e-book Storie di Fantasmi per il Dopocena (Told After Supper) (Radici) (Italian Edition)

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Sidora, his wife, turned to look at him with concern every so often from where she was sitting on the threshold, her head leaning against the doorpost and her eyes half-closed. Then, overwhelmed by the oppressive heat, she went back to stretching her gaze to- wards the blue strip of the far-off sea, as if she were waiting for a breath of air to rise from there, now that it was near sunset, and softly make its way over to her, across the naked earth bristling with burnt stubble.

So great was the heat, the air was visible above the straw left in the yard after the threshing, trembling like the breath of burn- ing embers. The gesture was futile. Freshly mown, the stalk of straw kept bending. Married to him just twenty days, Sidora already felt worn- out, exhausted.

She felt a strange emptiness, inside and around her, heavy and terrible. And it seemed almost unreal, that such a short time ago she had been brought there, to that old, isolated property, with its stable and house in one, in the middle of that stubble wasteland, without a tree about, without a strip of shade.

There, for twenty days, barely stiling her tears and revulsion, she had only just managed to surrender her body to that taciturn man, who was about twenty years older than she and who seemed to be weighed down now by a sorrow more desperate than her own. She remembered what the neighbor women had said to her mother, when she had announced the marriage proposal to them.

Vedeva due fresche labbra argute e vermiglie come due foglie di garofano aprirsi a un sorriso che le faceva fremere e frizzare tutto il sangue nelle vene. Ah, certo, Saro sarebbe stato un pessimo marito; ma che marito era questo, adesso?

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Arrangolando, se lo ricacciava dentro; lottava contro i singulti, con un gorgoglio orribile nella strozza. E aveva la faccia sbiancata, torbida, terrea; gli occhi foschi e velati, in cui dietro la follia si scorgeva una paura quasi infantile, ancora cosciente, ininita. Con le mani seguitava a farle cenno di attendere e di non spaventarsi e di tenersi discosta.

Se batto, se scuoto la porta e la grafio e grido And the more determined she was that she marry him, the more they, dejectedly, showed reluctance to join in her satisfaction at the good fortune that had befallen her daughter. Cast out there all the time, on that far-off piece of land of his, no one knew how he lived; he was always alone, like an animal in the company of his animals, two she-mules, a she-ass and the guard dog; and he certainly had a strange demeanour, menacing and sometimes like that of a fool.

There had actually been another reason, and perhaps a stron- ger one, why her mother was determined that she marry that man. Sidora remembered this other reason too, which at that moment seemed far, far away, as if in another life, but still distinct, detailed. She could see two fresh witty, vermilion lips, like two carnation pet- als, opening into a smile that made all the blood in her veins throb and tingle.

Oh, certainly, Saro would have made an awful husband; but what kind of husband was this one, now? The troubles the other one would undoubtedly have given her, were they perhaps not preferable to the anguish, the revulsion, the fear, that this one aroused in her? A moaning, almost of rage, sprang from his throat. Sidora, terriied, rushed towards him, but he stopped her with a wave of his arms. A gush of saliva, inexhaustible, prevented him from speaking. Struggling, he swallowed it back down; he fought against the convulsions, with a horrible gurgling in his throat.

And his face was pale, turbid, ashen; his eyes dark and veiled; behind their madness an almost childlike fear could be made out, still conscious, never ending. He continued to signal to her with his hands to wait and not to be frightened and to keep her distance. At last, in a voice that was no longer his, he said: Sidora, nel voltarsi per correre alla roba, difatti intravide nello spavento la luna in quintadecima, affocata, violacea, enorme, ap- pena sorta dalle livide alture della Crocca.

Ah, se avesse potuto ucciderlo! Barricaded inside, holding herself tight as if to prevent her limbs from breaking off from their incessant, mounting, uncontrol- lable shaking, she too moaning, out of her mind with terror, soon after heard the drawn-out, feral howls of her husband writhing outside, there in front of the door, a victim of the horrendous sick- ness coming at him from the moon, and he was beating his head, his feet, his knees, his hands, against the door, and he was scratching it, as if his ingernails had become claws, and he was panting, as if in the fever pitch of a raging bestial toil, as if he wanted to pull that door out, tear it off, and now he was baying, baying, as if he had a dog inside his body, and once again he was scratching, snorting, howling, and beating his head, his knees against it.

Oh, if only she could have killed him! Feeling helpless, she turned around, as if to search for a weapon in the room. But through a window grating, high up, on the opposite wall, she again caught sight of the moon, now translucent, as it rose in the sky, suffused by a tranquil pallor. At the sight, as if suddenly struck down by contagion from the sickness herself, she let out a great cry and fell on her back, unconscious. The door latches brought back her memory and she was immediately terriied by the silence now prevailing out there.

She rose to her feet; she ap- proached the door unsteadily, and listened carefully. Giaceva come una bestia morta, bocconi, tra la bava, nero, tumefatto, le braccia aperte. La catapecchia, buja come un antro, in fondo a un vicolo angusto, era stenebrata appena da una lumierina a olio. Sidora parve la ingombrasse tutta, precipitandosi dentro, scompigliata, affannosa. Il terrore superstizioso di quel male oscuro invase tutte le donne, al racconto di Sidora. E come non era morta, povera igliuola? La madre, accasciata su la seggiola, inita, con le braccia e il capo ciondoloni, nicchiava in un canto: She remained listening for a long time, now oppressed by fear of that enormous, mysterious silence, of the entire world.

And inally she thought she heard a sigh from nearby, a mighty sigh, as if it emanated from a mortal agony. Straightaway she ran to the chest under the bed; she drew it forward; she opened it; she pulled out her woolen cape; she returned to the door; she listened carefully again for a long time, then, one by one, hurriedly, silently, lifted up the latches, silently lifted the bolt, the crossbar; she opened one door wing just slightly, fearfully eyed the ground through the narrow opening. He was lying like a dead animal, lat on his face, in his drool, black, swollen, his arms outspread.

His dog, squatting close by, was guarding him, under the moon. Sidora came outside holding her breath; very slowly, she half-closed the door, made an angry sign to the dog to not move from there, and, warily, with the tread of a wolf, her cape under her arm, led across the countryside towards the village, in the still deep night, fully imbued with the radiance of the moon.

Her mother had just gotten up. Dark as a cave, the hovel at the end of a narrow alley was barely illuminated by an oil lamp. As she rushed inside, disheveled, breathless, Sidora seemed to ill the whole space. Upon seeing her daughter at that hour, in that state, the mother raised a cry and caused all the neighbor women to come running with their oil lamps in hand. Sidora began to weep loudly and, while weeping, she tore her hair, pretended to be unable to speak, so that her mother, and the neighbors, would better understand and take in the enormity of the event that had befallen her, of the fear that had taken hold of her.

They had told her mother so, that the man was not natural, that the man must be hiding some great defect, that not one of them would have had their own daughter marry him. He was baying, was he? Howling like a wolf? Scratching at the door? Good heavens, how frightening! Avete il coraggio di ricomparirmi davanti? Assassino traditore, via di qua! Mi avete rovinato una iglia! Era giusto che ora della sua colpa pagasse la pena. Oh, my poor ruined child! Have you really got the nerve to show yourself again? Treacher- ous murderer, away from here! He had hidden it, because no woman would have taken him, if he had revealed it beforehand.

It was right that he now pay the penalty for his wrongdoing. He kept his eyes closed and bitterly shook his head, without moving a step. Then his mother-in-law slammed the door in his face and bolted it. A irst more courageous neighbor woman offered him a chair; the others, in twos and threes, came outside and gathered around him. Ogni volta che la luna era in quintadecima, il male lo riprendeva. Ma era un male soltanto per lui; bastava che gli altri se ne guardas- sero: Volete far morire di paura anche mia madre?

Questa allora venne fuori anche lei, scostando con un gomito la iglia e imponendole di star zitta e quieta in casa. Sidora dalla soglia, stizzita e costernata, seguiva i gesti della madre e del marito; e, come le parve che questi facesse con molto calore qualche promessa che la madre accoglieva con evidente piacere, si mise a strillare: State ad accordarvi tra voi?

