MAI PUBBLICATI - NEVER PUBLISHED

Spett.le Il Globo/La Fiamma

Signor Capo redattore con gentile richiesta di pubblicazione sulla rubrica “Lettere al Direttore” dell’edizione del Mercoledi

Caro Randazzo,

Sono uno di quei marxisti rottamati che nelle ultime ore stanno emergendo con la semplicistica teoria che gli americani gli attentati terroristici se li vanno a cercare con il lanternino.

Mi permetto di farle notare che, per restare in ambito italiano, uno di quei rottami è, ad esempio, Dario Fo, tanto per fare un nome.

Volendo poi scendere nello specifico, onestamente non credo che questa testata giornalistica mi concederebbe lo spazio necessario ad elencare tutte quelle volte in cui, nel corso degli ultimi 56 anni cioè dalla fine del secondo conflitto mondiale, il governo degli Stati Uniti si è trovato coinvolto in situazioni (si noti bene, mai in territorio statunitense) che sono poi sfociate in guerre, civili e non, attentati, rappresaglie, pulizie etniche e chi più ne ha, più ne metta.

No, caro Randazzo, qui non stiamo facendo l’elogio al terrorista. Stiamo solo cercando di dire che quando si amministra il potere facendo prevalentemente uso della forza, militare o finanziaria o entrambe, questi sono i risultati che si ottengono. Stiamo dicendo che, pur nella nostra impotenza di accademici ciarlatani, siamo coscienti che il coraggio e la forza di una nazione vincente, non si dimostrano bombardando all’uranio i bambini serbi o quelli iracheni. O tranciando i cavi della funivia, o abbattendo per sbaglio aerei civili, e la smetto o l’elenco sarebbe ancora molto lungo.   

Non servono scudi stellari e multinazionali dell’oppressione e dello sfruttamento, per pacificare il mondo. Servono decisioni politiche che tengano conto del parere di tutte le parti in causa, non solo di quella dell’alleato di turno; servono decisioni economiche non dettate da meri interessi di quella o quell’altra lobby, ma dalle effettive esigenze che si vengono a creare nelle diverse zone d’intervento.

Lo sappiamo noi, caro Randazzo, e lo sa anche lei che nè dei marxisti rottamati, nè dei ciarlatani accademici fa parte, perchè lei è un opinionista, cioè un uomo dei media.

Ed a questo proposito, cioè dei media e del loro repentino cambiamento di opinione, come lei lo chiama, esso ha, a mio modesto avviso, due spiegazioni. La prima è che l’orrore da tutti provato inizialmente per la drammaticità di quelle scene e la condanna per il gesto terroristico seguitane, non hanno cancellato e non potevano cancellare le argomentazioni a cui si accennava precedentemente. La seconda spiegazione consiste nel fatto che la stragrande maggioranza degli opinionisti nel mondo, qualunque sia l’appartenenza culturale e politica della testata per cui scrivono, non hanno il privilegio che lei invece ha: quello di non avere concorrenti sulla piazza.

Cordiali saluti.

Danilo Sidari (Un marxista rottamato)

* lettera indirizzata al Dr. Nino Randazzo, capo redattore del quotidiano in lingua italiana Il Globo (Melbourne) a seguito di un suo editoriale pubblicato qualche giorno dopo l'attentato terroristico alle Torri Gemelle di New York dell'11 settembre 2001 (n.d.r.) 

MAI PUBBLICATI - NEVER PUBLISHED

                                   OPUS MUSIVUM 

In an experiment testing the more macabre dimension of tourism, last year a German travel organization began offering a package including excursions to sites made famous solely by the Sicilian Mafia’s killing someone there.

While for some it has proved to be a popular extension, there are those who would prefer less of the macabre whilst travelling! Happily, Sicily also happens to offer a rich blend of historical, cultural, traditional and gastronomical delights! With  Piazza Armerina, a little town located in the middle, the focal point of your stay Sicily suddenly becomes a tourist destination not to be missed by even the most sedate traveller!

Piazza Armerina  is an ancient settlement strategically located on top of a hill which dominates the surrounding landscape and from which you can absorbe a breathtaking  panorama surrounded by luscious vegetation. Characterized by a wealth of archeological evidence, Piazza Armerina is believed to have been originally founded by a Beotian tribe called Plateei around 5th century B.C., during which its ancient name was Plutia.

As you find a quiet spot to contemplate the countryside you cannot help but be overwhelmed by a sense of the countless battles and conquests this hill as witnessed, from long forgotten tussles between warring tribesmen to the transitions between Roman settlements and Muslim domination.

After a final liberation by Count Roger The Norman in 1060, after which many of his soldiers settled around the area permanently, in an attempt to bring political stability to the region, the whole of Plutia was destroyed only one century later by King William II Malo as  revenge for its rebellion against the Norman's rules.

 

In 1163 the town was rebuilt and called Piazza Armerina. Since, it has still played an important strategic role within the political and military scenarios of Svevian, French and Spanish rule in Sicily. As a result of being a constant centre of power struggles in the region, Piazza Armerina is now characterized by a totally unique blend of different styles and historical traditions.

The architectural stucture is predominantly medieval but through the centuries the town has been enriched with magnificent Renaissance and Baroque buildings. A stroll down the passiata (promenade) around the stone-paved narrow streets offers impressive views of several grand monuments to these changing times. The church of St. John of Rodi sits far more comfortably near the Norman Castle today than a thousand years ago, while the shift out of the Medieval age is well presented in churches like St. Peter, St. John and the Jesuit College. A lot of the privately owned houses display more of the typical Baroque style.

Sounds, colours and smells are typically Mediterranean and the local people’s hospitality makes you feel "interactive" with the culture, particularly during festive occasions such as the Palio dei Normanni, held on the 13th and 14th of August. This festival commemorates the liberation from Muslim rule by the Normans.

Both days the local people are perfectly dressed in medieval costumes. The first day they reenact the arrival of Count Roger and his troops in town and the keys of the city are symbolically offered to him. The next day in an open area (usually the soccer field) the Palio or Quintana takes place: the cavalry teams representing the four ancient neighbourhoods of Plutia, challenge each other in three different games. The winners receive from Count Roger a copy of the precious Bizantine flag representing Our Lady of Victory. It is a feast of colours, traditions, dances and a warm welcome for every visitor.

While visiting the historical monuments, those who love shopping can choose from a wide range of shops offering fashions and high quality Sicilian goods as well as souvenirs and local products.

Such an exciting walk, enriched by particular herb fragrances such as garlic, rosemary and basil floating in the air, usually works as a powerful apetizer.

What about a menu of four different choices of local dishes ranging from $18 to $30? Fusilli alla castellana or Cavati alla Turiddu as entree, followed by Falsomagro alla siciliana or Grigliata mista as main course, and a delicious Cannolo di ricotta as dessert, all washed down by a nice bottle of Corvo di Salaparuta or Donna Fugata red wines?

Surrounded by luscious vegetation is Park Hotel "Paradiso" where, with your delicious meal, you can enjoy two swimming pools, tennis court or accompanied bush walks. You could also ask to visit their farm, L'antica stazione, where you can taste fresh made dairies such as ricotta and cheese, vegetables, homemade wine and bread while your kids have fun at Bambinopoli, a huge playground which is part of the complex.

Luxury accommodation is available at Park Hotel in completely renovated rooms for $140 d/b with ensuite including breakfast (Ph. 39 0935 680841, Fax 39 0935 684908).

After you have delighted your tastebuds, it's now time to do the same with your sight.

Where? At "Villa Romana del Casale", a magnificent building dated from the Imperial Roman age which features its internationally known mosaics. A short walk on a narrow stone-paved road, cutting through hilly meadows, with fragrant and colourful wild flowers, will bring you to the Villa.

