You get him

Marco Pontoni

There are times that you are him, the people you are him, you'll be on him in the street, you'll be on him in the alleys, you'll be on him in Piazza del Duomo, you'll be on him in Martyrs' Square, there are times that people you are him while walking alone along the river and then you are on him and you urtano and if you're holding something in your hand you do drop, if you're eating something you urtano with arm and falls and then not run even to apologize, There are times that if you have the newspaper in his hand te lo urtano, and others where you come from behind and stretch their necks wrinkled ie red, stretch their heads hanging, sometimes even seems that allunghino their bulbs eye to see better what is written on your newspaper, there are times that walking and have a new dress and you are him with ice cream, with the anointed hands of the chips, with her hair all vischiosi and dirty, or with dogs on a leash, or with children by the hand, you are him and you and you urtano dirty trousers, dress, sleeves, shoulders, other times you're just a dress and then they will be on him with complete signed with hats aimed at large, with handbags shiny, with the gold, jewellery, earrings, there are times you are him and you s'infilano between his feet, we pestano shoes with their heels aguzzi, sometimes you are bringing him the parcels, or holding umbrellas, and you sgocciolano on the neck passandoti next, sometimes you are on him all together in the subway and do not know what to do more, think that you'll need to get off the sidewalk but when you get off to one of them drops him well and you in the way, then you move him and copy your every move, you move right and he moves right, you move left and he moves left, so you're strong property and aspects that passes, but behind there is another and back again many, many others, sometimes you are him in the courtyard and other times you are in giroscala him, is nearby with a smile as white as death, is the vigilant that shake a stick stripe of blood , Is the teacher of mathematics that rumina its formulas, is the woman who leaves a trail of dust powder on the wall, is the man who will scratch his testes in front of you and even if n'accorge, is the stradino with a pickaxe in hand, is a journalist with a microphone in hand, is the questuante with his life in hand, is the lover, the mafioso, canaro, playing the guitar, sometimes the escaped which evades capture, is the priest, the judge, the debt collector of taxes, is sometimes an actor on television, is the fallen Angel, is the devil, and then sometimes, sometimes the Great Mute Entertainment Void of Tyre, sometimes is the same Entertainment Mute that comes at him in the street, is as large as the whole avenue, and then I do not know which side most girarmi lap and if I know that behind me there are people that I was on him, all, all the people , Who comes forward, together with other people, there are times that people you are him.

Marco Pontoni was born in Bolzano in 1965. He lives in Trento, where he worked as a journalist at the press of the Province. Member of the Scientific Committee dell'annuario of comparative literature "Communicate" (ITC-Il Mulino), published with the photographer Massimo Zarucco the book "Mozambique, the pride of a people" (Artimedia, 2005). Finalist premium Calvino 1997 edition in 2006 he published his first novel "Music Box" (Curcu & Genovese). He has also published short stories in magazines and anthologies. "You get him" is part of recounts: "21th century schizoid man."

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We dream with pain

Alessandra Sartori

"Unless your name does not lead the imprint of any Orwell, Carter or Dean hurt to devote free time to fold hair or the choice of dell'imbottitura bra, because nobody except your grandmother will want to be read the details of a so ephemeral as yours. Also because know that will end just as it began: weeping. "
Faced with rules so rigid that I believed I would never have had my magic moment, even to ottantanni when with rheumatism and hair dyed would have watered the plants of the balcony left me fall on deaf ears, down among the swallows. These were the rules of my grandmother, not mine, because I already have viaggiavo fronts battles unknown to her, and so the decision to take to hand my history came much earlier age senile, very first gray hair.
I had twenty years, giravo classrooms for the university in search of the book The apology of Socrates, that I forgot I do not know where and, instead of the book was Carla, a professor of philosophy, died suffocated between the gaudy colors of his long scarf flax. For weeks continued to talk about the professor who was taken off life hanging his slender skull from the ceiling of a classroom empty.
Carla ciondolava a meter from the earth, hanging into thin air. The eyes seemed buttons blacks a coat wrapped in nylon of laundry. A melancholy Marlon Brando the fixed appiccicato with Scotch to one of the many benches scratched from the boredom of students.
From that day, for weeks, stopped to sleep. The sleep had become a prison of anxieties and fears, I hoped that everything would be passed quickly, like a fashion, like the Walkman, amphibians with nails, moncler, but even in that moment I was just wrong.
By day sonnecchiavo, perhaps in the classroom during a lesson. Trovavo refuge only in the movies, especially in video cassettes. Guardavo and riguardavo Breakfast at Tiffany prendevo and sleep, a sleep confused, just before the scene of George Peppard that tightens passionately Audrey Hepburn, which in turn tightens passionately a big cat wet.
At vagavo as a presence unstable, while the teacher rimestava the conscience of a Zeno who wanted to quit smoking, I scarabocchiavo notes and thoughts between the pages of a notes inattentive. One afternoon buttai randomly between the eye and I saw the notes, with raccapriccio, without thinking that I had marked several times at the exact same, roundish, word: goodbye.
I capacitavo of so much suffering, I did not understand what was pushing my heart to scream such a terrible word to the world. In brief moments of sleep the dream. Sognavo Carla, his small eyes of ice, his hands that agitavano in the air.
Mimetizzavo my anxieties golfini wearing soft red raccoglievo hair in a high horsetail and mischiavo the ombretto to fard in a mix of colors out of fashion. I thought I protect my image and instead was becoming the type of person from serving as adult grimaces in front of a mirror the lift or tossed with long dissertations on the importance of french manicure, I was becoming a woman who wants unripe couple making it seem grotesque , The surface of a material aseptic still too soft to be trampled.
My gradual descent into darkness could have been continuing without any major shocks, if it were not for the unexpected word that I continued to write for days and days looking for the answer that still did not demand. It was spent almost a month after the day following the suicide of a professor of philosophy and my shell finally began to scricchiolare.
Carla had a way of exposing soporifero any thought, perhaps the fault of those continuing its enjambement and the tendency to repeat several times a given word, perhaps an adjective or a proper name. It was redundant in a way almost inhuman.
That day, "the day dell'addio", I decided that I had to discover what had really happened, I had to understand why Carla Maioli had decided to end his life. I knew that if I had discovered what was behind his desire to die, I would have been able to better understand the reasons of my life so dannatamente anguished.
Carla had forty-four years, taught by eleven and lived for six with her mother ottantenne in a building on Cassia. He had a mouth without lips, hair and skin opaque subject to a perennial acne never cured.
More days passed, the more I felt that I needed to know. I had to find out what was so wrong in his life to justify an act so courageous and very risky.
His machine lying still parked near you, I knew because every morning while I could see it passed with my Hello, fissavo the square and then back to proceed rapidly, trying to remove a kind of ugly thought. One day I fermai, there in front of the Ford Fiesta whose windows impolverati. There girai around for a while ', I did not know even what themselves looking for, but at that moment, I seemed to be close to some conclusion. With one hand attraversai dust of the rear, tracciai a long line transparent glass on the dirt and a shiver slow I crossed the thoughts.
The book The apology of Socrates, was there behind the glass. It was my book, for one, was safe, I had wrapped in turquoise un'orrenda film that at times was torn, and it was there, among the dust, abandoned in the midst of that void.
The first instinct was to leave, to escape. There was something that frightened me, but at the same time I could not stop asking "why me?".
"Find something?" Said a voice behind me.
Sobbalzai heads. A woman of small stature, with white hair and a hideous purple dress that fasciava the sides, I set without batting an eyelid.
"No really………… yes that is my book…"
"What book?"
My answer was only a quake of his hand to indicate stentatamente moved to the rear of the car.
"He wants to say that this book is yours?"
I continued to respond to hints, saying yes with his head.
The woman approached slowly to your car, I looked good to be close and then went back on its steps without adding any word. Appoggiata to stick, ciondolando troubled two sides perfectly asymmetric, the elderly lady disappeared between the scales of grey building.
I did not know what to do, I muovevo as an insect imprisoned by a glass, I saw my book, I had to take it, but I could not, that machine was closed, there was dust, the blinding sun, the heat burning l ' air. My bronchi premevano, sprigionavano poison, the air was dense doing, the more I sforzavo to breathe less oxygen accumulavo. With a gesture quickly seized the Ventolin and I aggrappai with their lips at that simple jar of air.
"Suffer asthma?" Asked again the female voice behind me.
The woman was sitting. I supported the setting stick, a slight grey hair ciocca the sfuggiva dall'acconciatura ciondolandole on the face, slowly.
I continued to secure it without moves back. Respirando I began to understand, yes, that woman knew of old, was present in my thoughts, but I could not ricondurla all'esatto fragment of memory past.
"Suffer from asthma when I was six years." I replied.
"Even Carla knows? Even Carla suffered asthma. I do not sopportava, said it was absurd to die due to a stupid bottle drained. "
The mother, here's the fragment. That woman was the mother of Carla Maioli. They had the same grey eyes, the same profile sharpened, the same wide hips and overbearing, the same way of gesturing with his hands to the wall.
The elderly lady not expected response, with a round of key opened the door impolverata the car and I did mention to enter.
"Go, take his book. I do not know about farmene, as I do not know what farmene of this machine. Maybe I should sell it. It 'the only thing that has left me. There was even disturbed to write two words, think. After all the children of parents are concerned only day of the funeral and so now I have to arrange even in this. The children often are just a hole at heart, a horrible hole at heart, believe me. "
It was at that moment that something is staccò by my thoughts as a ciocca hair torn forcefully. Hands tremavano me, I sweat colava quickly by neck and the warmth of that liquid that addensava between the clothes I brought back to mind an old pain. I remembered my mother, cheeks rubiconde, istoriate small venuzze alcoholic, the eye that I was looking for quickly in the darkness of the house. I remembered that the hatred felt for her whenever scagliava on me with anger, when not ubbidivo and you drunk I pull for foot dragging my screams down the block, maledicendo my father, his being dead too soon cancer, anger, unhappiness.
The memories, even the most distant, often dragged back from verbs very close, as if the weather suddenly becomes a horizontal space on which to go and return at will.
"So? I want this book or not? "Said scocciata the old lady.
I like travolta shaken by a secchiata water raccolsi my things, the stock had dropped the helmet, took the motorcycle, put in motion and started to run at full speed, without setting case to the screams old lady Maioli .
The palms of the hands scivolavano up a gear anointed sweat, shaken by a quake crowds, the air in the lungs returned to addensarsi, temples pulsavano. A brief vacuum tyre and what udii subsequently was the sound of my skull sull'asfalto, only noise. Then the dark. Then the light.
I can still hear the voice of my grandmother that echoes in hospital.
"God, please… Chiara no, please…"
George Peppard me porgeva slow hands crying, but I accarezzavo the cat travolta from rain, wind, cold. Audrey played a quick motivetto between the strings of an old guitar.
Carla Maioli suffered asthma, but often forgot the classroom Ventolin, I then tried his eyes to say, for them to note that this small tool would have been able to serve, but you no, you every time I said to myself by , To study, which was better than studiassi, because they saw that I was one of those to whom the things you need to repeat several times, because they saw that not very valevo. Carla did not want to understand and then tried to help you understand that life must be lived with caution, we should not be fooled by their certainties.
Raggiunsi professor during the hours of availability, I sat in front of her and stayed there to secure the air while the impastava the bowels and made smooth as silk ribbons fleeting.
He said that he could not help my inability to respond to fate, I was what I was and I could not do anything to make them change judgement against me. He said that I impegnavo enough, that valevo not enough. He said that not go well, it continued to repeat, just like my mother when I strattonava and beat, shouting to passers that I was only an unnecessary spit of life.
The river had been broken and there was no more god flying to monitor the area.
The laugh when I came out furtiva, innervosita, I saw armeggiare with the stock market in search of something that could not find. Ridevo while boccheggiava while I had stopped on the chair, immobile, because so no one would have been heard. Ridevo when he started swallowing spasms of panic. Smisi laughing when I left in her scarf wrapped with a thousand colors and nothing now could save.
"And 'now time to go, I die, you live. Those of us who go to better fate, nobody knows except God. "Sussurrai ear the first to leave.
The neon light to the hospital when I accecò, socchiudendo eyelids, I saw my grandmother cry, sitting in front of my body immobile. It was then that including how much light can be death, as darkness and blindness can hide the life among the waves of tears, among the folds of those arena for the first time on the shores of the most authentic pain.