The enchantment, however, had slumbered inside him for years and years, and only a short time ago had reawakened in him. Every time the moon was full, the sickness took hold of him again. But it was a sickness for him alone; the others need only keep away from him: Do you want to make my mother die from fright too? From the threshold, annoyed and dismayed, Sidora followed the gestures of her mother and her husband; and, since it appeared that they were fervently making some pact that her mother was agreeing to with obvious pleasure, she began to shriek: Have you come to an agreement with each other?

I must say it! Did he say that? Sidora, a quelle parole accompagnate da un ambiguo sorriso, si sentiva gelare e lo guardava sbigottita. Giunse alla ine la sera tanto sospirata e insieme tanto temuta. Sidora, che fremeva tutta, fece segno al cugino e alla madre di non dirgli nulla e li condusse dentro la roba. Mi chiudo bene, e lui faccia pure il lupo fuori. Come se sul murello, su cui stava seduto, ci fossero spine, si dimenava di continuo e inghiottiva con stento. She thought of nothing else, for the entire twenty-nine days that went by until the new full moon. At last the evening arrived, so long-awaited and at the same time so dreaded.

The mother arrived by horse with her nephew Saro two hours before the moon would rise. Sidora, who was trembling all over, gestured to her cousin and her mother not to say anything to him and led them inside the house. Her mother immediately went to poke her nose into a dark little room, where old tools were piled up, hoes, sickles, saddles, baskets, saddlebags, next to the big room that also sheltered the animals. As darkness descended, bit by bit, on the countryside, Sidora cast out ever more ardent and provocative glances. Sidora gli rispondeva con un gesto vivace di noncuranza e seguitava, ridendo, ad aizzarlo con gli occhi.

Ah con qual furia si diede a metter puntelli e puntelli e puntelli, mentre la vecchia si rintanava mogia mogia nello sgabuzzino, e Sidora, irritata, delusa, gli ripeteva, con tono ironico: Ah, non era niente? Coi capelli drizzati su la fronte, ai primi ululi del marito, alle prime testate, alle prime pedate alla porta, ai primi sbrufi e grafii, Saro, tutto bagnato di sudor freddo, con la schiena aperta dai brividi, gli occhi sbarrati, tremava a verga a verga. Mentre il marito, fuori, faceva alla porta quella tempesta, eccola qua, rideva, seduta sul letto, dimenava le gambe, gli tendeva le braccia, lo chiamava: And from time to time he extended a sidelong look at the man there awaiting the attack of his sickness; he also stretched out his neck to see if behind the hills of Crocca the frightful face of the moon had emerged.

Sidora answered him with a lively gesture of indifference and, laughing, carried on provoking him with her eyes. At those eyes, almost brazen by now, Saro began to feel hor- ror and terror, more than at the man crouching over there, in wait. Oh, with what fury did he set about making fast the latches and latches and latches, while the old woman went into hiding very sullenly in the store-room, and Sidora, annoyed, disappointed, repeated to him, in an ironic tone: Oh, it was nothing?

It was noth- ing? Was that woman over there crazy? While outside her husband was causing that tempest at the door, here she was, laughing, sitting on the bed, swinging her legs, stretching her arms out to him, calling him: A former editor of the monthly magazine Poesia, he has edited Dizionario della poesia italiana ; and co-edited the anthology Poeti italiani del secondo Novecento ; No Part to Play: Michael Palma was born on September 21, , in the Bronx. This is the greeting and the sacriice of the soul will be lighter.

On the happy silence of a meadow the shadow of the last word settles. Be at peace nonetheless and peace be to him who was silent. It is we who are the body of economy. What I knew of him I have poured into myself. Il piccolo albergo rosso, feriale, per una birra. La sabbia quieta, come nella cartolina, e i ragazzi sdraiati al sole di dicembre.

From the longboat he thought about the glass case in the institute, he watched the backs and eyes, such stately bodies. The House of Slaves open to the ocean through a hole, the greenery low and dusty as at Mozia and the cannon at the summit. The ordinary little red hotel for a beer. The placid sand, just as on the postcard, and the boys lying stretched out in the December sun. So unexpected and mild and delicate, Africa. E tu, mamma, non puoi non essere contenta: Ma le strade hanno in fondo come una nebbia dorata e gli occhi non vedevano che buio da ogni parte Vi bacio, miei stronzetti adorati.

And you, mama, you cannot but be pleased: But the far ends of the avenues seem to be like a gilded mist and my eyes saw nothing but the dark on every side The port is the fury of the sea. I kiss you, my beloved little shits. The Atlas of the Soul It pullulates and regerminates without ceasing, gushes and surfaces from the ininitesimal porosities, from the guts and from the bits, from the ground meal to the corpuscles to the villi and microvilli and most of all it runs wild there, it intersects it saturates and disseminates, indecipherable substance, from cavities and juices and generates sentiments and visions, inklings, panic, euphoria, overlows and igures of the mind, the prismatic protocol of the soul.

Fosse in tuta o in pigiama da ospedale mi ha indicato, al muro, un atlante colorato. Ogni soggetto, unico e irripetibile, si ottiene solo in aree geograiche ben deinite. Whether in a sweatsuit or a pair of hospital pajamas, he pointed out to me a colored atlas on the wall. I thought the cavities were immense viscous vacuities but what they really are is a sponge or a pulpy mass. And yet all so marvelous and perfect, on a structure strongly vertebrate but bloody nonetheless, compressed in its economy in a vertiginous exponential growth.

Every specimen, unique and unrepeatable, is obtained only in well-deined geographical areas. In warmer regions we turn out more savory. In cooler regions we tend as a rule to be sweet. Between astonishment and disgust I considered the secretions and synthesis, the juices and the paste that they produced, the wavelike contractions, the briskness of piling up toward ever more degenerated forms… and the plexuses, regulators of inhibitions and stimuli. One after another the red-brown iltering lobes, the ducts, the canaliculi, the laminae, the isthmus and islands of Langerhans, the micelles of the fatty-aqueous interface, going way down to the processes of putrefaction and of fermentation.

Grazia Deledda was born in Nuoro, on the island of Sar- dinia, in She began writing poetry and short stories while still a child, and published her irst work at age nineteen. Her apprenticeship continued until her early thirties, when she wrote Elias Portolu, the irst of the series of novels that brought her fame.

With this apparently innocu- ous incident, Deledda draws an indelible portrait of our tendency to deform what we experience and to believe our own inventions. Anche lui parve lieto di qualche cosa nuova: I suoi occhi erano felici, come credo fossero i miei; avevamo entrambi dimenticato molte cose. E le onde giocavano coi nostri piedi. Three peasants sat on the sand; beside them lay the closed umbrella, baskets, and shoes that weigh the journey down. The dog was in front of them, motionless with his paws in the water, and through the bars of his muzzle he gazed out to sea like a prisoner.

I was also walking barefoot in the water, and looked at him; for I would rather look into the eyes of animals than those of people, who lie. The big dog looked at me: He immediately understood my state of mind — good, since the weather was ine and the sea calm — and followed me. I heard his steps in the water behind me, like those of a child; he caught up to me and touched me lightly with his snout to let me know he was there, and as if to ask permission to accompany me. I turned and caressed his velvety head; and I felt right away that inally I too had a friend in the world.

He seemed gladdened by something new as well: His eyes were happy, as I believe mine were; we had both forgotten many things. And the sea accompanied us as a third on this beautiful stroll, likewise forgetful of its anger that too often rises up - though no more often than our own.

And the waves played with our feet. Two tall youths passed by, carrying a small blonde girl by her arms like an amphora: I went on that way until I reached a distant place, a cemetery of dead seashells, scattered like bones across a battleield. Ma il cane va ancora avanti per conto suo, anzi balza in terra e si avvoltola nella rena, gioca con un fuscello, si stende in su, col ventre nudo fremente, le zampe che pare vogliano abbrancare il cielo.

Il cane adesso mi veniva accanto, misurando il suo passo col mio: Pareva un prigioniero tornato nel carcere dopo una breve fuga. Si vede che ha perduto il padrone. Man does not set foot here; yet there is the fear of encountering one; better to turn back, where there are many, and the one keeps us from the evil of the other. But the dog again goes onwards by himself, or rather he jumps about and rolls in the sand, plays with a twig, stretches upwards, with his naked belly shivering, his paws seeming to want to em- brace the sky.