The complex of buildings is believed to have been built by Emperor Massimiano (Fourth century A.D.) and used in his times of leisure, such as resting from the African campaign, hunting etc.

Set on three terraced levels, it offered spectacularly landscaped private surroundings for the imperial family and their guests as well as all the amenities suited to nobility includind floor decorations and wall paintings.

You can still see how water was gathered by two aqueducts into a huge tank, where it was partly warmed up by ovens to supply baths while the steam was used for the sauna. You'll see a gymnasium with related dressing and massage rooms, inside and outside lavatories, several dining rooms, the kitchen, indoor and outdoor entertainment and meeting areas and two sites dedicated to the cult of Venus and Lari.

Most floors are paved by countless little tesserae (tiles) which compose more then 40 mosaics, supposedly created by African artists, which tell realistically about life under Massimiano. The word mosaic derives from the Greek "work worthy of the Muses", the Latin Opus Musivum and consists of composing a drawing using small tiles in stone, terra-cotta or glass fixed on cement or mastic layer.

It is almost universally agreed that these mosaics represent one of the highest, spontaneous and striking expressions of the art. Exposed to light they produce an incomparable light irradiation and they appear as if they are the source of that irradiation.

The modern structure built to protect the mosaics at Villa Romana isn't particularly aesthetic, but once you're underneath it you don't mind for long!

Ironically, these masterworks are only so well conserved thanks to a landslide which in 1160 knocked the building down, covered it by mud and preserved it from further destruction until archeological excavations began around 1880.  According to Prof. G.V. Gentili, who entirely brought to light the ruins, the paved floors extending for 3500 sq.m. are the biggest ever found evidence of African mosaic art.

The scenes represented are mostly about everyday life, myths, hunting and games.

You'll find it hard to decide which is your favorite one but Four Seasons, Big Hunting, Little Hunting, Chariots Race, Ten Bikini Girls and Kiss are probably the most impressive.

Visiting Villa Romana del Casale is a 1700 year old historical immersion from which you'll reemerge with the indelible souvenir of a unique experience and an inspiring glimpse into the volatile past of this wondrous regions.

Then, if you feel like it, you can always take your car and drive to a couple of nearby Mafia hit sites…

Qantas flies to Rome three times weekly on Monday,Wednesday and Friday (Ph.131211). Alitalia operates daily connections to Palermo and Catania. From there take the Motorway A 19 (Palermo-Catania or viceversa) and exit at Piazza Armerina.

A TALE OF PASSPORT AND KNIFE

- Name?

- Ruggero.

- Surname?

- Piscitelli.

- Born at?

- Guardia Sanframondi, province of Benevento in Italy

- When?

- I was born on the 10^th of March 1936.

- Profession?

- I am a brick layer but I retired in 2001.

- So Mr. Piscitelli, you are accused of having killed on the Friday night the 17^th of December 2004 you spouse Ms Consuelo Barque married Piscitelli, stabbing her in various part of her body with seventeen slashes given with a kitchen knife. The murder occurred in your house, located at 470 of the Macquarie Road in Fairfield. What you have to say about that?

- It is true, your honor!

The man suddenly cast down his head and cover his face with his hands: with an uncontrollable movement his shoulders are shaken by sighs.

When he finally manage to get back in control of himself, with his right hand dries up furtively two tears which slipped down his unshaved cheeks, lift back up his head and whispers with trembling voice:

- What I have to say, your honor, is that…is that I…I was in love with her!

- But if you felt such a feeling, how could you possibly act in such a reged way?

- She was cheating on me, your honor, and as I said I was in love with her and I couldn’t cope any longer with those humiliations. She was the last spark of feeling in my life.

- Would you like to tell us about facts, please?

- That’s fine I will tell you facts but I have to tell the whole story, from the beginning, to try to explain, to supply you with a reason.

- That’s fine, Mr. Piscitelli, tell everything from the beginning but stick with facts.

- Alright than! It was an October night of 2001. I was retired for only six months and, you know, the first times are hard without the routine of work, one feels useless, it’s boring, one think about old age, you know, yes I was a little depress.

- Stick with facts I asked.

- I’ll get to facts, your honor, I’ll get there! That night I was feeling a little better: I shaved and took a shower after at least three days. And I wore new pants and a fresh ironed shirt. I wanted to go out, breath some fresh air, perhaps eat an oriental meal e drink a couple of glasses of wine. Must have been the Spring season, I don’t know! I decided to go at Club Marconi because along with the food and the drinks, being a Friday, I could also dance a bit. In conclusion, you honor, I wanted to distract myself, have some fun.

- Go ahead Mr. Piscitelli.

- I then dined at the club’s restaurant and then I went at the bar for a coffee and a sambuca. As usual a group of friends and old acquaintances of a life of migration, fellows from my same hometown, members of the regional association, former colleagues, Communist and Christian democrats, football supporters was quickly formed and the same old animated conversation began.

Shortly after the orchestra has started to play and without hesitation I cheered everybody and made my way up the stairs to the ballroom.

The ballroom was already getting crowded and already a few couples were dancing on the shiny timber floor.

There still were free tables but I choose to stand and sip my sambuca. I was staring around looking for a woman I already made acquaintance to invite for a dance when I saw her.

Petite but well shaped, straight black hairs on her shoulder, black eyes with oriental shape, little flat nose pointing up, she looked at me and then smiled.

I interpreted as an encouragement so I approached and invited her for a dance. She accepted and we danced for nearly half an hour non stop before to proceed to the bar for a drink and then to a quiet table for a chat.

We introduced each other and began to talk about ourselves. She said that she was 28 years old, she was from Manila, Philippines and that she survived famine and prostitution  over there escaping to Australia where unfortunately she entered with a temporary visa which would expire soon and where she could only work casual and in black, causing her much struggle to survive.

I told her about my life of work, of my financial tranquility, of my loneliness, of the frustration of feeling still enough strong and yet being treated as an old man.

There was a feeling of reciprocal comprehension and complicity: we could understand each other, we could express sympathy, we were trying to make each other smile, to relieve the melancholy. Then she put her hand in my hand and kept it there for a brief – but very long moment.

I was a little anxious, for long time I was going out only for my shopping and now, at the first occasion was happening to me to meet a person, a woman who seemed to really understand me.

- Be more concise, Mr. Piscitelli, do not tell us about specific of little importance!

- They are important, you honor: one doesn’t kill the woman he loves just because she overcooked the spaghetti!

- At home I had a little room which I used as storage and after having pondered for the rest of the night, before to leave I decided to offer her hospitality as you would offer to a friend. Consuelo thanked me with a long hug and kissed my cheeks wetting them with her tears of gratefulness. So she moved in and after a couple of weeks of friendly cohabitation, one night I saw her walking in the lounge room dressed with little clothes and with a inviting grin on her face even for a man like me that long passed his goliardic age. And it happened, your honor, it happened what…well, we loved each other on the couch. The story went on that way for a while and after a couple of months we decided to get married. We long talked about before and we verbally found an agreement. Only a silly guy wouldn’t take in account the age difference: sixty five myself, twenty eight her: thirty seven years are not peanuts, you honor!

And so we stipulated a pact: a deal for which in change of her tender friendship, of her company in my old age, myself, Australian citizen, I would have married her allowing her to acquire the citizenship. With the citizenship she would have left behind all struggles that so far she had to face, find a decent job, start a new life. Then after my departure and as a legitimate spouse, she would have inherited everything and settle once and for all.

- Please Mr. Piscitelli, do not stretch your story too much!

- I’m sorry, you honor, is the pain I carry inside: I need to talk, I need to release it or I’ll get crazy.

- Sure, sure I understand but today I have two more interrogations in agenda and I’m inviting you to be the more concise possible.

