by Edoardo Nesi
— This morning he was there with his workers and a cement mixer. Ready to start.
—This is incredible. This is…Can’t you get things started, Pasquale? You’re the site manager, aren’t you?
Pasquale looks at Ivo, and hopes he remembers that he is just a painter, so he will not be forced to repeat it.
— Laying the plinths is difficult, Ivo, and I don’t feel I should go over Vezzosi’s head while he isn’t well…And then he told me the building has been designed in a particular way, because you wanted the factory to face — was it the sunset?
Ivo closes his eyes for a few seconds, then grabs the telephone.
— Gabriella, get me Andrea Vecchio.
He hangs up.
— He’s my Sicilian friend. I met him in Taormina having dinner at the Miramare, with Lo Turco. He was with his wife and I was with — who was I with? I can’t remember right now. Well, we were sitting nearby and so we started to talk, we drank Malvasia from Salina and became friends. He’s a great guy, Vecchio. He builds all sorts of things, from what I’ve understood…big projects. Roads, bridges…a factory is nothing for him. He’s an incredible guy. The Mafia were threatening him and he told them to fuck off. I don’t know if you understand, Pasquale: the Mafia…They were setting fire to his diggers, and he reported them to the police. He’s like that. He began working in factories and moved his way up. Like me, like us…
The telephone rang.
— Andrea! Hello, how are you, my friend?…Good, good, and you? Everyone well at home?…Yes, of course, of course I’ll be over soon, but first you need to come and see me in Tuscany…Actually, Andrea, can I ask you something? It’s very important. You remember the factory we talked about over dinner?…Yes, yes, the crazy one, that’s it. With the swimming pool on the roof. Yes, the Olympic swimming pool. Look, I’ll be straight with you: something has happened, I won’t go into details over the phone, but I need you…Yes. Now. No, we haven’t started yet. Yes. From scratch, Andrea, from scratch. There was a problem with a bomb…No, nothing like — no, no, really, absolutely…Don’t worry, Andrea, it wasn’t an attack, it was just a bomb left over from the war…Yes, work has stopped. Stopped dead…The plinths? To tell you the truth I don’t know. I’m traveling the world and can’t follow the work personally…I know, I know…Pasquale, are the steelworkers already on site? Andrea is asking if the cages have already been built.
All Citarella can do is close his eyes.
— It seems they haven’t, Andrea. But the cables have been laid, right? Pasquale? No? Not even those? Andrea, my friend, we are seriously behind schedule. We are actually standing still, to tell the truth, when we should be moving fast. You remember Brunero?…Yeah, the one who left me his hotel bill at the Miramare. That stingy scumbag, yeah…Yes, exactly, the cretin with the good-looking wife. He bought the land next to mine and has now started to build before me. Andrea, you know what that means, right? A challenge, yes. You’re right, it’s unacceptable…Really? I can’t believe it. Tomorrow? Really? You’ll be here tomorrow morning? Well that’s incredible! What a great friend you are! No, don’t you worry. Andrea, I just need you to get things started and then I’ll sort myself out. But thank you, thank you so much! I’ll get my representative to meet you at the airport, Mr. Pasquale Citarella. Yes. Pasquale, tell me your office phone number.
Pasquale, taken by surprise, stares at him for a moment, then gives Ivo his home number — Maria would answer the call and would know what to say.
— Andrea, I’m afraid I won’t be here tomorrow as I’m leaving for Frankfurt, so you will need to talk to Pasquale…Of course, I understand. Yes. Absolutely. I’ll book you a nice hotel, and if you can stay an extra day I’ll take you to dinner in Florence, to Sabatini’s, where they do steak just the way you like it. Okay then, bye, and thanks again!
Ivo hangs up and looks at Pasquale.
— Perfect. We’re all set. Tomorrow afternoon you go and pick him up in Pisa with my Alfetta. He told me his flight gets in around three, but check with Alitalia. Do everything he says. He is a fantastic guy, and a real friend. We are all set, Pasquale. I’ve got to run. Bye.
And he races out of the office.