And I will also have him guard the house. Those are my thoughts; from small calculations, our acts of generosity, like lovely lowers from their seeds, are born. The dog now came close to me, measuring his step with mine: But if I caressed his head, he nevertheless raised his eyes and promised me his loyalty. Having returned to where the peasants were, he stopped, his paws in the water, his eyes, through the bars of his muzzle, gaz- ing far out to sea.

He seemed like an inmate returned to jail after a brief escape. Quante cose tu mi hai insegnato oggi, o grande cane dai verdi occhi che dunque sanno mentire come quelli degli uomini! There he had lost his master, and there he would remain to wait for him. In , a series of his articles on these issues will appear in a number of journals and anthologies. An Interdisciplinary Journal, 6: Francesca Bellino , giornalista, scrittrice, reporter di viaggio, autrice e conduttrice televisiva e radiofonica.

Lucio Battisti e il jazz italiano Elleu, Suoi testi sono tradotti in spagnolo dal Clarin di Bue- nos Aires. This is the irst literary work that I have translated from Italian into English in the United States. I also wish to acknowledge Don Bras- well, whose advice on the English language has motivated me to strive for clarity and precision in my translation. The Chinese immigration to Italy illustrates this point perfectly.

Therefore, by providing this translation, I hope to contribute to the literature on this history-making movement. Sono gli ultimi della famiglia a chiudere il bar per mettersi al volante della loro Bmw grigia e lasciare la capitale. Da quando Lucia e Renzo sono arrivati a Roma vivono nel benessere.

Non gli manca niente. In soli tre anni di gestione del bar sono riusciti a pagarsi la macchina e parte della casa. Non hanno mai lasciato il bancone. When they close the bar and get behind the wheel of their grey-color BMW, they are the last members of the family to leave the capital. Today, however, in prepara- tion for their departure, they opted to park close to their place in order to load boxes and luggage more easily. They both wish to carry their most precious possessions with them. Since their arrival in Rome, Lucia and Renzo have lived in comfort.

In only three years after opening the bar, they have managed to buy a car and pay part of the mort- gage on their home. Naturally, at irst it was dificult to start up a business in a country so different from their own; but they enjoyed doing it. They have been all-out workers who never felt working was burdensome. Changing their names proved more annoying for them.

After their relocation to Rome, they cast aside their real names and then chose two new ones so that they could run their business better. Their real names are dificult for most customers to pronounce and memorize. As a result, like the rest of the Chinese commu- nity in Italy, it was far easier for Renzo and Lucia to acquire new names than to teach every Italian entering the bar their Chinese ones. On the night of their departure, just half an hour before they rolled down the shutters, a man came in and asked Pan Na Na what her name was. Reluctantly she gave in to his pressure and told him what it was.

Non vi basta rubare il lavoro dei commercianti italiani. Fatti gli affari tuoi? Yi e Ding, sono nati a Roma e, quando hanno letto il romanzo di Alessandro Manzoni a scuola, sono scoppiati a ridere scoprendo che i protagonisti si chiamano come gli zii. Hanno semplicemente sentito questi nomi alla televisione, gli sono piaciuti e li hanno fatti propri. Lo accendono durante la cena e lo lasciano in funzione ino alla mattina dopo quando, di fretta e furia, vanno insieme ad aprire il bar a piazza Vittorio, nel quartiere Esquilino. Guar- dano diversi programmi, dai quiz ai reality show, e naturalmente seguono il Tg.

Credono a tutto quello che dice la televisione. However, she had also learned that the customer is always right and must be given maximum satisfaction. Scratching his head, the man continued to sneer. All right, can I call you Panna then? After a pause for relection, she replied him acerbi- cally while trying to remain nice: Mind your own business? Yi and Ding were both born in Rome.

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They burst out laughing when they read the novel of Alessandro Manzoni in school, learning that the protagonists had the same names as their uncle and aunt. They heard these names on the TV and liked them, so they took them as their own. They turn it on during dinner and leave it on until the next morning, when they dash off together in a mad rush to the bar in Piazza Vittorio in Esquilino.

They watch sev- eral TV programs, including quiz and reality shows, and naturally TV news. They listen to the news in order to improve their Italian but also to keep informed on what is happening around them and to understand the Italian way of life. They believe everything the TV says. So when they heard that on May 11 there might be a major earthquake that could destroy the eternal city, they started planning their irst vacation away from the bar and their irst trip out of Rome since two months ago.

Dalla famiglia dello zio Gao. Pan Na Na non si era tranquillizzata affatto. Avere un posto dove fuggire non la faceva sentire lontana dal pericolo. Ha cambiato ben sette numeri di cellulare prima di essere soddisfatta della numerazione giusta per lei. Ha letto molti libri quando ancora viveva in Cina e a terrorizzarla maggiormente nella storia del terremoto era stata proprio la data: But where can we go?

Her head quivered and she looked pale after listening to the news on Sky. Concealing his own panic, Wen Sen Zuo took her by hand and calmed her down immediately as if he were an angel. He lives near the city, in the countryside. The prophecy made by Raffaele Bendandi seemed so real to her.

Pan Na Na believes in all kinds of superstition, premonitions, and magical revelations she is told because she is afraid of dying and hopes to shield herself by interpreting signs in nature and studying numerology. She changed her cell phone number seven times before inally being satisied that she had with the right nu- merals. She was looking for a sequence with a marked presence of eight, which is the number of wealth and immortality. She even objected to the numbers on the car plate and on the landing of their apartment, although in those cases there was no choice.

She had to resign herself and get used to the absence of eight from the car plate and the impracticality of inding an eight-story building in Esquilino. Pan Na Na is passionate about numerology. She read many books back in China, and what terrorized her most in the history of earthquakes was the exact date of May 11, In her youth, when she had time to read, she used to apply herself to the study of the number 11, which is a master number full of meanings in numerology.

She noticed that in world history a great many big tragedies oc- curred on the 11th: When she heard that Rome could be razed to the ground on May 11, she almost fainted. Molti suoi connazionali la pensano come lei e si soffermano a leggere il signiicato dei numeri. Ha inilato tutti i soldi risparmiati mese dopo mese in cartoni di cornetti e brioche surgelate e cestini di pane per tramezzini destinati al bar e li ha fatti posizionare nel portabagagli da Wen Sen Zuo. Ognuno ha lasciato un diverso cartello: Noi siamo proprio gli ultimi. E se il terremoto anticipa di qualche ora e arriva mentre siamo in viaggio?

Perderemo tutto e moriremo… La natura comanda, guida e regola le nostre esistenze, ma io voglio vivere ancora!!! Many of her coun- trymen thought as she did and started to interpret the meaning of the numbers. Although Pan Na Na is proud of herself for being an active, independent, and competitive career woman, she is plagued by many anxieties that have been ampliied in Rome in spite of her better living conditions. She never uses the subway for fear of terrorist attacks, never goes out without her husband for fear of being raped, and never leaves the daily proits in the bar for fear of thieves.

She put all the money that had been saved for months into boxes of frozen croissants and small baskets of sandwich bread for the bar, and then had Wen Sen Zuo place them in the trunk of their car. A few days earlier, she consulted relatives and neighbors of their bar in Esquilino, where her brother and cousin had a store as well. All agreeing that none of them would leave any of their belongings behind, she even decided to take light with the TV set. When the car was ready for their departure, Pan Na Na burst into tears.

Everyone left a different notice: We really are the last. Old Dong was right. But I still want to live!!! Do you know how it is in Italy? Xia Yang, the restaurant lady, told me about it. Wen Sen Zuo si lascia contagiare dalla paura e non riesce a tranquillizzarla, ma la invita a salire in macchina con un gesto del capo.

Lei passivamente lo ascolta e si accomoda, ma ancora ansiosa ribatte: I due inalmente si mettono in viaggio, tesi e preoccupati, con il portabagagli pieno zeppo di brioche e tramezzini e il televisore che dondola sul sedile posteriore. Grazie al navigator arrivano presto e non sbagliano strada, ma sono gli ultimi a giungere dallo zio Gao. La psicosi ha allarmato tutti e zio Gao non ha saputo dire di no a nessuno, anche agli amici degli amici degli amici.