- The first fifteen months of marriage were fantastic. As I said I didn’t have any financial problem and beside she got a job at a Philippine company based in Sydney so we were carrying out with a satisfactorily life: movie night every Wednesday, dinner and dance Friday and Saturday night, some parties at friends places, some other at our place, holidays alternatively in the Philippines or in Italy, nothing to complain about.

As for our intimacy, well, my performances could not equal those of a thirty years old man but despite I wasn’t used to have a woman around the house I managed to fill the gap with gentleness, you know, a little gift, a bunch of flowers, a nice sentence, a compliment.

- One night, it would have been April 2003, she rang home to tell me that she was late because the boss asked her without advice to stay longer to finish a few letters. I felt a little upset, a little lonely and sad but soon after, while dining on my own, these sensations began to fade and when I finally sat on the lounge room to watch a tv show while waiting her I ended up feeling silly for my reaction and I felt happy for her capacity to be appreciated at work, for her justified ambition.

- But the situation started to occur more and more frequently and even worse I started to notice a intangible cold toward me, a thin lack of interest for our matters, some sort of  lack of care for the house and in the same time I could see her putting more and more care on her outfit, dresses, shoes, make up, hair dressing and spend more and more time in the morning to get ready to go to work.

- The letters of the last minute were alternatively replaced, every now and then at the beginning, by the nights she would spend out with her Philippine girlfriends. And it finally arrived the night, a cold August night, she got back home very late, with her overcoat crumpled, the make up a little ruined, and on her face the signs of a fight that has left her tired but deeply satisfied. I remember that to my inquisitive look she reply with a smile which, I thought, wasn’t addressed to me.

- So, Mr. Piscitelli, what happened after?

- I  paid someone to spy her, your honor! Consuelo was seen going out from the parking of the building where she was working on a luxurious German car with the son of the general manager, a thirty five years old guy all muscles and hair gel. It was seven pm time when she would have usually returned home. A hour before she had rung me telling she had extra work to do and she would have came back at eight thirty.

- C’mon Mr. Piscitelli, tell us what happened that night?

- Your honor I would like to specify that night was the final consequence of a long list of fights and attempts to make peace again. She was uncompromising, she was available to live together to honour the deal and to save the appearances but in change she wanted to live her life otherwise, she said, she would have left and would ask to divorce. I was in love and feared to loose her, I was surrender,  sometime I was like a lost puppy, because now, aged sixty seven, to remain alone again was even more frightening than before.

- That night she came back as usual very late. Since waiting I had a couple of shots of sambuca I felt strong, I was sarcastic, aggressive and started to ask her ironically the reason of such a delay. She initially tried to divert the argument: we both knew were she had been, she said, and it was not the case to start a fight and wake up all the neighborhood. To my insistence she lost her coolness and started to answer with the same irony and sarcasm to my provocations and the discussion became soon a spiral of nasty words and offences, not repeatable, your honour!

- Please, repeat them, Mr. Piscitelli.

- I yelled her she was a whore, your honour, and a disgusting upstarter.

- And what your wife answered?

- My wife…

- Please, tell us.

- Consuelo said that she was tired of that kind of life and the next morning she would have left. She said I have to stop to believe she was feeling something for me, that she never loved me, she simply took the opportunity given. Who do I think I was to tell her what to do or not to do? Was I really convinced that a woman like her could be bought with a house in the popular suburbs, the Holden Commodore in the garage, the excursion at Jervis bay or the Saturday night dancing at Club Marconi? She said she was disgusted of my rounded belly, of my baldness, of my pathetic effort to make her feel desired.

- To those words I started to cry desperately begging her to not to leave me, to stay to have mercy for an old man.

She seemed to calm down, went in the bedroom and started to undress.

Than she came back in the lounge room - where I was desperately trying to recompose myself – wearing only light transparent cotton nightdress with no underwear and looked me with tenderness.

- I must admit, your honour, that to that look I regained hope. I thought that after all I could not expect to have her all for myself, considering her young age and that I had to learn to handle that situation if I didn’t want to loose her once and for all.

Consuelo sat and casted her head down but from time to time she looked at me with tenderness, with little smiles of sincere sympathy. Or, I should say, so it seemed to me…so I wanted to believe at all cost and that’s why I made the mistake to interpret those smiles, those looks as an attempt of make peace again and that nightdress as an implied invitation to share intimacy. I then stood up went in the kitchen and started to poor something to drink. She always liked vermouth so I got two glasses ready with ice, sliced the lemon with that knife, poured the Cinzano  went back and offered her the drink. She took it, took a good sip of it and smiled me back enigmatically.

At that point I was convinced about her intention, approached her, touched lightly her breast and tried to kiss her. Believe me, you honour, I didn’t want to kill her, I would give my life to give her back, I didn’t want to kill, I never even killed a fly. But when to my mute proposal her, for me unexpectedly, pushed me away and asked me if I really was convinced I could give her pleasure, in my mind the humiliation turned into regret and then rage and then hate and then, your honour, I don’t know. Doctors say is like a mental switch off. I don’t remember going back in the kitchen, picking the knife up, stubbing her, nor leaving the house and taking the car. None of the neighbours seemed to hear something, probably because used to hear loud voices, despite 1 pm was well gone.

I drove for hours, but don’t ask me where where I went because I don’t know: around the city, without a direction, hallucinated, absent. When eventually the fog left my brain, I recalled and the remorse became unbearable, I went back home and called the police. It’s all your honour.

The man cast his head down again and doesn’t move no more.

The Prosecutor takes some notes, close the folder in front of him informs Piscitelli’s  lawyer on the date of the trial and in the surreal silence of the little interrogations room of the Botany Bay jail, stands up and to his sign the armoured door opens. He walk trough it, looks for a brief moment to who just confessed his crime and with a vague expression of disbelief mixed with mock and then he walks away.

MAI PUBBLICATI - NEVER PUBLISHED

Da 'a me riva... (in morte di F. De Andrè)

Dicono che noi Liguri siamo gente poco propensa ad esternare i propri sentimenti, a comunicarli, a dividerli con gli altri. Forse in parte è vero!

Sarà la millenaria, ciclopica fatica per strappare alle montagne un fazzoletto di terra da coltivare; sarà quel sentimento di amore-odio che nutriamo nei confronti del mare, fonte di sussistenza e causa di morte.

Sta di fatto che di fronte alla fatica di vivere, le parole servono a poco. E di fronte allo scempio della morte, anche meno.

Fabrizio De Andrè ci ha lasciati.

Della sua arte, del suo ruolo in seno al fenomeno culturale della canzone d'autore, si è detto tutto ciò che c'era da dire.

Sul fatto che avesse dato voce, attraverso la sua poesia in musica, a tutti coloro che, per un verso o per l'altro, vivono ai margini della società, sono stati versati fiumi di inchiostro.

Sulla riscoperta, la rielaborazione, l'uso del dialetto genovese e più in generale di quelle musicalità tipicamente mediterranee, si sono scomodati fior di letterati, musicisti, filosofi e poeti.

Resta solo una piccola nicchia per un commosso saluto da parte di chi, lontano da Genova, lontano dai funerali di massa, lontano dalle dichiarazioni di amici, colleghi, collaboratori, autorità pubbliche e immancabili sciacalli, non ha potuto fare altro che riascoltare ancora una volta Creuza de ma, commuovendosi nel risentire le voci familiari del mercato del pesce di P.zza Cavour.  

Addio De Andrè e grazie per aver dato una voce anche a chi, come noi expat, di parole ne ha sempre potuto spendere poche, impegnati com'eravamo a combattere l'intolleranza da una parte e la nostalgia dall'altra. Sarà anche perché in Australia si "mugugna" poco e soprattutto non ci si "incazza" mai! In compenso si scrivono molte "letters of complaints".