Alessandra Sartori was in 1979 in Trento, where he lives, works and writes tales since he was eight years. With great flight (Curcu & Genovese) was ranked in second place in national literary prize City of Funds (LT) 2002 and was a finalist at the international J. Prevèrt 2002 of Melegnano (MI). In March 2003 won the international literary Colors of women of Ascoli Piceno, with the story sand. In 2005 he published "The Guardian of Stars".

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Abu Chilosapiù

of Licia fields Pieces

As for us to leave, 'I'm affair? Already half an hour later, for a start. There will be some rogna in Sight? I feel me, that in Argentina there arrival. PUM! Leap air in the middle of the ocean and many regards. After everything that has happened, still have the courage to say that the plane is the most secure, but I do not drink. When a casca, never that there is a survivor… If dirottano then, even worse. You can only choose whether you kill terrorists, be shot down by fighter of Control or suicidarti for you. Then you call hero.
Schifosa, rubber. It seems grape juice march and should push through the bad air. I come from vomit. Resisto, otherwise the hostess arrives with a bag and I threads in the head. Maybe used. What beard other nine hours and then what?
For the marriage of Rosita, cousin or what it is. Who has never seen, that there? His father started in the fifties… and the jumps now plan to invite my old marriage of a daughter. Just around the corner, in Santa Fè. Figurarsi, he had already fear that the attacks before buttassero down the two towers in New York. Now it makes tremble every time he sees the wake white aircraft in the sky!
But who will be the guy sitting near the window? Maybe I've already seen somewhere. In photography… No, it was an identikit! Recently rose, supported a bag under the seat in front and you'll see that with an excuse asks me to move and makes us all jump in the air. It was the identikit of a terrorist? Sure, called Abu Chilosapiù…. Maybe it was more fat and darker this here. But maybe that has made diet and you've been doing bleaching of the skin like Michael Jackson. If it were him, it would be the last straw. Already I had little desire to do 'I travel and I am now sitting next to Bin Laden's cousin. A better watch it, is precisely the same eyes. For safety, if try to get up, I put off the leg and do fall in the middle of the corridor. Then I put a scream that is a terrorist, so all jump on him. Bella history! Certainly we gain a permanent position at Maurizio Costanzo Show. Perhaps I shall also commendatore.
Ah, the hostess is carrying lunch. What the armchair sixteen has already tuffato face in the sauce, like a tricheco. And if it were all mad cow disease?
At tiggi said that in Argentina there is no danger, because the cows eat only grass and not porcherie. It seems to me the minimum, with all that pampas available. Who knows that cost, the marriage of Rosita, and all invited to bite the bone without fear.
Cabbage! Abu has turned towards me. Why do I look so ugly delinquent? Here, it was noticed that they betrayed and has taken a look at the window. Ahi, I feel already sore back. There will be economy class syndrome? The aspirin before leaving I made, should be in place, there was also written on 'South Tyrol. What will be the first class? Now, not to seem racist call it 'business class', but my old has not funded the same. Maybe I were rich as Evita Peron, who was transforming the first class in a suite just for her. So at least did not have to worry about the terrorists. They say that not for nothing that resembled Madonna, who was more beautiful and more purpose. For that, just little. It was too fat, Madonna, for that part. A dying consumed by cancer certainly not a shirt that breaks out for too much abundance.
What is this brodaglia, coffee or tea? Boh. Those who took the bastimento if passed even worse. They were full of pativano disease and hunger. Mica for ten hours, for three weeks. There, more than economy class syndrome. If you beccavi pneumonia, the funeral at sea no te lo toglieva anyone. It is not bad, though. I have seen done to Star Trek, only that there lanciavano the dead in space. Captain Kirk said a few words with their faces serious and saw the coffin in the background of stars. Then started the symbol. If I'm not careful, this Abu, me it does him, the funeral in the air, but without musichetta.
Ahi, again buzzing ears. It 'better than another chew gum, even if it is disgusting.
Toh, here is the leadership of Argentina tascone in the backpack. I had just forgotten. The sfoglio a little ', so I do not think that I am flying to eleven thousand meters, with a terrorist closely. Two dancing the tango. Maybe the marriage of Rosita you dance .. I am already avvinghiato a scream from stangona, with her hair blacks and a rose between the teeth. Dara da da da dan… Mica evil however, have relatives in Argentina. A Trento, one with the rose between the teeth you dreams, unless the fioraia who has his hands occupied.
With luck that I am, I bet that will target some witch ultracentenaria. So I say that I do not know dance and if we do not believe, pesto feet and cleft also stockings. Ben you are, carampana. Here speak of Tierra del Fuego. The name bodes well. There are also deposits of oil. So why will the economic crisis, Argentines? In Italy, under the earth there is nothing, apart from the sewers, and yet you pull forward. Watch there is also a photo of Che, I recalled that it was more Argentine. I bet that cuccava be mad with that air perbene and mitre in his hand. When I put the Basque me, I will not row anyone. Maybe we lack the star. Hazards and contrattempi… But who has written, 'is driving?
In some areas there were hand-armed robberies against tourists… Basta, exchange page. I have enough on my own, with Abu and everything else. Infectious diseases such as non…… Hepatitis A…. Hepatitis B Hepatitis C…… Hepatitis D… You can not even hepatitis E. But up to Zeta, 'is lagna? Cholera, Dissenteria. Stop! Even eight hours. Better to sleep a little ', otherwise arrival that seem a zombie.
Who would have ever said! Even Abu was put to sleep. It is not by pretending it is precisely party. It was supported between the armrest and a little 'casca me on the shoulder.
Stringe something in hand… If it is a remote control for the bomb, take it for rubarglielo… But no, is a euroconvertitore! I know that Abu is not a terrorist and in the bag there is no bomb. You'll see that in the end not even called Abu. It certainly is a bank that has made the tanning lamp. Maybe I looked bad because she thought the terrorist was I! Buenas noches, amigo!

Licia Pieces Fields was born in 1971. It's degree in Political Science and lives in Campodenno, in Val di Non. Writer of the newspaper "the Tyrol, has already published with Curcu & Genovese" A Wall of Ice "(1999 three editions - Honorary Mention Award ITAS and transmitted by Radiodue)," Aurora von Trapp "(2001) and" Someone in ' shadow "(2003) and" The friends of Bin Laden "(2007). His essay "Cesare Battisti between Austria and Italy", the result among the winners of the competition launched by the "Bellonci" Rome was published by Mondadori in 2006 in the book "TELLING history."

