Racconto: "Memories and Stories" - parte 2

Glauco, the owner of the pub, had gone out to smoke a cigarette some minutes before. Now, he came in but was not alone. Following him, was a woman with a two year-old boy. Nobody in the pub had ever saw neither of the two new entries. We didn’t investigate and returned to our chatting while Glauco, whit a strange look in his eyes, went to the kitchen. I think I was the only one to notice that look. Part of the writer in me had never died, though I had stopped writing years and years before, about in the same period in which I started using heroin. I think that when I quitted using, which happend one year and a half before this story starts, after a vortex of light, darkness and dazing that I didn’t want to remember... when I quitted using, I was saying, I must have thought that that event would mark the beginning of a new era of writing, writing and writing, but it lasted only for some weeks. It’s not that I didn’t like it anymore... I just didn’t have anymore inspiration, or at least, no more inspiration that I could turn into more than one or two sentences in notebook. I firstly must have thought that it was only lack of practise, then I realized I had a writer’s block, and decided to wait for it to pass. I was still waiting, more than one year later. But it was only a weak hope, that night. Some days before, I had tied up all my papers in a box and put it with other old things, where I couldn’t see them at least that I wanted to. It hurt too much to see them. I couldn’t bear it.

My thoughts were interrupted as I saw Glauco hurrying himself to the table where he had made the woman and the child sit, with two plates of soup in his hands. I noticed that the woman, while she took the plates and thanked him, had tears in her eyes.
The never-really-dead-writer part of me started wondering the reason of these tears. I had noticed the expression in Glauco’s face, before, so maybe something bad had happened to someone else that they both knew, and now the woman was crying for that. Or was she a friend of Glauco, and had found her husband with another woman, and then hurried to meet the only person that could help her face that? This would explain the presence of the child, too. The third hypotesis to come in my mind, taking care of the state of her clothes, was that she was a homeless. But then, why was she here? Trampers don’t usually sleep in these streets, so Glauco did probably see her during the day and told her to come, but this would never be typical from Glauco, so I had to discard this theory.

Then, I experienced it again. The block. It came as a discomforting feeling, after which everything looked a shade darker. It was an almost imperceptible feeling, but it was enough for me to know that, after it came, it was impossible to imagine or write and feel good like before. For some minutes, it was impossible to imagine, write and feel good like before.

Glauco was talking with the woman now. I slipped back into the conversation at my table, and felt better after a few second. That was what I liked of that pub. It gave you warm.

I felt the need to smoke a cigarette. I sat up, and Strimpella and another of the men at the table came with me. We went out and we lit our fags.

It was cold, outside. The air had a kind of subtle, cold, sharpened smell, the one you can smell only when it’s sure that it’s going to snow. Macerata was quite as usual, for an inter-week night. Not a car in the streets. At least, not a moving one. I had always thought, before actually living there, that at least there should be traffic. Yes, sure, you can find traffic at midday, or at seven, but no way for you to find a car driving past the streets by night. It’s mathematical. The only cars around us were those parked in the car park a few yards from us.

Glauco came outside and lit a cigarette again.

« How’s ‘t goin’, tonight?» he asked, and received a choir of muttered “well, well”.
« Listen, I neew your help.» he said.

We asked for what.

« For the woman who entered a few minutes ago.»

He started telling how they met, and we discovered that in everyone of my fantasies there was a piece of truth: 1) a person they both knew was involved in the story beside the woman’s tears, 2) that person had in fact a relationship with another woman, and 3) she was a homeless.

« Who’s she?» Strimpella asked.

Glauco hesitated before answering, and held the anger aside.

« She’s Tognazzi’s wife.» he said.
We assimilated that information, and soon we could see horror appearing in each other’s face.

« Fuckin’ son of a bitch.» swore Strimpella, angrily, and added two or three blasphemies to better show his feelings.

Continua la piccola storia del nostro anonimo protagonista Maceratese e dei suoi amici. Chi è questo Tognazzi che non sembra andare simpatico ai clienti del pub? Da parte, mia rimando ogni commento su questa parte della storia a giovedì prossimo. Voi che ne pensate finora?
Questo esperimento nasce dall'esigenza improvvisa di scrivere in lingua straniera, ma anche dal desiderio di migliorare l'uso e la conoscenza della stessa, che al momento ancora non sono al livello che vorrei raggiungere. Quindi se avete notato qualche errore di sintassi, qualche passaggio che poteva essere scritto con più fluidità (in questo racconto non ho avuto bisogno di particolari forzature, ma su un paio di frasi di questa puntata ho delle piccole incertezze), o qualsiasi altro tipo di errore, sia esso di battitura, un refuso, qualsiasi cosa... vi prego, fatemelo sapere. :)
Ci vediamo giovedì!
---MICHELE GIULI---

Racconto: "Memories and Stories" - parte 1

di Michele Giuli

My throat ached, but I kept smoking by the window, watching the smoke hitting part of the glass and disassemble while it went out. I layed down my eyes, and saw my ex dealer walking past the street. He was half my age. Here, most of the problems are given by the kids, now.

I rapidly became tired of damaging what remained of my throat and threw the cig away. I closed the window and wore a scarf and my jacket, and layed down the stairs to go out, bad memories being drawn up into my mind after having seen that boy.

“No, remember” I told myself. “Just. Don’t. Fucking. Think. About. It. Now!” There were things in my life, it took some time for me to forgive.

It was a winter night in Macerata, a city in the Marche, Italy, were the air smells of humanity and the buildings look like they’re being hit by sun even when it’s cloudy. Sometimes. Other times, I just couldn’t see it. Could see nothing.

It took me five minutes to arrive to the pub. It was not so busy, as far as I could see from the outside, but it was ok, for me. Maybe I would have met Strimpella or Maldini, and it would be enough to cheer me up. I needed a laugh. I couldn’t play the though guy for too long.

