Viva la vida (english version) Read online

2. Me, monologue of me.

  Every morning the alarm clock played at 7.15 o'clock precise. It is not that it was really an alarm clock to say the truth, used the jail cell, so I had the convenience to insert us some musichettas nice. From March of the year before I had chosen" the joy of the awakening" of Roberto Angelini. Not that so much the song neither the author I liked: simply I had the illusion that a tune so propositivo could put me of good humor and to give me that" joy" that from a beautiful po' it missed me. I/you/he/she don't want of it, but in that period if I/you had met him, the good Angelini, would have put under him with the car.

  However first I still woke up myself with" This is my life" of Luciano Ligabue, but the results were cheap even more. Of fact I had changed her for evident incompatibility with the reality, because the problem was really that: that was not my life, not that that I wanted at least, and the guilt was not certain of the alarm clock.

  I woke up myself to an acceptable schedule, pissed institutional and a warm shower, pits summer or it was winter, without soap, simply of I resume. Every morning I threw myself under the throw of almost hot water because without a shower I would have gone to work with the face type it disguises of" Scream" or" Munch's Cry."

  I went out of the shower with the behind sleep that to work me he cancelled from the eyes, I quickly dried me, then I prepared the standard breakfast: mash of cold milk, cereals and five frollinis with drops of chocolate, not one more, not one less. The rite to make me a perfumed coffee with the moka I had been abandoning him for different time, the people of the wafers I was passed to. The cigarette in front of the social network to which I was enrolled was the preamble of a turbinio of brought closer actions: latrine, teeth, suits and departure for the office.

  In everything, the time esteemed for" the operation awakening" it was of minute quarantacinque, even if I very often recorded decidedly performances more rapidses. I arrived on the place of employment for the 8.10, it is not that I had to make so much road; other coffee from the macchinetta, another cigarette, turned on the computer and street.

  All days for five days to week. Exactly equally.

  It seemed even me that I/you had done for a long time him and I was almost forgotten to have passed periods of mine doing other; by now it was as if I/you had been born doing that, yet you/they were spent only three years.

  I considered me a person in the average, that a life middle rich in mediocre episodes lived.

  I had expectations as everybody, ambitions of happiness and success in the norm, unattainable dreams that made capolino in a few sleepless nights, resolvable worries, worries that you/he/she would have been better not to face sight their futility, worries that you/he/she would have been better not to face considered their ingovernabilità, duties, accursed unbearable duties.

  I lived my days completely absorbed type in to follow him some events, with the compromise of a job that I didn't evidently love for a middle Italian salary. I had spent anticipated and unexpected exits, a paid compact car in quarantadue comfortable installments and hobby and sport to be used in systematic way to escape per diem a few times from the monotony of the life.

  Routine in the routine.

  I lived in an apartment and that four hundred European of lease in black sixty meters sacred earth were worth. I lived there from March and for how much you/they were spent only three months, I kept on thinking whether to live alone pits the greatest appointment that I/you had ever taken, my greatest enterprise.

  I have taken time before deciding the nest to leave me, some because I didn't perhaps feel the necessity of it, some because, also to throw the strap, didn't want to give me thirty years of loan with a cazzo of bank and to pay twice a house and a half his/her value.

  I have fed in general always a strong resentment and suspect toward the banks and verse the whole Italian economic system. I have always believed absurd to pay so much their money, to pay so much their services, to pay so much their smiles when you deposit and their antiseptic looks when they tell you that he is sorry but they will take you everything.

  When my father bought the bookstore, despite you/he/she dealt with a small loan, despite they had all the guarantees and the mortgage on the house, for an installment jumped to moments they brought away him everything.

  Perhaps it is for that episode that I/you/they am me so inviperito and I/you/they have become toward the banks so mistrustful. It is sure what it was enough for me to see those publicities in which you/they affirm of" to be different" or that" I count because I am not only an account" or that" they are built around me", to make to feel me as a teen-ager decoyed from elderly and scafate mignotte.

  I have never trusted the banks, yet in the bank I was ended as everybody there. To pay for putting and to pay for removing, to deposit and to save, to try to accumulate for anticipating the maximum possible and to load me a sustainable loan in sustainable once.

