Dada 162

I remember reading once of the night time cell of a murderer in southern Italy. Naples I think. It was at a time when they used to grant last requests outside the jail wall. The prisoner asked for a leg of lamb, a bottle of grappa and a young woman. He paid for it all via his family. The authorities made sure they brought his bag of gold coin to the prison. When the time came for his death his hair had turned white. It stood upright above his haggard face. This is the only way to lose a life, to lose it with desperation, despair and longing. Everything else is a lie. Those that say otherwise are those who have never experienced joy before the finality of the rope. On the Peninsula my father had once attended an execution when they were performed in public. He returned home full of righteousness. He told my mother justice had been done. She asked him to describe it to her in detail and had taken a shivering fit. She had to have a blanket brought to her. Maybe that’s the only thing that can genuinely interest anyone, the taking of a life. If I ever got out of this mess I would attend every execution in my lifetime. It would be the only way to tell if you were truly alive. My father never failed to omit that this was the punishment given to all who pretended to be what they were not. Anyone who pretended different was a traitor. He gave me an uncertain look before the beatings began again. From the moment the verdict was given the results became clear.All the rest of the machinery of the State swung into action, as tangible as the wall against which I was laying and utterly indifferent to the pale movement of the sky above my cell.