| You guys would not believe the weird shit I have found myself in, dealing with a man determined to kill himself the slow way while offloading responsibility onto me because he trusts me. It all has to do with the hostel I’m staying at, the “Navigator,” a cheap bunk I found on the internet through Hostelworld.com. Perhaps I should back up a little.I took the ferry from Barcelona to Civitivecchia (spelling! always spelling), a port city only an hour train ride to Rome. The ferry, by the way, is the way to go. It kicks the train’s ass so hard the train is likely in a different time zone. On the ferry I met an interesting American guy named Michael, and we decided to travel together to Rome from where he would be making a train connection to Palermo (Sicily). After paying too much for a single that night, I made my way the next day to the hostel I had made a reservation at, the Navigator. This is where it all went sideways.The website said that check-in was from 2:30 TO 5. I arrived at 2:15 (after 3 hours of trying to find the place using their useless directions) and rang, and knocked, and rang again, and knocked again, and fretted, and smoked a cigarette even though there was a sign by the elevator that said I couldn’t, and finally gave up because I had promised Lisa I would call that afternoon. All my shit, back out into the street, steaming, sweating, cursing this hostel that had let me down. The talk with Lisa, though, was good. Very good, in fact. And so I was in a much more upbeat mood when I returned and tried again. This time when I rang, the ring was answered and the door was opened. My introduction to Mario.
MARIO: Mmmm-ymm-hmm. What?
ME: (the Italian equivalent of “Do you speak English?” - I can’t remember the Italian spelling)
MARIO: Yes, I speak English.
ME: Good. Thank you. I have a reservation.
MARIO: We are closed.
Now, by this point I have had a good opportunity to take a close look at Mario and assess who he is. And who he is is an alcoholic. Hardcore, barely functioning, with a stunned awareness that reminds me of the exhausted bull before the matador finally slips the sword in (I’ve been reading Hemingway). It’s all he can do to have this conversation with me, his resources are that stretched. I decide to be tactful and sensitive.
ME: You are closed forever or just closed now? Is there a problem?
MARIO: We are closed. (With a pronounced stagger)
ME: I have a reservation. I can come back. When should I come back?
MARIO: Mmm-hmm-ymm…
ME: 5? 6?
MARIO: 6.
ME: Ok. I will be back at 6.
I’m a little pissed off at myself after this, After all, I just agreed to spend over 3 hours on the streets of Rome with my bag on a hot day. I walked around, then found a sidewalk cafe and had a few beers, read my book, and made my way back to the hostel a a little after 5. I leaned on the bell. Mario eventually answered.
MARIO: Yes?
ME: I’m back. It’s 5. I’m early.
MARIO: Hmm-mm-ymm.
ME: Can I come in?
MARIO: Okay. I’m sorry. I’m drunk.
ME: That’s okay. I get drunk sometimes too.
I’m going to post this now - a lot of writing I don’t want to lose if there is a problem. I’ll be back.
1:41 pm - Sweet Mary, but this getting too freakin’ weird for me Here’s where I’m at by this point. Mario, the hostel owner, is essentially trying to drink himself to death. He’s a sick, sick man, and like all hopelessly chronic alcoholics he’s needy as a child. He’s holed up in his room, calling me in there every five to ten minutes, getting me to phone this person or that person, promising me wild amounts of money (yeah, right), getting me to give him his pills or more wine or just talking complete bullshit. He’s got a hernia the size of a freakin’ watermelon, and I can’t help but get a good look at it when he staggers about with no pants on. I’m way beyond being kind and solicitous and have moved into barely civil curtness. Last night, he insisted that I call him an ambulance, but when they arrived he refused to go with them because they were going to take him to a hospital he doesn’t like. I then had to call Simon, a friend of his, who to his credit actually came by to help. This involved yet another call to the ambulance, with Simon trying to convince them to take Mario to a different hospital. They refused and left. Oh yeah, I should mention here that Mario has the charming habit of pissing on his floor, so one of the things that Simon did when he was here was to clean up the piss. Finally, though, he gave up and left, which has put me in the very unenviable position of dealing with the endless demands of this child in the shape of a man. He’s calling for me right now, but I am ignoring him. It’s neverending. I’m on the verge of just leaving, saying screw it and leaving him to his own devices. I don’t know, the whole thing is just so twisted and unhealthy and just plain bad. I’ve been stuck here, dealing with this shit all day. At the moment, the girl who does the cleaning is doing her thing, but when she goes I’m going to have a shower and go out for some food. I’m tired of this, I really am. Not at all what I envisioned my visit to Rome to be, this twisted and sick environment that I’m caught up in.
9:32 am - The climax, the aftermath, my moral dilemma Yesterday was… interesting, to say the least. Simon came back shortly after I posted the previous entry, and tried one more time to get Mario to take the ambulance to the hospital. Again, he refused once the ambulance guys were here. That’s 3 times in 2 days, and you could tell the crew was getting pretty fed up. I then had a talk with Simon, but he didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already figured out. Mario is sick, an alcoholic, but also a game player and manipulator, that he will insult where he thinks you are weakest and then say that he is sorry (which I kept waiting for from him, knowing the type, but surprisingly that behaviour never materialized). He said that he (Simon) didn’t have any formal connection with Mario’s businesses (he owns 3 hostels) and that his involvement trying to help Mario was just human charity based on knowing him for a long time, but that he could only take so much and was about to give up. He then left, thanking me for everything I had done, saying I had no obligation here and he would understand if I left and carried on with my holiday.
