Mary with gun

by Alicja Singh (Italy)

I didn't expect to find Italy

“He died at only fifteen,” she whispered. I didn’t answer and kept starring at the cigarettes covering the sidewalk like a dirty carpet. They must had been trampled by many tourists before us. I asked myself why people threw them around the city, but I didn’t find any answer: there was none. “Are you listening to me?” Assunta regained her high-pitched voice, slurring the speech with her marked Neapolitan accent. “He was just a few years younger than you.” “And he attacked a policeman with a gun,” I replied curtly. We kept walking in silence. I could only hear our breathing and the tolling of bells. I counted twenty chimes. We were late for dinner, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t hungry. The narrow backstreets were lit by the light of the setting sun. The shadows of the clothes hanging from one house to another were stretching on the ground like purple ghosts. I felt as if all the weariness of the trip had poured out on me. I looked at Assunta. Her tanned face seemed darker, wrinkles I had never noticed marked her skin like a web. “I’m sorry,” I said. It was the only thing I was sure of. That guy was a criminal, and he had been shoot by the policeman he had attacked. There weren’t a culprit and a victim. When things aren’t black or white, and the world can be pictured only with different shades of grey, trying to find a sense becomes impossible. I sighed. The street was almost desert, but the houses were all lit up and we could hear noise from tableware and people talking loudly. Than we passed some restaurants gathered together around a picturesque square, and the scent of pizza fresh from the oven reached our noses. “Buonasera belle!” called us a young waiter “Una pizza?” Assunta declined, smiling kindly, and we went over. I was tired. I only wanted to return to the hotel overlooking the sea I lodged in, but my guide went the opposite direction. We had become friends and I didn’t want to come across as rude and hurt her feelings, so I followed her without complaining. When we turned the corner of a dimply-lit street, she stopped. “Here we are!” Her voice was softer and a bit moved, which was strange for her. We were standing in the middle of a small square surrounded by scraped dirty walls. The amber sky was obscured by clotheslines and balconies, which seemed about to fall on us at any moment. Frankly, I couldn’t find anything interesting in that place. “Have you ever seen something like this?” Assunta was staring straight ahead herself. I followed her eyes and crossed the look of a pale young woman. Her figure was enlightened by the purple sun setting over on the horizon, which gave a bronze shade to her pearl skin. “It’s a graffiti,” I said, more to myself than to Assunta. That black and white figure had something different from the murals which covered the walls of many Neapolitan buildings. And it wasn’t only a point of colour or subject. “Look above her head,” whispered Assunta, and my gaze fell on a gun in the middle of an aureole. I felt stunned.“ It’s Banksy’s gift to my city and all the people who visit Naples. Today you have seen the Dome, Caravaggio’s paintings and Bernini’s sculptures, but I think it’s right showing you also Banksy’s “Mary with gun”.” “Yes, it’s right,” I whispered. That mural was the heart of Naples. An artwork in the middle of a square covered with cigarettes and colourful flyers. Mary was looking up. I didn’t know if her eyes were fixed on the gun or on the wine colour sky, but I felt her closer than I could expect. Her pale figure stood out against the black background of the mural and the greyness of the city. No matter if people use her face as a mask, if they make their dirty consciences white passing guns off as aureoles and violence as sacrifice. Banksy gave a voice both to culprits and victims: looking at Mary I didn’t find any sense, but I believed in redemption.