The Polpetton Hash

First published in 2002 by Genoese author Mrs Orietta Callegari, the Polpetton (Italian for Hash) provides a disturbing insight into the maverick Radical Party, including its leader Marco Pannella, reporter Mauro Suttora and activist Roberto Granzotto.

Chapter I – The Polpetton Hash

The collar of his raincoat up, his bristly beard unkempt and his trademark thick specs maths-prof-framed, at 10:19 pm on Wednesdays 24 October the lanky investigative reporter from Milan got off the punctual intercity train Fogazzaro in Conegliano Veneto railway station. It had not been difficult, five hours before in via Rizzoli, to persuade the publisher to send him to interview the radical dissidents of Castelfranco Veneto, those who like annoying mosquitos pricked the leader Marco Pannella with their Veneto Liberale political stunt. “We must pump them up in order to deprive the Mesopotamian satrap of the ideological monopoly in liberal thought”, that was the political line of the powerful publishing group owner of the influential weekly magazine Domani, or “Tomorrow”.

“Veneto Liberale, go to hell!”, thought instead the journalist going beyond the Castelfranco station and paying from his own pocket the conductor to get further east to Conegliano, a place where according to the information patiently collected in months of hard work as a mole in the internet political fora, there were more interesting subjects. That was the bigot and harlot plain between the Piave and the Tagliamento rivers, where the liberal thought opened up like a fan to embrace the immense basin of political unrest which on one side went beyond the melancholic Trieste, formerly Mittel-European, down to the cursed Balkans, and on the other side pushed beyond the springy Prague of 1968 till dispersing itself in the boundless Siberian steppes of Hramovian memoirs.

It was there in Conegliano where he would have begun the investigation on the two roberts, the oenology tycoons who kept under their thumbs the Radical Party as a cover for their suspicious transnational mafious activities: Robert Granzotto, the former Formula 1 driver founder of the tentacular financial empire Maletton, and Robert Polezel, the electronic engineer who made a fortune selling robotics technology to Australian terrorists. A satanic sneer lightened up the reporter at the thought of how his evergreen opponent Sir Beppe de Severgnin would have eaten himself up with envy when his masterpiece “Polezel & Granzotto Plc” would have hit the bookshelves. Bare-headed under a light rain, from the first track Mauro Suttora headed towards the exit in search of taxi driver Zoppas, whom he never met but knew that he looked like Ulster republican leader Gerry Adams.

The Polpetton Hash - Chapter II – The Letter

Bare-headed under a light rain, from the first track Mauro Suttora headed towards the exit in search of taxi driver Zoppas, whom he never met but knew that he looked like Ulster republican leader Gerry Adams. He asked to be taken to a hotel and along the way he didn’t stop touching a letter in his pocket. He grazed it and felt his fingertips burning, a lump in his throat preventing him to swallow. He couldn’t understand what was going on and was eager to get to the hotel room to read again for the umpteenth time that damned letter. The rain kept coming down like a fool, diabolic litany on the windshield and the ferocious dance of the wiper blades dominated its breath. Eventually relaxed in the hotel room, he unfolded the letter on the small writing desk.

IN THE SHEETS’ NIGHT LOST ARE THE RHYMES OF AN ABSENT-MINDED POET WHO WRITES BECAUSE HE LOVES WORDS. IN THE SHEETS’ NIGHT LOST ARE THE RHYMES WHICH NOBODY EVER WROTE.

Well gentlemen, in order to try and conclude this speech that goes on for 7 lines by now, I would suggest to synthesise in a few points the thoughts expounded by the various theologians. In the first instance it seems to me that all agree on the fact that we are nothing but a story. This is demonstrated by the fact that we are only humble words, formed by small letters that, if put together, they form sentences like the one I am pronouncing. Well, at first sight everything seemed plain and obvious: actually, we read that the rhymes (the words) are the work of a poet (an author) who writes them because he loves the words (that’s us). And in order to value this first hypothesis it was said that an author must exist, otherwise our existence would have any meaning. But from the third line the controversy began. I am not to list to all the literary currents which rose from the third line as it would be far too long, I will rather attempt to expound my hypothesis, which seems conclusive to me. I think that an author does exist. Moreover I am convinced that all this that we words express is nothing but the fruit of his imagination…

“Excuse me if I interrupt you! But what you are saying seems somehow absurd and unlikely, besides being stupid and poor of content. As a matter of fact it could be deduced that the author, if he wants so, could without reason start to del….”

Mauro Suttora startled: “WHO, WHO, WHO is deleting that damned letter!” He was sweating frightfully and an oesophagus reflux brought back the flavour of pesto in his mouth. “What a stupid idea” – he thought – “to eat gnocchi al pesto in Conegliano Veneto! I feel sick, and I haven’t even got a pencil. Cazzo! Cazzo!” The letter inexorably continued to delete itself under his eyes and he couldn’t think that him, Him, HIM!, the powerful radical tyrant… “maybe he’s dead! Maybe he’s succeeding in… Cazzo! My book! I must check my book… all its copies…”
A monstrous flatulence upset his bowels. He rushed to the toilet and as soon as he rested its flabby bottom on the liberating seat the telephone rang. It was that radical activist, Rita Filippi, who flew over the bridge to abandon the happy island where he dominated uncontested. Him, HIM, the old powerful radical tyrant. In a wheezing she told him to meet at the Posta cafè in the old square the morning after.

When a fading, yawning sun made its sleeping beams filter through a light morning fog, Mauro Suttora took a seat at the Posta cafè and ordered a rich breakfast. It had already eaten two cornetti and a cappuccino, when a sicilian cottage cheese cannolo garnished with happy candied fruits attracted his attention, and being unable to resist the temptation he ordered another breakfast. At a table nearby, two young people flirted while waiting for their coffees and reading in complicity a Millelire pocket book, Seneca’s Happiness. While voluptuously swallowing the cannolo, thinking that that was happiness too, Rita sat next to him and began to talk o update him on what was going to happen soon. She still was a beautiful woman, solar, full of enthusiasm and good will. He thought of her hidden orchid guessing a fragrance that wrapped him stopping his ears, and then he had a strange feeling, like sea-sickness. He watched the Rita’s lips rolling in a dance of silent music which gave the rhythm to the cottage cheese waving in his stomach. He was standing still, immovable, breathing little by little. Rita, who hadn’t stopped a second to talk, and whom he couldn’t hear, looked unaware of his momentary pallor and how he was feeling bad. The youngsters were watching instead, but pretended not to notice by hiding behind the book. Once more, words were making fun of him. Under his eyes the Happiness turned itself into a dancer to the rhythm of Rita’s lips, which couldn’t stop talking, in a very long bridge losing itself far away.