         

MAI PUBBLICATI - NEVER PUBLISHED

C'è un po' di materiale dei vecchi tempi che è rimasto nel cassetto. Risale agli inizi, alla Scuola di Giornalismo presso l'Australian Academy of Journalism (1996-1997). Scrivevo in inglese e in italiano per i media locali ma quale che fosse l'idioma usato, alcuni miei articoli non furono mai considerati per la pubblicazione. Eccoli.

THE MAGIC SWAMP                                                                                          

The river Rhone, swollen by the melting snows from the Alps Mountains, is flowing down roaring its powerful song. We left Arles half an hour ago driving down the D 35 highway on a beautiful sunny morning refreshed by the Mistral, the local western wind.

At Bac de Barcarin we cross the river on a little ferry (only two semi-trailers and 4 cars can be carried) anchored to a steel cable to beat the water flow. One of the truckies offers us a strong Gitanes cigarette while welcoming us with a boisterous "Bonjour, Italiano!"  

While we cross the river, our attention is caught by the blue horizon outlined by several white hills which, we'll find out, are raw salt piles.

We decide to stop for a quick visit at the salt-works of Salin de Giraud where we politely refuse a voluminous souvenir from the guy in charge of the factory's shop, a 50 kg bag of fine washed salt, enough for the rest of our lives. 

A few kilometers further west we begin to feel uncomfortable when the asphalt road becomes a narrow strip surrounded by water. Swamps are everywhere and we keep going as we know around here tides are not a problem.

While we go ahead an increasing number of flamingos attract our attention and finally,   in the middle of l'Etang de Fangassier, we find out why. The artificial isle of Fangassier is the nesting spot for some 13,000 pairs of flamingos which between April and June every year come to breed here.

It was created in 1973 by WWF France in co-operation with C.S.M.E., the largest French salt producer and owner of the land, pardon, the swamp, and Carrefour (Supermarket chain) which donated the Camargue-style cabin used by researchers as a bird observation post. 

At La Gacholle there's a superb view of the Lighthouse, but we're informed our route plan is useless. Rushing this morning we didn't notice it on the map but definitely the only way west to Les Saintes Maries de la Mer from here, is a pedestrian and cycle path.

We need to go back on the D 36 and drive around L'Etang de Vaccares, the National Park of Camargue's largest swamp.  

Well, let's go then. The next village is Salin de Badon, a little oasis of land surrounded by water. We drive through it heading a few kilometers North to La Capeliere, on the eastern shore of the swamp. Here we absorb the aquatic habitat atmosphere that introduces us to the legend of Camargue. The flights of ducks, flamingoes, seagulls and other wild coastal birds cross the sky above us so to safely enjoy the panorama we decide to wear a hat!

Unfortunately we've got to keep going if we want to have a chance to get a spot at Les Saintes Maries de la Mer where we can rest tonight. Today is May the 23rd and we can expect to find the little Mediterranean town packed for the ongoing European Gypsy reunion to celebrate their patroness Sarah-la-Kali, and the Saints Mary Jacobe and Mary Salome'.

On our way north we stop at Villeneuve, another enchanting little pearl on the water, where we decide to have lunch.

We check the blackboard in a cafe'-brasserie where the fragrance of Pastis is floating in the air and our palatial requests is satisfied by a delicious Mules Brasucado (mussels in special cumin sauce) followed by Aubergines au Gratin (crunchy Eggplant in tomato sauce baked in the oven) which perfectly matches a nice bottle of Languedoc wine.

We could also have chosen Terrain de Camargue (seafood and shellfish combination) or Anchoiade (fresh chunks of vegetables dipped in marinate of olive oil, garlic, herbs and anchovies) as entree.

Canarde aux figues (duck stuffed with figs and cooked in the oven) or Anguilles au fur (oven roasted eels) or Boullabaisse (soup with chunks of fish, seafood and shellfish) completed with a local goat's cheese and a bottle of Vin de Sable or Valle du Rhone.

What a feast!

The meal definitely regenerates us. A short black expresso does the rest.

We hit the road again. At Mejanes a miniature train can be caught for a ride around the lake in search of birdwatching spots and spectacular views.

The landscape now offers a view of acres of flat land where Les Mas, the local farms, are overwhelmed by a sea of golden wheat and sunflowers whose different shades of yellow is outlined on a clear blue sky. Here and there, over fenced properties, herds of black bulls and white horses graze quietly, raising their heads only to watch our car passing.

Approaching highway D 570, at Albaron, the traffic is busier. A number of caravans, RVs and trailers of the widest range of sizes and shapes proceeding south, begin to introduce us to the atmosphere of the pilgrimage of Sarah and the Saint Marys of the sea.

The legend says around AD 40 a little boat was launched from Palestine and banked at this site (Les Saintes Maries de la Mer). The refugees in the boat were the two Saints as well as Mary Magdalene, Lazarus and his two sisters, St. Maximinus and their servant Sarah.

The disciples wandered off but Mary Jacobe, Mary Salome' and Sarah remained, built an oratory and spread the Gospel until their death when they were buried here. Since then their tombstone has became a site of cult and pilgrimage.

Gypsies celebrate Sarah's annual return to the shores of the Mediterranean sea. The "Original Dark Wanderer" with her dark skin, her restless nature and her Egyptian origins present striking parallels to them. Although she was never formally canonized, Gypsies adopted her as their patron saint. The return is also a tribute to music and dance and an opportunity for engagements, weddings and baptisms.

Traffic is slowing down and allows us to catch little slices of nomadic life as we approach the little town on the coast. Alongside the road Gypsies and gadjes, the non-gypsy, are already enjoying a cultural mixture between two often-divided segments of society. We're getting closer to water again and we decide to have a rest at Pioch-Badet to take a look at the open air Tzigane Museum about the culture and traditions of this people travelling restlessly around Europe for centuries.

Finally we are in town and despite knowing the celebrations officially begin tomorrow,   the party is well under way. Guitars,  palma handclapping and the click of flamenco heels gives an exciting background to our search for a room. It's a Babylon of languages.

Everywhere merchants peddle their wares from their caravans' trunks while mysterious fortune-tellers dispense advice like tunes from a jukebox. On every corner and in many bistros someone is improvising spontaneous performances. 

No way to get a room (next time we will be planning earlier) but it's not a worry: a quick walk to the Tourist Office (Rue VanGogh 5, Ph. 04.90.97.82.55) and we find there are plenty of camping areas to pitch our tent. We choose one a couple of  kilometres from the town's center which  borders onto a wild outback area.

The wind doesn't help but eventually the tent is up and we're ready to plunge into the fiesta. There's heaps of caravans and trailers from which cooking fragrances are floating into the air. The neighborhood is ok and Paco, the owner of the huge caravan next-door invites us for the aperitif, a homemade Pastis.

Inevitably conversation turns to his nomadic lifestyle. The man, in his late 50's, chief of the family, big white moustache, boots and cowboy hat, talks about the various aspects of this restless way of living.

"Gypsy means to live constantly on the edge, temporarily hosted on the outskirts of towns lived in by people we don't relate much with. This festival is the only annual occasion where most of us gather together and which positively blends the two different cultures in a celebration of the sacred and the profane" he says.   

Several pairs of children's eyes are watching curiously while women dressed in colorful outfits cook deliciously smelling Paella. Pouring a second drink, Paco invites us for dinner and then turns the conversation to what is going to happen tomorrow.

Late in the afternoon the statue of Saint Sarah will emerge from the church and be escorted by the Guardians, the Camargue cowboys on their white horses, while local women will be dressed in the original costumes of les Arlesienne.

Ceremoniously relics will be carried through town followed by Gypsy clans marching together and singing "Long live Saint Sarah! Long live the Gypsy". Spectators line each side of the street and their "support" propels the procession towards the sea.

Once there all formalities are abandoned: Gypsies and gadje dash for the water in a collective symbolic baptism while the Guardians load the statue onto a boat for her benediction at sea.

