Nicknames grow spontaneously here, like the shrubbery sprouting from the bridges.  (I think I’ve mentioned this in other posts.)  They’re not like stage names; you can’t plan them, and you can’t nickname yourself.  Something just happens and voila’ — you’ve got a nom de guerre for life, and not only you but, as you’ll see shortly, also your descendants.

On our way to the nicknames we need to detour through the numbers of the Neapolitan “smorfia,” or scheme by which items are assigned a particular occult number; the purpose of this is to facilitate your translating elements of your dream last night into numbers which you will use to play the lottery.

I was in Naples some years ago and dreamed of a flying rainbow-colored turtle, so being almost certain of having received a mystic message which would soon be translated into cash, I went to the lottery-shop and a wizened lady behind a window looked up the numbers corresponding to flight, turtle, and rainbow.  I played them and I won, almost immediately, nothing.  But the numbers are sacrosanct so it obviously wasn’t My Day and so, I ask myself, why did I bother playing?  For the same reason everybody plays, to one degree or another.  Because you NEVER KNOW.

The classic number I remember best is 47: “Morto che parla” — Dead man who talks.  Immortalized in an unforgettable instant in the film “Gli Onorevoli” with the incomparable Toto’, who is running for office and yells out his condominium window for everybody to vote for him by checking box 47.  Voices from hundreds of surrounding windows bellow “Morto che parla!”

Or 8: “Otto fa culo, otto fa porco, otto fa marinaio” — Eight makes butt, eight makes pig, eight makes sailor.  Lino says this sometimes, and I’m not taking this one any further.

If you want to read the list from one to 90 according to the usage in Naples (where fortune-telling is as basic to life as bread), here’s a chance to learn some new Italian and also some Neapolitan.

And so we come to the number 14, which is why I brought up nicknames. Lino has an ancient cousin who was telling me the other day that her father was called “Fourteen.”  (She didn’t say “nicknamed,” which would have helped.)  Someone trying to place her would say “Oh — you’re Fourteen’s daughter.”  I, in my innocence, thought he was the fourteenth child, which 90 years ago wouldn’t have been totally improbable.  I’ve known people of a certain age named “First,” or “Second,” and there was even “Decimo” — tenth.  Useful for the parents, probably scarring for the children, but really efficient.

But when I asked Lino later if her father had been the 14th child, he laughed.  “Heavens no,” he said.  “Her father was always drunk.  Fourteen stands for drunk.” (Certainly better than nicknaming him “Drunk.”)  It even has a sort of affectionate little fillip to it, as in “We all know, but he’s our guy.”

In another case, there is a certain tightly-wound guy who is known in all the rowing clubs he’s belonged to (he keeps getting moved on) by the nickname “Cagnara” (ka-NYA-ra).  It means a quarrel, of the sudden and belligerent type.  I suppose that’s an affectionate term, in its way.  Maybe in this case it also serves as a warning label for people who’ve just met him.  He might volunteer at the hospice, he might adopt 20 Patagonian orphans — he’ll still be Cagnara because of something that may well have happened 50 years ago.

There are also plenty of names which you can’t explain.  Lino went to work at the airport when he was 15, and at some point (maybe even his first day) he was dubbed “Cheope” (kay-OH-peh).  It means Cheops, as in the pharaoh Khufu.  He still has no idea why, but that was his moniker and he could decide whether to respond or not, but there would be no substitutions made.

One of his co-workers was dubbed “Piangi” (PYAN-jee).  It means “whiner,” “complainer,” “crybaby.”  This person was obviously in the habit of communicating in laments of various grades.  Did this person hate the nickname?  Too bad.  He should have thought of that sooner.

There’s a gondolier nicknamed “Cinese” — “Chinese.”  He’s not Chinese.  Another gondolier with a perfectly banal baptismal name is known by all as “Cicciolina” (chih-cho-LEE-na), which was the stage name of a certain Ilona Staller, a Hungarian-Italian porn star.  Two generations of the Dei Rossi family of gondoliers/racers have been known by their nickname “Strigheta” (Strih-GHE-ta), or” little witch.”  And so it goes: “Five lire.”  “Mosquito.”  “Pastry.”  “Raft.”

Lino added, “What about Burielo?”  “What does that mean?”  “I have no idea.”

I saw the lightning-flash birth of a nickname last Saturday.  Our little group had a new addition, the French boyfriend of one of the girls.  He was introduced as “Gaby,” and hearing this, Lino’s brain bounced and he immediately responded “Gabi ocio!” (GAH-bee OH-cho).  This is Venetian for “Have an eye,” meaning “Be alert!  Pay attention! Watch out!” and similar warnings.  It was evidently his Venetian destiny to be known this way, and that’s how Lino addressed him for the rest of the day. If the kid lived in Venice, that would almost certainly be printed on his death notice.

A few years ago the Italian postal service made an exception to the rules by allowing mail to be delivered in Pellestrina if the address bore the addressee’s nickname.  This was vital, because there are basically four last names in Pellestrina, and not all that many different first names, so nicknames help everybody understand who’s being talked about.  The letter-carrier could spend all day going door to door looking for the right Marco Zennaro (made up) if you didn’t write the nickname to clarify things.  Plus this would help you avoid leaving letters at the wrong house, where they could be read by the wrong persons, which in a small village with only four last names would be equivalent to standing at your front door shouting somebody else’s private news to the entire street.

For the record, if I have a nickname, I’ve never heard it.  Hope I don’t have to discover it on my death notice.

* It’s an American joke: “I don’t care what you call me, just don’t call me late for dinner.”

I was in a friend’s apartment one evening not long ago, which gave me the chance to (A) stop and just look out the window at a snippet of Venice I’ve never seen from this angle and (B) observe a snippet of behavior so bizarre that it might well have qualified as performance art.  More performance than art.