The public square became crowdy of noisy people whose Bla Blas came softened to Mauro Suttora, who couldn’t understand what they were chatting about but knew most of them were businessmen from the area with small factories, mainly right-wing liberals waiting for Somebody. He couldn’t succeed in turning his eyes away from the imaginary bridge gushed out from the words and thought that perhaps it took to the happy island where the old most powerful radical tyrant reigned uncontested on the right and on the left with the small faithful minority which would have never left him. The island from where, since always and forever, he would throw his bridges towards the abominable desert on the left and the galactic rubbish dump on the right.

To tell the truth, he thought, that from time to time among the countless who were waiting beyond the bridges, with a patience to make envious even the most fundamentalist Buddhist, to see his corpse pass through, someone, taken perhaps by a desire never totally extinguished, went throbbing and full of ardor down those bridges in order to discover and enjoy the taste of freedom. But it always lasted a little time, invariably the squadrons of the right and the left, hoisting the standards of interests and values, came to resume to the platonic outcry of “Too much freedom hurts”, ass-kicking themselves back in hopeless disorder on that bridge which they had gone beyond with such proud desire and haughty braveness, and quickly made them convinced that “Half a freedom is better”, deciding that every group would have kept its peculiar freedoms and, unanimously, that the island shall be moved farther away in order to make more and more difficult to that old stubborn to lengthen his bridges.

He was at a loss for a moment. “What am I doing here?” – he wondered, and then recalled – “The book!” He had to advertise the imminent sale of his book, “Man does live by bread too”.
He had eventually digested the cannolo and was feeling fine. The public square was crowded of friends, that is friends among them, and Mauro turned away the eyes from the two youngsters who were leaving, thinking that nothing had ever made him feel so lonely than their thin happy whispering to each other ears. And the word “lonely” smiled jumping into him, pasting with his soul like water and flour. He stood up and said goodbye to Rita. He was feeling lonely and wanted to be alone. “ALONE!” he thought; probably just like the feeling that Pemo had in running to the online elections, the last bridge the old solomonic radical tyrant threw to induce to the conquest of the happy island all those who, albeit desiring it, kept far away in order not to have to deal with him.

Mauro walked quickly towards the railway station, but a light fog had begun to wrap the town, mingling roads and houses and he felt himself swallowed by the fog like being captured in a dream. He wrung his eyes in an attempt to see far away, and he saw… saw Pemo bare and wild running freely on the happy island. The irreverent boy was pawing the ground, offering the exact image of juvenile torment and unlimited ambition linking today’s moment with the past history, much beloved to the old solomonic tyrant who benevolently candidated him from time to time, considering him one of his sons anyway, in spite of knowing that he didn’t joined a new Radical Party together with those “eternally upset with him, Him, HIM!” stroke by the “there’s too little democracy” syndrome.

Mauro thought of Pemo, alone and muddy, when he realized having taken the wrong road. He wasn’t at the station, but in front of a castle plunged in a greeny English garden, and from behind a hedge a peacock sprouted out, walking in a stately fashion, dragging behind a very long tail. A peacock!

He looked beyond the hedges and the challenging peacock’s glare and saw Pemo again, asleep in the moonlight. He saw him dormant in the quiet sleep of those faithful only to themselves, while a gentle viper attempted to penetrate his dream by hissing in his ear. But he was protected by the moon, which beams sweetly inculcated the silent gnawing of presentiment, and Freedom, which is one and only, thoughtful like a mother, covering him under its wings.

Mauro was alone in the fog, thinking again of his book, when lightening up a cigarette the weak light illuminated a gigantic billboard which caught his attention.

The Polpetton Hash – Chapter 3

Mauro was alone in the fog, thinking again of his book, when lightening up a cigarette the weak light illuminated a gigantic billboard which caught his attention. Framed in rebel curls, Robert Granzotto’s hale face camped on 64 cubic meters of a 3-D advertising billboard. Mauro’s mind, tired by emotions, indulged in recalling the age when the irresistible rise of the Venetian pasionario began…

In some ways Robert Granzotto left Geneva empty handed. It was April 7, 2002 and three days before he had got there to take part to the XXXVIII conference of the party hoping to leave it as its new general secretary, strong of the polls which in recent months saw him constantly rising. But he couldn’t obtain the absolute majority at the first ballot without support by the Mesopotamian satrap, whose fifty per cent was needed in order to be legitimized by a strong majority. He had instead to reluctantly accept the great compromise imposed by the old tyrant: to satisfy himself with the leadership of Italian radicals only, once upon a time the glorious log from which the transnational party had had origin from, but by now dried up of initiatives and skimpy in membership due to the careless of recent leaders.

“But what will it be of Capezzone?” Granzotto enquired pretending to care at the thought of the destiny of the most bankrupt secretary in radical history, hoping this way to move to compassion the leader so that he would evict the Belgian one instead from the transnational chair he really coveted.

“Don’t worry” – reassured him the satrap – “Daniel won’t notice if we leave him do whatever he has always done as secretary”.

Still today, actually, fifteen years later, the careful radical eye recognizes Capezzone distributing menu leaflets in front of the McPizza in Piazza di Spagna. They pay him casually under the minimal salary, but it’s enough to nourish himself of genetically modified burgers and achieve a bachelor with the University of Spokane (”If I only had listened to Suttora, who always told me to graduate before…”)

It was a way to test him on a small boat before putting him to the rudder of the real party – day-dreamed Granzotto trying to accustom himself to mess-tin -, the one which had as interlocutors heads of state and parliamentarians from of all the world, and such test in the Italian province he had to accept to face as bathe of humility in the mission to give back confidence to the activists so that they would return to the fold where they were waited for like prodigal sons by the thirty-nine presidents and the two radical members left in Italy. A nearly impossible challenge. He landed in Ciampino airport with an action plan already well outlined in his volcanic mind and found in Via di Torre Argentina the extraordinary board he had appointed a few hours before for the astonishment of the congress assizes which had just elected him. All women, in order to clearly begin signaling a cut with the recent past. More than a secretariat, maliciously complained the torpedoed men, a gynaeceum: Olivia Cats, Silvja Calves, Rita Saint-Bernard, Elisabetta Roastpaws, Orietta Squids…