Originality, colors, chaos, folklore, performances, music and dance continues until the next day, the 25th, when the effigies of St. Mary Salome' and St. Mary Jacobe are honored in the same fashion. The church is booked with weddings and baptisms, celebrated with a dramatic and elaborate gypsy flair.

"Once the festival is over, their business is finished and religious obligations fulfilled, the Gypsies may stay another day or two but the open road awaits them" Paco says.

Dinner has been fantastic and a nice bottle of Vin de Sable has accompanied our gastronomical indulgence. We go for a walk. 

It is a peaceful, enchanting evening. The Mistral has settled, replaced by a soft breeze which gently waves bonfire flames down at the camp.

The sound of a guitar carried by the breeze, recalls Spanish visions while all we have seen and heard today blends in an enchanting, magic atmosphere.

The burning star hidden behind the last visible headland inflames the sky with a pinky red Impressionist brush stroke. It gradually turns to a darker purple which will be eventually swallowed by the darkness.  

Nimbus slow down their eternal sky-race while the mists begin to rise and a late pink flamingo lands in its swamp. 

Although the darkness is advancing, over the swamp we catch a glimpse of white horses settling for their night.

Paco's gentle pat on our shoulder brings us back to reality. He is urging us to hurry or we'll be late for "The Gypsy Kings" and "Negrita" performances, downtown.

Walking away we stunningly realize that it's not a paperback romance: it's Camargue. 

 And tomorrow, la fiesta.  

Qantas flies to Paris three times weekly on Monday, Wednesday and Friday

(Ph. 131211). Air France operates daily connections to Marseilles and Nimes, (Ph. 02  9244 2100). The TGV (4 hours journey) and others trains for Arles departs from Paris, Gare de Lyon, regularly.

VIENI VIA CON ME

Versione inglese -  Traduzione a cura di Charmaine Belfanti

Vieni via con me

It’s a bootlicker of a sun, a late summer one, setting down on the Sydney Bay.

Not a gust of breeze and is still sultry. Rachele came and picked me up from work: smiling but inquisitive she’s sitting down at a table of the Ship Inn where, waiting for her, I already wiped out my first Ricard.

- Should we drink something? – She propose but her one is a rhetorical question. She knows I will accept, tonight I’m excited and we both know why.

In three hours I must sing in a jazz venue and to perform in front of an audience is not my “trade”! The passion keeps me up: to sing Paolo Conte’s songs accompanied by a very skilled musician is a succulent nibble I have been foretasted for years! Unfortunately the enthusiasm doesn’t ease the anxiety for the debut! At the piano will sit Zauro Volis and on itself is already a certainty. But is also a great responsibility: Zauro is a professional, tonight is for fun, same for me after all! But for me is a game and if something goes wrong I’ll go back home frustrated and it will be it! There are other musicians in the venue, Zauro lives with his music and is building his reputation around Sydney. I mean the last thing I wish is to embarrass him! I hardly keep inside a plaint when thinking of me mistaking, skipping a verse, having a blind memory and resting mute in front of the audience.

I stare at Rachele and listen her repeating the same old usual wishes. I swallow a big sip of anisette and regain quote: there are not excuses, I must do well! For myself, first of all! And for Zauro and the persons I invited, those few with whom I want to share this experience and from whom I would listen judgments.

It is only one moment and anxiety come back and clenches my stomach.

Rehearsal went well but this awareness is not enough to ease my nervousness because I know that apart from my skills and credits, what is happening tonight is the result of one of my clamorous bragging.

A couple of months ago Arturo, one who loves swing rhythm, invites me for dinner and after brings me in a pub in Leichhardt, a place a bit out of hand. We get in, take a drink sit down and begin to talk. A blond woman, pretty, short red satin shirt and high heel shoes of the same color picks the mike and start a Fitzgerald’s song. That is when Arturo put aside his shyness, lean on my shoulder and tells me that he likes to sing and from time to time he performs as well.

That is how I am introduced to this new world, a group of musicians and singer sharing their love for jazz and latino-american music and their “malcelata”ambition, in different venues around town and with a weekly schedule, step on a stage and give the best of themselves.

Meanwhile the performer change on the stage and the little orchestra goes hard with a repertoire including names such as Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Sarah Vaughan, Areta Franklin, Chico Buarque, Maria Monte and so on.

When we leave Arturop tells me that in a couple of weeks he will perform in a venue in the city, a nicer place compare to tonight one, and he would be pleased if I’ll go and support him.

- Friends push one up – he says – and in the same time one get more relaxed, feels less the anxiety of performing in front of an audience, of sharing owns emotions – he smiles.

I go, then! The place is on Williams Street, two steps away from King Cross: I get in and the dinner hall is nearly empty. I look around me until I meet the smiling look of a waiter that moving his head shows me an internal room: at the end of it one can spots a stair heading down the underground.

Two short stairs cases and I get in a hall not too big, one hundred square metres at most, vaguely lightened by soft spotlights. At my back on one side are the mixer, the colored spotlights, the long haired PA and the table of the artistic director, Marit, a blonde Dutch from Den Haag. On the other side is a wall covered by portraits of the international greatest of jazz ever which ends in a little cave where they set up a tiny but well refurbished bar. The wall on my left is furnished with a long shelving to put down the drinks with the related stool to seat. Finally, in front of me, not more than ten metres away is a little stage with some microphones and music stands, a babygrand and the instruments cases. The rest is just tables and chairs.

About fifty people are there: musicians, singers who will perform, some of their friends and a few occasional “passing by” guest who got curious about this bunch of amateurs in an Australian boite de nuit version. The idle-chatter is subdued but intense and amused and the atmosphere is stimulating. Is about nine, here we start! On stage goes Marit, the Dutch, accompanied by the small orchestra gratifies us with some twenty minutes of Bossanopva: warm and languish voice and a hint of sensual dance!

Then is Arturo’s turn! When he gets the microphone in his hands he become another person: he’s breezy, keeps well the stage and sings convincingly well and at the end the audience claps to him with enthusiasm.

Well, now is beer time! We’re sipping a nice and cold lager commenting his performance when Marit reaches us and Arturo introduces us.

I throw it there bragging:

- Excuse me Marit can someone sing in Italian here?

- She stares at me inquisitive for a few seconds and then she replies amused:

- Do you want to come and sing Paolo Conte’s songs? You know him do you?

What you got darling a crystal ball? Or you’re telepathic?

I can’t retain a grin, the opportunity is really tempting1 Sure, to go and sing the Avvocato’s songs in front of an audience, in Sydney, is something can make one shake wrists! But is a lifetime that I wanted to do it, since the time of the Germinal, on the Western coast of Liguria1 And instead, here we go, it happen here. Is still al right actually is even better: we promote our culture of origin isn’t it?

I’m already thinking about Zauro, about the night, about the risks to put up a poor figure but also to that impalpable and somehow embarrassing satisfaction which I’d feel if everything would go well.

I turn to Marit again and smiling ask her e-mail address:

- I will think about it, let me talk to a friend who plays piano and if it works I will be back to you - I assure her nicely.

But I already know that in a month time I’ll be back there to tell her and her admirers about a happy Italian with a sad nose and about other characters of fading contours as if they were immersed in a glass of water and anisette…oh yes!

2

Here they come, my guest, in dribs and drabs! My stomach is locked but rachele ordered a pizza and now, while she’s nibbling it, Armando and Anna with Joolie, Barbara and Paolo and then Ciccio with Pippi arrived.

Zauro gets in, cheers everyone, looks at me with some concern but then he sliles and pat my shoulder:

- We’re a little pale are we? Relax, is only for fun!

While I introduce them and receive their ritual encouragements I see the other reason of my anxiety materializing. Paul is getting accompanied by Melissa, my partner and his old friend and by Veronique who’s not my partner but who certainly has the merit of having known how to pinch with grace and expertise some strings of my sensitiveness.