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Pacific

Marco Pontoni

Buca the floor of clouds, then a gap, emerges in full light. It starts a turn, leaving the Andes to our right. A look at, even the hostesses seem to be more pale.
It lowers it again. We are now inside the gray. Big ears plugged. It lasts long, very long.
And suddenly is ocean, beneath us, a few hundred metres, you see waves iron color, their crests white dashed on the beach while the plane halyard the muzzle, vibrating in every seam, pointing straight ahead , Low over the city, colonial churches, squares, the villas of the suburbs, catapecchie, canyons eaten by rain.
Atterra of the crash. Short Track. Via belts! And we are in La Serena, Chile.

I am here only a few hours, I have not seen anything except the country's magnificent peaks white snow. I am curious and excited, as always, in a new place. But while I have to combat a sense of unease. I used "Chilean" even recently, in an article: as a synonym for police, fascist. I try to think of a wine that I drank a few years ago, and was excellent. I try to think of something pleasant but not me, each of us, I imagine, has its own vision of what is not, for me is Pinochet, the massacre in the stadium, is that photos of him young, in uniform, elegant , Legs wide, blacks goggles, boots. I have always thought that some lives are less sacred than others and that Pinochet is among the least sacred of all.

Renzo says: "Vediamoci below the three."
He combined for an interview, and I is offering the chance to share the experience with him.
Man is one of the masters of La Serena.
I am mortally tired. I would have wanted to stay at least until five o'clock, when the celebrations begin. But you can not say no to an offer like this.
Salgo room, I shower and I deckchairs on the bed. Close your eyes.
I wake up the phone.
"Then, come?"
Yes. Arrival. A minute.

The road was the first buttresses of the hills. At our shoulders the sea is oxide, firm to heaven down on the horizon, where no one sees. At these latitudes us at the end of winter, while we autumn begins now.
After a few minutes the car turning, take a driveway, stops on the back of a villa. Bella, but as others that arise around there. It is not a house sfacciata; exudes a judicious welfare. Prato English. Pool. A rotweiler the chain. Some machines of engine capacity and a big dish on the roof.

The man most successful Italian colony called Aurelius, and was born in 1927 in a mountain village of Trentino. His face is reminiscent of the protagonists of the films of John Huston, or Sergio Leone. Siedo before him already knowing what should I expect - Renzo I was warned - and yet considering the possibility that this man can even piacermi. Yes, at first glance is an interesting subject. Sounds Like my uncle. A face than once, pre-facelift, pre-creams male, pre-Internet. Full of wrinkles, cracks.

The conversation begins with the beer, served by one of his daughters. Renzo jokes about his heritage, what may amount to eye. Aurelio ride, we see that is used to be corteggiare. And do not say never the whole truth.
"This is a question, true… a little 'embarrassing. More than other I have a human capital, I have 6 daughters and 19 grandchildren. I spent all industries daughters. Ah, but they do not touch anything without saying! Agriculture, construction, automotive industry. Only the automotive creates each month a turnover of one billion pesos. In lire are… 35 billion, true. Then we import spare parts. With construction now we are a little 'detentions. We work in almost all Chile, but more rent that sale. I have 80 apartments in Chile, more houses, we sell more offices, workshops…
They 38, 40 million dollars. "

Renzo incalza, it is interesting to observe starlo. The talks as sometimes speaks with old, looking forward to solleticare their pride, now pander to their tastes. His speech is more prosaic. I riuscirei to lie like that? Or I would be rigid, suspicious, perched in my moralism? Fortunately not do anything, just stay to hear taking notes.

"I came in 1952. I had 25 years, true, I married 13 days before leaving. I arrived at Coquimbo with Amerigo Vespucci. The women slept below, above us, but after that we arrived came out that some was pregnant, and then, true, we see that we were not so much separate…
My father was a funaro. We were 3 sons and 2 daughters. Once I was beaten, with the rope, in the face, and then escaped, I went to Piedmont. I had 12 years, I made the bocia of the miners. Portavo the buckets… As a child I did everything.
When I started my family had 12, 13 animals. I had applied to go in the U.S., but had to wait two years, so I came in Chile. My son told me bridegroom with this girl who goes to Chile and childbirth immediately with his family. Then from there find a way to move in the U.S.. Why knew that his family was about to leave, where were here gave the earth.
I was a cluster, I had no right to anything. We are not giving us the land, parcels… We had arrangiarci aggregates. So I started to do the painter, house, paid a cent per square metre. To do as quickly as I invented a technique: I had tied the brush with a broom handle. Then buttavo on the color secchiate, true… and with the broom spargevo…
What had aggregate, has been my good fortune. Many families here when they arrived… walked on salt. There was so much salt on earth that seemed to walk in the snow. It took ten years to reclaim. Some have gone away, in Santiago, also in Buenos Aires. A group if it led by a priest, a missionary. I went to Brazil, have not found mica so well, the ones there. Who's Left, right, was hard for everyone, until… 1960, so, more or less, 59, 60.
In 53 I opened the first resale. He was also a bar, for the miners, when the round ended. From San Ramon went to Coquimbo to take the goods with horses, then I invented a wagon pulled by horses but with tires instead of wheels. It was, true, an innovation.
The first truck I bought in 54. Around 60 still combattevo, two or three times I was about to fail. I did not want protests, I wanted to keep my prestige, my father had always told me that the most important thing is the confidence of others. So I sold all trucks, and settled the debts. Then I restarted, I did not have a penny, I went to buy a truck on credit, and I obtained five. But the magic years, true… was the 68 ".

The daughter brings other beers. I take this opportunity to guardarmi around, take a couple of photos. A small-bourgeois living room, like so many in Italy, entered a giant wooden crucifix, in the kitchen a man of my age - the husband of her daughter? -- Gives food to a child. Images of peaceful life. But Aurelio turns with the gun, so I han said. Here was the West.

"In 64 I returned to Italy the first time. I had the ulcer, pesavo little. I bought 40 animals, risking, true. I always risked. I had malasorte because I lost a lot of money with businesses that I created… I was 3 months away, there was my brother with me. I had called in Chile. My father said I had to look after him. I sold half of the truck, but it was too good, people are not paid. In 68 I left the truck and I opened a dealership Fiat. Today I have 13 dealerships, all over the country. "

Renzo ends peacefully to write. Then the supports a hand on the shoulder.
"Aurelius. What happened here at the time of the coup Pinochet? Attentive: Do not tell me the usual cazzate. Rather talk on the other. "

"Do not worry, I'm not the type. I respect all the ideas in the world, true, but during the Allende… the colony risked losing its capital, all scappavano, escaped more people under Allende that under Pinochet. You in Europe do not know anything. What we wanted to achieve Allende in Chile was not an Italian communism, was Leninist, trying to make Chile another Cuba. I have taken away tractors in September 73 was to leave, I was to return to Italy, here we could not stay longer, the Italians would have taken away land, enough to get a Chilean, piantava a flag of Chile in the field , And the land was his. I was going to leave, I tell you! Then fortunately there was the coup. They had even taken away the lands to settlers, but would have done! If Pinochet was not the coup, a week after the fact would Allende. Here was full of Cubans. They have done a law to teach Marxism in schools. What do you think he said, people? With the arrival of the military, true, the situation in the colony has returned quiet. "

I think that when there was the Chilean coup, in Italy the workers scioperarono. Scioperò also my father, you remember well. My father has only two years less than Aurelius. He has escaped from the house as a boy. In 14 years went with the partisans, in Friuli, the mountains. Yet Aurelio is a person interesting. In other circumstances, perhaps we would have addressed. In other circumstances I would perhaps also a gun makes me sweat the armpit, who can say. Instead is an afternoon of September. The clouds are slowly diradando and war, that war there (not that there's now this), has finished a piece.

"Of course, we had done everything possible to bring down Allende, 99 percent of the people of the colony was with Pinochet, there was the strike of truckers, as no… But I tell you that all foreigners under Allende was a bad end , Sparivano, I would be gone too. It was against gun rifle. When fell Allende was the happiest day of the colony. With regard to the dead made by Pinochet, I do not agree, true, with those who killed later, however, when he overthrew Allende there were one million Cubans in Chile, and the second thing you did, selling sweets? Here in La Serena have killed 17 people, the news was published in the newspaper. I say only that if the September 11 the military had not taken power, 16 we would have been a communist coup d'etat. In Europe there have said nothing. Vai to talk with whoever you want. All you will say the same thing. Today, however, in Chile there are all the parties, true, we should not always talk about these things. Today we have the democràcia (pronounce the word with a tone of mockery). But it is a result that left us Pinochet. "

He shows us a book, a biography. The graphics are outdated, horrible. The sfoglio, listening, now the conversation is more loose, the critical moment has passed. There is talk of this.

"A La Serena agriculture for 70 per cent in the hands of the Italians, and of the province in particular. Trade and industry are we to 30 percent. The colony is made of people honest, too honest. I am a little 'closed, have inherited the fears of fathers. These are not countries that reward savings. We must take risks. The colony could do more. "

"But you help the country to grow?"