Granzotto was a man of the world, comfortable among women (an euphemism for womaniser), and reaching the meeting room outlined with no hesitation his revolutionary plan, contemplating at the first point the change of the L – Italian radicals now would have become known as a movement “Liberal, Libertarian and Lay” instead of Liberist. The liberists would have got angry, if only there wer any left, but the new treasurer Polezel had already fired them all via text message SMS, by doing so balancing the budget in no time. Naturally the liberists protested, ironically setting up a trade union, but they were no match for the brawny an unyelding Polezel.
To the acute observer of radical things, initially the forced cohabitation between Granzotto and Polezel seemed destined to be stormy because of parochial rivalries: not only they were born in the adjacent municipalities of Santa Lucia di Piave and Mareno di Piave, but they had grown up in the split village of Boccadistrada (the place, meaning Mouth of the road, took its name from a prostitute who alleviated the pains of soldiers in the great war), and wer members of the implacably rival clans of the Bano’s Bar and the Sunlight Pizzeria respectively. But with tome the bond between the roberts gradually cemented until making them the inseparable pair that Mauro Suttora would later anatomize in hus book “Granzotto & Polesel Plc”.

A adjective changed and the finances balanced, a great campaign had to be devised to launch the movement towards luminous goals, and Granzotto did not hesitate a second in show the way: the new radicals would have launchud 25 bill drafts! Wasting no time in asking the members which bills to choose, he sent them instead to quickly start a professional training so that they could carry out an effective action. Overcoming the reluctance to the peculiar innovation, the radical activists peacefully invaded Italian streets ringing door-bells to introduce the 25 job draft proposals, for he was a practical man with a flair for DIY:

Clean the car; Unclog the washbasin; Cook the risotto; Hoover the carpet; Polish the silvervare; Vulcanize of bicycle’s tyres; Hang out the laundry; Repair the cuckoo clock; Iron the shirts; Renew the filter of the washing machine; Mow the lawn; Change the diaper; Straighten the aerial; Program the video recorder; Darn the socks; Queue at the post office; Buy the cigarettes; Walk the dog; Take the kids to school; Fix the remote control; Replace the dildo’s batteries; Shadow the cuckold husband; Set the modem; Tune Radio radicale; Manicure and chiropodist.

It was an enormous success. A joyful army of enthusiastic activists collected thousands of signatures and millions of euros in tips. From Venice to Sicily people can’t help talking about the 25 Job Proposals and the new granzottian radicals had become essential in managing the Country. The polls anticipated electoral successes unheard of before and for Granzotto and Polezel it was easy formalize their leadership in the Italian party conference in July. In one hundred days they had rebuilt the movement and with the experience acquired on the field they were now ready to turn Italy upside down with their liberal revolution.

But that was to be another story. Mauro recovered dazed by those disturbing memories to resume his investigation with experienced gait in direction of Porno Eden, as his old sexologist Rhoda Pellizzi had taught him how to anagram the nearby town of Pordenone.

The Polpetton Hash - Chapter 4

But that was to be another story. Mauro recovered dazed by those disturbing memories to resume his investigation with experienced gait in direction of Porno Eden, as his old sexologist Rhoda Pellizzi had taught him how to anagram the nearby town of Pordenone, where he would satisfy both the pleasures of his palate and his flesh… He could already see himself the following day on the golf course, recovering from a hard night’s work.

He managed to get a great piece of pussy in tow, long hair and thighs just as he liked, and after a refined dinner at Noncello’s, in order to socialize he didn’t find anything better than going to the movies. The trilogy of “Star Wars” was showing and Mauro saw it for the fifteenth time. While buying the tickets at the box office, he found in his pocket that letter slowly deleting itself. He checked it out: nearly half of it already disappeared. He folded it with care and put it in his wallet. Out of the theatre the fog wrapped Pordenone. Keeping her by arm he headed towards Villa Ottoboni, but passing by the film playbill he noticed that words, words again, were playing with him and the scorned word “Wars” slipped away from the playbill, slowly. Astonished and a bit frightened, Mauro followed it and caught it crawling on the ground until hidding behind the corner of a building. How much he hated that word! It made him feel sick… and in the fog a memory materialized.

Freedom, in the features of an old activist, was sweetly approaching him bare-footed on the grass, which was giving birth to small blue flowers at every step. And he was the grass. Every step she took her long hair panted fondling the air. And he was the air. In her glance she had galaxies, stars and worlds with no flags, and in her smile a calm harbour port, dream of every sailor, where to cast the anchor and stay forever. She was beautiful and he loved her. But then, right behind her, with self-confident gait a man in a dazzling full uniform caught her up. In his eyes he had all the markets in the world, and in the mouth the hurricanes and storms of all the seas. With kind manners he took her by the elbow and pushed her towards the building’s corner, where the hated word was laying a snare. Mauro jumped to try and stop them, but couldn’t move. He screamed, but couldn’t overcome the wall of silence, he felt powerless and hopeless.
Freedom was turning the corner of the building, the last thing he saw was her peevish gesture in attempting to free herself by his grip, and then… Mauro’s eyes burst. He quivered, a bitter mucus made of anger and grudge filled his mouth, he spat the poison that slithered on the ground. He hadn’t stopped spitting that filth since that day long time before, when his eyes burst… and his heart as well. That great beautiful piece of pussy thought that he was sick, and left him disgusted on the hotel’s steps.

“Porno Eden, un cazzo” – hissed Mauro – “another blank night! Fuck with anti-militarism”

The Polpetton Hash – chapter 5

“Porno Eden, un cazzo” – hissed Mauro – “another blank night! Fuck with anti-militarism”

In the reception of the Pordenone hotel the fascinating Jeremy Paxman from Gorgonzola found an unexpected parcel compensating his disappointment. As a matter of fact it would have compensated years of meticulous research: a mysterious hand, someone whom the night porter didn’t see and can’t describe, had delivered what, if authentic, would have meant the dowel missing in his jigsaw: Robert Granzotto’s secret journal!

And indeed it looked like the real thing, although a photocopy, he made sure turning the pages in excitement and, unable to believe his eyes. Nobody could estimate that better than him, the unauthorized biographer who explored Granzotto’s life in its more intimate implications. The style was unequivocally Granzotto’s, rejoiced a triumphant Suttora eagerly reading a letter in which the future radical secretary described to another Robert, perhaps himself or Polezel, his love feats during a long trip in the campaign for Israel and Turkey in the European union.

