviously, she wasn’t disturbing me.
She told me she was giving a martial arts class the following day. It was open to the public, and if I still wanted to see what it was like, I could come to her gym, which was near the prison. She and her pupils would be there from six to nine in the evening.
I was surprised, but I said I’d be there. She said fine, and hung up. Without saying goodbye.
The following afternoon I left the office at six-thirty, postponing an appointment with a client who was supposed to be coming to pay and so had no objection. I decided to go on foot, even though it was quite far, and by seven-fifteen I was at the address Claudia had given me. It was a gym where they did dance, yoga, that kind of thing. It was called Corpopsyche and as I went in, I was expecting to see something vaguely esoteric, like zen or meditation, full of languid movements and Eastern spirituality. The kind of thing I’m not crazy about.
So I felt suddenly a bit uncomfortable at the idea of wasting time like this that I could have spent working, and I told myself I’d stay just half an hour, out of politeness. Then I’d say goodbye and go back to the office, maybe calling a taxi to get there quicker.
The gym had a parquet floor, a big mirror that occupied one whole wall, and a wall bar for ballet exercises. Exactly what I’d expected, seeing the sign. There were a few benches, on which a dozen people sat watching. I sat down where there was a free space.
If the gym corresponded to what I’d imagined, the things that were happening on the parquet floor – the class itself – were very different. There were some twenty pupils, almost all men. They were wearing black canvas trousers, white T-shirts and black dance shoes. Sister Claudia was dressed in the same way, except that her T-shirt was not white but black. I assumed that distinguished her as a master, like a black belt or something similar.
What they were doing didn’t look at all like dance or yoga or some New Age nonsense. They were hitting each other with very quick punches and kicks and blows with the knee and the elbow. Unlike most martial arts, the blows weren’t controlled, the movements weren’t elegant. It was pretty clear what would happen if these techniques were applied in a real situation, in a street fight for instance.
I was surprised, even though, in a sense, what I was seeing was consistent with the kind of feelings I’d got from Sister Claudia whenever we’d met. As I followed the class, the words for these feelings came into my mind, in this order: direct, rapid, abrupt, aggressive.
Vicious.
The word vicious, like the others, materialized spontaneously in my head, by a process of free association. No sooner did I hear it spoken by my inner voice than I felt ill at ease, as if I’d said it out loud. Or as if I’d discovered, and named, something that ought to have remained hidden.
Claudia, the vicious nun.
At a certain point in the session, Sister Claudia took a long black handkerchief out of a bag, placed it over her eyes, and knotted it behind her head. Then she assumed a kind of combat position, while the pupil who seemed to be the most proficient of them placed himself right in front of her. He was a dangerouslooking young man with close-cropped hair, over six feet tall.
At a silent, invisible signal, the student started aiming punches at Claudia’s face, and she started parrying them. All with her eyes blindfolded.
I’ve boxed for many years. I’ve seen, given, parried, dodged, and above all taken, a lot of blows. In gyms, in amateur rings, even on the street. Before that evening I’d never seen anything like this.
They were moving in a precise, regular rhythm that reminded me of a documentary on the circus I’d seen many years before. TV was still in black and white in those days. There was a rather elderly, pleasantlooking man who was teaching juggling to a group of young people in the ring of an empty circus tent. He too was blindfolded and kept three, or four, or five balls in the air, never dropping them and maintaining the same precise, regular rhythm throughout. It was as if he had magnets on his hands, and the balls were inevitably, irresistibly attracted to them.
Claudia was doing more or less the same thing, but instead of balls there were punches being thrown at her face. She had magnetic hands, and with those magnetic hands she attracted and repelled the punches, rendering them as harmless as balls made out of rags.
In boxing they’d always told us never to close our eyes. In attack and especially in defence. You must never lose control of the situation. See what your opponent is doing, catch his move with your eyes as soon as it starts, and be ready to react: to parry, or to dodge and counterattack. I’d always felt comfortable with that idea. Eyes open, always. I associated closed eyes with fear, and open eyes, tritely, with courage. Look straight at the problem, or the opponent, or whatever. One of my few certainties.
At a certain point, the regular rhythm seemed to change. Gradually, the punches, and the parries, gathered speed, and then in a moment it was all over. The pupil was on the ground and Sister Claudia was on top of him, twisting his arm and with her knee on his face. I hadn’t really noticed the move that had led to that conclusion.
She took off the blindfold, and all the pupils did relaxation exercises. Then they lined up in front of their master. They bowed slightly in farewell, holding their right fists in the palms of their left hands, their arms flexed in front of their chests.
Only then did she seem to become aware of my presence. She came towards me as the pupils left the floor and headed for the changing rooms.
I stood up, she greeted me with a nod, and I responded in the same way. I was curious now, there were questions I wanted to ask, and I’d completely forgotten that I’d been planning to get a taxi and go back to the office.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” I said, not making any particular effort to be original. Opening and parting lines have never been my forte. She didn’t reply, because there was nothing to reply.