Matteo Strukul
THE BALLAD OF MILA
Translated by Marco Piva-Dittrich and Allan Guthrie
For Silvia.
INTRODUCTION BY VICTOR GISCHLER:
MATTEO AND MILA
This is an introduction. Youre supposed to learn a little something about the author of this book from me a fellow author.
So, of course, I need to talk about myself.
No, wait! Dont go. Ill make this quick and painless, and I promise its relevant. Hang with me.
I first met Matteo Strukul face to face in the Turin airport after Air France lost my luggage. He was in charge of publicity for a small house in Italy which had published my first novel. I was a guest at a film and literature festival in the Alps, and Matteo had been charged with taking me around, arranging interviews and generally making sure I didnt get lost or fall down and hurt myself. What I learned about Matteo on that first promotional trip to Italy was that he was passionate and knowledgeable about all things hardboiled, noir, and pulp.
This fact became even more evident later when he helped co-found the Sugar Pulp movement in Italy, gathering together like-minded crime pulp aficionados. If you get a chance, hit their annual festival in Padova. Good fun. Matteo was later to head Revolver, Edizioni BDs crime fiction imprint. And now, as an author, you have a man who has seen the genre from just about every angle. Matteo Strukul is steeped in the hardboiled. He knows crime. He bleeds pulp.
And thats maybe why Mila and the other characters who populate her world are so rich and dynamic and well... kick ass. The scenes crackle and pop and leap off the page. My favorite authors are intelligent people who refuse to misuse their intelligence by spending time trying to prove it to you, and Matteo doesnt have to. The work speaks for itself and knows what its trying to do and does it. Matteo has penned for us a grand ballet of blood, an opera of violence, a ballad of badassery. A smart novel, yes, but not a look-how-smart-I-am novel, and that is where Matteo and indeed the entire genre wins. Pulp is at its best when it strips away pretension and grabs you by the balls. I should have said that simpler and sooner.
The Ballad of Mila owns your balls, man.
And isnt that what we all want from our pulp crime fiction? A ball-grabber?
And while you or I may have visited Padova or other Italian cities as tourists, its quite doubtful youve experienced it the way you will in The Ballad of Mila . Matteo has shown me Italy with new eyes, a natives eyes. As an American crime writer, I sometimes fall into the trap of thinking we have a lock on cities with gritty underbellies (and down here in Louisiana, swamps filled with seedy backwoodsy types) but Matteo illustrates with eerie authenticity that you might think of Italy as a country with some of the best food and wine in the world, but you can still get killed in a New York Minute (a Venice minute?) if you wander down the wrong dark alley. Matteos sense of place is one of the novels great strengths.
But the crowning achievement, of course, is Mila herself. There is something about a beautiful woman with a sword that simply works . And while its certainly possible that this archetype might let us down in the hands of an author with lesser skills, I am delighted to report that is not the case here. Matteos expert sense of pace and character allows Mila to stretch her bloody, vengeful wings and fly through the pages of this scorching novel.
Since that first trip, Ive been back to Italy a number of times. (Gischler is talking about himself again!) But now, I dont think of Matteo as the guy who keeps me from falling over myself (although he still does that). I think of him as a friend and now as a brother author. While in Italy, during interviews arranged by Matteo, I would often be asked the following question: What Italian authors do you read? Embarrassingly, the answer at the time was not very damn many. The truth is that a lot more English fiction is translated into Italian than vice versa. So it is no small compliment to Matteo that Exhibit A would select The Ballad of Mila to lead what will hopefully be a charge of excellent crime fiction going back in the other direction toward America. Italy could do a lot worse than to make Matteo Strukul the face of Italian pulp crime.
So. There. An introduction. If you were smart, you skipped over this to dive into Matteos excellent novel. If not, dont fret. Theres still time.
Turn the page.
Hurry.
Victor Gischler
December 2, 2013
Chinese mafia, a real danger in Padua; Carlo Mastelloni, the Venice District Attorney, raises awareness
Il Mattino di Padova , 19 October 2010
Chen narrowed his eyes: two thin cracks onto which red liquid dripped. Blood was falling from deep cuts in his forehead, a veil that blurred his vision.
The promise of death.
Zhang, the guy standing in front of him, was the one who had inflicted the wound.
Zhang looked at him, smiling, holding a butterfly knife, its blade red with Chen's blood. Zhang burst out in nervous laughter while taking in all the details of the little shop.
He smelled the spices, moved his gaze to the coloured boxes and cans of food. Packets of Lungkow noodles with their bright red dragons; the yellows and reds of Quick Cooking; grey boxes of flour for making Salapao steamed buns; the transparent packaging of the Wai Wai rice noodles and the Yan Long, made from sweet potatoes.
He smiled once again, satisfied. As if all those things belonged to him. He licked his upper lip, a merciless light in his eyes.
Got yourself a really nice shop, Chen, don't you?
Ye... Yes...
Zhang flicked the double handle of the butterfly knife again. The short blade flew through the air like a hungry tongue, swinging fast in a macabre, shining dance. He seemed to want to buy time before getting down to business. He took all the time he needed, making sure that fear seized the very bones of the small, skinny man in front of him.
On the Formica counter where Chen had set up the cash register and jars of brightly coloured candies, there was a bunch of red sword lilies. Their long stems formed a green lozenge. Their petals, strong and thick, expelled a strong perfume, a pungent fragrance.
Have you seen them? asked Zhang, lifting his chin and indicating the lilies with a simple movement.
Yes... whispered Chen in a weak voice.
You know what they mean, dont you?
Sword...
Yes, sword and blood. Death, you ungrateful bastard! It's futile to try to avoid my rage and the revenge of your lord, Guo Xiaoping, the Dragon Head of the Talking Daggers! Xin and Lao both know you have to die.
Xin and Lao, crew-cut and specs, had just tied his hands behind his back. Slices of the shop's neon lighting bounced off the dark lenses partially hiding their eyes. But, still, Chen could feel their gaze digging into his face.
Zhang exhaled through his nose. And all because you're late with your payments again this month, he told him. Do you want to keep what you're earning, thanks to my uncle? You become greedy, Chen? Do we need to ask your permission to have what you owe us, you little freshwater crab?
Chens mouth was sealed, fear holding his words in. He lowered his eyes. Silent tears made their way through the blood and ran down his cheeks, his thin face, his high cheekbones.
I dont think I heard you, prompted Zhang.
Of course, Guo doesnt need to ask for what he's owed...
Ah, that's better, sighed Zhang. Seems you're not as stupid as you'd like us to believe. He walked to the colourful tins of Shiitake-Poku mushrooms and the green cans of Aroy-D bamboo shoots. Moved the knife to his left hand and his right swept across the shelves.
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