citinotes
Battle of spirits
Certainly! Here’s the edited text:
I had noticed the signs, yet chose to disregard them. Years before my inaugural visit to Naples, I recall a dear Neapolitan friend of mine carrying a red-pepper charm on her key ring. I found it cute and stylish. During moments of exam stress, she would gesture the sign of the horns with her index and little finger. Still oblivious, I presumed she was a heavy metal fan. It took the third instance for me to grasp it correctly: encountering a guy she seemed to dislike, I inquired why, and she responded, “I am not sure; I feel he gives the malocchio.” Bingo! Though unfamiliar with the term, I was almost certain it had to do with the concept of “the evil eye,” a notion well-known to Greeks like myself. “Are you superstitious, cara?” I asked my friend. “Naturally!” she replied, “I am from Naples.”
Eager to delve into this intriguing facet of Neapolitan culture, my friend enlightened me about the jettatore: a mythical figure believed to attract all evil spirits, bringing misfortune to those encountered. In his travel notes below, the distinguished writer Alexandre Dumas (1802 – 1870) contends that the jettatore is akin to “an incurable disease” that can afflict anyone—man or woman, old or young, rich or poor. Unfortunately, the jettatore is often the last to realize their misfortune. Dumas’ book “Le Corricolo”—a nod to the carriage he rode in Naples—is a captivating anthology of descriptions and anecdotes delving into the Neapolitan heart.
Reading between the lines, one discerns that the jettatore serves as the perfect scapegoat: an abstract, invisible—yet omnipresent—enemy blamed for all unfortunate events, the misery, and insecurity eroding people’s dreams. As noted by French writer Dominique Fernandez (1929 – ) below, sometimes it is simpler to attribute the pain of a woman who miscarried to “a shadow” than to address her poor living conditions and consecutive births as plausible reasons for her miscarriage. When perusing his notes, it’s crucial to consider the city’s state of education and poverty some fifty years ago—undeniably lower than today’s standards.
The economic struggles of the locals, coupled with their belief in the metaphysical, may also elucidate why Neapolitans have a strong affinity for games of chance. A stroll downtown will inevitably lead you to a Lottery store. For some, it’s akin to a second home—a place to gather with friends, discuss the latest news, or lament their misfortunes. They even possess a handbook of numbers, called smorfia, aiding them in playing the numbers they dream about in their sleep. In the following excerpt, Matilde Serao (1856 – 1927), the first female newspaper editor in Italy’s history, vividly describes a Lottery game unfolding in a concealed Neapolitan backyard at the turn of the 20th century. Serao captures the pivotal moment when the last two numbers are on the verge of being revealed to the gathered players—a moment of all or nothing, where the courtyard is shrouded in a silence of suspense: soon it will all be over.
Acknowledging the thin line between good fortune and bad luck, Neapolitans not only ward off malevolent spirits but also seek to appease the benevolent ones. They have saints designated for this purpose. According to the French-Italian writer Domenico Rea (1921 – 1994), Neapolitans prefer saints to God, feeling a closer connection to them. Positioned halfway between earth and sky, saints serve as intermediaries, conveying prayers and grievances to the more abstract figure of God. The legend of Naples’ patron saint, San Gennaro, is as captivating as the myth of the jettatore: Three times a year, the city brims with devout Italians from around the world who come to celebrate a scheduled miracle—the liquefaction of vials purportedly containing his blood. And when religious saints fall short, Neapolitans turn to secular ones: Diego Armando Maradona is, in their eyes, a demigod of blood, sweat, and tears. No papal seal required here—“Saint” Diego is venerated daily in street shrines dedicated to his cherished memory.
The streets of Naples bear witness to this enduring spirit of superstition: observe the numerous street shrines, lottery stores, amulets, and statuettes of saints and heroes. Through these homemade “totems,” Neapolitans find it easier to confront the city’s chronic poverty; they provide a source of hope when faith in human power seems to wane—an illusion of justice that empowers these resilient people to rebound and move forward.
Citinotes
chapter 1
The jettatore
The Jettatore is a Neapolitan invention, a fictional character: half buffoon, half diabolical, the Jettatore brings bad luck wherever he goes. […] We need him because his malefic eye concentrates all the wandering adversity of the city. His existence protects as much as it worries. […]
The invention of the jettatore was a compromise between ancient magic and modern rationalism.