The initial euphoria and a bit of brag pushed me to invite both of the women. After all one is my partner and the other is a dear friend isn’t she?

Between Melissa and I there’s dialog, we talk about diversions and she knows that I fancy Veronique. But one thing is to talk that in private, another thing is to meet, the three of us, and managing with sensitiveness and nonchalance this type of emotional situations. Especially with friends around who don’t know about certain dynamics.

Let’s say that in the second time, with more rationality, I realized that I could find myself coping with an embarrassing situation but at that point I couldn’t cancel the invitation without raising suspect on one side and upset on the other one. And so - listen what I thought – that just after the performance I could have fled away with discretion, just disappear.

C’mon one cannot treat this way his friends who came to encourage!

 So here I am, boiled like a hake fish! They seat at a table and I should now seat with them for a little while, drink a sip in their company, lean on them and release a bit of tension, thanks them for coming and encourage me, I can only cowardly sneak away pretending to not to know such simple courtesy manners.

Luckily I don’t have much time to visualize how underhand I am because Marit gets on stage and starts to sing.

My friends seat at their table and order a drink while Zauro and I lean against the bench bar and sipping a bier waiting for our moment to come.

It happens quite quickly: Marit sings her repertoire, introduces us and here we are on stage! Four words to quickly introduce paolo Conte and here Zauro starts Vieni via con me.

I feel wrapped, emotional I also panic for a moment but I overcome all of that ad go ahead! Zauro has obviously noticed but smiles enigmatically while swinging himself on the keyboard. The song ends and I can feel inside a certain relief and can hear a big clapping: no one have noticed my little wobble! Then comes Tango and is no doubt that I’m relaxing to the point that when eventually singing Bartali, the third and last of our songs, I finally realized that I am interpreting it.

Here they come, one by one, to compliment me! It went well, no big mistake, no skipped lyrics, no failing memory: a little something with dignity.

They all came and congratulate but I was feeling inside me the calm after the storm. So much tension before, so much relax after. I did it! I sang in public and now is like after an exam, any exam: it didn’t go that badly and beside I don’t care anymore, I just want to relax, take a moment off.

It’s a kind of watching inside oneself, judging and when the awareness of having done your best is found, indulge a bit and find natural to forget reality for a moment, to enjoy it on your own without sharing.

And yet, I must go and sit at that table, I can’t muck around no more now! So I go: kisses, hands shakes, compliments!

Melissa, proving, with no needs,  that who’s lacking in sensitiveness and nonchalance in handling some situations, stands up and walk away to talk to that blond guitarist, toll, long hairs, at least ten years younger than her1 her smiling and cheeky eyes seem to tell me:

- If I have a diversion, if I talk to another man, you understand do you? After all Veronique is here tonight, she came for you, I mean is you bringing these novelties in our routine, so….

Yes Melissa, I understand! I mean, it depend on the type of diversion or to be precise on how one handles it! Because diversions, we both well know that, can leave scars!

Care is needed, I mean, a code of conduct should have been found and agreed before, when and if these kinds of games are played. And we never reached an agreement!

Wouldn’t be good now if Paul would bugger off and drink a bier with someone so I could stay alone with Veronique? No way! Actually he just got a two drinks, one for her too and remains seated. His best friend is my partner and he wouldn’t imagine what is going on in my mind! He could have also been flirting her while I was singing and if I know her well she must have felt upset for my cowardice, for my incapacity of making her feel comfortable with my friends and she could have been flattered by his attention since she has missed mine tonight.

Max arrives, he wants to interview us for the Italian radio. I stand up reluctantly, I promise I’ll be back in minutes and I catch an indefinite expression on her face while I’m walking away.

We go off into a corner, Max, Zauro and myself and talk for about ten minutes then I sneak away and go back downstairs.

It won’t matter! I know that since Melissa is here I won’t be natural, friendly, brilliant as usual when Veronique and I meet on our own.

At the bottom of the staircase I meet her: she’s leaving! She smiles enigmatically, she congratulates again and under the very alert sight of Melissa, a few metres away with blond guy, she kisses my cheeks as to say goodbye. All I can spike is a dull:

- Thanks for coming.

While getting up the stairs she turns a couple of times and stares at me, as to invite me outside and dedicate her a few minutes. I don’t react! Sure, I understand her mute message but I can’t just find the courage to overcome that barrier, to be able to re-affirm in front of everybody that she is a person I care a lot for.

Nothing, not even the gentleness to call a cab for her, to thank her personally, to tell her frankly and without filters how pleased I was tonight to see her walking in.

3

Next morning everything seems to me so far, as years passed since that performance in a jazz bar in Sydney when I sang a few songs of the guy from Asti.

All it remains of a unusual night is a bit of indulgence for myself for not having put up a poor figure.

Same routine: I stop at Mike for the newspaper and a few metres away at Andrew for a coffee. Then I walk out again for the first cigarette. I seat on the park bench, immediately surrounded by seagulls and ibis looking for food, I ligh up and open the Sydney Morning Herald.

In the chronicle page, on four columns a title that doesn’t needs interpretation:

- Raped under the eyes of the people walking by!

Same old story of violence of a few and careless attitude of many, I think by myself. I read through the lines, pushed by a sick curiosity and suddenly..but..oh Christ..no, tell me is not true..tell me I am mistaking.

I read again avidly the chronicle: Veronique Villepin was walking under the insistent and soft rain toward Wynyard station where she would have taken her bus to home when at the bottom of Williams Street a group of three or four men surrounded her, pulled her in a dark lane and behind a shrub, put a cloth in her mouth to avoid her to be heard and then raped her one after another. When satisfied they left her crying on the ground.

When eventually after half an hour she managed to stand up again and ask for help to someone, the rapists have obviously fled and no one around had seen or heard nothing. Ms Villepin was taken at Prince Alfred Hospital and is now in stable conditions. Police is investigating.

The stranglehold to my stomach become an implacable claw and despite I am desperately trying to rationalize the fact that I have not responsibilities for what has happened, sense of guilty starts immediately to hammer my mind.

Copious tears start to slide down my cheeks while questions as theoretical as inevitable start to pop up my mind:

- You could have gone with her could you? You could at least call a cab, could you? You could, you could..you should have..!

An obsessive, hammering refrain! The claw is tightening more and more and eventually I can’t avoid a violent retch and I can’t control myself anymore and I start to yell while I’m throwing out coffee, croissant and all the rage I have inside towards those bastards and toward myself. And I throw out again and yell and vomit goes the wrong way and I cough and I kick the park bench and finally, devastated, I collapse on it while, of course, the first group of yuppies, not used to such shows, are already gathering and staring at the scene some metres away. Then I loose consciousness.

When I wake up I’m in a bed, a hospital bed! I am calm, too calm for my average: I must have been drugged!

A nurse arrives:

- Don’t worry Mr. Morini, everything is under control, nothing serious, only a bit of stress, a nervous breakdown. We gave you a sedative and we informed your family. Someone will be here soon!

- Where am I? – I interrupt her.

- Prince Alfred Hospital – she smiles – in good hands!

The Prince Alfred Hospital, oh my Gos this fog in my mind, Prince Alfred Hospital, a nervous breakdown?

The page of the chronicle re-appears suddenly in front of me and is like getting a punch in my stomach that obviously starts again to sore.

The Prince Alfred Hospital? That’s where they took her! She’s here somewhere, I must see her, I must talk to her!

- Mr. Morini, my name is Joan and if you need me just press that call bell behind you and I’ll be here immediately.

- Listen Joan, can you please tell me where…no, never mind, is not important, don’t worry, Joan. Thanks for everything. If I need something I’ll call you. Thank you, thank you very much!