  My mission had become: the house, my space, my possession, to heap up, to put away, to possess.

  For such order I grinded the days all equal ones, I was given me a practical goal to live, I was given me a purpose to wake up me every morning and to go to do what I did.

  Despite everything, I liked to live alone and you/he/she has taught me to understand how much my family was important.

  My brother Henry frequented the fifth year of government scientific high school with the same exact impatience with which I had frequented him me. An eighteen year-old enough typical, rebel and indolent person, jeans griffati and signed plushes, seventy European for American a pair of shoes of cloth in the absolute conviction that the expense was worth the purchase. It looked me at every time with incredulous eyes when I assured him that in the years' 90 cost diecimila liras. He/she didn't believe me, yet it was this way.

  When I was still with mine we often quarreled. I have sometimes released him a slap; once you/he/she has given him for me him, but that time I have not reacted. After all I have loved always him.

  My mother, if he/she read in my eyes one some difficulties existential, it had an authentic sample of sentences to say, a manual to show off in you determine occasions with such a disarming timeliness and shoal to bother me. A harvest of reassuring words and comfort, witticisms of encouragement, pearls of wisdom recycled to hoc and disheartening mottos and you discount some type" You life is built on concrete and sustainable things" or" today's boys don't have anything in head",

  I have always sustained that every parent had of these hits, considering him/it a kind of mechanism of guardianship of the issue hello to go off not as soon as his/her children stop being children and they risk him in the endless adolescence typical of our generations.

  My mother after all you/he/she has never been a very different parent from the average. A young, apprehensive and honest, thin and uneasy mother, ordinate and rational.

  It is a beautiful woman my mother and I don't tell him/it from child. You/he/she has told me that when it was a young ragioniera, to Milan, there were fior of professionals that made her the court. Lawyers and wealthy physicians that you/he/she would have been able to get married.

  In effects some times I have also thought that if I/you had been child of a banker or an architect my expectations and my restlessness you/they would have had a different dimension, but to be sincere I/you/they are never convinced of it and however you/he/she has not gone this way.

  My mother is grown in the Milan by to drink some years' 70, in a comforting and solid apartment of ownership, among street Turin and street Lupetta. You/he/she has lived with his/her united family and corrected a serene and impeccable infancy. Always cuddled, last of three sisters, has been educated and well addressed. You/he/she has been spectator child and therefore distracted of that whole history of the lead years. You/he/she has felt the stroke of plaza fountain while it was being to school and hearing careless the stories of the police headquarters of Street you are well brothers. Even if he/she perfectly remembers the face that had the people in
that times, we have not often spoken of those things, almost you/they had not touched then her so much, its youth had almost been on a decentralized plan, sheltered.

  In certain rare discussions I have not been able to do to less less than ask there her as has succeeded, as has been able not to take care himself/herself/themselves of all those matters: of the shoot-outs, of the crimes and of the bombs. I have tried me same numerous times to immedesimarmi and to ask me as can be grown serene in a city where the things burst beside you, where in the background the terror flutters, but considering today's difficulties to take a banal airplane, I have understood that every generation has its ghosts of company.

  In every case my mother has never answered seriously to my questions, you/he/she has always rendered less dramatic and reorganized.

  It is a practical woman one who is never interested of history or of politics.

  For her the purpose has exclusively been that to create him a family and tirar on two healthy children and you toasts. This way you/he/she has done, unshakable fulcrum in the management of the house, of the money and of the concrete problems.

  It doesn't come from a particularly rich family, but it generically says that they were well and it underlines, with a little comprehensible pride, that already in the years' 60 the television in the house they had him. You/he/she has known my father coming, from good Milanese, in vacation on the lake. You/he/she has frequented him, beloved, perhaps inclusive; it is sure what you/he/she was leaving him/it and you/he/she has been pregnant: rubbed.

  Life channeled on two beautiful binary solid, few discussions, little metaphysics. There is who would kill, yet I am sure that after all it is what she has always desired.

  My mother calls Ann and I has always loved her.

  My father the television in the sixties didn't have him and, even if you/he/she had had her, you/he/she would not have had a house in which to put her/it.