"I like it, true demand. I always say that I am rich because others are poor. There are bales. At this moment in my business is training, and workers are treated like children. Yes, sometimes I have to dismiss, but much will it cost a lot. However, even those that licenzio the end returning from me. We have a social policy for workers, a special fund. I doom who behaves badly. But then the person changes. Back from me. I thanked! I have never been overbearing. I was also a worker. I, you know, Renzo, I port behind the culture of my dad. My dad said that the most important thing is respect. They say that are overbearing. Not so, is my character. I have always done things my way. I criticised all, but I came back. The friendships policies? I am a friend of everyone. I was a friend of Pinochet, eccome. It was on vacation here. It was my host. Now I am a friend of Lagos. His brother, Lagos, worked with me. I give money to all, to those of right and the left. Yes, maybe those of the right a little 'more, ah ah… "

The interview is over. There riaccompagna at the hotel. On the streets shows us some of its buildings. It also shows a new shipyard, where there was a historic building, in Chile a house that has more than 150 years automatically is put under police protection.
"So one night…… boom ah ah ah, down everything! Who was? Mah! But now you can build, true. "

This is not the first time that I come to America, and know the same things. Spaces, spaces. The people who have so much space around no brakes, can not live with too many rules. All this space gave him in the head. Li made the case. Sfrenati.
Over all shocked that I still use dynamite to do business. What pull down the old buildings of this town up, the oldest, after Santiago. As those of us who burn the coasts, giving fire to pine forests. Like those mafia, who laugh and sfottono and ruminano eating also processes. Once, the old stones were not high on my concerns. Now I shocked the small things. I rodono, I shall vomit… these minuzie, these stones… because it is the details that are starting to see how things are.
I think once I would be outraged to stay in the same room with a character of its kind, but now I tell myself that is old, who made his life.
Old age is a great deception. It requires understanding, acquittal. Pretende to move the sponge on the wrongs of the past. As a good clean the surface. Of lustrarla.

Turn the machine again. The reality does not love him. Aurelio is the most successful example of the colony, but people remained peasant. Benestante, yes, but peasant. And moderate. Diffida of its methods.
Who knows if he really a weapon, on him, and if one has ever bet against someone. It is the generation of my father. The generation that has handled the weapons, which has heard the smell of blood.

Now start the ceremonies, then be the turn of official speeches, and then dinner with the Italian ambassador, and all families. There will be young like us, who do not believe in politics. Youth for which Allende and Pinochet are just the names.
Then, later on, perhaps succeed to reach the beach, if not too distant (here distances you fregano, in America everything is exaggerated). Attraverserò the Panamerican racing and then, if not m'investono, I will be finally reached the sea.
Mare, I said? Altroché. Ocean!
Pacific.

Marco Pontoni was born in Bolzano in 1965. He lives in Trento, where he worked as a journalist at the press of the Province. Member of the Scientific Committee dell'annuario of comparative literature "Communicate" (ITC-Il Mulino), published with the photographer Massimo Zarucco the book "Mozambique, the pride of a people" (Artimedia, 2005). Finalist premium Calvino 1997 edition in 2006 he published his first novel "Music Box" (Curcu & Genovese). He has also published short stories in magazines and anthologies. "You get him" is part of recounts: "21th century schizoid man."

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Sam zuccapelata

of Alias Biagio

Once upon a time, in the woods of Castagni, a family of peaks that lived on his quiet tree. Mark and Joy, two small peaks entertained often messing with their parents or with their friends, were really burloni. One night, for example, travestirono by ghosts and spaventarono all inhabitants. In fact, often were placed in punishment because some of these jokes were really too frightening. So one evening all the inhabitants decided to organize a big joke to scare Mark and Joy. While sleeping, Jack, procione, entered the room and made their svolazzare on their heads some bats. The two brothers svegliarono suddenly and began to scream from fear and ran in the kitchen, where they waited Yuri, however, the snake, which began with light to project shadows on the wall of horrible, making escape outside the home Mark and Joy. But they waited outside grandfather Delta, the wise owl, which became penzolare from in front of white linen and wind made the move as if they were the ghosts. The two peaks were really frightened, so took refuge in the house of their friend Sam, a stork. They entered shouting "Sam, Sam help, help! The forest of Castagni is bewitched ", in that moment felt a tonfo and a wardrobe Scarecrow came out with a pumpkin head. She began to say 'Ah ha, peaks furbetti! Enough with your scherzetti, this is the punishment for burloni, if you want to break the magic you have to be good "peaks frightened said loudly" OK, OK, we will be good, be good, I promise. " The Scarecrow continued "I am Sam Zuccapelata of the woods spiritello, if you will, that I go, you'll have to answer to a riddle," even this time Mark and Joy said that went well. Then the Scarecrow continued "In the woods bewitched inhabits a heron, is not yellow or green, is tall and slender and the beak of orange coloured guess hours must… his name is Sam the _ _ _ _ _" The two brothers were not very good with the puzzles, continued to think but could not find the solution. Until a Joy at some point came to mind "the stork, the solution is Sam the stork." "Exact" replied the Scarecrow, and took the pumpkin head, and surprise! Sam was just the stork transvestite. Sam said "It was a joke that you have done to make people understand what it means to be frightened." The two brothers said "You are right, we will do more good and less fearful of jokes." From that day because the two peaks were only jokes funny, because as they say around, ABOUT THE FA, The ASPECTS!

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Deposition

Luca De Feo

The guy you say
I saw him I saw him
or will be three months
there by the doctor
in the waiting room.
Without Eve nor Gioia
spoke of Robespierre and
diabetes, Missouri and suppositories.

It 'really true, I remember, I thought
everything has a logia,
apart from something.

"And 'professor of what?"
tossirono instead asme two and a sciatica over the sofa.
"I'm an expert who is not abreast of the times
with your computer
I do not know how to do. "
It covered a patch
without color on a
velvet when he was young.

Where is gone, you ask?

When his turn came
there was already more.

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There was once a curious game

Michele Comper

There was once a game very curious and fun called football, from the date the same name, which is a synonym patada, which is to indicate a percossa inflicted with pie ', more often with bad intention, as offensive and do evil, or fracassare and cagionar damage, more rarely to give aid and a push.
It was with any evidence of a war game, where the armies fighters, composed of ten members in all (these calcianti or even football players), s'affrontavano inside of a battlefield precisely defined. The which, cultivated a single verzura and with the appearance as a large garden straight, was called for precisely the football field.
Each of the armies had jurisdiction over one of two counties in which dirimpettaie had divided the field, said half field (because these people are not always eccellevano in fantasy), and a sort of storage space allocated to the land, said port (and goalkeeper the guardian).
The mission consisted of hosts nell'espugnare the field opponent, of course, something that was done, however, with how really surprising: for affrontarsi with fake weapons, or a martial art, or games of skill or strength, this sort of parava combatants is one front to another and, as somebody coup whistle (and not already horn or trumpet as would use), gave the foot launched a ritual object shaped like a sphere. It not large, hard material but very elastic and rimbalzante, was being maintained more ch'era possible under its control and the ranks de 'own allies, and was called ball or balloon.
These combatants, ch'essendo without the horse and dell'armatura avean the most of the boys and the knights, ran back and forth on this field or garden, rincorrendosi and sfuggendosi with the ball between the pie ', on the understanding and the mission of recapitarla in the storeroom of the opponent, beard to it; thing that you normally have revealed rocambolesca be carried out, and that in case of successful law gave all'immediato recognition of a point of merit.

It remains to understand why such a censure of the use of hands: ch'ipotizza there is the will and the design of smooth any possible dangerous side of this war game, so it was more the game that war, even if it had while in progress, and put on stage that mild parody, a sign and proof of civilisation of costumes, in the immediate periphery, and all around there was the use instead of fighting a real battle and very bloody, devoid of rules and creanza. Where small armies, using various weapons even the most bare hands, if played St. reason, even outside the appliances of a football pitch, and then through the streets and squares, with severe nocumento for urban furniture, cars, windows and other material goods. In addition, a real show and a parapiglia without head nor tail.

What are the origins and why and how a game like and so the fact is difficult to say. Some noted that the act against the pie '-a barrier that parasse before the journey, for once levarlo from there in order to proceed and go beyond, was certainly a dell'iniziative oldest that man had to turn .
There are also theories wanting the football game or Kicking not a rite bellicose, as soon religious beliefs, where the ball rimbalzante would be the idol, the object symbolic, the fetish. Simboleggiante thing no one knows for sure, but is easy to note that the shape of the ball is properly that of Earth, the planet green ch'ospitava those people and their earthly life. Similarly, the shape of the pumpkin, albergante no less than the rationale, that strength only one that made him the winner over adversity. And 'In addition, this ball, a form that leads to yet another sphere, even to a couple of important spheres, most minute diameter, alberganti in place some basic humors of the decision traghettar seco the spark of life for lead it to the right destination. Balls that here is not expedient to appoint further and more.

In addition, it was the cult that put the ball in the middle. And there are those who notes that it was of a very confused religion, that this was the sacred idol as the question (not precisely prayers, or caresses) and vice versa venerated above all else priests, these officers calcianti, eleggendoli masters of life and champions of virtude, as well as holders of large salaries. It was certainly a slip, un'involuzione sciagurata, a confusion of target where the faith of believers he resolved to your destination, instead of balls - these symbolic objects such pregni and evocanti - those balls facean spin and spin, or these athletes calcianti already said.
The who, in those bygone days, balls were all ministers and priests, drivers and artists and jugglers. Inside quell'orto unparalleled which was the soccer field, and above the mantle of verzure it covered and agghindava, so soft and welcoming; latter quality that only the foolish not estimate enough, I forget what is abrasive, Instead, life.