The woman walks awy. I look around me: my clothes are there on the chair next to the bed. I hardly stand up and have vertigo but I fight that and start to dress up. I am not very stable on my legs but I go for the exploration: yes but…where?

I walk toward the reception; after all I’m dressed normally, I should not raise suspicions.

- Ms Villepin, please. I am a close family friend and if is possible I’d like to see her briefly, cheer her up a bit, you know, after what happened!

- Sure, how terrible – the receptionist replies – how terrible! Please go ahed, I’m sure she’ll appreciate. But don’t be long, only a few minutes, don’t weary her, she’s very fragile. Third floor, room 315.

I thank her and walk away with nonchalance while my heart beats start to increase.

I knock, no answer, I look around me and decide to get in.

She is there, little unprotected thing, little thing precious and violated, victims of animals without humanity. I walk three steps and I’m at the bottom of the bed. She is under drugs and she probably doesn’t see me but I look at her, I look at those tubes entering her nostrils, the drip feed, the bruises, the scratches on her faces and the tears pop out unstoppable while I start to talk to her:

- What they have done to you, Veronique…I didn’t want! I know I’ve been a coward, I should have gone with you, I should have called you a cab…forgive me, I didn’t want, I didn’t know…I didn’t want them to hurt you so badly...I didn’t want them to humiliate you this way!

I get down on my knees I take her hand and kiss it and I cry and keep talking nonsense trying to get some kind of forgiveness for I really am not able to find it inside myself.

Then I remain still, there, my head on the blanket, her hand in my hands, tears still flowing, my shoulders shakings.

And when sad and wretched I’m about to stand up and shyly walk away helpless in front of human bestiality and yet victim of my cowardice, here it is unforeseen,

sudden, fresh as a summer storm which arrive to ease the draught of an infested August, a caress, a very light caress brushes my head.

I stand up and now is a flood of tears while asking her thousand times to forgive me for a tragedy that whit an extra bit of courage, of attention, of sensitiveness I could have avoided.

She looks at me sadly and tears wetting her eyes too while her lips open in the effort to tell me something that I can’t understand.

I lean down, get closer to her mouth and I hear her feeble voice whispering:

- Vieni via con me…!

Pomodori, basilico e trombette

PER CORTESIA...

MOCAMBO JAM

Mauro Colombis - Piano, tastiere
Carlo Grana - Chitarre
Danilo Sidari - Voce, kazoo

QUATTRO TENTATIVI

1
Ho dovuto impormi una scadenza: oggi!
Diversamente avrei sempre trovato una scusa, almeno una, per non sedermi davanti allo schermo e iniziare a lavorare.
Fossero le sigarette finite o la voglia di un buon caffè, l'ora settimanale a squash o la finale di Champions League su Rai International, il contributo mensile alla rivista politically correct in lingua italiana o le partite a briscola con i bambini, il barbecue da Steve Musumeci o la cena a lume di candela da Alfredo at Bulletin Place, il ristorante italiano cool giù al Circular Quay, c'era ad ogni ora un pretesto per rimandare, rimandare, rimandare.
Ma bisogna pur scriverla ‘sta storia, no?
Una prova di maturità, una cerimonia d'iniziazione alla quale non ci si può sottrarre se non si vogliono seppellire sotto una rovinosa valanga di frustrazioni, di mea culpa e di conseguenti stati depressivi, le proprie fatue velleità letterarie e le già quasi inesistenti possibilità di guadagnarsi da vivere usando la scrittura. Quindi quella del romanzo è una carta che va assolutamente giocata: è determinante ed è insostituibile. E va giocata bene, naturalmente.
Perchè il romanzo non basta scriverlo: bisogna anche pubblicarlo. E poi, naturalmente, non guasterebbe che qualcuno lo leggesse.
Non posseggo purtroppo quelle doti di diplomazia che mi permetterebbero di andare ad elemosinare a un qualche ente più o meno culturale, le spese di tipografia per stampare mille copie. Se proprio nel mio karma c’è scritto che devo cambiare mestiere e diventare scrittore, preferisco la normale gavetta: i lavori cestinati, i premi letterari della profonda provincia, le manifestazioni culturali a tarallucci e Victoria Bitter.
Del resto, di quel migliaio di libri col mio nome stampato in copertina, almeno settantre andrebbero a impolverarsi nella libreria di benevoli parenti e amici e le altre novecentoventisette copie, imballate nei cartoni cerati delle banane, così da non subire i danni dell'umidità, finirebbero nella cantina di casa mia.
Bisogna che piaccia il romanzo! Altrimenti, se non piace, se noi sei riuscito a mettere in pratica tutti i piccoli e grandi accorgimenti che fanno di circa trecento parole una pagina leggibile, anche l'acquisizione di un generoso mecenate non farebbe che rimandare il momento della verità. Non servirebbe che ad allontanare nel tempo la sera in cui, magari resi baldanzosi da una buona bottiglia di Merlot e incuranti, perchè non più sobri, del male che ci stiamo arrecando, finiremmo per guardarci a uno specchio e quasi con spregio, come se quella riflessa non fosse la nostra immagine ma quella di un qualche povero diavolo su cui vomitare il nostro disprezzo, confesseremmo a noi stessi con un briciolo di commiserazione e tanto sarcasmo:
- Quello che scrivi non vale niente: lascia perdere.