And if the jettatore -symbol of reason’s defeat in the face of misfortune- continues to enjoy a much greater popularity in Naples than in the rest of Italy, it is because the contrast between high culture […] and economic depression has remained as acute as ever. […] Everyone laughs at the jettatore, but everyone believes in him and touches their horn in front of the villainous trooper.
Dominique Fernandez, Mère méditerranée, Bernard Grasset, 1969.
The Jettatura is an incurable affliction; those born as jettatori will meet their end as such. […] Generally, jettatori remain oblivious to the fatal influence they possess. Referring to someone as a jettatore is highly inadvisable; it would be an unkind remark, likely to be poorly received.
Therefore, the most prudent course of action is to avoid individuals with this condition as much as possible. If avoidance is not feasible, one should attempt to counter their influence by adopting a specific hand position: When observing two individuals conversing on the streets of Naples, take note if one of them conceals his hand against his back. This person is likely a jettatore, or at least someone unfairly labeled as such.
Upon arriving in Naples, a newcomer might initially scoff at the concept of the jettatura. However, over time, a gradual unease may set in. At the end of a three-month stay, you will see the individual covered with horns from head to toe, and a perpetually clenched right hand.
No safeguard exists against the jettatura other than the measures I have outlined. Neither rank, wealth, nor social standing can shield one from the blows of this misfortune. All individuals stand on equal footing before the jettatura. Additionally, age, gender, and profession are irrelevant when it comes to the jettatore: they may be a child or an elderly person, male or female, lawyer or doctor, judge or priest, industrialist or commoner. The crucial consideration lies in determining whether a particular age, gender, or status intensifies or mitigates the gravity of the curse.
Alexandre Dumas, Le Corricolo, Editions d’aujourd’hui, 1843.
chapter 2
The miracle of Lotto
“Eighty-four!” bellowed the usher, announcing the number and depositing it into the third box.
In that instant, a collective howl of indignation erupted, comprised of curses, laments, irritated and pained exclamations. The designation of that third—unfortunate—number proved pivotal for the draw and the participants. The utterance of “eighty-four” left those who had engaged in the first, second, and third draws disheartened. […]. A chorus of imprecations surged from below, directed at ill-fortune, adverse destiny, the lottery and its believers, the government, and, of course, the hapless fellow dealt such an unlucky number. […]
“Forty-three!” the usher proclaimed once more, slotting in the fifth and final number. A final sigh of frustration swept through the crowd: it was over.
In an instant, the frigid lottery apparatus vanished from the terrace; like the children, the local authorities, the urn, everything disappeared alongside the eighty-five numbers, its pedestal, tables, and armchairs. The windows and shutters of the expansive balcony were sealed. The merciless lottery board stood solitary, upright, leaning against a balustrade, displaying its five numbers—five fates, five letdowns!
Reluctantly and with great sluggishness, the throng dispersed from the courtyard. The winds of desolation had blown over the most fervent, bringing them low with broken limbs, bitter mouths filled with bile.
That morning, many had gambled away all their money, their basic needs like eating, drinking, and smoking forgotten. They had nourished themselves with fantasies of a lavish feast.
They had envisioned a veritable orgy of sumptuous meals, mentally consumed on Saturday evening, on Sunday, and throughout the ensuing days! Now, they listlessly gripped empty pockets. In their desolate eyes, a tangible and childlike pain emerged; the agony of someone feeling the initial pangs of hunger and knowing there’s no bread to soothe their stomach—and realizing they won’t obtain any. […]
The most delusional among them had tumbled—albeit briefly—from the pinnacle of their hopes. They endured a prolonged moment of anguished madness, […], their fixed gaze remaining on the table of five numbers as if they couldn’t yet convince themselves of the truth, mechanically comparing those numbers to the long white series on their betting slips.
Matilde Serao, L’estrazione del lotto, in Gens et Paysages du Sud, Le livre de Poche, 1993.
Tombola board games.
A shop window filled with decorative Lotto numbers.
Red-pepper amulets bearing Lotto numbers.
chapter 3
The lawyer-saint
Neapolitans, in their unique way, keep their focus away from God. They prefer to interpose saints as intermediaries, akin to lawyers, to bridge the gap between themselves and the divine. Among these saints, the paramount advocate for Neapolitans is San Gennaro, entrusted with defending the actions of the people in Paradise.
