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 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 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
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…!
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