JUST LIKE THAT
WHEN PASQUALE CITARELLA and Andrea Vecchio arrive at the building site, tightly squeezed into the front seats of the Ape, they are met by the taunting of all twelve of Brunero’s workmen, lined up along the edge of the lot.
— Look, the Marocchino*1 is back!
— Hey, there’s a new one today! So, two Marocchini!
As they drive past, Vecchio silently watches that row of young, sturdy men — three of them are players of Calcio Storico, the medieval game that is played every year in Piazza Santa Croce, right in the center of Florence, by the city’s toughest — as Citarella turns purple with embarrassment for himself and for Ivo and even for the city that adopted him, because it is a shame that this Sicilian gentleman, who arrived at the airport with two bags full of exquisite almond biscuits, should be welcomed in this way. He is so agitated that he accelerates on the dirt track to move away from those thugs, but is unable to avoid a series of violent jolts to his poor Ape, which provoke another round of jibes.
When a defeated Citarella finally reaches Ivo’s lot and stops his Ape on the dry grass, Andrea Vecchio gets out and starts walking slowly toward Brunero’s workers, with Pasquale rushing after him.
The Sicilian is not an inch over five feet three, his thick, chestnut-colored beard merging with thinning brown hair that has been carefully combed backward, wearing a suede jacket over a blue lambswool sweater, a white shirt, flannel trousers, and stitched English shoes. He quietly approaches the group of workers while the young men continue laughing and joking around the largest of them all — the bearded giant whose hand had left a dent on the roof of Citarella’s Ape and who now stands with his arms folded, in his shirtsleeves despite the cold.
— Good morning. I would like to talk to the site manager.
— That’s me.
The giant is well known throughout Florence and the whole of Tuscany for many fistfights and various prevarications which have earned him the nickname Mazinga, after the colossal robot from the Japanese cartoons. Vecchio stretches out his hand and Mazinga, taken by surprise, bends down to shake it.
— My name is Andrea Vecchio, and the gentleman with me is called Pasquale Citarella. We are two Marocchini, as you say. I am Sicilian, and Pasquale here is from Campania. I have to say this is a new definition for me. In other parts of Italy we are called terroni,*2 and I was used to that name. But it’s not a problem. Your term, Marocchini, is fine with me. It has its exotic charm. I’ll keep it in mind. Now, I’d like to place a bet with Mr. Brunero Barrocciai, who, I have been told, is your employer, and an acquaintance of mine…
Andrea’s calm voice stops and, as he looks each of those young men in the eye, his serene gaze seems lit by an internal flame, as if a furnace was burning inside him.
— I can’t see him here, so I will make the bet with you. I see you have already laid a dozen or so plinths.
— Eight.
Citarella notices that after Vecchio made it known he was a friend of Brunero’s, the men started to look at him differently. They have tensed up and no one is laughing anymore. Many now keep their sinewy arms folded on their chests, as if to protect themselves from the slow words of the Sicilian.
— Good, you are at an advantage then, looking at the cables you’ve laid…Even if some have lost tension, and will certainly need to be tightened up…
Vecchio points to the farthest side of the rectangle marked by the fixed cables, and all the workers immediately turn in that direction, while Mazinga keeps his eyes on the Sicilian, almost folding his neck because of the disparity in height.
— Your factory…or rather, the factory you are starting to build…It’ll cover about two thousand five hundred square meters, correct?
Mazinga nods.
— Two thousand five hundred squ
are meters, that’s right.
Vecchio smooths his thick, chestnut-brown beard, then smiles.
— So it will be smaller than ours, much smaller. Exactly half the size, because ours will cover five thousand square meters, and on two levels, making it ten thousand square meters in total, while yours is only on one level, I suppose…So I would like to make a bet with Mr. Brunero that we will finish before you. Even though we haven’t started yet. Are you in? Or rather, can you ask him if he accepts?
Vecchio takes his wallet from his inside jacket pocket, pulls out ten banknotes of one hundred thousand lira each and puts the dishcloth-sized bills in the enormous hand that Mazinga, upon seeing the money, has automatically stretched out.
