I had seen the show and met someone.
I could go. There was only one obstacle: to get to my house, on the opposite side of the city. The blonde had told me that she would take a taxi along with other two, and that if I wanted I could join them. Embarrassed and not knowing what to do or who to talk to, I had smoked at least nineteen cigarettes. I wanted to pretend to talk to him, simulating a phone call in order to appear as though I was doing something while I waited for the blonde.
I held the phone to my for a few minutes, as if you I was listening.
Divine Comedy - Wikiquote
Then I dropped it back into my bag and went to call the taxi outside on the bare and gloomy Aurelia Antica. The taxi was a big jeep with leather seats. I pressed myself up against the window; the driver was silent. Outside, Rome flowed by: elusive, with a beauty so vast and disjointed that it left me completely indifferent and therefore uncomfortable.
Pine trees, illuminated by street lamps, drew dark curves on the ochre surfaces of the gigantic rudimentary buildings in the suburbs. Lofty palm trees swayed in the fragrant air. The streets were bare. The sky was dark yet in a strange sort of way, it seemed impenetrable, as if it were made of mists and nebulae: purple and reddish. I did what I always do when I go home on the bus or metro I never take a taxi : an evaluation of the day.
At work everything had gone as usual, but that night there had been two signs:. With a discouraged air about him, he takes the top off the beer and puts the slice of pizza in the oven. I realise that other than a prepaid card, I only have a few coins which are not enough to pay. I count the coins: 3 euros and 10 all up. Embarrassed, I ask him if I can pay by card. He says no. I ask where I can withdraw.
However, it is one of those ATMs that are inside, accessed by swiping a bank card, and mine never opens the door. I look for another. I feel lonely. I want to cry. Where the fuck can I find another ATM? I take the the escalator down to the metro without looking back. Back in highschool, I used to steal quite often. They interrogated me and took fingerprints. I had stolen lipsticks and mascara from Upim to the value of around one hundred euro. I had to take it. Not doing it cast through a bitter and disturbing greenish light on everything I was going through in that period.
Whilst in the taxi I remembered when, in , I promised my classmates a performance that was supposed to consist in going to the Venice Biennale, whose Italian pavilion would be curated by Sgarbi that year and, wandering the halls, pee myself, as a signal of dismay when faced with the ugliness of the selected works and the way in which Sgarbi had chose them and the fact that the pavilion had been assigned to him.
In short, a gesture of protest. The spreading stain on our pants, the liquid that slowly dripped on the floor, the footsteps that we would have left. Would they notice during or after? Would they have ordered us to leave or simply ignored it? Maybe they would call the police.
Several years had passed since the idea of pissing against Sgarbi. Now, I was just a hostess. And yet, I still knew how to get angry. This time though, it was different — inadequate, strange, hopelessly excluded and now, out of the game. In addition to the stupid hurry to get there in time, I had robbed the unpleasant Pizza al taglio guy. And I was going to spend a shameful amount of money on taxis.
I had peed in front of the black car, in which, it was highly probable that Luigi Ontani had been. Protected by the majesty of the jeep with leather seats, I was unhappy but full of hope, and I seemed to understand, in depth, that everything that had happened had a morality, a conclusion. It was my job to solve this equation. But maybe it was an indeterminate or impossible equation. And just as I was racking my brains to simplify, divide and get a result, two other signs arrived, making my calculations even more complicated.
Two songs — both important for me, one after another — served as the background to my trip. In fact, at that time, my favourite book was Waiting for Godot. Why was I so sad? What were Luigi Ontani, the really short boy, the tattooed guy, the fat girl and the blonde doing at thirteen? I cried on the empty train while the voice of Alicia Keys drilled in my ears. I was twenty. What were Luigi Ontani, the really short boy, the tattooed guy, the fat girl and the blonde doing at twenty?
Escaping from the attempt to solve the equation, an artwork by Alberto Garutti came to mind: Tutti i passi che ho fatto nella mia vita mi hanno portato qui, ora. All the steps I have taken in my life have led me here, now. A phrase engraved on the floor of the Milan Malpensa airport. Remembering it in that moment meant to me that no matter how slippery and discomforting the result was, now I was in a taxi with leather seats and this was the only thing I wanted and I could know about me and life.
After work, the next day, I withdrew and walked to Termini. I went to Pizza al Taglio and saw a tall Italian man behind the counter with white hair.
- The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Decade of Italian Women, by T. Adolphus Trollope.;
- Atlantis - 39. Hvis der en hersker - Score.
- The Years of Alienation in Italy.
The unpleasant boy came out of the kitchen. I thought that he had spent the evening waiting for me to come. The situation looks set to worsen or at best to remain as it is. How will my life ever get better? But instead, he looked at me bewildered. Maybe he was afraid that his boss would scold him because he had allowed such a thing to happen, and so he was pretending not to remember. But now I was there, with the money in my hand, and after a moment of panic in which I remained staring at him paralysed, I chucked the 10 euro banknote down on the counter and quickly dashed out of the store.
(PDF) Journal of Italian Translation Vol. XII, No. 2, Fall | Luigi Bonaffini - rojicywaqi.tk
Nella mia vita, fino a quel momento, le pisciate per strada erano sempre andate bene. Per proteggere quei momenti ho sempre preferito pisciare da sola che in compagnia. Non ho mai capito questa passione. A volte ho riso, ma da sola. Ero alla terza birra calda, non ero ubriaca. Il cesso chimico era nel mezzo dello spiazzo che noi tutti sovrastavamo, accalcati sulla struttura di cemento a fumare e bere birre che erano state messe in frigo ma non avevano avuto il tempo di raffreddarsi. Ognuno si aggrappava alla sua come alla promessa di sentirsi a proprio agio, prima o poi.
Intorno si estendeva uno spazio di terra aspra e chiara, mentre ai lati era cresciuta una fitta boscaglia color kaki.