Rimane immobile al centro del salone con le parole di terrore della moglie che gli rimbombano nelle orecchie e il viavai di gente che intorno a lui va e viene dal giardino alla cucina e dal salotto al giardino. Her fear infects Wen Sen Zuo. Unable to calm her down, he gestures with his head for her to get into the car. She obeys him passively and takes her seat, but still anxious, she remembers: Wasting no time, he decides to hit the road.

No more sticking around. Finally, the husband and wife are on their way, tense and anxious. The trunk is illed with croissants and sandwiches, and the TV set rocks to and fro in the backseat. Thanks to the GPS navigator, they arrive soon without losing their way. They are all Chinese, relatives and friends who work in Rome and in the surrounding areas. Some immigrated in the s, and others more recently. The psychosis alarmed everyone. Wen Sen Zuo no longer replies. He looks as if he is in a daze. Unable to bear too much chatter, she decides to go and rest in the car, leaving her husband behind in the hall, immobile like a mummy.

Ora desidera soltanto stare sola almeno per una mezzoretta. Desidera arricchirsi e godere delle ricchezze in Italia e in Cina. Si immagina eterna, sempre giovane, distesa in un campo di iori con un ruscello limpido di ianco che scorre costante e luccicante e le accarezza i piedi, guarda in su e sorride al sole e alla luna insieme. Il sogno si trasforma in incubo. Il quattro per il suo popolo simboleggia la morte. Viene raggiunta da questa pioggia anomala e rimane sommersa sotto un ininito numero di quattro che la immobilizza e la lascia senza respiro.

Ha sentito e riconosciuto la voce della moglie nonostante il vociare del salone e il volume altissimo della televisione. Invece di tirare fuori la moglie dal suo incubo rimane pietriicato dalla scena che prende forma davanti ai suoi occhi increduli. Placed at the center of the big hall, the TV set is beautiied with a big vase of colorful artiicial lowers. Pan Na Na takes a quick glance at the screen and then looks the other way immedi- ately, not paying a bit of attention to the lowers. Now her only desire is to be alone for at least half an hour.

She walks swiftly toward the parking lot, opens the trunk of her BMW to let in air for the boxes of food, takes her seat in the front, and reclines it. Hugging her bulging purse on her lap, she closes her eyes. She tries to relax and dream about having no fears. She wishes to become rich and enjoy her wealth in Italy and in China. She imagines herself being eternal, ageless, and stretched out in a ield of lowers beside a limpid creek that gushes faithfully and glitteringly as it caresses her feet.

She looks upward and smiles at the sun and moon together. The bleating of baby goats reaches her from afar. An unknown feeling of peacefulness envelops her whole body. All of a sudden, she sees a rain composed of colossal numerals of four falling down from the sky. The dream becomes nightmarish.

To her people, the number four signiies death. Hit by this peculiar rain, she is submerged by an ininite quantity of fours that immo- bilizes her and leaves her gasping for air. With nowhere to escape, death comes looking for her, and she is incapable of resisting it. She lets out a long and liberating shriek, something that she must have meant to do for days. This sound alarms Wen Sen Zuo who comes running immediately, red in the face and out of breath.

He has heard and recognized the voice of his wife in spite of the clamor in the hall and the extremely high volume of the TV. When he reaches the car, he is unsure how to react to the situation. Le caprette si allontanano sazie pian piano, appesantite dal ghiotto pasto, e nel silenzio del parcheggio, proprio in quel momento, squilla il telefono di Wen Sen Zuo ancora sotto shock di fronte alla sua Bmw rapinata. Voi siete aperti domani 11 maggio? They left neither a crumb of bread nor any money in the trunk. The woman appears to have lost consciousness, but must have just collapsed into her delirious sleep once more.

The goats walk away slowly, sated and weighed down by their tasty meal. Standing in front of the plundered BMW, he is still in shock. The friendly voice of a customer is heard in the incoming call. Will yours be open tomor- row, on May 11? This bilingual edition of poems won the third place prize for the Premio Civetta di Minerva. It attempted to blur the differences between the original and transla- tion. He is the author of nine volumes of poetry: As adolescence fades into adulthood the narrator discovers the value and beauty of each thing, even the smallest a puddle, a wounded pike, a dead bird on the sidewalk.

Today those ideals appear to have been overcome by cynical individualism. A consistent alternat- ing pattern is clearly delineated. Thus there are essentially two types of prose, a poetic one of places and a narrative of people, sorts of letters to vanished persons from the past. Yet each form shapes and affects the other. Toward the end there is a suite of seven epistolary pieces. Memories of adolescence are iltered through topographical perspectives in letter like fragments. Most of these segments recount episodes from adolescence and contrast events and feelings from then with now.

The sensation of time is consistently rendered through the contrast between the conditions of youth and the weathered present. The inal piece is a poem, which could refer to the watercolor on the cover or those in the original Italian edition. I stare at the white walls of the room, the humidity stains be- yond the books on the desk and behind the glass cases. They look at me aligned like soldiers of an army adrift in who knows which Russia. No one else has stopped by, not even the custodian with his lashlight for the inal check. I look at the back of my hands, those transparent tiny veins of blue beyond the veil of hair, roads that lose themselves at the limits of my knuckles up to the transparent isthmus of my nails and beyond the grey of my desk which the white paper obfuscates with its lined brilliance.

Now I write on snow, not typical of May, memory deposited a thick blanket between the pen and the wood. Like the lynx starved for days I look for you in the snow following the imprint of your blood, but the trace vanishes after the Holm oaks in the shadow swallowing the light of the iery sunset and the rare birds who cut the horizon in black theory of wings. At this hour who knows where you are if you are alive and who cradles you in which grotto. If I were to cry, it would be a lake, but the lake exists already. I might as well talk about it.

La campana suona mezzogiorno. Tutto ora tace, tutto riposa. La terra poi digrada a terrazze sidando il vuoto cui due larghi tronchi di betulla danno le spalle arcuandosi in vertebre di nodi. If a stone deviates its course, the water lows from canals in sudden whirlpools of foam, and in the moss a white plug thickens into a cluster of blackish branches soaked by sleep. Then, suddenly, near Calcinate, those trunks piled beyond the grating, temple amidst the debris in the rust of days where a ringworm dog errs wagging his tail in the heat as he hunts butterlies.

Meanwhile, beyond the scaly skin of the lake the mud plowed ields that con- ceal string like worms become visible and voices call children lost in dark games behind bushes or on blanched roads of no return. The bell tolls noon. Three trunks, a dolmen offered to the parched god of wrinkling heat. The vegetables, all within a clearly marked perimeter of earth, tend their leaves to the sun like arms between well cut blades of grass while here and there a dark shadow surfaces. The land then slopes down in terraces defying the void where two wide birch trunks arch their shoulders in knotted vertebrae.

There is a sort of vegetal hernia, between the bottom of the trunk and the root where furtive lizards or frogs nestle. And the water, not pure clear spring water, begins pushing off shore. No, as a prisoner of another barrier of wood that turns it into a lake within the lake whose long tresses of algae sway trans- parently like serpents on the shore awaiting the wind. Beside is a sort of open pile dwelling. Above a makeshift roof covered with down resembling the rafia palm, next to it a crude plank perforated in various parts, on which a hand painted sign stands out: Yet underneath the shelter reveals its empty stomach invaded by the alternating ebb and low of the tide.

The dark walls can do nothing against the wave that breaks on rotten wood corroding its ixtures.

A Christmas For Joey!
E-Logistik (German Edition).
THE PROJECT 3.7 AND US.
El difícil arte de educar. Consejos prácticos para padres con hijos pequeños (Spanish Edition)?

No one knows where the boat that once resided on these shores has gone. Crushed by neglect or a storm, perhaps she offers her thighs to the lust of pikes at the bottom off the little island Virginia. Without feet, nor head, who knows, perhaps because of an impact with a car or the fangs of a rabid dog. Not a pigeon, nor a swallow, perhaps a mallard because of those greenish lines around the neck yellowing with pink ha- loes in the sunlight.