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The ninth moon

Alessandra Sartori

In a breath of love
lost the appearance
and became shell
hid your sea
inside my belly.

Now listen every day
your sweet sighs.

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Bus

Luca De Feo

Toc Toc.
- What are you doing?
- I? bus!
The driver had perfectly the pulse of the situation. They were the hands that he did not know where to put. Salì on board and, prudent, at squarto certainly preferred steering, to keep low, he thought, and to avoid bloodshed.
Partimmo. The vehicle accodò on horseback between the fast track, that emergency, that of overtaking and that of 'appenapossomiciinfilo.
Our half that with the wind behind someone called bus de sailing, others are not ventilated but with arias business, others in doubt autoboh, cigolava under the weight of us pickpockets Portuguese happy twice.
But on the most beautiful (and on my callo) went up the controller. Beautiful in its uniform color asphalt, I came and asked me: ticket? No, human being, corressi, avoiding I obliterasse. Ticket? Churches still spazientito behind his glasses. No, special support, explained irrigidendomi typical position in a T. The controller is convinced and went further.
The bus, which had a stop over, had him down, reminding him that the limit could also still go down and short. "Vabbèscendoallaprossima," said the controller, and we take it touched since there, but had to be so far remained on board for long.
On the one hand, the driver, between himself and repeated itself: I can not speak, I can not speak!

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Imagination red

Sergio Paoli

We had prepared everything to the smallest details.
The place chosen for that night was the hill of Dos Trent. Unlike every time, as each time. The third this year. Nobody would have disturbed.
We had to complete our ritual, to eliminate every trace and return service as nothing had happened.
There were discovered. I was certain. Not tonight.
The place was certainly suggestive. A hill from which we could admire the city that sonnecchiava unaware. The light soft, grey, reflected by the marble mausoleum that housed the tomb of Cesare Battisti, our projected shadows inside the right edge of a forest of Mount Verruca.
Few were aware that that was the real name of Dos Trent.
We were six, sweaty and silent over the verruca of Trento.
More victims.
Alfio had already removed the knife from the care and expecting only a nod to my start.
Nobody spoke.
The steel blade shone for only one fraction of a second, hit by a radius of the moon. It was the signal.
Our victim was ready ahead of us. Gelida, imperlata droplets of silver. Perfect.
Alfio slowly lowered the knife, supporting the tip of the blade to that glossy surface and tense. Instinctively ritrassi the stomach and stopped breathing.
Aspettavo only when the blade would be sunk, to end quell'attesa heartbreaking.
My endurance was now the limit and in my mind now there was space only for the imaginary red grondante I was offered.
And finally, the waiting ended.
Alfio socchiuse eyes, made pressure, the blade met a slight resistance then sank, agreed.
It succeeded, moist, glossy, riaffondò again, then again, in a crescendo irrepressible sensual, obscene.
We guardavamo, greedy, dumb and participate in that moment of ecstasy, until finally placammo our thirst, visually enjoying the spectacle that offered to our eyes.

It was certainly the biggest watermelon and juicy throughout the summer.
The first slice me it was of law, not least because the watermelon had brought me.
I had the time to give only the first bite when a metallic voice and torn sadly note the silence of the night.
"Flying by a tredue .."
Fettona right, microphone on the left. Sputai a semino in the night.
"Tell me tredue"
"Via developed, we call the night guards, it seems that one has been locked inside an office. We will see "
Adoravo that use of the plural.
Diedi three bites in a row Areas of accentuating the effect. Alfio cleaned the blade with a paper handkerchief, snocciolò some feature imprecazione bell and lit the Marea.
Lasciammo the Verruca with a sweet taste in the mouth and the precise determination to conclude the deal guard in a short time.
It was not the case.

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Destination paradise

Marco Braidotti

When awakened, Guido Rosati thought that it had not even slept. It looked forward and noticed with regret, that had already 7:30. They got up and headed in the kitchen to warm a little 'coffee the day before. It was not easy for a man like him, cuddled and flawed since childhood, be obliged to get into domestic work. He had a ruler who occupied the house cleaning and expenditure, but was three times a week and never so early in the morning, fortunately. The good coffee would have taken later at the bar, perhaps with a beautiful brioche. Meanwhile that sorseggiava that crap to begin to open eyes, looked out the window and noticed that the time was disgusting even worse coffee. It was in November and Milan, at that time, seemed suspended in the clouds. Every morning we svegliava thinking of being in paradise. The fog seemed to envelop the city in a hug and left at that thought, he was a thrill. Sure was different when the house was full of laughter, cries of children and exasperated voice of his wife who asked him to intervene rimproverando a child or maybe all three. Then racing to bring down the dog for the usual morning walk. Those were good old days and would no longer be returned, unfortunately. There was no time to think about the fog or paradise, it was necessary to hurry to the school, work, spending and there was never time to be bored or to make bad thoughts. It was precisely for what one day as another, returning home, felt that there was a silence abnormal. He called one by one the members of his family, not receiving the response proved that not only had never said no: the dog. No answer. He did not want to worry so much, maybe it had closed somewhere because they were noise, not to spoil the surprise. Maybe there was some birthday, perhaps his and wanted to turn all the lights suddenly and shout - SURPRISE !!!!!! -- But was not the birthday of anyone in that time! Of course it was late, almost ten were, as usual. Maybe they were all gone to bed early since the morning were always stravolti. It was still taken by his thoughts when he arrived in your living room. He found everything in order and clean as usual but, on the table, there was an envelope inside with a ticket, a fact sheet by letter. Riconobbe suffered calligraphy his wife. As he read his legs began to sweat and tremargli the imperlava his forehead. We sat down and rilesse that sheet and then the other rilesse thousand times disbelief, then frightened and, finally, was taken by discouragement and despair. At that miserable piece of paper was the end all of his life, his dreams, everything that had built with work and sacrifices. It was as if he had shot in the chest. Posò the letter on the table and wept and wept without restraint, without knowing why everything had happened, because without knowing him. Until the previous evening seemed quite normal. After lunch, at about two o'clock, had phoned his wife and had seemed peaceful. Probably was preparing the suitcases. The letter explained that his wife could not more of its delays, it can not rely on a husband "normal" and that, for some 'time, went out with an old companion school, a teacher. They were in love and now, after a while 'running-had decided to live together. Of course the children went with her, with his life sregolata, could never deal with it. Stronza! It also stronzo him. Of course it was easier to live with a teacher, half of his time spent at home waiting for the Christmas holidays, Easter and summer. The letter, if I could call, was signed by his wife and children. The smallest, perhaps believing to be witty, also signed with the name of the dog. All this happened three years first and then having them transferred, with the new husband and father in another city in southern Italy, his relationships with their children were mostly telephone. Whenever ripensava to all this, wondered where he had gone wrong, what had failed. It was graduate, had career and became manager, had tried to give welfare and security for his family and in the end, was abandoned because, in their view, was not normal. Things crazy! Meanwhile when they needed something, children, always asking him. The motor, a dress a little 'beautiful and so forth. If the teacher expected home could get around on foot and pants. Certainly was that his life had changed, had not wanted more links, did not want risposarsi become intractable and was also at work. Before he was a leader respected and loved, was now respected pechè manager and hated because discourteous with everyone. He never went well and nothing ever reproached all for nothing. The beauty was that this situation the liked, was pleased to be able to do harm to others, as they had done harm him. When felt that someone separated and saw families destroyed, in his underwear enjoyed it and was compiaceva. If a woman had to suffer particularly if they gioiva and saw how his former wife. Practically had become a bad person and that made him happy. Released home bought the newspaper, did not reply to greet dell'edicolante and directed towards the subway to go in the office, ready for another day's work and thinking who would suffer today. Maybe his secretary, as was a period in which they dressed in a way a little 'sexy perhaps hoping to receive from him a favor. It sat, as usual, the usual seat usually wagon and began to read the newspaper, the chronicle of the misfortunes of others entertained, but preferred like every day start with the economic page. At the bottom of his specialties was making money.