— If you win, Brunero keeps the money. If we Marocchini win, however, he will give me two million, and I’ll take him out for dinner the next time he comes to Taormina. Agreed? We’ll see you soon then, Mr….
— Franchi! Mazinga proclaims, a bright, childlike smile suddenly lighting up his warrior’s face, and he shakes the hand Vecchio is holding out. “Lorenzo Franchi! I will make sure I pass it on to Mr. Brunero, Mr. Vecchio. Good day to you. Wish the gentleman a good day, boys.”
Eleven mighty throats enunciate their respectful goodbyes, as Vecchio turns and makes his way toward Ivo’s lot, followed like a dog by Citarella. In the distance, slowly winding their way along the dirt track, two brand-new trucks — one full of steel and the other of steelworkers — and an immense cement mixer advance toward Ivo’s lot.
— You put them straight, sir!
Citarella plods merrily through the wet grass, five or six meters behind Vecchio, who suddenly stops, not in the slightest bit bothered about muddying his English brogues.
— Eh, Pasqualino, let’s just say that where I live I’ve had to deal with characters a little more troublesome than these idiots…From your accent I can guess that you’re not from here. Where are you from?
A relieved Citarella tells him everything. The whole story.
About his father who worked on the railways in Ariano Irpino, and who one day said goodbye and left for the North.
About the phone calls he made once a week to the public telephone box, and how all five of them would immediately leave the house, with their mother in front and him at the back because he had to make sure that his little sisters didn’t fall in the street and scrape their knees.
About that special call that his father made one day, saying that he had found a job at a brickworks and they were paying him forty thousand lire a month and so now they could come, too.
He told Vecchio everything.
About his father coming home and saying that up north there was work for everybody and they all had to go there right away, and so they sold their house and the wheat field and left.
About the journey, with his father traveling by train and he, his mother, and his sisters squeezed into the cab of Nunzio’s small truck — Nunzio being a man from Ariano who worked as a driver for a furniture company in Florence, and rather than going back with an empty truck, he had filled it up with their things, which really weren’t much at all: a table, the mattresses, the suitcases, and his father’s Lambretta.
About how they ventured over the twists and turns of the mountain roads because they couldn’t take the highway or the police would have stopped them and sequestered Nunzio’s truck.
About how they arrived in Ancona at dawn and he saw the sea for the first time and swam in his underpants and the water was warm and calm and shimmering, and a silver-colored fish had darted around his feet.
Everything.
About how they finally arrived after a full day’s travel, and how immense that city had seemed to him! All of those houses! Those enormous sheds! And that omnipresent noise that Nunzio said was the sound of the looms, which he said were black machines made of steel and as tall as a man, and made textiles.
He even tells Vecchio his secret, how he had decided the minute he arrived that this was his city, not Ariano, and how he would always strive to be worthy of living there: he would be good at school, and after school he would go to work to help his family. He tells him how he made this promise to himself, at ten years old, in the cab of Nunzio’s truck. He crossed his fingers in front of his mouth and swore it.
Vecchio nods and stays quiet for a few long seconds.
— That’s a great story. And it does you justice. But tell me, Pasquale, what’s going on here? How did Ivo think it would be possible to make this project work? Has my friend lost his mind? Who is the site manager? Where is he? It can’t be you…
— No, Mr. Vecchio, I’m the painter.
— So where is the man in charge, then? Tell me. I don’t believe he’s ill, it’s not possible. Men don’t have nervous breakdowns. Where is he? What has happened to him? Did they get rid of him? Was he stealing?
— No, sir. He lost his head over a woman. A history teacher.
— And he has stopped coming to work?
— He says he can’t. He’s lovesick.
The slowly approaching convoy has been joined by another titanic truck carrying a digger, and it goes slowly along the narrow, uneven track with the grandeur of a military parade, paralyzing Brunero’s workers and leaving them speechless in the face of its unstoppable advance.