There with its tummy in the air, freshly dead, feathers soaked with rain clotted in tufts above the grey pallor of shining lesh which the cyclists avoid at the last moment with a sudden shift of handlebars. Certainly he had rested several times to catch his breath there on the high branches of ir trees scented with dew, or below toward the lake in the shade of the coppiced forest, mocking rats or squirrels, both agile but heavy without wings, as they stared at him squeaking annoyed each time he took light for the lake on ashen slabs of water, with slow but steadily lapping wings until he crossed the road of the wind sail- ing among the clouds like a prince without a domain.

La pietra rossastra, tagliata da linee curve, forma volte sormontate da fregi color mattone. Che resta su una coscia siorata? Forse un segno come quello di un grafio di spine, o uno strato sottile di polline, invisibile, se non alle antenne delle api che vagano basse tra i rovi. Poi ieri notte quel ilm sul mistero del mostro di Loch Ness, il palombaro con il fanale sulla testa disceso nel buio degli abissi tagliato da improvvisi colpi di coda del serpentone orripilante in fuga tra i lutti e lei che dallo studio, in collegamento audio, dice ansiosa con una smoria di panico velata di sudore sotto il biondo della frangetta: The stone, cut from curved lines, is reddish forming arches crowned by brick colored friezes.

Still damp with night rain, the surrounding woods are overgrown surpassing the gate. Rows of green mingle with poppies that raise their heads beyond the trellis tending toward the bodies of cyclists who dart past swiftly in the descent with sudden screeches of breaks. What remains on a thigh that has been grazed? Perhaps a sign like thorn scratches, or a thin layer of pollen, invisible, except to the antennas of bees who err low among the blackberry bushes. The inside is a pile of tools, lime, sacs of cement and bags gutted with illegible writings, where, in lashes lizards wander curious about the crevices of bricks from which they emerge all of a sudden scouting as they agitate their tiny heads, before retreating toward a mass of barbed wire rendered similar to a rosary by rust.

Down there behind the cellophane that covers the loor, a relection of lights on the walls draws a versatile shadow like the batting of eyelashes. My pen had stopped in trips where writing was talking about it with others who do—which is some- thing quite different. I turn off the television. Sono usciti a buio in barca, avvolti nelle cerate, lasciandosi alle spalle un greto sassoso di sterpi. Sanno che ha lasciato anche ieri una vittima riversa sulla riva, un bimbo di otto anni annegato in un metro. They went out on the boat in the dark, wrapped in oilcloths leaving behind a pebbly shore full of undergrowth.

The motor coughs at the stern with him seated between the extinguished lashlights, the other already loaded with a rocket gun and ishing spears stumbling in the nets with his muddy boots. The other shore, every other shore is hidden by a wall of mist that night dusts with disturbing dreams and monsters.

They know that even yesterday he left a victim on the shore, a child of eight years old drowned in three feet of water. They know it but no one saw it, not even them. This is why they know it. The monster strikes and hides further off shore each time. No one has ever met him, no one knows who he may be. Just a reddish trace behind the last boat, curdled blood from the isthmus algae. At the age of twenty-ive he was offered the Chair of Italian Lit- erature at the University of Bologna, which he held for over forty years.

A iery personality, he dominated the Italian literary scene with the classical structure of his poetry and the rebellious liveli- ness of its contents. The historical references in most of his themes saturated and inebriated a nation at the dawn of its glorious unity and independence. His true poetic vein seems no longer to be sought in the tempestuous rhetoric of his anticleri- cal convictions or in the scintillating explosion of his highly per- sonal concepts of history and society.

Salve, Umbria verde, e tu del puro fonte nume Clitumno! Darkening clouds are meanwhile smoking over the Apennine: Green Umbria, hail, and hail, Clitumnus, patron of this pure fountain! Who brought the shadows of the weeping willow upon these sacred banks? May soon the stormy Apennine wind uproot you, soft tree, symbol of humble days!

Here, round the rising deity, let, watchful giants, the thick, deep cypresses still gather; and you, Clitumnus, sing beneath their shadows your fatal songs. Murmur to us, O witness of three empires, how the ierce Umbrian, savage in his battles, bowed to the light-speared ighter, and undaunted Etruria grew: But you, O god indigenous and common to all Italians, victories and losses you blent; and when the Punic fury thundered from Thrasimene, one cry went through your dens, and soon the tortile trumpet was echo to it from the mountains: Visser le ninfe, vissero: Now all is silent.

Suspense: The Name of the Beast / The Night Reveals / Dark Journey

A narrow forest buried at the bottom is smiling, spreading, motionless, its branches: Below the mountain, in the shade of oak-trees, with rills, O Italy, your songs are springing. Here lived the nymphs, one day, and their immortal being now wed: Tutto ora tace, o vedovo Clitunno, tutto: Now all is silent, O bereaved Clitumnus, all: No longer, sprinkled with your sacred waters, do bulls, proud victims, carry Roman trophies to the ancestral shrines!

Ah, Rome no longer is triumphing. No more she triumphs since a Galilean with russet hair, the Capitol ascending, thrust on her back a cross, and ordered: They snatched young men from sacred ploughs, from aged and waiting fathers, and from still fresh spouses; wherever the divine hright sun was blessing, they cast a curse. Naviga in un tepor di sole occiduo ridente a le cerulee solitudini: The dark days have vanished: I renew the songs of ancient glory for you alone. Fantasy You speak; surrendering to the soft breath of your voice, my spirit lets itself be carried far by its caressing waves, and sails for alien shores.

It sails within a warmth of dying light, still smiling on cerulean solitudes: Il sol traguarda basso ne la pergola, e si rinfrange roseo nel mio bicchiere: Driving his spear deep in his homeland ground, a man leaps to the shore, in armor bright: Here come with us two friends that heaven sent, my Lydia—wine and love. Oh, how, forever young, now Bacchus smiles in the bright crystal cup! How in your eyes, O radiant Lydia, Love, fully unmasked, now triumphs! Now low, the sun is piercing through the bower, and its relected light shines rosy in my glass and, golden, trembles, my Lydia, in your hair.

In your black sparkling hair, O my fair Lydia, a pallid rose is dying, and a sweet sudden sadness in my heart tempers the ires of love. Something recalling the Gestalt Effect occurs when a work is transposed into another environment, as it widens the physical perspectives for both the host and guest.

Critical thinking brought forth by the exercise of translating the work of living au- thor usually punctures the balloon of innocence and unconscious- ness. Translation awakens a cognitive state in the poet. No matter how alert the poet might have been during the composition of his original poem, the translation of the same poem modiies forever his writing and his future writings. He will no longer be able to read his own work as he used to, in the restraints of his collectivity.

He now knows that a reader in a different situation knows as well. It is thanks to translation that connections between heterogeneous regions develop. Passing over the gangway on to otherness produces the most delicious of fruits. By conirming the afirmation of poetry, transla- tion universalizes what is speciic.

Translation analyzes details and plunges into the ocean of the unexpected. We must beware of not mistaking the universalizing mecha- nisms of translation with translation as being universal. Global- ization is not an immediate acquisition. Translating into English works originally written, say, in Italian does not automatically guarantee English-speaking readers to react in the same manner. The reader in London does not read poetry the same way as the reader in San Diego. Local thoughts and practice systems vary according to geography. Poetry is not geographically blind.

The dissimilarities within a language should, however, not hinder the translator from doing his work. The translator in Toronto will not translate a Serbian poet the same way as the translator in Sydney. There is no single way to translate a work, no matter what intel- lectual apparatus the translator uses to defend or a critic to attack a translation. In the industry of books, the concept of a perfect translation has more to do with rights and royalties than it does with translation per se. Translation follows the same pattern as pain management.

Our Western philosophy has taught us to want to change things as they are; whereas Eastern philosophy teaches that it is only by accepting what is there that we can adapt with circumstance. What we have to change is our perception of the situation. We must shift our focus and change ourselves. Surely, there are times when adding a comma produces the right amount of endorphins that will relieve us from a malaise.

There are times when writing a phrase in the negative can render what was written in the positive. Other times, the active voice is preferred to the original passive voice. Some times, switching the position of an adjective unleashes just enough charm for the reader to let out a gasp of contentment. Once we have accepted the fact that there will never be a single, perfect translation of a poem as there will probably never a unique cure for elevating pain, we must reinforce wellness of mul- tiple translations instead of hurting translations.