I entered, and as I expected Strimpella was at a table with other three man of whom I couldn’t remember the names. Strimpella was aged sixty-one, had a rude face with a peace-minded expression and long white curly hair.

He had that name for the way he used the word “strimpellare”, which is an Italian verb to say that you can play a musical instrument just good enough to cross the borderline. He applied it’s meaning to the use of everything.

“Do you speak English?”

“Lo strimpello”

“Do you know something about French Literature?”

Again, with a humble and auto-ironic smile, he would answer:“La strimpello”

He always wore a smile on his face. Most of the times, it would be the one you expect to see on a simple and smart man, but there were variants.

« Oh, good doctor, what brings ye here?» he greeted me, cheerfully.

« Business.» I answered, and pointed my finger to the beer draft.

« Looks like a good point.» he laughed, and held up his own glass in response.

I reached him and his friends at the table.

« How was work today?» one of the other men asked me.

« Boring, as usual.» I said, and laughed.

I worked between a cig and another in a shoes factory, with other twenty workers, and that was it. According to the stories that I heard in that place, most of the people working place looked more like a soap opera, than a factory.

“That bitch came around saying that she saw me with...” “Then I told him that if he kept...”

But that was not my situation. We chatted, mostly, during work, but nothing else happened. Maybe it’s better this way.

Suddenly, I remembered the name of the man who had made the question. He was Mario Curzi.

He looked like the typical fifty-years old guy you meet at a pub, dressing casual and looking almost always at the table, thinking. He had some old earrings on his left ear, a memory of past years. His hair was still brown, but on his beard you could see little spots of grey with conquering plans in their mind. He was known to have replaced water with spirits, in his life. Once, a daredevil bartender poured water in his glass instead of the usual Varnelli, and lately had to face Mario screaming: « Do you want me to get drunk?»

He never got drunk. The only time in living memory it happened was when a young man found him outside the pub, sitting on the street and staring at the wall of the local.

« What are you doing here?» the man asked.

« Watching MTV.» replied Mario.

The man laughed.

« And what are they playing now?»

« “Another Brick in the Wall”»

The man thought it was good to joke on poor Mario, and bended over the wall as if he was trying to watch the program, but Mario stepped up and went inside, muttering.

« What are ye doing, staring at the wall? Ah, drunken people like ye, I can’t bear them!»

I already started feeling more comfortable than before. I am not good at loneliness, I need people around me, doesn’t matter if they don’t care about me, I just need to see them. That’s why I like locals. They say that people go to pubs and bars only to drink, play cards, and make nonsense discourses about politics. I go there, because in those places there are stories. Give me this, and I can see light in everything again. Must admit it: back to that times, it didn’t always happen. But at least, when I left the pub, I was happy, anyway. Call me stupid to think that this is not a good goal.

We started talking about music, and another of the men with us (Luca!, I remembered. He was called Luca) start telling the story of a travel he had done in the past to go to a concert. Their car died after a few hours, and they hitch-jacked for the rest of the travel. For the most part of it, they were in a car with one of the first homosexuals

« to make “coming out”, as they call it.»

Luca (who in the past had been a fierce left-wing activist, was probably the only one to admit that, back to his childhood, most of the children experiencing puberty had had one or two homosexual experiences between them, which they kept secret) didn’t care about one own’s business.

« But Marco!» he laughed. « For all the time, he was rigid on his seat, his ass rigorously shut!»

I laughed too, even if it was black humor for me. I remembered the times in which people covered their asses with a hand when they saw me, after I turned out to be a homosexual myself. In Macerata, just a few knew this secret. But in this story, this secret has no place, so I’m not going to write about it now.

What I’m going to write about, is what happened just a few seconds later that Luca finished his story.

Suddenly... 

Ebbene sì, sono finalmente tornato dopo aver concluso il trasferimento provvisorio nella nuova casa a Manchester, causa Erasmus. Mese intensissimo, che mi ha portato ad avere un sacco di idee nuove. Una di queste, è stata quella di cimentarmi con la scrittura in una lingua straniera. Ad Aprile c'è un concorso per racconti brevi a Bristol, e credo proprio che parteciperò. Quindi il post di stasera sarà in Inglese, ma provvederò quanto prima a postare una traduzione in Italiano!
Questo racconto è uno dei candidati ad essere presentati per quel concorso. Sto pensando anche ad una traduzione di Leòn, ma quella è già cosa più ardua da conseguire.
In questo racconto troverete di sicuro un paio di errori di sintassi, che magari io non riesco ancora a notare, ma cercherò di perfezionare il tutto il più possibile.
Altra novità, fra le letture di questo mese c'è stato un libro di Asimov, che ha evidenziato un paio di buchi nello sviluppo di "Cuore di Metallo" che devo assolutamente eliminare, ragion per cui la pubblicazione di quel racconto è, purtroppo, momentaneamente sospesa...
Provvederò a farmi perdonare.
Nel frattempo, c'è anche un nuovo arrivato in famiglia, il bellissimo Tigre, ukulele della Redwood trovato nel negozio di musica vicino all'ostello. E adesso che ho nonostante le lezioni molto tempo libero, vuoi che non ci scappa qualche video di delle cover? 
Detto questo, devo salutarvi. Qui l'ora è tarda, e la notte è buia e piena di terrori (cazzata: ciò che più descrive la notte in questa città è QUESTO). 
Mi dispiace ancora tantissimo per il silenzio lungo un mese che ha caratterizzato questo blog!!! Da adesso riprendono i lavori!!!
Ci vediamo la prossima settimana per il seguito di questo racconto.
Statemi tutti bene!!! :)
---MICHELE GIULI---