— Hmm, love, women…But now you have to explain to me what the hell this sunset business is about. This crazy matter that Ivo wants to watch it from his office, because I just can’t understand it. In which month does he want to see it? Are you aware here in Tuscany that the sunset moves in the sky during the year?
Pasquale, Ptolemaic to the core and never fully convinced that the Earth isn’t the unmoving center of the universe, shrugs his shoulders.
— Let’s assume, then, that my friend wants to see the sunsets in May and June, when they are long and beautiful and heart-wrenching, and their beauty will console him while he is still working at eight o’clock in the evening. Which means…
That formidable little man looks at the sky, takes out a compass, stares at it, looks once more at the sky, and holds out an arm with his finger pointed upward.
— The factory will face this way.
*1 Marocchino, literally “Moroccan,” is one of many pejorative terms used by northern Italians to designate those from the South who arrived in droves to provide a workforce for the postwar economic boom.
*2 This is another pejorative term, perhaps the most common of those used to insult the Italians who live in the South. It is impossible to translate literally, but a very rough meaning could be “people who live by the products of the earth.”
SKIPPING SCHOOL TO READ
HIS MOTHER BURST INTO THE ROOM like a drill sergeant, throwing open the door and excusing herself for not having heard the alarm clock. While she opened the shutters and the window to let light and air into the room in an Apollonian attempt to cancel any trace of the night, as if darkness was dirt, she told him anxiously that it was late and he had to be quick, and ran off to prepare his breakfast, without even looking at him.
This was a stroke of luck, because as he languidly drifted in and out of sleep before his mother’s invasion, Vittorio had been engaged in yet another attempt to have his first wank. He had managed to preserve from a dream the image of a girl with red hair and freckles who smiled at him and touched him right there. Upon finding his dick erect, he had started to jack off furiously, and at the very moment his mother had entered his room like a tornado he was starting to feel the far-off warning of a new, profound languor, and he startled, full of fear and shame and anger because once again he would not get to the anxiously awaited emission of that “sticky, transparent liquid,” as it was described by his friend Fede, who swore he had reached that crucial moment and had felt “a really strange feeling, difficult to describe but really, really cool, and afterward you feel all weak and tired and loose, but it’s really, really great.”
While his highly efficient corpora cavernosa emptied of that untimely in
flux of blood, Vittorio gave himself a swift, catlike wash so he would be ready to show up for breakfast as relaxed, distracted, and virginal as ever, dip a biscuit in his milk, say goodbye to his mother, and walk to school without showing any suspect swelling beneath his fly.
He could have taken the bus, sure, but there were problems with the bus. Every time Vittorio set foot on one, he was assailed by a thousand illogical and invincible fears: that the bus would miss his stop and keep traveling toward the unknown; that the bus would stop where he needed it to stop, but he wouldn’t be able to get off, blocked by a wall of people who refused to move aside and let him get past; that the bus would never stop anywhere, because the driver had lost his mind — and what could he say to the driver, when there was even a sign that forbade you to speak to him?
He also had a mortal fear of the ticket inspector, a figure whose semblance he could scarcely imagine, having never actually seen one, and so, like a hare, he lived in constant fear of an unknown threat, and his fear was reinforced by the intimidating tone of the signs stuck to the bus windows: those terrible yellow stickers, always picked at the corners by nervous young nails, which warned that there would be “spot checks” on passengers to make sure they were “in possession of a valid ticket,” and threatened exorbitant fines.
He was also scared there might be bullies on the bus, or a madman, or “someone with bad intentions,” as his mother always said. But above all else, he was scared of getting off the bus at the wrong stop and finding himself in a neighborhood he didn’t know and eventually getting lost in that city of his, which seemed to grow and change every day.
So, no bus. Every day, unless there was torrential rain, Vittorio walked to school and walked back home. He didn’t mind it. He had more serious problems. That morning in particular he was tormented by the certainty of being ill, very ill, and smiled bitterly at the idea that upon seeing him walking to school in his loden, his flannel trousers, and his Clarks desert boots badly misshapen by hundreds of soccer games, no one would have guessed his tragic destiny.