For people in Naples would not know how to communicate with God directly; the notion of addressing an intangible, unseen entity is perplexing. However, at the Duomo, they encounter the perfectly tangible statue of San Gennaro. God, an elusive dream and idea, contrasts sharply with San Gennaro, a man crafted from flesh and blood.
Remarkably, San Gennaro is the sole saint globally who, twice a year, validates his continued existence through the liquefaction of his blood. This blood which begins to boil like a boiler within archbishop’s hands […] becomes a spectacle for the praying crowd. The debates surrounding this liquefaction are set aside as, upon witnessing the boiling blood, and each devotee believes a problem is resolved. For example, […] a barren woman may conceive; the adversary of an individual might meet their end […]; earthquakes cease causing sorrow; and […] the lava of Vesuvius halts at the city’s gates.
[…] With the liquefaction of his blood, San Gennaro gave his approval. considering that hunger perpetually haunts the Neapolitans, San Gennaro will come to their dreams dictating the winning lotto numbers to the ones he has chosen. This act promises prosperity, alleviating their misery through substantial financial gains. […]
San Gennaro will never advise Neapolitans to go to work; he guides his people to play the Lotto, ensuring that the most pressing issues for players are effortlessly resolved. The Lotto game, geeply ingrained in the weekly activities of the locals across social strata, serves as an extension of San Gennaro’s lucky spirit. These two are inseparably linked.
Domenico Rea, Visite privée : Naples, Chêne, 1991.
A golden statue of patron saint San Gennaro at the Cathedral of Naples.
The streets of Naples abound in shrines dedicated to the Madonna and the city’s saints.
Street shrine paying tribute to the memory of dear family members.
Just like San Gennaro, the memory of Diego Armando Maradona is worshiped in street shines, murals and countless memorabilia all over the city.
chapter 4
In evil eye we trust
What can be said to mothers when the heartbreaking reality sets in — when their breasts dry up, and the cruelest of fates claims the life of their thirsty baby? Who would have the audacity to convey that circumstances might not have unfolded differently in a city where maternal milk stands as the sole sustenance for a newborn? In a place where hygiene is so deplorable that any alternative food purchased in the market would pose a lethal threat to their infants, and where hospitals operate under such dire conditions that a child faces a higher risk of death there than in the nurturing warmth of their own home? Who could be so lacking in empathy as to elucidate that the cessation of their milk production stems from the burden of excessive labor, and that this burden, in turn, is influenced by the idleness of their husbands and the chronic, overwhelming misery that pervades their homes — a misery that seems insurmountable and devoid of hope?
In situations like these, it’s evident that the language of reason might strip away the last shreds of resilience these mothers possess, having witnessed the tragic loss of their infants one after another. It might be more effective to address them in the language of empathy, refraining from rational explanations.
Perhaps it is wiser to let them believe in a narrative of external malevolence – that they may have encountered a dark jettatore in the street: a wretch, a sorcerer, envious of their happiness and maternal fulfillment, fixated on stealing their milk, as if casting an evil eye upon the very essence of their nurturing source.
They try to shield themselves from the malevolent gaze as best they can. Pockets are filled with cloves of garlic, and at home, a pair of scissors is suspended from the cradle: a symbolic deterrent, signaling that the evil eye would recoil in fear at the prospect of being severed in half.
Beneath their shawls, you may find them securing a newspaper against their breasts, laboring under the belief that the intricate letters will demand so much time and effort to decipher that the evil eye will be compelled to avert its gaze. […]
These women, many of whom have limited literacy skills, place their trust in these protective rituals. These practices occupy their thoughts and provide a lift to their spirits. However, what purpose would it serve to depict the dire state of affairs in Naples—a truly calamitous situation with no apparent remedy or escape? The very city that compels women to bring children into the world seems to, tragically, be responsible for their demise.
Dominique Fernandez, Porporino, ou les mystères de Naples, Grasset, 2005.
A statue of the Madonna at the Basilica di San Lorenzo Maggiore, one of the most beautiful churches in Naples.
San Gregorio Armeno street is lined with workshops of “presepi”, elaborate nativity scenes, a centuries-old craftsmanship of the locals.
This emblematic mural of a young Saint Gennaro, painted by Neapolitan street artist Jorit Agoch, is a tribute to Naples’ patron Saint.
Naples of the spirits
Inspiring places dedicated to religious and secular saints of Naples.
