I’m shy when forced to meet other writers. I suppose it’s like this for lots of writers. We’re an introverted species. And when we’re herded into one another’s company, what a jaded bunch we become! Nobody’s less impressed that you’re a writer than a roomful of writers.
And so it happened I found myself in just such discomfort for the 2005 Premio Napoli, where we were gathered like smiling beauty queens secretly sizing each other up. Maybe that’s not so. Maybe that’s just how I remember it. I remember sincerely desiring someone else to win. (This sounds like a lie, but it’s true.) Most of the writers I met were cordial. But one writer had thoughts like a scimitar and was amusingly competitive. I laugh even now when I see his name in print.
Only Ryszard Kapuściński won everyone’s respect and floated above the rabble. I wish I’d read his work before meeting him and not after. I lost an opportunity to ask him…to ask him what? I’d ask, “Does a writer have to live in a perpetual border in order to be able to see?”
The writer Ryszard Kapuściński died on January 23, 2007, at the age of seventy-four. The New York Times editorial of February 2nd featured a beautiful homenaje for this journalist, who wrote with the language of his senses and not, as the Times put it, the “everyday language of information that we use in the media.”
He was a border crosser in every sense of the word, crossing genres as easily as he crossed countries, a Pole who followed his stories across continents, witnessing wars, witnessing the grief of the poorest of humanity. My partner and I were lucky to have met Señor Kapuściński, only briefly, but that was all we needed to see who he was. He never mentioned he was world famous, that he was a regular contributor to The New Yorker, The New York Times, Granta, that his several books—Travels with Herodotus, Shah of Shahs, The Emperor—had been translated into more than eighteen languages. He never said any of this, and it would be only after his death that I came to know his writing.
We met in September 2005 in Naples. He would win the Premio Napoli that year, surprisingly enough in the poetry category. We gathered in the foyer of the hotel where we were awaiting a representative from the Premio Napoli offices, and from that first meeting, Señor Kapuściński charmed us.
He was an older man, stocky as a prizefighter, with silver hair that stood straight up like brush bristles. I remember he contrasted sharply with the other invited writers, a flock of blackbirds, because he was dressed in pale colors that matched his hair. We spoke to each other in Spanish; Señor Kapuściński did not speak English. He talked about living in Mexico and in Latin America. What was remarkable was the way he listened. He looked at you when you spoke; his attention never floated above and beyond you, like most famous people I’ve met. He was so popular with all the writers present that by the end of the week whenever he climbed up on our motor bus, an involuntary cheer would rise. If there had been a vote for Mister Congeniality, I’m sure Señor Kapuściński would’ve won.
Finally our welcome committee arrived, a tiny creature as fragile as coral. She looked like a child to me, but this happens a lot now that I’m older. That day we were to visit several bookstores and community centers, since many people in Naples were reading and voting on our books. Did we want to walk or take a taxi to the plaza where the motor bus waited?
“It isn’t far,” the escort assured us, “just a few blocks.”
That should’ve clued us all in. I know from experience that for Italians “a few blocks” could mean kilometers. It was also unfortunate that it was a hot autumn day, and though it was early morning, we would be walking uphill. To make matters worse, Señor Kapuściński was dressed formally in suit and tie. He voted to walk.
The Naples streets looked like opera sets to my eyes. We would cross an entranceway and peer into a courtyard laced with laundry hanging from balconies—those proud flags of the housewives—turn a narrow corner, and a plaza would suddenly bloom before us. We walked past stationery shops filled with ordinary but intriguing items—composition books, fountain pens, sand timers—a writer’s heaven, and beyond to baroque monuments and splendidly stocked news kiosks. We dodged café tables where Donatella Versace look-alikes smoked cigarettes and flicked their platinum manes. It was pleasant, and since we had a lot to talk about, we didn’t complain. But after a while Señor Kapuściński began dabbing his face with his handkerchief and asking, “How many more blocks?”
Our child escort now seemed like someone sent from a horror film, the very picture of Death with her Cleopatra eyes and miniskirt. She kept luring us forward, promising, “It isn’t far now, it’s just up ahead.”
We passed a stoop where an ancient woman in black sat silently selling holy pictures from a basket. I gave her my Guadalupe holy card from my wallet, and she kissed and kissed it, blessing me in Italian a thousand times.
With every block, Señor Kapuściński grew more flushed. At times he would stand still to make a point in a story as much as to catch his breath. My partner and I lagged behind to keep him company since by then the rest of the party was far ahead.
Finally Señor Kapuściński had had enough. “I thought she said it was just up ahead! This is an outrage!” “Yes, it’s too much,” we agreed. We sat down at the next outdoor café with him and ordered cappuccinos, pretending to be upset too, even though we were fine.
It took a while for our hostess to realize we’d mutinied. She came back for us, and by then Señor Kapuściński was calmer after he’d rested and had something to drink.
“But we’re almost there,” she said, and by then her claim was true. The bus was purring at the next plaza, just around the corner. But Señor Kapuściński had walked too many blocks for un señor grande, and his rage was real, though aimed at the wrong target. It wasn’t the young hostess who had lied to him, but his own aging body.
I wanted then to take care of Señor Kapuściński. He reminded me of my grandfather, of my father, of all the men I’ve known who grow frustrated at the inadequacy of their aging bodies and blame it on you. “You see, you see what you made me do!”
I think it was then I dubbed him Señor Cappuccino, because in my mind he became, from then on, indelibly linked with that cup of coffee we shared together during our mutiny.
Señor Kapuściński laughed at his nickname, and when we said goodbye at the week’s end, he promised to send and did indeed send me his poetry. In Polish, for my Polish eye doctor. He apologized and was sorry the book was not yet translated into English for me. He never mentioned his extraordinary body of work, as compact as poetry, in exquisite prose I would discover and fall in love with later for its ability to exceed journalism and invent a new genre: reportage with literary power—poetic and precise.
So much was he in my thoughts this new year, I had a friend buy a Mexican calendar for me to send him, even though the days of his life were already over. That was the same day I would learn of his death in the newspaper.
“What kind of Mexican calendar should I buy?” my friend asked that morning on the phone.
“Buy him a traditional one,” I instructed. “It’s for an elder, un señor grande.”
Señor Cappuccino’s calendar arrived a few days later, when I’d almost forgotten about it. An Aztec warrior firing an arrow toward the sun.