***

-- Lord! Hei Lord awake! --
Suddenly he opened his eyes and saw before him a controller. Impacciato and mortificato looked around and noticed that the train was empty.
-- What happened? -- Churches
-- It was asleep and got through to the final stop - said the controller.
-- Damn Guido said that trouble - I had a meeting at nine but now arrive late. Well, I will tell a phone call to refer to later. I indicates the nearest phone please? -- Guido churches.
-- There is no phone here, sir! -- Was the answer.
-- As there is no phone! -- Sgarbatamente "said Guido.
- E’ così signore - continuò gentilmente il controllore - è una fermata particolare e il telefono qui non serve.
Guido cominciava ad innervosirsi.
- Senta - disse - non è un problema, userò il mio cellulare così sistemerò questo inconveniente in un attimo e poi prenderò il prossimo treno che va in città. Anzi - domandò Guido - a che ora parte il prossimo treno?
- Non ci sono treni che vadano da un’altra parte signore - rispose sorpreso il controllore - questo è il capolinea.
- Non c’è un treno che va da un’altra parte? Questo è il capolinea? - urlò Guido - Ovunque c’è un capolinea e ovunque c’è un treno che riparte nella direzone opposta. Lei mi deve dare il suo nome, la farò licenziare. Lei è un inetto e un fannullone. Incapace di dare qualunque informazione. Adesso mi ha proprio rotto - urlò esasperato Guido - io voglio, anzi devo tornare al lavoro e lei è obbligato a darmi le informazioni che le chiedo, ha capito?
- Mi dispiace signore, ma forse è lei che non ha capito.
Intanto che il controllore lo guardava come se fosse un deficiente, Guido prese il cellulare e compose il numero del suo ufficio per avvisare del ritardo. Istintivamente guardò la fermata del metrò per poter dire dove si trovava, logicamente per un incidente tecnico, non certo perché si era addormentato. Il telefonino non funzionava. “Ma che bella giornata!” diceva una canzone degli anni sessanta. Il nome della stazione era “PARADISO”. Questo era troppo! Non c’era nessuna stazione che si chiamasse così. Lo sapeva perché, come facevano tutti i passeggeri per non guardarsi in faccia e per passarsi il tempo, leggeva continuamente le varie fermate. Guardò il controllore e, con uno sforzo notevole, gli sorrise. - Senta, - gli disse - io capisco che anche il suo mestiere sia stressante, però deve capire che io sono un uomo d’affari e devo essere sempre rintracciabile e devo poter sempre rintracciare chiunque. Messo in chiaro questo punto, mi vuole dire esattamente dove siamo?
- Ma il mio lavoro non è affatto stressante signore, - rispose il controllore - comunque come vede dalla tabella siamo alla fermata “PARADISO”.
- Adesso basta!!! - urlò Guido - lei mi sta prendendo per il culo. Anzi, adesso ho capito tutto, lei è un pazzo che si è vestito da controllore. Se riesco a trovare un carabiniere o un vigile la faccio arrestare. Guardi che io non scherzo!
Per qualche attimo Guido chiuse gli occhi, quando li riaprì era più calmo.
- Senta, mi scusi per la sfuriata - disse - ma questa notte ho anche dormito poco e male, se lei non può essermi utile potrebbe dirmi a chi mi devo rivolgere?
Confortato dalle scuse di Guido il controllore disse:
- Può rivolgersi alla Reception là in fondo. - indicando con l’indice della mano destra un punto della stazione.
A quel punto Guido scoppiò a ridere
- Ma scusi, siamo in una fermata del metrò o al Jolly Hotel? Senta - continuò Guido - per il bene suo e mio facciamo finta di non esserci mai visti, ora io vado alla Reception… (e rise ancora) e domanderò un telefono e gli orari dei treni e se per caso ci dovessimo incontrare di nuovo faremo finta di non conoscerci.
- Sarà difficile - rispose il controllore - qui ci conosciamo tutti.
- Mi dia retta - disse Guido - è meglio che io e lei non ci si riveda più. Ora io vado e cerco di sistemare questa grana (e magari ordino una camera). - pensò.
- Non ce n’è bisogno - disse il controllore.
- Mi creda, è meglio così. - disse Guido.
- No - continuò il controllore - io dicevo che non c’è bisogno di domandare una camera, è già tutto predisposto!
- Ma allora lei legge nel pensiero? - chiese guido sbalordito.
- Qui tutti leggiamo nel pensiero - rispose il controllore - non esistono più i segreti.
Guido allargò le braccia, sbuffò e uscì dal vagone dirigendosi, con passo svelto e sicuro, verso un ufficio dove c’era scritto “RECEPTION”. Non mi crederà mai nessuno quando lo racconterò. Un vero covo di pazzi.

***

- Oh! bene arrivato signore, come si chiama? - gli chiese una bellissima donna sui trentacinque anni.
- Come prego? - domandò Guido allibito.
- Le ho chiesto come si chiama! rispose la donna.
- Senta - disse Guido - ho solo bisogno di un telefono e degli orari dei treni, non voglio fare conoscenza.
- Ma qui non ci sono ne telefono, ne orari dei treni - continuò la donna - ho solo bisogno di sapere come si chiama per poterla registrare, tutto qui!
- Oh mio Dio - disse Guido - senta, se è uno scherzo è riuscito benissimo, ora mi dica dove mi trovo in modo che possa eventualmente chiamare un taxi, visto che non ci sono treni e devo recarmi al più presto nel mio ufficio. Grazie!
- Quello che le posso dire - disse la donna - è che non ci sono telefoni, non ci sono treni e nemmeno taxi. Dal registro vedo che dovrebbe arrivare un certo sig. Guido Rosati da Milano, se è lei me lo dica che così definiamo la pratica, altrimenti la metto nella lista di attesa. Allora come si chiama?
- Guido Rosati - rispose pallido in volto.
- Molto bene, abitante a Milano?
- S…sì certo!
- Età 42 anni?
- E..e..satto. - rispose con la gola secca e lo sguardo vacuo.
- D’accordo, non mi serve altro, per ora - disse la donna - Benvenuto in Paradiso!
- Come?
- Benvenuto in Paradiso! - ribadì la donna.
- N..non capisco!
- Lei è morto signor Rosati e, di conseguenza, è finito in paradiso. Visti i suoi precedenti, però, non può godere subito dei nostri privilegi. Lei non era un delinquente, ma nemmeno una brava persona e ha fatto soffrire molta gente col suo modo di fare, perciò dovrà passare un bel po’ di tempo a redimersi.
Guido la guardava attonito cercando di capire se stava scherzando oppure no e la sua voce gli giungeva chiara e limpida ma gli sembrava nello stesso tempo così lontana. Era impossibile.
- Questo - disse la donna - è un anello che lei dovrà portare sempre, serve ad indicare a tutti la sua condizione qui da noi. Ognuno di noi ne porta uno, tranne coloro che sono all’inferno anche perché, con quel calore, si fonderebbe - e rise.
- Chi ha già diritto al paradiso sull’anello ha una pietra azzurra, chi invece, come lei, se lo deve ancora guadagnare ha una pietra rossa. Adesso incontrerà chi le spiegherà le mansioni che dovrà svolgere qui da noi. Buon lavoro e buona permanenza!
- Senta - disse Guido - non può pretendere che io accetti così la mia situazione, devo sapere perché sono morto e di che cosa, devo sapere cosa mi aspetta nel mio futuro.
- Di che cosa sia morto non ha nessuna importanza - disse la donna - il perché sia morto è chiaro, lei sulla terra non serviva più. Faceva più danno che altro e, per quanto riguarda il suo futuro, non si aspetti niente perché qui il futuro non esiste, c’è solo l’eternità. Cerchi solo di comportarsi bene e soprattutto segua le regole, non si levi mai quell’anello altrimenti rischierà di passare da questa dimensione intermedia al vero inferno dove, come le ho già detto prima, non servono anelli o segni di riconoscimento ma dove esiste solo il buio e il fuoco eterno che brucia le anime malvagie per l’eternità. Le auguro ancora buona permanenza e la invito ad accomodarsi nella stanza accanto dove le spiegheranno le sue mansioni, dove alloggerà e come dovrà comportarsi. Arrivederci!
- Un\’ ultima cosa - chiese Guido - se non ci sono treni, come mai sono arrivato in Metropolitana e sono stato svegliato da un controllore?
- Non era un vero treno - rispose la donna - e il controllore che ha visto era il capo in persona che ogni tanto si diverte a mascherarsi e ad accogliere di persona i nostri ospiti. - Intende dire che era Dio?
- Certo! - rispose la donna.
- Ma io l’ho trattato in malo modo!
- Infatti ha fatto una pessima figura, non ha iniziato bene ma, se vuole, ha il tempo di rifarsi. Il tempo, qui, è una cosa che non manca di certo. Auguri!

