WHAT COULD ANYONE SAY FOR MRS. FAITHFULL?

16.06.04


Little Irene is fat and has little red cheeks. She is the daughter of our teacher at the Italian School. She has painted her notebook with a gold marker. She has written ‘The Doors’ and ‘Jim Morrison’ next to the label with her name on it. She is around 12 like me. ‘Did you see the film?’, I ask her. She doesn’t answer. ‘Do you know Marianne Faithfull?’. ‘No’, she replies. I continue: ‘My sister says that she killed Morrison. She gave him the last dose.’.

I heard of ‘The Doors’ for the first time when I watched the film of Oliver Stone. This was a hit for me. My sister came and said: ‘Hey stupid, this film is to be watched with the sound set to maximum’. She took the remote control and broke the grounds. I stuck with them ever since. I asked my mother to buy me the soundtrack on tape. The tape started with Morrison saying stuff like that: ‘Can you say that you lived a life so exciting that it can be a movie?’. Yes, of course, I said to myself. I was only 12 and yet I felt like I had lived a whole life. I was glad that someone understood me. My narcissism made me believe that my life was exciting enough to make a film out of it. From that day, I promised myself to live my life with more intensity.
I used to listen to ‘Riders on the Storm’ or to ‘Break on Through’ and I still thought of that mysterious Marianne Faithfull. I thought that, if I ever met her, I would throw a punch onto her face – How could she do this to Jim? The kids at school believed that this Faithfull didn’t even exist; that I had made her up. I didn’t know what to answer. I couldn’t think that such a great person, the first poet that I loved, would let himself pass away in a bathtub, because of his own mistake. Someone else should be blamed. She is the one who should be blamed (Marianne Faithfull).

Nine years later, I find myself in a bookstore. I listen to a husky voice from the loudspeakers placed on the ceiling. An erotic and dark voice. It is neither rock nor jazz nor pop. It ‘walks’ softly on underground melodies. Like a whisper, it reaches me from the earth’s core; and like a complaint, it burns my tongue. It’s a clear voice. It’s Marianne Faithfull’s voice, promising that she has more to say at the concert that she will give in our country.

The musicians are all set from early on and are now rehearsing. We slip silently right in front of them, looking for the mature diva. She is nowhere to be found. We have to wait for a long time until she appears on stage. I look upwards, downwards, to the right and to the left. I don’t manage to say a word. The only thing I see is smoke. I listen to that voice again. With a few words in broken English, mrs. Faithfull welcomes us. Only a few of us are there. We move kind of heavily. She moves as well, holding a cigarette in her hand. I stare at her and remember my sister’s words: ‘She killed Morrison’. She doesn’t look like a killer. She looks more like a forgotten princess; like an ancient coin still shining under the light. I am mesmerized; so mesmerized, in fact, that I feel ashamed of myself. She is much older than me and some will say that she is an old lady.

When the concert is over, I approach the bass player. ‘I want to talk to mrs. Faithfull’, I tell him. ‘I’ll do what I can’, he replies. He comes back later to tell me what I don’t want to hear. ‘She is busy. She gives interviews to the journalists. Come back tomorrow and maybe we can do something.’. ‘I don’t have that much money’, I tell him. He promises me that he will leave two invitations on the counter for me.

I get ready to have my breakfast. I haven’t slept enough. At night, I was thinking of all that. What should I describe again? The second largest décolleté that played –undoubtedly- its role in my personal history? You can call me anything you want but I am romantic too. I traveled from one end of the world to another in order to meet a real lady. I have loved her, because I know that she was smothered by her own mistakes and yet she managed to find a solution. For years addicted to drugs, she sank in the swamp and came out clean. She made it to the other side and saw herself change. I wouldn’t do it as well. I would have lost that glow.

I have never seen more beautiful eyes. Maybe Melina Mercouri had more beautiful eyes than her. I don’t know. I didn’t manage to meet her closely. I always wanted to steal a bit of the strength of a lady. [I just read this last sentence. It describes a much more female than male ambition.] I always wanted to steal a bit of the strength of great people. That’s how I should write it. (I’d rather not make a name for myself.) Anyway, Marianne Faithfull looked a bit more approachable, since she would give an interview to Rock FM that morning. I entered the studio almost by force. The guys there knew me and didn’t send me away. She was right across me; she and her stubborn manager. She was smiling at me. He had turned sour, as if he had just eaten something awful. At the end of the interview, I let my wheelchair slide next to her. I approached her slowly. ‘I want to hold your hand’, I told her. ‘You have lived more than one lives. It’s important for me to have a little from your strength.’.

She was strangely calm. She was holding my hands tightly, thus purposefully ignoring her sour manager, who reminded her all the time that they were late. In the end, she came even closer to me, she suddenly grabbed me and kissed my lips softly. For a moment, I wondered if she was crazy. Then nothing. Silence. I just saw her going, holding the hand of the idiot. That day, I was the greatest idiot of all. I spoke to nobody. I stared at nothing like a fish with the mouth open. I didn’t know what to believe. The same lips that used to be pressed on Mick Jagger’s, Jim Morrison’s and so many others’ lips had just touched mine oh mine!

That night, I went to the concert again. The bass player had indeed left the invitations on the counter. I sat right in front of the stage, watching Faithfull blow me kisses and hellos. This was not the last time that she greeted me. A few months later, I found her again at the Athens Concert Hall She was singing Kurt Weill with the Symphonic Orchestra of Berlin. I found this somewhat indifferent. I am not a devoted fan of culture. I suppose I will enjoy that stuff at the age of 50. Maybe all this will seem to be stupid by then. One thing’s for sure. Moments like that are not to be forgotten. Some times, I still think I haven’t woken up from that dreamy fairy tale. As if I refuse to grow up. Is there any particular reason why I should hurry?