Ankara, August 2002

My beloved Robert, she’s an Armenian hotel maid, loves the Jews feeling like them in the comon aversion to Muslims, and with some reason, since her people were exterminated in a terible genocide. Somehow like the kurds who, Muslim as well, feel themselves closer to Israel rather than their coreligionists, for the enemy of their enemies is their friend. The Turks, although gentle and extraordinarily hospitable, in some historical ocasions have showed themselves way too much “expansive”! This ecstatic kindnes to the limit of naivety clashes with the indecency that their generals (pasha) practiced both sides of the Bosphorus. And Jew she looks even in the somatic feature which makes her recognizable at first sight, the aquiline nose. Curiously enough, what in the rest of the world we cal a Greek profile or a Jewish nose, the Armenians cal it a typical Armenian nose. One hundred years haven’t been enough time to forget the genetical distrust deeply setled in five centuries of Otoman yoke, neither in the Balkans nor for today’s Armenians deprived of milions of grandfathers and great-grandfathers.

She has got black eyes, the blackest one can imagine. Same for her hair, black than blacker, just like it apeals to me. Shame she hasn’t got tits, which I love a lot. Indeed a beautiful pair of tits makes me crazy. I worship touching, weighing, kising, licking, sucking them, and especialy smack them with my penis. I can tolerate crooked legs – something that high heels and sexy stockings can compensate for by making her bitchy -, but to the lack of tits there is no remedy. Therefore I didn’t love her hundred percent, although apreciating her honesty, loyalty, corectnes, which I haven’t met in other women. She is extraordinaraly equiped with an admirable ethics. She kept herself faithful to me when I dumped her, and stil today I think of her as one of my best friends. That is: she was a great friend and probably I made a mistake when I wanted to penetrate her to make her a lover. We were in Istanbul on the beach and I kised her in the moonlight, overcoming my disgust for her pantyhose (I hate pantyhoses, I would personaly slap the inventor). Thanks to the sea and the moon, despite the pantyhose, we had the shag of the century, for she was hot. Then I understood that perhaps she wanted to make up for the chastity she had been forced to by a dispotic father. She already was forty, but that only was her second time in her life, the previous one dating a year before.

Also because of that I wanted to penetrate her: with hypocritical altruism I took the asignment to contribute to her emancipation from the hateful paternal tyrant. When the time came to split, I told her frankly that if she wished to have kids she should have shaged much more, in order to elasticize her pusy, otherwise the delivery would have been more painful. Then, after one of those nights we made dawn, and love, on the seashore waiting for the newspapers, I got on to the car and came back here in the capital, pervaded with brotherly biternes: I would have kept a life-lasting friendship, but I also knew that I had lost the sweetest and cleanest pusy I had ever tasted. Due to her semi-virginity she had the most pleasant I had ever met: her vulva’s inexplored lips met those of my mouth, since a few months before I had learned to lick a pusy. Indeed, it has to be said that when I was a teenager I was disgusted by the prospect, but I was by then grateful to the mature semi-virgin of the Dardaneles for making it pleasant, that operation on the groin which previously I reputed just a soiling lip service in order to win the lover. The firm inocence of her vaginal rose-colored flesh conquered me, and for the first time I was gladly induced, with real pleasure, to wet and snif deeply a woman’s sexual organ. I hapen to recal that she also gave me a blowjob once, but nothing compared to the pleasure of licking her pusy.

Mauro Suttora was sweating and had to interrupt the reading of Granzotto’s journal. He rummaged in his pockets for the other letter, the one now fading. He put on his spectacles in order to observe it closely and found out to his astonishment that all the double consonants had disappeared…

The Polpetton Hash - chapter 6

Mauro Suttora was sweating and had to interrupt the reading of Granzotto’s journal. He rummaged in his pockets for the other letter, the one now fading. He put on his spectacles in order to observe it closely and found out to his astonishment that all the double consonants had disappeared… He had to find out the meaning of what was on: the hidden, diabolic meaning of the “double”. For this he had bought in the village bookshop a book that, perhaps, could help him.

That night, while reading that book, he had the unwelcomed idea to ask room service for a scented tisane, and the maid who carried it looked at him in such an eloquent way that Sauro didn’t think twice, loaded as he was by the reading of the great lover Granzotto’s journal. He took her with force and anger, with the subtle and perverse pleasure to shag one more, and she didn’t mind. The morning after, when an oblique sun beam entered in the room, Mauro woke up and saw what he would have never intended to see.

She was calmly dressing up with a satisfied smile on her wrinkled face. “Cazzo! She could be my mother” – thought Sauro watching her incredulously, and his glare paused on her flabby, cellulitis-blooming most abundant bottom - “She cannot be the same as yesterday night” he told himself while indulging his gaze on her legs and those flaccid and inner thighs which he had kissed, as far as he can recall… “It’s impossible!” he soundlessly screamed aghast while watching her slipping her empty and wrlinkled breast into a push up bra, and in order to cover his eyes from that incredible show he searched the bedside table for the book, but his hand met with something wet, solid and cold, which turned out to be a denture. “My God, have I become gerontophile?!” he mentally screamed, hiding his head under the bedsheets.

That had finished dressing up and in order to goodbye him she uncovered his face and looked at him, grateful and happy, in his eyes. It was then when Mauro found himself balancing on the edge of her eyelash, looking within the apple of her eye, down in the bottom, and he saw. He saw what every woman has, from Eve to Mary, from Emma to any radical activist, that most powerful and hidden arsenal full of freedom, buried under an education mountain, drowned in a sea of conventions, hidden under the bloody invisibile burka that society imposes on us: the new idols… a solid wealth, sex and beauty.

It would have wanted to say that to Granzotto, the tombeur de femmes, the playboy, womaniser, to be careful, because women possessed, for gift of God or natural transmission, the power to jump with a leap, with grace and agility, any river, and the ability to invade the happy island, if only thay had wanted to. Therefore it was better to keep on tricking them, with the complicity of the media, jewels and money, or kicks and punches, and to convince them all, that the invisibile millenarian burka they wore did not exist, a feminists’ fantasy, and that their part in the life was to appeal to men, all tits and buttocks, or all house and church, so that they couldn’t find out what Mauro had seen in the bottom of their eyes: that hidden, remote and clandestine gift that was transmitted from mother to daughter in their DNA.

But perhaps many women, touched by a foreboding, had begun to buy a ticket of the radical party’s bus, as if an unexpected far-sighted wisdom had suggested them to do. A small investment for the future. They bought plenty of them, entrepreneurs and store clerks, bigots and showgirls, lesbians and housewives, the jobless, the Communists and the Fascists, all bought those membership cards as they were tickets for a ferry, for their mothers, their daughters and their friends, and hid them under their millenarian bloody invisibile burka, for the patrimony of the happy island not to be lost.