***

Sconsolato e trascinando i piedi Guido si diresse nella stanza accanto per avere istruzioni come gli era stato ordinato. La persona che si trovò davanti fu un uomo sulla cinquantina, alto circa un metro e ottanta e di corporatura robusta.
- Il signor Guido Rosati? - chiese.
- Sì, - rispose Guido - morto oggi in metropolitana all’età di 42 anni e con tanta voglia di redimermi.
- Pensa di essere spiritoso? - chiese l’uomo.
- Volevo soltanto cercare di essere il meno melodrammatico possibile. - rispose Guido con fare arrogante e seccato.
- Le conviene calare le arie e rispettare il regolamento se vuole avere vita facile - disse l’uomo - e poi si ricordi che qui, lei, non è più dirigente, perciò non può comandare ma soltanto obbedire. Le nostre mansioni, qui, - continuò l’uomo - non sono uguali a quelle che abbiamo da vivi, non dobbiamo fabbricare strade, fare soldi, curare mali e così via; qui dobbiamo soltanto pensare ad aiutare le anime che sono sulla terra a redimersi ea trovare così la strada giusta per arrivare in paradiso e vivere in pace il resto dell’eternità.
- Bene! - disse Guido - mi sembra abbastanza facile, mi dica cosa devo fare, così mi metterò subito all’opera.
- Lei è arrivato qui impuro - disse l’uomo - perciò non è in grado di aiutare nessuno e, per essere franchi, aiutare le anime non è così facile come pensa. Colui che doveva aiutare lei ha rinunciato, di conseguenza siamo stati obbligati a farla morire e, adesso, se la dovrà cavare da solo.
- Ma se il tipo ha rinunciato che mansione gli è stata affidata? - chiese Guido.
- Il tipo, come lo chiama lei, è sua moglie. Ora sta aiutando un insegnante… - rispose l’uomo e scoppiò in una sana risata.
Guido sentì un brivido lungo la schiena e deglutì a fatica.
- Senta, - chiese Guido - potrei tornare anch’io sulla terra per cercare di salvare la mia anima?
- Questo è quello che vorrebbero tutti - rispose l’uomo - ma non è così facile e bisogna dare prova di essere sinceri e disponibili. Lei da vivo non è riuscito in niente, non è riuscito nemmeno a tenere unita la sua famiglia.
- Eh no aspetti! - disse Guido irato - è stata mia moglie a lasciarmi portandosi via i figli e tutto quello che era importante. Mi ha rubato anche la dignità, l’orgoglio, le mie speranze ei miei sogni. Chi è lei per giudicarmi?
- Senta, queste cose andrebbero discusse in altra sede - disse l’uomo - quello che le posso dire è che sua moglie è stata mandata da noi appunto per redimerla, ma non ce l’ha fatta, è stato impossibile con lei. Di conseguenza le abbiamo offerto un’altra possibilità con il suo attuale marito e, sembra, che ora vada tutto bene. Se non dovesse farcela andrebbe all’inferno.
Sarebbe meglio, pensò Guido.
- Vede che in lei non c’è bontà? Perchè sarebbe stato meglio? E’ ancora convinto di essere nella ragione? Pensa che il suo comportamento nei confronti della sua famiglia sia stato corretto?
- Mi scusi - disse Guido - forse ha ragione.
- Forse? Con lei mio caro ci sarà da lavorare duramente e chissà se ci riusciremo a tirare fuori qualcosa di buono. Ora - continuò l’uomo - è giunto il momento per lei di andare nell’alloggio riservatole nell’attesa di parlare con chi di dovere per quella che sarà la sua mansione qui da noi.
Così Guido fu accompagnato in una stanza adiacente all’edificio da una donna grassa e silenziosa che si limitò ad indicargli la porta e se ne andò. La stanza era molto piccola e c’era solo un letto ad una piazza, sembrava quasi una cella. Guido fu preso dallo sconforto, non credeva che tutto quello che aveva visto e sentito fosse vero. Pensava fosse un sogno. A toglierlo dai suoi tristi pensieri fu il bussare insistente alla porta.
- Chi è? - gridò.
- Ho un messaggio per lei. - rispose una voce giovanile.
- Avanti! - disse Guido.
Entrò un ragazzino di circa 15 anni vestito di bianco con un’aria molto timida.
- Devo avvisarla che tra dieci minuti è atteso per il colloquio di benvenuto. - disse il ragazzo.
- Senti, - disse Guido - vorrei che tu mi dicessi la verità. Sono stato rapito?
- No signore!
- Mi trovo in qualche paese straniero?
- No signore!
- Dimmi allora dove accidenti mi trovo!! - urlò Guido.
- Lei è morto signore, come tutti noi e si trova in paradiso.
A quel punto Guido cominciò a piangere preso dallo sconforto e dalla solitudine che lo invase come un torrente in piena. In quel posto era solo, la sua posizione sociale non contava nulla e, tra le altre cose, sembrava che tutti lo additassero come un mostro.
- Scusami - disse al ragazzino - ma è difficile accettare come se niente fosse il fatto di essere morto. Me lo sono sempre immaginato diverso e poi credevo di morire molto più vecchio.
- Ma tu, - chiese - sei così giovane eppure non ti lagni di essere morto, ma non ti dispiace questa tua situazione?
- Assolutamente no signore, noi si vive e si muore continuamente, fino a quando non abbiamo espiato tutti i nostri peccati. Io, per esempio, ho vissuto molte volte ed ogni volta riuscivo a liberarmi di qualche peccato, fino a quando sono riuscito a purificarmi; così sono morto all’età di 14 anni ed ora ho il diritto o, meglio, la fortuna di vivere per l’eternità in paradiso. Sono molto felice e in pace adesso. Molti altri non ci hanno voluto credere e una volta tornati a vivere hanno continuato a fare del male, così ora bruciano all’inferno. Alcuni hanno avuto la possibilità di tornare subito sulla terra, ma si sono tolti l’anello e sono finiti dritti all’inferno fra atroci dolori senza la possibilità di tornare indietro.
- Ma dici che ci sia la possibilità di tornare indietro subito? - chiese Guido.
- Certo! - rispose il ragazzo - sta tutto nella decisione che prenderà il Buon Dio. Provi a fare una richiesta formale, può darsi che le sia concessa.
- Se è così facile perché non fanno tutti così?
- Non è così facile, se torni sulla terra subito devi essere in grado di purificarti nel breve tempo che ti resta da vivere, che non è certo pari all’eternità. Chi muore e rivive diverse volte forse può soffrire di più, ma a lungo andare riesce a purificarsi ea guadagnare l’eternità felice. Al contrario, tornando subito sulla terra e sbagliando o, peggio, togliendosi l’anello, finisce senza speranza all’inferno. E’ senz’altro una cosa orrenda perché, quando c’è molto silenzio, si sentono le grida delle anime che stanno bruciando. In questi momenti sono felice di aver accettato tutta la trafila per purificarmi. Adesso sono a posto con me stesso e, soprattutto, ho fatto felice il Buon Dio servendolo nel migliore dei modi. Ora, però, è meglio andare altrimenti si fa tardi e lei rischia di non fare una buona impressione.
Guido era sconvolto, anche perchè faticava a credere a tutto quello che aveva sentito. S’incamminò pensieroso a questo strano appuntamento. L’ennesimo.