By outplaying regional poetry, translation works toward a more open society. She is also a poet, short-story writer, editor and blogger. Sarah Jane Barnett is a poet, creative writing teacher, and book reviewer. Facing the Empty Page Random House. She teaches creative writing at Massey University. She lives in Wellington, New Zealand, with her husband and son. He wants to communicate the meaning of the source-language. He gently smoothes the original text. He moves throught the shape of the words, which, strictly speaking, are his shape.

The concept of metaphrase is imperfect, he knows this. A translation is often not word-for- word, style, concordance, word order and context — they all matter. They are crucial values in seeking equivalents. Here, the ground has a different name. The sky is quartz blue. Yes, he thinks, this is literally a re-languaging. He carries his words in books and on his tongue. Appiana delicatamente il testo originale. Sono elementi cruciali nella ricerca di equivalenti. Qui la terra ha un altro nome. Porta le proprie parole nei libri e sulla lingua.

Bilingue, la chiave del traduttore, lingua di destinazione, parafrasi: In the aisle of the New World I examine the packets: Last week a woman brought bright pink buns illed with sweet cream. An old man is touching the tea, his hand lifts one box and then another, holding each like a cubed puzzle. I see his arm tremble. I look over my shoulder. Hot needles prick into my face, my throat thick and salty. The man turns to face me.

Sun spots blotch his cheeks. For a moment, I look back. A translator who habitually speaks both languages cannot see the world as a monolingual does. Each object has a layer of words: His habit of use decides which comes irst, the change most noticeable in everyday speech. He can feel new words in his mouth, others dropping away. They are tied to ground he no longer walks. He watches his thoughts for interfer- ence, when the second language disrupts the irst. Proper nouns are the most in danger. He will forget the names of certain birds and the word for his local drink.

He will forget the green strip where those birds once roosted. He has already forgotten the amber lash of their wings. Nella corsia del New World prendo in esame le confezioni: La settimana scorsa una signora ha portato panini rosa ripieni di crema dolce. La gente ha applaudito. Vedo che il braccio gli trema. Mi guardo alle spalle. Mi viene un formicolio alla faccia, un nodo salato alla gola. Le guance macchiate dal sole. Per un attimo mi guardo indietro. Ogni oggetto ha uno strato di parole: Si sente le parole nuove in bocca, le altre che lo abbandonano. Controlla le interferenze nei pensieri, quando la seconda lingua interrompe la prima.

Through sleep, cloaked horsemen ride their mares down tepid roads that end in fields of hay. A calm, clear night. With blind dread, heard from far away, the trains bear down on crowds and market wares. But you, a god who smiles at gain and loss: Now be the sheen In wine. Alle fronde dei salici, per voto, anche le nostre cetre erano appese, oscillavano lievi al triste vento.

Portami tu la pianta che conduce dove sorgono bionde trasparenze e vapora la vita quale essenza; portami il girasole impazzito di luce. With foreign boot soles stamped down on our hearts? Among the littered dead left in the square on frozen grass? Or to the lamb-like cries of children left un-dammed? Or to the black howl of the mother running toward her son the telegraph pole strung up, cruciied?

On the willow limbs, we left a vow— our votive lyres, which we suspended there, to tune sad air to all that lives and dies. Bring it so that I may plant it in my sere and salt-sown space, and offer to the blue reflective sky, all day, the fear that paints its yellow face. They reach toward brightness, all the darkest things, spending their bodies in the shades that flow and melt in music. So the dark things go, fading in the destinies chance brings. Qual sia la sua bellezza io non so dire, come colui che ode suoni dormendo e virtudi ignote entran nel suo dormire.

In catena di putti non mise tanta gioia Donatello, fervendo il marmo sotto lo scalpello, quando ornava le bianche cattedrali. What woman ever gave herself in love except for you, for you, dear quite as sweetly as this current, full and free? Its beauty, taken whole, defeats my words. I keep on hearing sounds while sleeping. I hear their unknown powers that come seeping, deep into my sleep. The green, audacious waves leap—green waves wild with foam.

They churn as they advance with all the grace a bold young animal might show. Donatello styled less joy in all the angel hands he formed, that linked in marble that his chisel warmed, when he adorned the white cathedrals. There below the garlands carved with fruit and blooms, a child- like gambol wreathes his pulpits. Adora, adora, e attendi! Sono le reti pensili.

Your feet were bare, And left their prints of light. You see them there? Out of those waters rise great calices woven from gold iner than I can say. Butterlies like your golden hands ly clear in pairs; they ind in waves discoveries of wonder—giant blooms from some strange sphere— while you breathe brine-sachet, the salt-sea scent. You see the ishing nets hung out? Some slope like balance-scales that hang from poles in place to prop the high, extended platform-bridges where the men keep watch to twist the rope.

Some hang from bows of dories, where they cut the everlasting, glass sea-face that mirrors them in turn; and when the sun beats on the boats astern, and all the oars are shut down, stilled, huge radiance transigures them: Out of these waters rise great calices— lilies alame. Praise such enchantment with joy, our soul.

As a translator he has published works by Paso- lini, Merini, Caproni, Porta, and Zanzotto among others. His own writings of poetry, reviews, criticism, and photography have been published in journals and in book form by a variety of presses. His books include Devils in Paradise: Sergio Atzeni — was an Italian writer from Sardinia. He lived and worked in Cagliari as a journalist for a number of the most important Sardinian newspapers. His language shows a strong inluence of the Sardinian tongue coupled with a lively experimental streak, fusing literary Italian with the language of the Sardinian working- class.

Martin San Martino , oak, h. Le immagi- ni non sono le stesse per tutti. Le mie immagini dipendono da molti fattori: Ci sono impedimenti abbastan- za comuni: E livelli di adesione: Suoni africani, elettronica, voci umane fra il computer e il discosound. Tessuto poliritmico veloce e ossessivo. Spazi di sola percussione. Finale in crescendo, violento. The images are not the same for everyone. Obviously, every single one of us has their own images, ones that depend on the singularity of their existence.

My images depends on a number of factors: There are some fairly common obstacles: African sounds, electronics, human voices between computer and disco sounds. Fast and obsessive poly-rhythmic fab- ric. Violent ending in crescendo. La suola, schiaccia una formica. Le formiche escono da una crepa fra due pietroni squadrati — e si sistemano sotto il piede. Massacra le formiche, e guarda il mare. Sembra uno che riflette, intensamente. E schiaccia la formica. II mare e scuro, appena siorato dalle luci di una nave che va via. Dalla Mercedes lo guardano Il Grasso, e la sua banda: La Mercedes prosegue, lenta, per una decina di metri.

Sem- bra un sacco pieno di roba molle, pronto ad aprirsi sulla pancia, Il Grasso. Dal basso, vengono due gambe gonfie e flaccide. In cima, coperta dai capelli appiccicati, una palla di ciccia, che dentro ha due cerchietti neri che sembrano appuntati cogli spilli: Nessuna espressione, tranne un ghigno ebete che non si muove mai. Trema continuamente, II Grasso: It gifted me with a nocturnal image, inhabited by a mono- maniacal … The shoe of that man is high, up to the neck of the foot.

The sole crushes an ant. The ants come out of a crack from between two large square stones and arrange themselves under the foot. He crushes them, one after the other, with metro- nomic regularity.

Storie Di Fantasmi Per Il Dopocena (Told After Supper)

The man, standing behind the grate of the port, looks out at the sea. He is tall, wrapped in some black thing that falls to his rain shoes, high up to the neck of the foot. He massacres ants, and looks out to the sea. He looks like someone who thinks about things in an intense manner. Instead, he simply counts: And he crushes ants. He never has, in his whole life. The sea is dark, lightly touched by the lights of a ship sailing away.

The man looks out at the ship. Slowly, a yellow Mercedes passes behind the man. From the Mercedes the Fat Man and his gang look at him: The Mercedes drives on slowly for another thirty or so feet. It looks like he is thinking. But he is not. The Fat Man slides out of the back seat of the Mercedes: He looks like a sack full of soft stuff, ready to split open at his belly. Two swollen and laccid legs rise from below.