After he left, the phone rang, and I dealt with someone wanting to book beds. I told them the hostel was closed until further notice. I heard a noise behind me, and turned to see Mario standing in the hall, naked except for his hernia truss, a big, wicked looking kitchen knife in his hand. I got angry, yelled at him I must confess, told him that was bullshit and he was being a child, and took the knife away. The guy is as weak as a kitten, and I doubt very much he could have hurt me even if he tried. Then the phone rang again, and the buzzer for downstairs sounded. I answered the buzzer - a chirpy female American voice saying she was here to check in and she had a reservation. I told her to wait and answered the phone - another reservation inquiry. I got rid of them, turned around, and there’s Mario again, this time with two knives. I let him know I was angry again, but this time tempered it a bit, took the knives away, ordered him back in bed, and went downstairs to deal with the American. She was upset that her reservation wasn’t going to be honoured, but the words “naked man with a knife” had the desired effect and she left.
At this point I began to get more than a little worried. Mario had tried to impress me earlier, first boasting about how wealthy he is and then saying he is a dangerous man, that he had knives and a gun. I’d seen the knives, what about the gun? I popped my head in to check on him, and he was sleeping. Good. He’d actually had very little to drink that day, and I figured sleep was a good thing. I sat in the common area and thought about what to do. The situation was escalating, I was worried about this hypothetical gun, and couldn’t shake the feeling that this could all end very badly. I read for a bit, finding an English book of short stories called, “The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing.” Not a bad book, and written inside on a blank page was this note in a feminine hand: “Dear Mario - You were mean, man! Didn’t have to be! Hope your surgery went well - did it make you nicer too? *Chao*” I pondered that one for a while.
Around 6:00, Mario woke up and called for me. I went into his still piss-smelling room (despite the cleaning by Alina, the cleaning girl - I think he’s pissed the mattress a number of times) and he told me he wanted to go to the hospital and I should call the ambulance. I didn’t believe him, of course. I said, “You’ll just send them away again because you won’t go to St, Giovanni.”
“I will go to St. Giovanni. I don’t care anymore. I must go to the hospital.”
“Well, then you have to call them. I’m not going to call them. They have been here 3 times in 2 days. They are getting pissed off.”
“You dial the number and I will call them.”
“You promise you will go? You have to go, Mario, you are very sick.” And he really is, what with the grotesque hernia, his jaundiced colour, his malnutrition, his bedsores, the dried blood coating his fingers from where he has scratched the scabs off the bedsores. The man is a complete wreck.
“I promise. I have to go. I will go to St. Giovanni. I promise.”
I stared hard at him, wondering if this would be another small circus. “Will you shake on it?”
“Si, si, I will shake on it. I promise. But you must stay here for at least 4 days while I am in the hospital, please. Answer the phone when you are here, take no more reservations. Please.” He looked pretty desperate and pathetic, so I decided to take one more chance. We shook on it (me washing my hands thoroughly afterwards), and I dialled the number for emergency on his cell, made sure they answered and then handed him the phone. My hopes weren’t high on two counts - would they come (after all the false alarms) and would he go if they did. I had a feeling though that making him make the call might mean something to him in some way - he was the one asking them, not somebody else. We would see.
They took their sweet time coming, not that I blame them, but eventually they showed up, and after some arguing and cajoling and stalling and flailing around, they got him onto a rubberized carry-blanket and took him downstairs to the ambulance. I felt good about that.
But here is my moral dilemma. When I first arrived, Mario had his shit a little more together and bought wine for me and the Japanese guys who were here to drink, and we all hung out in the common area. I told them about Lisa, and showed around her photos. Mario was quite taken with her, and said he wanted to give her 1000 Euros. I thanked him, but figured it was just the wine talking and didn’t put any stock in it. He kept bringing it up, though, over the next couple of days, and I began to feel it was a carrot to keep me around and take care of him and the hostel. I told him repeatedly that I didn’t want the money, thanks but no thanks, and that I was helping him because he needed help, not because of 1000 Euros. And then, about an hour before the ambulance came for the last time yesterday, he went to his safe, opened it, and gave me the money. 1000 Euros, cash, in my hand, telling me to send it to Lisa.
So, what do I do? He wasn’t drunk at the time (only put down about a bottle and a half over the whole day), and he’d mentioned it a number of times over a matter of days, so it wasn’t some whim. And the guy does own 3 hostels and bragged repeatedly about how rich he is and how little 1000 Euros means to him. On the other hand, he is a screwed up individual, and his brain is pretty much permanently pickled. I have no idea if he is of sound rational judgment. You see my dilemma. Do I keep it and send it to Lisa as requested, or do I leave it behind?
I’m about to call Simon again, tell him that Mario is in the hospital, that he wants me to stay here for 4 days, and that he gave me 1000 Euros. I want to cover my ass as much as possible in case Mario decides he didn’t give it to me.
Never a dull moment.  |