When she closed the door behind her, Mauro had a gesture of irritatio and threw her back the book on the bedside table, E. A. Poe’s tales, and the words, always the words persecuting him, bounced on the wall as silent butterflies around the room, and the last by W. Wilson, recompacted before his eyes, and Mauro could read it clearly: “I’m ready”.

Mauro was exhausted. He laid back on the bed and covered his face with the pillow: “Enough, enough” he said in a prophecy delirium. As a matter of he didn’t know yet that two years and four months of analysis worth 16,000 euros would be needed in order to experience again the pride and satisfaction of a novel erection. Mauro watched overwhelmed the ring-a-ring-o’-roses dancing of the words and desperatly searched the meaning of the “double” when his computer informed him that he had got mail. “You will go to Geneva?” said the message…

The Polpetton Hash – Chapter 7

The sender of the message was his roman fellow journalist Dentano Gaetamaro, whom he had always esteemed only to be returned with querulous envy for his success and a resentful complaint when, breaking a tacit agreement in the radical environment, he had publicly revealed his relationship with Rhoda Pellizzi, who was his real mother-in-law. Yes, he would have gone to Geneva, naturally. Above all in order to personally meet the great writers emerging prolific from the radical cultivation broth, but also in order to promote his own book: the conference would have represented the ideal opportunity to advertise its launch among the thousands of incoming participants from every continent. But in order to finish in time his masterpiece he shoud have worked hard. He therefore set out, albeit disgusted, to resume the reading of Roberto Granzotto’s secret journal and the sensational revelations that they contained on his relationship with the six “old whores” which he had listed even assigning them a mark:

Elyf Meleksyan, Armenian of Turkey, Ankara 2002, mark: 5Maria Szumska, Slovakian of Poland, Warsaw 2003, mark: 6Alice Romanciugy, Hungarian of Romania, Bucharest 2004, mark: 5Katerina Marnera, Cypriota of Greece, Athens 2005, mark: 5Praskovia Pavlova, Serbian of Macedonia, Skopje 2006, mark: 8Milana Avramonova, Hebrew of Bulgaria, Sofia 2007, mark: 9—

Warsaw, December 2003

My beloved Roberto, in the sumer of 2004 I met in Warsaw a Pole translator, Maria Szumska, whose mother was Slovakian and she’s herself a great Slovakian. She’s also older than me and nearly bald, has flapy ears and an equine set of teeth, taurine neck, farmer’s shoulders, hands like spades, legs of a fotbal player, and she’s flat-foted. Besides being quite ugly, Maria is rather unpleasant as well. I have never known a person more boring than her when she speaks about what she has done in her club or tels about the barbecue with her most stupit neighbors. Actualy I think that the only thing more boring than herself are those idiot neighbors with their fucking barbecue. I can’t explain to myself how I fel in love with Maria more than anybody else before.
After flirting during most of August, finaly on the 24 night she conceded herself to first beautiful kis, in her car parked in Armij Ludowej. In the folowing wek there were two moments of deper peting in the ofice. Then she had to leave for holidays with her cuckold husband and on the 29 she goodbyed me with another beautiful kis in the elevator. A month elapsed before I returned in Warsaw on Seprember 29.

She came to pick me up in that pinky airport and imediately bacame clear by the erotic tension that something was going to hapen. We made love for the first time on the foutenth flor of the Mariot hotel. We made it many timas that day and the folowing ones with the mawkish music background of the Eurythmics, Ten Sharp and Roxete… but the last two days of my stay in Warsaw she didn’t want to (why?). While I was away we had sex over the phone, thre nights in a row, thre times per night until 4 in the morning. I tel her incredibly obscene things on my dick, her botom, her pusy, I call her bitch, which she likes, and on the third night I put it in her mouth. We we experience new positions, I take and shag her violently. I use my dick to cares her face and tits, shaking when slaped. We depen our friendship speaking in tendernes, she whispers “I want you” and “I need you”. Every time we make love is stronger and beter.

Three weks elapsed before we met again in Warsaw on October 24. She tels me to have felt a buurst of heat in her bely and we make love in the only bed of the new apartament. It’s the first anal intercourse in which I put it inside her using buter, it’s the first oral raport in which I link her everywhere. I slip in a banana as well. Oh, what embraces and sodomies, my beloved Roberto, in catholic Poland!

Another month elapsed before I saw her again in Warsaw, where by now winter came, with the Arctic wind from the Baltic sea gaining speed on the Polish plain to freeze the city twenty degres below zero. Maria too is quite colder, while we tighten ourselves on the Marszalkovska looking for a god steak. The previous time I made the mistake to come inside her and thus she had been distresed for two weks without menstruation. Therefore it’s a hard work to reconquer her and we have sex only twice, conventionaly and behind. After four days I leave again and 21 wil elapse before I se her again. but it’s clear already that this history must end: the cuckold husband is suspicious and clandestinity has become indefensible to her. With an exchange of tender leters comes the sad, hurtful farewel.

The Polpetton Hash - chapter 8

Bucharest, September 2004

My beloved Roberto, for long months I didn’t lok other women, but with time I recovered and the folowing year was sexualy rather intense: il brought me Alice Romanciugy, Hungarian of Romania from Baia Mare, in the northeast of the country, 37-y-o, separated with two daughters, activist of the Gren Party, gosiping and boring, continuosly talking, naturaly in Hungarian only, The anoyment recomenced of linguistic incomunicabilty, but this time it was just me unable to ever speak. This story went ahead for two or thre months among valuable fornications, in spite of Alice being titles. Then she brought me to the Gren Party conference and there I met a Bulgarian delegate, Milana, to whom I didn’t pay much atention that time but she was to re-enter my life four later. In the meantime there was a little episode Rumania Romanciugy, the eldest daughter of Alice, with whom I didn’t go in-depth as she was of minor age was, but it deserves to be mentioned because with her the linguistic problem reached inconceivable heights: practicaly, while the others could stuter some languages but they didn’t want to, in her case Rumania she pretended to speak English but she didn’t know it…

Rumania – Now go.
Roberto – Why must I go?
Rumania – Go.
Roberto – Maybe you mean that YOU are going to go.
Rumania – Maybe.
Roberto – Maybe what?
Rumania – Maybe.
Roberto – Umpf.
Rumania – This today, is concert beautiful in Sala Festival.
Roberto – Maybe you mean that tonight a nice concert wil take place.
Rumania – Not. Yes.
Roberto – Then?
Rumania – Stay together.
Roberto – I beg your pardon?
Rumania – I and you, for concert.
Roberto – Sory, it is imposible, I have a lot of work.
Rumania – Why?
Roberto – Because tomorow there is plenary sesion in Parliament.
Rumania – Why?
Roberto – They use to, on Wednesdays and Thursdays.
Rumania – Why?
Roberto – I don’ t know, probably because of democracy, ask them.
Rumania – Now go.
Roberto – Why must I go?
Rumania – Go.
Roberto – Maybe you mean that YOU go.
Rumania – Maybe.
Roberto – Maybe what?
Rumania – Not. Yes.
Roberto – GIVE ME A BREAK!