Up above, covered by greasy hair, is a ball of lesh, in it are two little black circles that seems to be attached with pins: His skin is yellowish, bruised. No expression, besides an unlinching moronic sneer. He trembles constantly, the Fat Man: E ammazza le formiche. Dieci minuti, buoni, e lentissimi, prima che II Grasso apra bocca.

So che devo aspettare al Polpo, ogni sera, per poterti parlare. Mi dispiace davvero, disturbarti Ho bisogno di dieci chili.

Storie Di Fantasmi Per Il Dopocena (Told After Supper) by Jerome K. Jerome on Apple Books

Tutti in una volta. Per uno che parte fra due ore. Senza limite in alto. A me, mi basta il dieci del bisnass. Non potevo fare altro. Non pretendo di assistere alla vendita Io ti mando il bisnass, e aspetto in macchina Non si muove di un centimetro. The man, as if no-one else is there, beside him. He looks out to the sea. Ten minutes, a good ten, and very slow, before the Fat Man even opens his mouth.

The voice is a threatening whisper: I know that I have to wait for the Octopus, every night, in order to talk to you. A moment… The man looks out to sea, as if he were alone. I need 10 kg.

For someone who is leaving in two hours. The usual ten of the deal is enough for me. I am not expecting to be present at the sale… if you like. You, tell me yes. A little longer, and the Fat Man is ready to pray. Gli occhi sono semichiusi, come di uno che pensa lontananze. Le braccia sono lunghe, sui fianchi. La punta delle dita, arriva alle ginocchia. II Grasso, riprende a pigolare: II Grasso, rotola sulla grata, e a terra, sulle formiche uccise.

Un pugno che sembra inguantato nel tirapugni schiaccia un coso che serviva a respirare, prima. Il primo pugno, spezza il setto nasale del Grasso. Il secondo, trasforma la grata del porto nella parete di un mattatoio, sanguinante. Quattro paia di occhi scoppiati stanno immobili, dentro una Mercedes. Elettronica addolcita da violino e sax struggenti, come in una tango Forse anche dolce, in ambiente ovattato. Il inale del racconto va col inale di Jinx. Non riuscirei a spiegarlo: His body is like a tree trunk. His eyes are almost closed shut, like one thinking of distant things. His arms are very long, on his hips.

The tips of his ingers, reach his knees. The Fan Man, he begins his chirping again: I had not meant to. The Fat Man rolls on the grating, and on the ground, on the dead ants. The Fat Man, screams. The man kneels down. A ist that seems to hold brass knuckles crushes a thing that once was meant to breathe. The man grinds his teeth, behind his lips. The second, turns the grating of the port into a slaughterhouse wall, bloody.

The man has a deep voice, low, furious: Learn it well, asshole: The man jumps over the grating, lightly leaning on his hands: Four pairs of eyes big and wide motionless, inside a Mercedes. That man, he is already gone. Electronic track sweetened by heart-rending violin and sax, like in a tango Maybe even sweet, in a mufled environ- ment.

The end of the story goes with the end of Jinx. Some call that man Cain. Not a trace of his real name. Chiedete, a chiun- que abbia un potere da difendere, anche minimo, quanti sono, i caini che cercano di portarglielo via. O a chi buca.

Sembra uno di coraggio: Un pazzo che ha imparato la prudenza. Entra nel portone nero — odore di cavoli — di una casa antica. Ha scelto una simca verde. Siede davanti, e controlla le armi. Partecipa per inanziare un trafico di coca. Ha portato le bombe. Alle colline del Margine Rosso, la simca prende un viottolo di terra. Si ferma, al buio. Ask anyone who might have some power to defend, even the smallest, how many Cains have tried to wrest it away.

Ask all the paranoid people in the city, those living behind barred and locked doors, with their tvs turned up high, so as not to hear the noises from the stairs. Or those who shoot up. They know how much of a Cain attitude there is around. A young barbarian, from the immense periphery that has grown like a cancer around the Ciudad. He looks like he might be courageous: A crazy man who has learned to be prudent. The Pula has never caught up with him. They have at time scaught his scent from a distance.

He goes through the dark gate - the smell of caulilower - of some ancient home. He walks through the alleyways of the old city.. The hunchback is the driver. He has chosen a green Simca. Moses leads the attack: He sits in the front, and he controls the guns. The third one is Shrub. He is participating so as to inance his coke smuggling. He is a violent sadist. He brought the bombs. II mitra sulle spalle, e maschere di cartapesta, in faccia, come a Carnevale. Arrivano al muro di cinta della casa: II ritrovo abituale di certi amici che amano giocare forte: Bar, lungo tutta una parete: Al primo piano, le stanze, per gli amici che smettono tardi, e per quelli troppo ubriachi.

Calca un campanello bianco. Dopo dieci passi, spara. Una raffica, un pelo sulle teste. Se vi muovete, se parlate, se strisciate, sparo nel mucchio. It stops in the dark. The four get out of the car, they start their trek through ields of almonds and homes. They arrive at the wall that surrounds the house: The habitual gathering of certain friends who love to play hard: A bar, the length of a whole wall: The toilets are like those in a club. On the irst loor, the rooms, for those friends who stay until late, and for those who are too drunk. One hundred per bed.

There is little talking. The Hunchback and Cain get over the wall, cross twelve feet of shadows, and slip through the open windows of the toilet, on the ground loor. Moses follows the wall to the main gate. He rings a white bell. No security check, neither on the outside nor at the en- trance. Only friends come up here. Moses pushes the gate. He takes ten steps and ires. A burst of gun ire slightly over their heads. Only the wife of the man who gambled away his wife cries; she did not hear the gun shots. Another burst of gun shots.

The third round of shots — the private one crouching behind the door to the patio — is followed by a voice: Be still and quiet. If you move, if you speak, if you try to crawl away I will shoot into the group. The ofice is on the second loor. It is the heart of the villa: I1 Cassiere sviene, quando vede il mitra che spunta dalla porta, e entra, seguito da un mostro giallo coi denti rossi — un Satana colorato male, sulla faccia del Gobbo. Il denaro, nella cassa a muro, aperta.

La inestra del bagno, a piano terra. Il muro di cinta. Mentre salta, Caino spara un colpo. Il privato corre fuori, fra i giocatori immobili proprio mentre una granata scoppia sulla destra, e fa volare due auto ben parcheggiate. Una bomba cecoslovacca piomba fra i tavoli: Il privato si tuffa a terra, colle mani sulla testa. Cespuglio ha fatto un buon lavoro, dal muro di cinta, colle bombe. II Gobbo strattona la simca per quattro chi- lometri folli, di stradine di campagna. Fino a un casolare, sul bordo di una vigna.

Odore di muffa, e di marcio. Quindici a Caino, Gobbo e Cespuglio. Altri cinque a Caino, per le armi che ha pagato, e che ora si riporta via, colla simca rubata. La getta nello stagno, quasi subito. Sembra un operaio nottambulo, con quella borsa appesa sul manubrio. La casa dei Cavoli, nella Ciudad. Detraggo dalla tua quota. The Cashier resides in the ofice, forced to work through the day and hold night hours: Usually, there is a private guard on duty in the Ofice.

But at this moment the private is downstairs, crouching, and hoping that the nut-job shooting from the garden will come forward. When he sees the gun come through the door, followed by a yellow monster with red teeth, a poorly colored Satan on his face, the Ca- shier faints. The money, in the open wall safe. They grab and run. The toilet window, on the ground loor. Cain ires a shot as he climbs. The private runs outside, through the immobile players, just as a grenade explodes on the right, and two well-parked cars are blown up.

A Czeck bomb falls among the tables: The private dives to the ground, his hands on his head. A war has started. Shrub did a good job, with the bombs from the surrounding wall. The Hunchback races the Simca for four crazy kilometers of country roads. Up to a farmhouse, at the edge of a vineyard.

Smell of mold, and rot. Fifteen for Cain, Hunchback and Shrub. Another ive for Cain for the guns he bought, and is now taking away again with the stolen Simca. He drives it into the swamp, almost right away.

