[...] Sometimes I feel like living in Groundhog Day , like in that movie with Bill Murray where everything is repeated forever. I look at my watch and then I close my eyes. In five minutes exactly what goes buy only the blues, half an hour from Genoa and calls that used for the Italians. Do not mistake
ever. Every now and then, of course, fishing is a wild, something changes, especially the opening.
Once I pulled up the shutter in front of a completely deserted square, one thing to resurrect De Chirico. None.
I put behind the bar to choose a cd and he has materialized.
E 'came quietly and smiled at me. I reciprocated.
So naturally you are lying on the ground, their heads in the right section, reggae and feet. The hands on hips, not a word.
I watched from behind the boxes of the 45 laps and I thought we were, this is the point of no return.
close with him and go inside to look for a job as a warehouseman. Then I left to spend a couple of minutes, an eternity for a similar situation and I asked: "Are you okay?".
He opened his hands like windshield wipers and made a grimace of approval. Everything perfect, then.
reject the hypothesis of a candid camera in excess of trivia, I figured that it was a play improvised, maybe Ionesco. The theater of the absurd.
However, something must be done. "Look here, 'I can not let it get you down there. Whatever your problem, please get up." He turned a little towards me. "Dude, I understand, but I want to die here, and only hear the music of my country, try to understand me." He had a Slavic accent, and in a moment of imaginative spontaneity, I mentally named Dimitri. "Apart from that we are in absolute silence, but whatever you feel there, you can not die, nor much less lie down. If someone comes and sees you, what story?". This time has not moved: "I feel." Then, as you do with children, I placed a "I have come here?". Dimitri, motionless, staring straight stumbling on the neon lights from the ceiling told me: "Living away from the country is how to stop the wind with your hands. I do not know more. It 's time that I die. Here." "Very poetic, but got up anyway. It's not that you can go to die in the Square?". He took it as an insult and beat the two palms on chess (almost) blacks and whites of the floor. "You do not understand. I'm here, here below. "Then I came out from behind the counter and I decided to watch it like a man standing on the reclining man." Listen to me well, down here there's a pretty fucking nothing, apart from the bottles of Bitter Cora Petrus and the lady who had once piola the corner. Nothing more. So now I do like the saint to get you up and going to die in the square, maybe you hear something there too. Dai. "Disappoint a man is not beautiful, I know, but I could not keep me as a prayer mat or Dimitri wait really pulling the bucket under the vinyl of the Congos. What the police told him that I was dead happy with the sound of country in the ears? more than an excuse seemed to me a verse of Al Bano, so I opened the door and I made a sign to leave. "Give". Dimitri has realized that there was more air and has slowly taken the door with an expression type you would never have expected me not . A minute later he was lying on the wall of the Square, the most complete indifference. They've parked a green one infection with a sticker of Bart Simpson showing his ass to one meter. But I still saw him through the window. He remained motionless, oblivious to a sarcophagus ascent. A couple of times I went out and I made a gesture with his chin, as if to say "so what". Dimitri made me realize that with mime, no, the sound of the country there really did not hear him. I believe, than the one he had opened the door to the mark and Vasco 11 second script. I even was tempted to bring it back and keep it there, like a lion's skin, maybe even made furniture. Then I tried something in the back and when I remembered Dimitri he was gone. Disappeared. The time to look that had not put it as linesman for the practice match and came to the square of the blues. Half an hour later they called from Genoa 'Used Italian? ".
From "The last record of the Mohicans," by Maurizio Blatt, Ed Castelvecchi, 2010, pp. 126-128.
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