—

Athens, November 2005

Roberto beloved, at the begining of year there was a pitiful story that I left to decay to avoid troubles, with an ugly and very plaintive journalist, but at least italian-speaking. Then there was here in Athens another of those conventions where they invite me to bring oficial gretings. First spoke the French ambasador, who only in the midle of his noble adres realized that nobody was translating him. Then they asked me in which language I would have spoken, and I told them I could make it in English, but they wanted to fob me of an interpreter of Italian who turned out to speak Italian as you speak Swedish. I brushed up my ancient Greek with a huge aplause from the audience, and only the poor French ambasador did not understand. However this Katerina Marnera, a Greek-cypriot teenager, is prety enough (finaly one with big tits) and very likeable: every time she opens her mouth it’s a joke. Last Saturday night I reset my watches for the return to standard time, then she came and tels me:“You misstake beccause change one week aggò”.So I ask her eight times: “But are you SURE?”Answer: “Yess, yess, much surest, we all our familly changed clocks one week” (she curiously pronounces double letters like a Sardinian).Wel, I believe her and reset my watches again. Then during the night a doubt asails me: but lousy dog, how is it posible that I have ben on time to al the metings last wek, if my watches weren’t updated?So she comes and tels me inocently “I misstake”. At the end of the day, literaly, I presed the watches’ buttons for the third time. I swear to you I would have kiled her.

This story to came to an end. It hapened yesterday night when she caught me in bed with my secretary. Katerina must have seen me bringing her to the Holiday In nearby Iridanu downtown. Young person, likeable, beautiful body, acquaintad with Italian language, but no feling: we do not apeal to each other and only shag once a year on November 2 to mark a sort of aniversary. Eros and thanatos…

—

Skopje, October 2006

Roberto beloved, as you very wel know, like you I adore high hels. Nothing astonishing, since it is a rather comon perversion explained by eminent schools of psycho-sexual thought as a phalic symbol, that is they recall to mind the penis. Totem and taboo… They are loved bot by women, who fel taler, and males who are sexualy atracted by women wearing high hels because that would mean they are more bitchy. Alas!, experience demonstrates the oposite: acording to personal case stories I have ben able to state that women dressing bitchy are generaly more frigid than their warm counter-party aparently anonymous. But if this is the rule, a pleasant exception hapened to me recently, and for intelectual honesty I must be clear and call her a great Bitch, a tireles sexual machine that left me literaly sucked of every energy. As a mater of fact you must know that in Skopje, a hot night in late sumer 2006, the bel rang in the party ofice and whe I opened the dor an exceptional blonde girl less than 20-y-o spoke with sensual voice up her stileto hels: "Good evening, is it here where people enroll to the Radical Party?"

“A! E! I! O! U!”: vowels ran out, I couldn’t say anything more and let her in to admire her from behind as wel. This Praskovia Pavlova, a Serbian disident of Macedonia, is a multilingual stuning beaty (she speaks Italian as wel) with blue eyes and great tits. As you very wel you know I usualy prefer brunetes, but before so much God-send I couldn’t be fusy and and I sank soiling inebriated in her white flesh. Unfortunately we only enjoyed twice those intense intercourses, because she had a wealthy French fiancee. The cuckold invited her to study in Strasbourg and marry him. End. A comet rethinking of which is hard work to believe that hapened in my life.

—

Life…, yearned Suttora raising the glare from the journal and drealily getting lost in the dark night beyond the window. A comed seemed to transit, her felt a shiver of loneliness in the. With Milana Avramonova, last of the Granzottian femmes fatales granzottiane who got the maximum mark in the chauvinist chart of the compulsory erotomaniac, the reading of the journal would have ended and with it his enquiry on the same Granzotto. Before immersing himself in the reading again, and thus concluding that extraordinary adventure of investigative journalism, he had to arrange an old matter that had been left suspended with Rhoda Pellizzi and Dentano Gaetamaro.

The Polpetton Hash – chapter 9

A feeling of restlessness pervaded him, it wasn’t easy to sort out that problem between Rhoda, who seemed to possess paranormal powers, and Dentano, in permanent and hopeless delirium of omnipotence; a human tragedy that could have been the script for a television drama. Mauro was well known for his investigative abilities, nothing escaped him, neither a tear nor a sigh, and he knew how to use words to shake people’s minds, to affect them till they would cry, to freeze the minds or to heat up the hearts. Words were authentic magic for him. Sleep surprised him dipped in those thoughts, and the next day he would have travelled back to Milan for his job. During the newsroom meeting, Mauro tried several times to put on the agenda his article on the two radical fasters. Information rules the market! People should be given what they want! As a matter of facts, Mauro left the same day for the riviera, for the opening of a new bingo hall.

The sun beam that obliquely entered his hotel room to woke him up that morning, cheering him up, had happily surprised him. The letter in his pocket inexorably continued to cancel itself, but by now he didn’t care much. He turned it in his hands and put it serenely in the book he was reading. He exited the hotel satisfied, enjoying the redundant beauty the coast’s flowers and, while waiting for the bingo hall opening he went to a radical meeting, where he would eventually have met that activist alienated and imaginative that every now and then appeared on the party’s forum. It was said, among her companions, that she didn’t understand anything of politics, but there was something he couldn’t explain, a curiosity hidden in the words that she wrote intrigued him, sometimes making him nervous.

And it was there, in the middle of the public square in front of the big bookshop, that he saw her for the first time, together with known and unknown people waiting to climb to the conference room. The usual words of convenience floated in the air like corks on the water, smearing the atmosphere, but the words not said, those left behind the glares and the smiles, those floated in the air like icebergs on the water, freezing the atmosphere and making his voice hoarse and shaking. In the meantime he could’t help looking at that activist curious and annoying: she was a mass, a mess of irregular features which formed an harmonic whole and a pleasant one to watch, while the spiteful wind ruffled her green hair.