2
Ecco, la pagina è iniziata. Il titolo per adesso lo lascio in bianco - vediamo come si sviluppa - ma ho messo il numero del capitolo e posso iniziare a far lavorare le dita sulla tastiera facendo apparire sullo schermo le lettere, le parole, le frasi, la storia che devo raccontare.
Aspetto. Non succede niente. Accendo una sigaretta, aspiro profondamente, con voluttà, come direbbe quella buonanima di Luciano Tajoli. Ben presto non mi resta che il filtro tra le dita: non succede niente. È l'approccio che è sbagliato, mi dico: ti devi fare un bel caffè, con lo zucchero in precedenza sbattuto usando la prima goccia che esce dal beccuccio, così fa la cremina tipo bar. Poi, allora si che ci va la sigaretta. Solo dopo questi due riti propiziatori, ti puoi sedere e iniziare.
Mi alzo. Preparo e gusto il caffè. Tiro fuori dal pacchetto una seconda sigaretta e la spetazzo un po’ tra l'indice e il pollice così poi brucia meglio. Pezzetti di tabacco cadono sul pavimento: Dido, il piccolo cane apparentemente compreso nel prezzo dell’affitto settimanale della bicocca in cui vivo momentaneamente, si avvicina, annusa, starnutisce e torna agli affari suoi.
Quando anche questo secondo filtro finisce schiacciato nel posacenere, do uno sguardo attorno e la mia rapida panoramica termina inesorabilmente sullo schermo: è vuoto, desolatamente vuoto. Che nervi! Aspetto ancora un po’: non succede niente. Niente, neppure uno straccio di idea, un piccolo volo di fantasia, un refolo d'ispirazione. Che tragedia! Non mi esce proprio, ‘sta storia. Mi sto anche innervosendo. Meglio lasciar perdere per adesso, riproverò più tardi: è meglio andare a fare due passi e rilassarsi un po’ prima di riprovarci.
Indosso l'impermeabile, il vecchio cappello deformato, ché sto facendo la parte dell’intellettuale bucolico, tiro dietro di me la porta e mi avvio, seguito dal cagnetto, per le strade del piccolo borgo dove mi sono ritirato per trovare l’ispirazione.
Eppure devo riuscire ad esprimermi, voglio scriverlo questo romanzo. Sono o non sono una delle punte emergenti della letteratura italiana in New South Wales? Appartengo o no alla seconda generazione di scrittori italo-australiani di cui Nino Culotta è l’indiscusso capostipite? Nino Culotta, sebbene personaggio di fantasia, è il padre putativo di noi tutti artigiani della parola italica scritta, in Australia. Leggere They’re a weird mob, il romanzo delle sue avventure aussie alla fine degli anni ’50, è un’esperienza irrinunciabile. Poi, per colmo di sense of humour, esse sono narrate da un australo-irlandese, certo John O’Grady, e questo, si capisce, le rende veramente irresistibili anche se ogni volta che le rileggo, non capisco bene perché ma in gola mi resta un retrogusto amaro.
Ma eccomi arrivato al pub. Entro e almeno dodici teste si voltano a guardarmi. Il tempo di accostarmi al bancone e parte l’arcinota sequela di scherzi farciti di puntualizzazioni che definire campaniliste è un eufemismo: italiani tutti mafiosi, italiani tutti mussolini, italiani tutti cagasotto in guerra ed altre amenità di carattere squisitamente sessuale che non sto qui a riportare solo perché, malgrado tutto, mi resta un briciolo di decenza. Il tipo dietro al bancone non si tira indietro e da corda ai suoi clienti sfoderando un sorrisetto che la dice lunga sulla sua indiscutibile ospitalità. Comunque, esibendo falsa noncuranza, mi accosto al bancone e prima che abbia avuto effettivamente il tempo per pensare a cosa voglio bere, sento la mia voce ordinare un Ricard. Lui mi guarda tra lo stupito e l’incazzato: “Cos’è il Ricard?” mi chiedono i suoi occhi arrossati dalle pinte di bitter e dal fumo del mozzicone di sigaretta che penzola dalle sue labbra. - Eccolo lì, è arrivato il puzzanaso che fa l’uomo di mondo - sembra volermi dire. - Dove pensavi di essere in un bistrot sulla Canabière a Marsiglia - mi chiedo mentalmente io. Qui è l’outback australiano e chiedere un aperitivo francese può voler dire solo una cosa: sei uno con la puzza sotto il naso. Sei uno snob, uno di quei rompicoglioni, per di più straniero, che vengono dalla città a scombussolare con le loro stravaganze il nostro tran-tran giornaliero. Che qui all’unico pub di Mindugai, per tua informazione, mate, è costituito da camicie a quadrettoni di pesante flanella, scarponi infangati, puzza di sudore mista a quella del gregge, birra, rutti, scoregge, rugby league e grasse risate; ritorni a casa per una cena con due belle salsicce o una bistecca con contorno di verdure in scatola, mangiate davanti alla televisione guardando Sex & the City così, hai visto mai, se lei si aggalla e non ha l’emicrania, magari poi…chiaro, mate? - Insomma non potevi entrare ed ordinare una mezza pinta di birra - mi chiedo con biasimo. Così faccio, infatti, e l’atmosfera, che si era fatta un po’ tesa, ritorna rilassata. L’uomo sorride ora, se quel ghigno che ha stampato in faccia si può chiamare sorriso, e mi versa un boccale di birra.
3
Son tornato in città e ho lavorato. Ho firmato un contratto per quattro piani di lavoro per cucina: roba da marmista. Due di giallo veneziano, una di Carrara e una di verde Guatemala. Belle! Stavolta, con Ennio, ci siamo superati: taglio preciso e fine, incastri perfetti, spessori adeguati e finiture al bacio. Pagavano veramente l’occhio. Specialmente l’ultima, quella di verde Guatemala. La casa dove l’abbiamo installata era un bel cottage inizio secolo, in blocchi di arenaria e legno, seminascosto in una macchia di eucalipti frondosi e immerso in quella verde penombra che da queste parti fa subito pensare alla giungla. La cucina poi, in legno di quercia stagionato, impreziosito da una lacca color terra di Siena bruciata, sembrava attendere da sempre quel ripiano marmoreo. Sebbene una lastra di marmo, per bella che sia, faccia inevitabilmente pensare a una tomba, ad un cimitero.
E non ho né ruttato e neanche scoreggiato e mi levavo gli scarponi sporchi di fango all’ingresso delle abitazioni dove stavo lavorando.

4
Sono di nuovo a casa. Ho messo su Pino Daniele: mi va un pizzico di nostalgia del passato. Sono uscito dal pub dopo aver sorseggiato con calma un paio di Guinness che mi hanno fatto immalinconire un po’.
Hai visto mai che questa sia l’atmosfera giusta per tirare giù una paginetta?
Dai, forza, c’è la mortadella comprata ad Haberfield: un panino veloce, un bicchiere di Shiraz, un caffè e sono pronto. Ma pronto a fare cosa? A mettermi lì davanti a quello schermo e. a cercare di mentire anche a me stesso, con la storia del romanzo.
- Ma vai e ti curchi - esclamerebbe ironico il Di Cianni, intuendo immediatamente la realtà dei fatti: zero, niente! Una dozzina di cappelli abortiti miseramente dopo appena, nel caso migliore, mille battute.
Non posso fare altro che rifugiarmi nel racconto di me stesso, nella cronaca giornaliera, nel diario. Altro che vezzo giovanile, il diario: funziona sempre. Senti qua che letteratura…
Adesso sono quasi tre mesi che non entra una lira in casa e aldilà delle mie esigenze personali, che comunque sono parche e trascurabili, devo pensare a lei e ai bambini. Le cucine di marmo e granito sono un buon business, ma il lavoro non è più quello di una volta. Tutto appiattito per la troppa concorrenza: cinesi, pakistani, indiani, mediorientali: sembra che tutti si siano messi a lavorare il marmo ultimamente. La Pietà del Buonarroti non basta più a dare agli italiani la reputazione di buoni marmisti: ora trionfa l’interesse. O ci si adegua a certi ritmi o si soccombe perchè quando si cerca di offrire un prodotto finito un po’ più sofisticato, con una lavorazione più bella e ricercata, ci si scontra con i prezzi che la produzione semi-industriale dei laboratori asiatici può offrire sul mercato. E se vado a lavorare per altri, non ho più tempo per me e questo, proprio mentre io comincio a desiderare più tempo per sedermi e riflettere, scombussola un poco i miei piani. Più tempo per imparare a scrivere. Più tempo per fare tutta la chiarezza necessaria a far si che ciò che penso diventi una serie di frasi leggibili. Come adesso, vedi? Se non ti impalli con la menata del romanzo, ché tanto non sai tecnicamente come si fa a scriverlo e se capisci la bellezza dello scrivere raccontando di se stessi e di cose non necessariamente cervellotiche, ecco che scrivi. E viene anche fluido! Senza tanti ripensamenti sul termine più o meno appropriato, sull’aggettivo più consono. Di getto, come si dice. Poi vedi bene: in dieci minuti ottanta parole. Sai cosa significa questo? Una media, se si raggiunge una certa costanza, di quattrocento parole l’ora. Calcolando quattro ore al giorno, sono milleseicento parole e anche escludendo i fine settimana, festivi e compleanni, onomastici e matrimoni, ricorrenze e feste varie, anniversari e funerali, in due anni una persona dovrebbe essere in grado di mettere assieme uno scritto di almeno 120.000 parole. Oltre a mantenersi, naturalmente: articoli, recensioni, qualche bel discorso da mettere in bocca ad uno dei dignitari della nostra variopinta comunità italo-australiana...
5
Dopo mezza bottiglia di Beaujolais ben fresco in circolo, in genere il buttare giù parole mi viene più fluido. E allora quella gran puttana della Luna mi manda una sua ancella a sussurrarmi cose malinconiche oppure allegre, belle o assolutamente inascoltabili, caste oppure estremamente lussuriose e improvvisamente è come se la tastiera, finalmente, dedicasse le sue attenzioni solo a me dopo aver flirtato con cani e porci! Così io, che sento spesso dire che bisogna fare come Giano il bifronte, dare uno sguardo nel passato tanto per vivere il presente con una prospettiva di futuro, mi lascio andare e seguo scrupolosamente il consiglio. E scrivo, caspita se scrivo.