He comes out of the water with wet feet. He looks like a night-shift worker, with his bag hanging on the handlebars. Or a farmer who has gotten up very early. The Cab- bage house, in the Ciudad. There is a smell of cat piss now. Give me half of what I paid for them. Voci e coretti che citano forse, Simon e Garfunkel? Quando giocano col sud del continente Sandinista, una band di New York? Autoironia, citazioni, una morbida allegria. Come avere le fanfare alla inestra, per Caino addormentato. Alle otto del mattino. Una specie di Maratona del mattino, con le note della banda dei carabinieri, nella testa.

E lo stomaco vuoto. Pasta-cappuccino-corsa, ultimi dieci metri a passo lento per recuperare il respiro, digerire la pasta, preparare le parole. Non sono ancora le nove: Voices and choir that quote maybe Simon and Garfunkel? When they play with the south of the continent … with only the slightest bit of irony. Sandinista, a band from New York? Self- mockery, quotations, a soft cheerfulness. A military band, a sort of parade for an anniversary, a national holiday, from Mrs. Like having trumpets at the window for a sleeping Cain.

At eight in the morn- ing. A breathless dash to catch the eight-thirty bus, after a shower and a growling stomach - a real shock, for the shits - and then get- ting off at the piazza running to catch the other bus, always tense and a stomach ache. I have to eat. A sort of morning marathon, with the notes of the police band in my head. And an empty stomach. Croissant-cappuccino-dash off, the last ten meters at a slow pace to catch my breath, digest the croissant, and get my words in line. Cain is in love. It is allowed, within the limits allowed a Cain: Neither Cain nor Anyone else.

Cain is the dearest of friends. Having said all this, what is left is the most important, at least for Cain: Daisy Duck is quite a dish: The bed could turn into quite a mess. Paperina, non ci sta. Corrono, affianco al mare, ancora quasi vuoto: Paperina ha voglia di fare una nuotata, e stoppa in un tratto fra mare e pineta, e si sveste di corsa. Lei, sempre dieci metri avanti. Una maledetta campionessa di nuoto. Ore undici e trenta: Il borsello prende il volo, e i due scattano come fulmini cen- tometristi verso la Honda, ma Paperina sta ancora soltanto mettendo in moto che — quello comincia a sparare: Lenti come lumache, e viscidi e imbroglioni.

In the warm June of these parts: They run along the still mostly empty sea: Beach time is at noon. Daisy Duck wants to go for a swim, she stops between the beach and the pines and quickly undresses. Again, at a run. Everything off, lying, and she is already in the water, laughing. She, always ten meters ahead. A damned swimming champion. They come out of the water, unfurl the towels, stretch out in the sun. Thirty seconds later, Daisy Duck is wide awake and is point- ing to some blondish guy who seems to be German: The Nazi has to stop - time enough to call the police, because one of His fucking bullets hit a tire.

Slow like snails, and slimy crooks. Caino preferisce colpire al buio, e con molti ripari. Queste mattane gli scassano il sistema nervoso. Le vanno, le azioni di coraggio. Lei lo molla al volo a un passo da casa, e corre a rifugiarsi, in un posto sicuro, per un mese buono. Una maledetta banda dei carabinieri, in testa. Almeno fino a domani. Repubblica ha rivelato che lo ascoltano a Parigi, a Londra e nelle capitali dello spettacolo. Grazie, Repubblica, che dai cibo alla nostra fame.

Il raccontino cerca di rispettare la punteggiatura della musica. Sabato mattina, visita parenti. Ha le bocche di lupo, le garitte di guardia, le mura di cinta, i fucili mitragliatori puntati. Cain, is a cold chill, nerves, fear. Cain prefers to hit in the dark, and plenty of cover.

These sorts of outbursts wreak havoc with his nerves. And they are going to give him a stomach ulcer. Daisy Duck is calm. She goes for gutsy things. She lets him off on the ly near his place, and goes off to hide, in a secure place, for a good month. He will take a trip. With the light that leaves in an hour.

A damned band of police, ahead. At least until tomorrow. Happy Feeling by Manu Dibango, from the album Ambassador, from Manu Dibango has become rather important. The newspaper La Repubblica said that they listen to him in Paris, in London and all the entertainment capitals. Thank you Repubblica, for feeding our hunger.

Good sauce, of course. This little story tries to respect the musical syncopation. Saturday morning, family visitation. It has basement windows, sentry tow- ers, surrounding walls, machine guns at the ready. According to popular tales, the architect who dreamed it up, and the engineer who built it, both died suicides, after they saw the end product. Piccolo entra nel portone alto fatto per mettere paura.

Piccolo ci ha le palle, ma le porte che si chiudono lo fanno tremare. Dieci minuti, cogli occhi del mitra a un passo e mezzo. Mammai sa vivere con gioia. La cicatrice e gonia, e viola. Due ergastoli, deve scontare. Due, i cristiani ammazzati. Squarciato col coltello grande di cucina e trascinato sotto il ico del cortile: Mammai recita la solita litania di lamentele: E rancido di donne sporche. Dice che non riesce a farne a meno. II mondo, dico io, ci ha il culo al posto della testa. Piccolo has balls, but the closing doors scare him. Ten minutes, with the eyes of the machine gun a step and a half away.

Mammai knows how to enjoy life. The scar is swollen, and purple. Souvenir of a pruning hook, when the family was together, and Babbai still living liked to prune every now and then, in the euphoria of good wine. She has to serve two life sentences. Two, the good christian souls killed. Ripped open with a large kitchen knife and dragged under the ig tree in the courtyard: The sausages were good that year: Babbai was a pig and a drunkard, he had been tender only once, just once, in his whole mortal and immortal life, after the hog had digested him.

Mammai goes through the usual litany of complaints: They put Gigliola in isolation. I think the world has its asshole in place of its head. And yesterday she went crazy, instead of banging her head on the wall she banged it against a guard. Thirty days of therapy for that. Oh, anche gli sbirri, sembrano budino. A lei piacevano gli sbirri di un tempo. Ha persino nostalgia, di quello che aveva resistito quattordici minuti di orologio, ai suoi cazzotti.

Ah, era un uomo. Era successo quando Mammai si era arram- picata sul tetto, a respirare. Le mammelle di Mam- mai: Grandi come angurie e bianche come formaggio fresco. Al quindici era morto. Cosi, il direttore aveva dato ordine che attendessero, e lei era tornata quando era venuto il buio. Ha paura di tornare a casa: Cosi non spreca il tempo. Aveva le labbra rosse ributtanti di una zingara.

Altri avrebbero dovuto, da tanto. Comprava le anime, per strada. He almost died because of a head-butt; he quit and is looking for work as a bricklayer. She like the old-fashioned guards. She is even nostalgic, of the one who had resisted her punching him out for a good fourteen minutes. Ah, he was a man. It happened when Mammai had crawled up onto the roof, just to get a breath of air. Huge like watermelons and white like rounds of fresh cheese. That guard, the one of the four- teen minutes, had climbed up on the roof and wanted to take her down. At the ifteenth he was dead. The warden had then ordered everyone to wait, and she had come back when it turned dark.

It was cold, on the roof. Bring me the Grand Hotel magazine. He is afraid to go home: He lets himself be tempted by a car stereo. So as not to waste time. I killed the woman. She had the red disgusting lips of a gypsy. Someone else should have done so, a long time ago.

In any case, she deserved it. She bought souls, in the streets. I mixed my steps up in the city, along shop windows. If I ripped up my documents, it was not out of fear. Per imporre rispetto, e cominciare bene, come si conviene, e un poco a modo mio. In sole sette notti cancellai i ricordi. In soli sette giorni cambiai faccia. Mi diedi da fare. Si diverte, la gente, a spaventarsi. Quanto a questo, era un uomo di coraggio. Venne una Carmelitana labbra di biacca, mezza bianca mezza nera, cosce chiare e pizzi viola, parole di scirocco.

Venne Benda Rossa dei Pirati lingua fra i denti di riso, non parlava ma, Dio, sapeva camminare, culo di colomba. Venne una donna rara, una che regalava, guardava dritti gli occhi, e buona mercanzia, sudore di letto caldo. Venne una donna vera col ventre al posto giusto e labbra di farfalla, delirio di una notte senza sonno.

Vennero Labbra Rosse di una solitudine stanca. La donna abbandonata e triste che. In only seven nights I erased the memories. In only seven days I changed face. I worked hard at it. When the new man that I was walked out into the street, an orchestra played, and the sun put on a show in red.