“Green hair!” Mauro thought abashed in re-entering himself and focussing on those around him, astonished again to notice that most of them had green hair. “What the fuck is going on, I haven’t been smoking anything for four days! ” he thought. And he said to a boy nearby: “What is this? To dye hair green!” And the boy: “So you can see them? It seems that only 2% have them green, visible only to those who themselves… then you too should… ” Mauro leaped behind and reflected his image on the display window of the bookshop: he had got green hair! Green like the phosphorescent laser sword in Star Wars! He recalled it very well, that sword had a name: “The Force”. “But… I’m very handsome! ” Mauro thought, and then he understood, “… but I won’t tell it anybody!”

It was in that moment that everything returned to flat normality, the colours, the sounds, the people’s gestures, and his image had disappeared from the display window, the books could be seen showed and, like a fan on three shelves on the left, like an arrogant peacock’s tail, his book. Mauro felt a lump in his throat, that animated filth that tormented him since a long time, and didn’t know what to do, it didn’t seem convenient to spit in the middle of people, he looked in his pocket for a handkerchief, but he didn’t find any, while watching that creative and stinging activist who was leaving for the meeting with her companions… “It’s nothing!” Mauro thought swallowing the filth.

The bingo hall was crowded, with many lining outside to enter. Mauro watched outside the window the sunset on the sea… on the sea! Mauro watched upset that enormous red ball diving in the horizon… in the sea… to the South! He felt a cold shiver through his body and rethought to Granzotto’s love letters… the content had taken him that he hadn’t noticed the dates… but there was something wrong… all the double letters were deleted… and then that letter that was being cancelled itself… he couldn’t understand what was going on… The sun was disappeared and the sky was being punctuated of luminous stars and, unlikely in the dark night, mockinlgy shone the Southern Cross! He was confused, more and more confused and also scared. He went back to the hotel wishing to check again those letters. In the middle of all those words making fun of him he would have found the solution.

The Polpetton Hash, chapter 10

He was confused, more and more confused and also scared. He went back to the hotel wishing to check again those letters. In the middle of all those words making fun of him he would have found the solution. On the small table next to the armchair the Granzotto journal was open on the last chapter and the last of his “whores”.

Sofia, August 2007

Roberto beloved, how can I sum up my previous writings, which I never sent you? In a single word: Lonelines. The lonelines I already felt dep since many years and brought me to chose with no regret an even greater lonelines that I currently live in the Balkans. As son as I got to Sofia from Athens I began to spend al my nights in loneliness, except for the occasional super with a couple of dear comrades who then were leaving me for the TV news in Bulgarian an al those “normal” things of daily life which I’ll never be able to integrate myself in unles I’l spend several more years down here, leaving back a personal history almost useles to my psychological nourishment, except for a biter melancholy of a hapy past that won’t come back. This melancholy brings me down in an abys of depresion that I never knew before: sometimes in Sofia I wide awoke obsesively thinking of death. But now I wouldn’t want to depres yourself and to cher us up let me tel you the last one.

Last April, the morning folowing your departure, I went to the police where I must go every time I re-enter the country in order to get a stamp on the Statistika Karta (usualy hotels do this for you, but I don’t live in a hotel so I have to do it myself at the police). After the customary two hours of infernal queue in that hel of the home ministry in boulevard Maria Luisa, I give them al the documents: pasport, Statistika Karta, Molia (that is "prayer") in double copy, and rent contract. The employee at the til, who speaks Italian, asks me also the receipt of payment of the visa.

Roberto: "Lok, I left it somewhere at home, buried under tons of papers…”
POLIZIA: "You must bring it to me. I’m here until 5 pm”
Roberto: "But, lok, surely I won’t find it, who knows where the hel it ended up"
POLIZIA: "Then you must pay the visa: it makes 40 eurodollars"
Roberto: "Why should I pay the visa, if I already paid for it?"
POLIZIA: "I do not believe you paid. You haven’t paid it"
Roberto: "I did pay when I re-entered from Ghiueshevo at 9 pm on April 10 on a rented Ford Orion registered Sofia 3109-LS. Please check with your coleagues"
POLIZIA: "Then why haven’t you got the receipt?"
Roberto: "Lok, it is a complicated history, but it is not ruled out the posibility that you’l understand. Now, I re-entered with a coleague of mine who paid my visa as wel, that’s why he kept the receipt in order to get his money back from the treasury of our exquisite company"
POLIZIA: "But you just told me that you have lost it, now you tell me another story. I do not believe you paid the visa. You must pay 40 eurodollars"
Roberto: "I don’t see why I must pay the visa, since I already paid for it"
POLIZIA: "So, what shall we do?"
Roberto: "Put me in jail"
POLIZIA: "WHAT?!?"
Roberto: "Put me in prison. If I havn’t paid the visa, then put me in prison. Indeed, considering that acording to you I also lied, put me in prison for lthat as wel"
POLIZIA: "Nooo… so, what shall we do?"
Roberto: "Put me in prison, eh!”
POLIZIA: "Look, I don’t like these arguments. We’ll do as you said and check with the border agents at Ghiueshevo. But for tonight register yourself in a hote otherwise we really put you in prison”
Roberto: “Thank you for overcoming this litle bureaucratic problem. Bye"
POLIZIA: "Umpf. Bye"

Thus I found a smal B&B here in the town centre, and did one of the most ridicule things ever hapened to me: I packed up a suitcase to move one hundred meters. However, the place is nice: they have water (in Sofia is rationed), the biliard pol and satelite TV, so that tonight I can watch Ajax-Milan!

Before that, though, in the afternon I go to the Gren party conference as the only foreign guest to deliver my usual spech: I explain that the Radical party is trans, that it has done this and that for the environment, that thay are basicaly nobody and understand nothing while instead Panela with the one-past-the-post electoral system and Bandineli with his Balkania, and so on, in short al those things I always say in order not to be invited again next time…

Wel, who do I se there again? That Milana Avramonova whom I met four years earlier at the conference of Romanian grens. While chatting it emerges that che’s the gratest fan of AC Milan on earth: keyholder, scarf, calendar, a picture of Maldini in the walet, even her identity: her real name is Svetlana. Obviously I invite her to watch the match together and we spend a great evening roling big splifs of gras and having sex. Who would have thought that I could end up in love with a gren activist, given those witches we have in Italy…

She’s from, the city of the great Caneti, and like him she’s Jew. She’s 26 ani, very pretty with those grey-green eyes close to each other, big tits and a huge as, much to the delight of us real men who don’t realy like anorexic models), very horny in bed and above al she speaks decent English. Great! But since the begining our relationship is turbulent, also because always talk badly about the grens, then I drink to much and I’m always working locked in the ofice and never get out with her except for diner.