***

Guido fu accompagnato in un’altra ala del palazzo, assieme al ragazzo prese l’ascensore e cominciò a salire. Non si rese nemmeno conto di quanto ci misero ad arrivare, ma di certo non fu un lungo tragitto. Fu fatto sedere in quella che era certo una sala d’attesa. Si guardò in giro nervoso e imbarazzato fino a quando una giovane donna, forse la più bella che lui avesse mai visto, lo invitò ad accomodarsi in ufficio. Si aspettò di vedere chissà cosa, ma l’ufficio era semplice, le solite pareti bianche. Una scrivania molto grande anch’essa bianca, una poltrona senz’altro comodissima sul lato di chi normalmente comanda e una sedia dove la donna gli disse di accomodarsi, neanche a farlo apposta, bianca. Aspettò qualche minuto, ormai era allo spasimo, non ce la faceva più, la sua pazienza era al limite. Pensò che di lì a poco avrebbe cominciato ad urlare come un dannato.
- Non le conviene! E’ il primo passo per andare all’inferno caro signore. - disse una voce maschile alle sue spalle.
Guido trasalì e si voltò non riuscendo neanche a parlare.
- Si calmi! - proseguì l’uomo - non pretenderà di farmi credere di non sapere che io posso leggere nel pensiero.
- Ma… ve… ve… vede… - balbettò Guido, ma fu subito interrotto.
- Lasci stare, lasci stare! Deve sapere che quando ho un po’ di tempo libero e mi metto ad ascoltare i pensieri delle persone mi meraviglio di me stesso. Mi domando se invece di sette giorni non sarebbe stato meglio metterci sette anni ma creare un mondo migliore.
Guido non riusciva a dire nulla.
- Vede caro Guido… le presentazioni sono inutili vero? Lei ha già capito chi sono, invece io la conosco fin troppo bene. Come le stavo dicendo, quando ascolto i pensieri delle persone mi domando dove ho sbagliato e, ancora oggi, l’unica cosa che mi resta da fare è quella di farvi espiare i vostri peccati come le hanno già spiegato poco fa. Pensi che quando ascolto il pensiero degli animali o delle piante, tutto funziona. Sono pensieri d’amore, di saggezza, di procreazione. Ogni cosa al suo posto e un posto per ogni cosa. Quando un animale attacca lo fa per sopravvivere, se ha scelta uccide un altro animale più vecchio e malato. Può attaccare anche senza ragione, ma è senz’altro perchè è impazzito, può capitare anche agli animali. La causa più frequente, però, è che è stato rovinato, guarda un po’, dagli esseri umani. A quel punto vi date un gran daffare per eliminarlo. Bravi!! Voi che siete tutti pazzi, invece, che pensate solo ai soldi e al potere, alle guerre, che vi sfuttate fra di voi, che vi odiate per delle stupidaggini e che a volte vi credete immortali ecco…
In quella piccola pausa rimasta sospesa nella stanza, Guido si accorse che stava sudando e pregava che continuasse, perchè il silenzio era peggio di una lama nel cuore.
- Ecco che quando venite qui al mio cospetto vi mettete a piangere, diventate peggio di qualsiasi cane che bastonate e che, nonostante tutto, vi vuole sempre bene, vi ama nonostante quello che gli fate. Non si preoccupi caro Guido, lei non si è comportato peggio di famosi condottieri o grandi dittatori, oppure di spietati assassini. Lei si è comportato come qualsiasi altro uomo piccolo o grande che arriva qui al mio cospetto. Gli unici che vengono qui rilassati sono i bambini e gli animali. L’uomo, il grande uomo che sulla terra fa il gradasso, quando viene qui muore di paura senza sapere che, se è qui, è perché è già morto. Stupidi!!
Accomodatosi sulla poltrona bianca e comodissima, Dio cominciò a scrutare Guido senza più pronunciare una sola parola. Guido si sentiva a disagio ma non sapeva cosa fare.
- C’è qualcosa che non va? - chiese Dio.
- No Eccellenza…
- Ma quale Eccellenza, mi chiami signore, come fossi una persona qualunque.
- Ma vede…Signore - disse Guido - mi sento molto onorato di essere qui con Lei, ma deve capire il mio imbarazzo e la mia timidezza…
- Quando l’ho accolta alla fermata della metropolitana, non mi sembrava così timido e imbarazzato.
- Beh! Non sapevo fosse Lei, altrimenti…
- Altrimenti cosa!!! - urlò Dio - è questo il vostro problema, di tutta l’umanità. Voi trattate bene solo chi conta, chi potrebbe esservi utile. Se una persona vi sembra troppo umile per voi, è una persona da schiacciare e distruggere! C’è una cosa che mi consola - continuò Dio - non devo nemmeno organizzarmi per la fine del mondo, tanto ci state pensando voi con i gas, i veleni, inquinando il pianeta, distruggendo le foreste… Un giorno l’umanità si troverà tutta qui senza sapere perché e, a quel punto, io sarò qui ben felice di spiegare a tutti quanto sono stati stupidi! Ho sentito che vorrebbe tornare sulla terra, è vero?
- S…sì! - rispose Guido.
- E la smetta di balbettare, sta diventando patetico. Lei è qui davanti a Dio e Dio non fa del male. Se fosse andato dal diavolo sì che avrebbe avuto modo di soffrire. Per questa volta le è andata bene, in fondo lei deve redimersi ma non è certo un assassino. Non sorrida! Non è meglio di tanti altri. Dovrà pentirsi, pentirsi sul serio, altrimenti sarà peggio per lei. Sa quali rischi comporta tornare sulla terra? - domandò Dio.
- Mah!…c’è stato qualcuno che mi ha spiegato qualcosa…
- E’ meglio che le spieghi tutto io per sicurezza, non vorrei mai che avesse capito male. Faccia bene attenzione perché dopo non potrà, in caso di errore, tornare indietro. Lei può avere il diritto di ritornare sulla terra - continuò Dio - per redimere i suoi peccati in due modi. Primo: accettare la sua morte e attendere di essere rimandato sulla terra per una nuova vita, vale a dire rinascere un’altra volta senza ricordare la vita o le vite precedenti. Questo comporta un’attesa maggiore per redimersi ed avere diritto al paradiso per l’eternità. Può durare anche centinaia di anni, di conseguenza si è obbligati, senza saperlo, ad accettare tutte le avversità; per esempio in una vita si può essere paralizzati, in un’altra si è poverissimi, in un’altra si subisce la perdita della famiglia e si resta soli. Queste sono tutte prove che senza saperlo bisogna superare con la bontà e la rassegnazione ma, come ho giò detto prima, ci vuole tempo. Secondo: si ha la possibilità di tornare subito sulla terra come vuole fare lei. Questo è un modo molto difficile perché si è obbligati ad espiare i peccati commessi nel brevissimo tempo di una vita umana. Lei ha 42 anni, perciò faccia i suoi conti. Sappia comunque che non basta comportarsi bene, lei dovrà agire diversamente da come ha agito fin’ora, dovrà essere impegnato socialmente, dovrà aiutare chiunque si presenterà alla sua porta, non dovrà essere razzista, chiunque per lei dovrà essere trattato allo stesso modo, vale a dire con rispetto. Io le ho fatto qualche esempio, starà a lei valutare di volta in volta le situazioni che le si presenteranno davanti. Da qui lei non avrà mai nessun aiuto, sarà solo nella sua redenzione. Il nostro compito sarà quello di valutare il suo operato e decidere, quando sarà giunta la sua ultima ora, se avrà assolto il suo compito oppure no. Se la valutazione sarà positiva lei vivrà qui con noi in paradiso per l’eternità, altrimenti dovrà, purtroppo, bruciare per sempre giù all’inferno. Un’ultima cosa, quando tornerà a vivere si ricordi che lei sarà legato a noi solo da un filo, rappresentato da quell’anello rosso che sta portando. Se lo toglierà anche per un solo istante morirà e finirà all’inferno e, mi creda, ogni volta che perdo qualcuno per delle banalità così e lo regalo a quell’essere immondo giù agli inferi, mi dispiace sempre tantissimo. Ci sono domande?
- Una! - disse Guido.
- Dica!
- Come mai io sono costretto ad un comportamento così restrittivo mentre sulla terra c’è gente cattiva, piena di soldi e crudele?
- Dio sorrise, si prese un istante prima di rispondere per far sì che la risposta avesse più effetto.
- Vede - disse - quelle persone sono state messe apposta per mettere alla prova le persone come lei. Loro hanno già espiato i loro peccati ma, al posto di vivere tranquilli in paradiso per l’eternità, si sono offerti volontari per questa missione.
- E’ difficile da credere. - disse Guido.
- Lei sta giò partendo col piede sbagliato.
- Mi scusi, non accadrà più.
- Lo spero - rispose Dio - allora, cosa vuole fare, sceglie il primo modo o il secondo?
- Se mi permette, anche se sarà senz’altro più difficile, io sceglierei il secondo.
- Come vuole, ma faccia attenzione. Dopo non potrà più tornare indietro.
- Cosa devo fare a questo punto? - chiese Guido.
- Lei non dovrà fare niente, faremo tutto noi. Si accorgerà da solo quando sarà il momento. Per adesso vada nell’alloggio che le abbiamo preparato, si riposi e aspetti gli eventi. Dovrà essere in forma per quello che la aspetta. Arrivederci!
- Arrivederci! - rispose Guido.

***

La stessa bellissima donna che lo accolse prima del colloquio lo accompagnò fino ad una porta e lo salutò molto cordialmente ma, Guido, percepì da parte di lei una sorta di rammarico.
- C’è qualcosa che non va? - chiese Guido alla donna.
- No - rispose lei - mi dispiace solo che quello che dovrà affrontare sarà molto duro.
- Non si preoccupi per me, penso di averne passate di peggio, basterà un po’ di buona volontà e questa, mi creda, non mi manca di certo.
- Addio! - disse lei.
- Speriamo di no! - rispose lui ammiccando - anzi, arrivederci!
- La stanza era sempre bianca ma più confortevole di quelle che aveva visto fino a quel momento. Si sdraiò sul letto e, nonostante fosse esausto, si mise un po’ a pensare alla sua situazione e, dopo un po’, dedusse che era stato drogato, rapito da quel gruppo di pazzi chissà per quale motivo e che doveva trovare un sistema per fuggire. Senza rendersene conto, come tutti, si addormentò.

***

- Signore! Signore si svegli!
- Di colpo Guido aprì gli occhi e vide davanti a sè un controllore.
Impacciato e mortificato si guardò intorno e si accorse che il treno era vuoto.
- Che cosa è successo? - chiese.
- Si è addormantato ed è arrivato al capolinea - rispose il controllore.
- Posso farle una domanda? - chiese Guido imbarazzato.
- Certo signore, mi dica!
- C’è per caso il telefono qui?
- Mi sta prendendo in giro? - disse il controllore - ci sono un sacco di telefoni pubblici all’entrata della stazione e ce ne sono quattro solo qui sul marciapiede e, per finire, c’è un distributore di gettoni vicino alla scala.
- Non è che poi devo andare alla reception?
- Guardi che questa è una stazione della metropolitana, non un hotel. - rispose l’uomo.
- Ma dove siamo? - chiese Guido.
- A Milano! Dove vuole che siamo?
- Sa che ore sono? - chiese Guido agitato.
- Sono le dieci!
- Accidenti, sono in ritardo! Devo assolutamente andare. Grazie e….arrivederci!
Almeno spero pensò e corse via correndo.
- Mi scusi signore… le do un consiglio. Si faccia vedere da un medico. Mi sembra alquanto esaurito.
- Grazie! - urlò Guido e corse via come se fosse inseguito da una banda di gangsters.

***

Arrivò in ufficio trafelato, sudato e in ritardo. Gli si avvicinò la sua segretaria e, squadrandolo dalla testa ai piedi, gli disse che la riunione era finita, che il presidente se ne era andato incazzato nero dopo aver minacciato di prendere seri provvedimenti. Non potendo raccontare a nessuno che era andato a fare una gitarella in paradiso, mandò al diavolo tutti e si chiuse nel suo ufficio. Mettendo ordine sulla sua scrivania si accorse di avere l’anello rosso al dito anulare destro. Sorrise e pensò fra sè
- Qualche ragazzino me lo avrà infilato al dito mentre mi ero appisolato in metropolitana.
Lo esaminò e ne dedusse che era abbastanza dozzinale.
- Ma guarda tu che sogni si arrivano a fare in metropolitana. - si disse.
Con un gesto deciso si levò quello stupido anello.
Lo trovò la sua segretaria nel primo pomeriggio riverso sulla scrivania. Quello che impressionò tutti era quello sguardo terrorizzato. Teneva stretto nella mano sinistra un anello rosso senza valore e, su un biglietto, con una grafia stentata e confusa c’era scritto:
- Aiutatemi! Il diavolo… mi sta… venendo a prendere….
- Povero Guido - disse un collega - la fuga della moglie l’ha fatto proprio impazzire.
Ma noi sappiamo che non è così! Vero?

Marco Braidotti ha 50 anni ed ha un sogno nel cassetto. Scrivere. È un ex musicista adesso legato all’informatica e al mondo Apple. Come molte persone ha un Blog in cui ogni tanto “posta” qualche pensiero.

Acts on redazione@trentinario.it

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