  The 16 April of 1953 been Born in Messina, you/he/she has emigrated to the north the 16 August of 1961, you/he/she has married my mother the 16 September of 1979. From years it plays to the lottery the number 16 in all the possible sauces, but it never wins.

  Its history is the paradigm, perhaps some discounted, of the Italian emigrants of the postwar period: numerous family with brothers and cousins to divide him same names and same defects, come above in mass to conquer the Lombardy, near America, looking for a job that yesterday as now, to the south, there is not never.

  Him unlike my mother you/he/she has often talked to me of his/her life and of his/her infancy and, even if it is some repetitive, I still like to feel all the histories that it tells.

  He/she often speaks of the integration and than it was difficult to make to be accepted from" these here of the lake", and of the" terroni", that" after all the north has done him their."

  What the Lombardy was not America you/he/she has understood him in hurry my dad, when it had ten years and his/her father it is dead leaving my grandmother and the six brothers Hemming to get by with the life and with the damp of this place.

  In the years my father has told me a lot of histories. You/he/she has told me some cold, of the hunger and of the economic difficulties of when they were children, you/he/she has described me the thousand jobs facts, spoken of when it was a worker, the driver, the butcher, before he/she bought the bookstore where he/she now works everything. My father, in our rich relationship of some all, has explained me as a pig is raised and as a cherry you/he/she is pruned and you/he/she has confided me that once, when you/he/she played the organ in the" Crisalis", some reed is smoked. You/he/she has revealed even me the secret of as it conquered my mother, her" Milanese", but I would prefer to avoid to tell.

  His/her strong point, its preferred history, is also mine, and it is that of the wood.

  His/her father was dead from not too long, one month, perhaps less. It is sure what one afternoon of August, I don't know yet for what motive, two brothers of his and he had put on to turn on fires in the wood, so, to spend the time. You/they had found them at nine o'clock in the evening, almost in Switzerland. The three Hemming, frightened and incredulous, miraculously survived to the greatest wooded fire that the country remembers him. I don't know how has been my grandmother not to die of heartbreak when you/they had brought him them in that kind of farmhouse where they lived. My father says that you/he/she was pale while he was listening to the hurries of the social assistant that he explained not to do anything to his/her/their children, because theirs had been an outlet of anger and rather, to be comprehensive, because also them, his/her children, knew to have been wrong. My father laughs every time that tells me how much barrel you/they have taken that evening. It laughs and it tells me that, after all those blows, with the swollen and warm face, with the terror of the fire still in the eyes, that evening he has stopped being a child and you/he/she has become a man. To 10, indeed other times.

  It is a mysterious man my father, not beautiful but fascinating, some philosopher and some child. Certain times I have desired to be as him, certain times are sworn me that would have twisted also my values not to be as him.

  All now we frequently speak among us. It calls Stephen as his/her cousin Stephen, his/her cousin Stefania dictates" Stefanuccia" or" Nuccia" and his/her grandfather Stephen and, despite all of his/her defects, also to him I have always loved.

  When Mark has gathered us to give us his/her exceptional news, mine you/he/she was a life that I considered normal, one as so many.

  I was with a girl: Chiara.

  We had been being together for five years and, for as the things they went, without rushes of any type but without not even woodpeckers of extreme uneasiness, I had gotten used to the thought that to be together us the whole life was in the gross another rather bearable routine.

  There were moments in which I felt indeed me alive: a few weekends superlative, some trip with the friends, some unexpected meeting.

  Once, seeing a film, I had felt to say that in a life the days that count were at the most an about twenty and that the other ones were only there for making volume. On the moment you/he/she had made me smile and I had found him true. To distance of time however to think that life was really rich of days that make only volume it made me extremely melancholy.

  I had four friends: Mark, Chicken, Gianca and David.

  Practically the friendship with them was old as the first memoirs, it went up again to the times of the maternal school, of the crayons to wax and of the lavorettis with the awls.

  I have always been afraid the that something among us could change, but I didn't suspect that would have happened to brief.

  My name is Paul Orlando and the 16 June of that year I was from not too long twenty-six years old, some certainty often built by other people on what would have been able and due to be my run, a lot of restlessness and altogether a lot of confusion in head.