In the sumer she mets a wealthy Frenchman who invites her to study in Strasbourg and mary him No, I am not getting confused with Praskovia, it’s another wealthy Frenchman from Strasbourg. And another cuckold as wel. Wel, me to. So it ended with her leaving and I was left alone again, in this lonelines slowly kiling me. In truth, I had enjoyied great adventure in these years, I realize that by reading my own journal, but nothing permanent on which to build some minimal projects for the future. And that sexual satisfaction only comfort my vanity, for the real problem is to be able to count on a friendship, a durable affection, an emotional landmark… But, perhaps because I’m to demanding in my taste, I can’t recal how to court a god girl, who knows if and when one wil come…


That was the end of Granzotto’s secret journal, and a little tear appeared on Mauro’s rough skin, the first of many rethinking to those six women in six years in six countries… Were there a satanic meaning? The idea did not upset him much, he thought pervaded by the emotional plague while he dragged his feet on the seashore, heavied by other readings. He had brought with him the book containing that letter slowly deleting itself. Seated on the beach he watched the sunset and couldn’t explain to himself why so much beauty made him sick.

The Polpetton Hash - epilogue

He had brought with him the book containing that letter slowly deleting itself. Seated on the beach he watched the sunset and couldn’t explain to himself why so much beauty made him sick. It was an incredible show, the light played creating colourful shadings of a moving beauty and Mauro wished to cry thing of nothing, while watching the sun slowly coming down on the horizon, its beams staining the clouds with blood. He listened to the sensual wave-breaking on the shore, the sea sweetly and insistently fondling the land with love and voluptuousness. Mauro let his thoughts go far away towards the sun that heartbreakingly escaped from the chains of time, and he saw it meeting the crests of the waves in a sea of words moving forward the shore.

There were the sweetest words: those whispered to the ears of lovers, and those which said nothing: those in the stores and the bars, words that can win you believe to have a soul, and others plunging you into desperation. There were all the words of science, and maths, words made to make you laugh and others to make you cry, words made to subdue people, others to make them raise, unrepeatable rude words, words of songs and ballads. All the words were there, the words of children and those of the mad, and the worst ones: arrogant, sick, trivial, words of ignorance and falsity. Written and advertised words advanced towards the shore like a conquering army, sparing nothing and nobody.

A small group of people had assembled on the beach and watched that purple swollen body that divers had found.
“There’s a book here” said one of the officers.
“See if he has left something written” replied someone who was probably his chief.
“Not, there’s a folded sheet between the pages, but it’s completely blank”
“Perhaps he used it to bookmark this page”, and he read the poetry:

A word (for I want to conquer it),
the decisive word, superior to any other,
unseizable, sent - which is it? - I am listening;
you whisper them, since always, waves of the sea?
It is that one raising from your liquid crests and humid sands?
And answering, the sea
Without indulgence, with no hurry,
it whispered to me in the night, and clearly before dawn,
it rustled to me the humble, delicious word: death,
and then again death, death, death.
It twittered melodiously, unlike the bird
Nor like my child heart by now awake,
but approaching, as to say it in private,
rustling at my feet,
and then calmly crawling up to my ear
washing me sweetly,
death, death, death, death, death.

The young officer was shaken by those words. He didn’t know yet, he would have forgotten that turgid and tumefied that nearly made him vomit, but every time looking at the sea, perhaps with a woman in love with him, or playing football with friends on the shore, he would have never forgotten that word brought by the wind on wave-crests, the word singing more sweetly than any chant, that strong and delicious word whispered by the sea to the ear of that baby poet.
Death… death… death…

Born again

“Open your eyes Mauro … wake up Mauro … open your eyes”
“What a nightmare” he said sitting on the bed.
“You have been restless all night long, you have probably not digested yesterday’s pesto gnocchi!” replied C. entering the room, and the first thing he saw were her waving hair fondling the air.
“I can’t recall anything, but it had to be a terrible nightmare, I’m soaked in sweat!”
She smiled and he thought to that smile as the quiet harbour he had been seeking for so long, where he would anchor to stay there forever, nonetheless his memory kept blank. Even when finally sitting on the toilet and the phone rang surprising him in the position of Rodin’s thinker, he couldn’t recall anything. Not even when the loyal cleaner L. came in with her wrinkled face, huge ass and dried brest, anything came up to his mind, not even when he opened the package from the pastry shop to taste the Sicilian cannoli with cottage cheese and candied fruit.
Only when seated before his computer, reading a mail from a comrade “Willyou go to Geneva?” he saw a well folded sheet, completely blank, and wondered why but couldn’t find a reason, as his memory was blank too. C. came in with a bird in a cage, maybe fallen from a nest in its first flight experience, they had collected a couple of days before to avoid it eaten by some cat, and they had fed along the weekend.
“It is sick” she said pointing at the bird rolled in a cage’s corner.
Mauro approached to sow him better, up to find himself close to an aye of that robin, and he saw… he saw the small but powerful arsenal full of freedom and everything came up to his mind and withdrew dismayed. He carried the cage to the terrace to free the bird. It quickly and safely flew on the mimosa’s highest branch.
He wanted to tell everybody that the anaemic and anorexic freedom, withered and frustrated, humiliated and mocked deep in the eyes of every living being perfectly reflected the luminous face of God, and he escaped terrified from his sight.
From the terrace he watched the sea and the sun and felt himself invaded by impotence and desperation, he wanted to scream “WORLD! WATCH WHAT YOU ARE DOING!” but he already knew that the world would have not replied, too much distracted by the impalpable lightness of superficiality. The old tyrant of the happy island was right, for too long time many with Mauro had given up and stopped to scream, weakening a great party until extinguishing it. Like an immune system badly working leaves room to the invasion of the individual by another ego, they had been the cancer of freedom.
Mauro cried. Yes, he would have gone to Geneva, and wanted to find the courage to tell everybody what he had found out.
He would have wanted to invite all to put a hand in the heart and forcibly, without fear, extirpate from that arsenal that everybody had the root of freedom in blood and show it to the world.

THE END