remember he moved away. A burnt ember that walked with a calm step in the direction of the arch of Porta Duomo, while everything around it came alive. I remember the faces of those in the neighbourhood who went out into the street with buckets and fire extinguishers. Then the sirens, the flashing lights of the ambulance, some policeman. The burning guy was gone as he appeared, in silence. And then the dark. I ended up in an overdose coma. And … are you better now? "
"It is gone. Thank you."
"Ok"
"Let's get back to us. Alberto, are you sure you saw that man? Because nobody knows anything about it. He disappeared without a trace. "
"I know. Nobody saw it, and nobody believes me. Why should it? You know how they view me. I am scum for them. And the scum is irrelevant, lying, shrewd and treacherous. Who do you want to listen to Alberto the disgusting larva. But you believe in me. "
"What makes you think so?"
'Why wouldn't you be here asking me all these questions. We finished?"
"Done, yes."
"Can you give me another ten euros? I swear to god they are for cigarettes. ”
«You stole thirty from the alms box in the church, Alberto. Be content. "
«I prefer you when you cry. Asshole. "
End of registration.
2
Sandra's domestic rites began early in the morning. They were tedious and always the same, but she didn't consider them demeaning.
The fixed pattern included: washing and dressing Adriano, preparing breakfast, feeding Chicco, the ash-colored Siberian and carriony character, cleaning the litter box, emptying or filling the washing machine, getting dressed, putting on makeup, going to work. There were of course several variations and some unexpected events to liven up domestic customs.
That day it was his daughter who broke the pattern. Daisy and her brother were sitting in front of two cups of steaming coffee, when Sandra took the tablet to read Cronache Cittadine, the digital newspaper of Castelmuso.
There had been an accident. An old woman had driven a stretch of highway against the road and crashed into a truck. When an inhabitant of Castelmuso died in that way always
ended up on the front page. But not that day. The place that would have belonged to the deceased woman was occupied by a huge photo of Daisy. A seductive selfie borrowed from Facebook, where the soft curve of her breasts glimpsed under a tank top knotted maliciously above the navel. Daisy was the news of the day.
Sandra, after a moment of amazement, showed the photo to her daughter, who blushed with embarrassment.
"But son of a bitch… this Guido pays me” he said with a desperate note in his voice.
Guido Gobbi was his classmate. He was working as an aspiring publicist in Cronache Cittadine. He thought to impress her by dedicating the opening news to her. The article was not bad, but that photo …
"But what did that fool think of? Oh my god, no. Pimples. I hadn't noticed the pimples. Why didn't you take them out with Photoshop? "
"But no, you came along well” Sandra reassured her, disapproving of her daughter's habit of portraying herself in sexy poses, certainly not in keeping with her young age. He did not scold her just for not scratching the fresh and evolving, and therefore fragile, self-esteem of the adolescent Daisy.
The girl tore the tablet from her mother's hands, and read: "Daisy Magnoli started singing and dancing at the age of six. She took part in numerous competitions, winning them: among all the new Cantagiro, and the third edition of Una voce per te. She shot a video (directed and music by Adriano Magnoli), entitled Iʹm Rose. The song totaled more than four hundred thousand views. From there to being chosen to participate in a talent the step was short. Soon we will see our fellow citizen on Canale 104, and sorry if it is little! We just have to wish Daisy Magnoli a big good luck. "
"A profound article, no doubt about it” Daisy snorted.
"It's not that bad” Sandra assured her. "Guido was nice, especially when …" Sandra paused, as if she had to say something that was particularly close to her heart.
"… especially when he mentioned your brother."
"So Adry, aren't you happy?" Asked the mother, showing the article to her son. "It doesn't happen every day to end up in the newspaper."
Adriano did not reply. He looked at the cup held in his hands, a trickle of milk that fell to the side of his trembling lips, the look that at times seemed dull at times he sought that of his mother. But at that moment the eyes were only full of shame. Sandra sighed patiently. He reached out under the table, resting it on the flap of his son's pants. They were wet with urine.
She had to change it once again. That too was part of his daily rituals. Daisy had noticed her brother's unease, but as always pretended nothing. "I go to school. Hi, big brother. Please, be good! »He exclaimed smacking a kiss on the cheek. When it happens to have a sick brother, stuffed with drugs and stunned by a fate made only of bad luck, the best cure is to feed him with massive doses of love. Daisy had got it right, and was doing everything she could to put it into practice.
The girl slung her backpack and left the house. The bus was stopped on the road, right in front of the driveway of his house, a two-storey house with exposed beams, large and bright windows and a flower garden, a small undisputed kingdom of bees and colored butterflies in search of sweet scents and intense. The villa, together with a substantial account in the name of the children, were the only bearable things left by Paolo Magnoli before killing himself.
Daisy got on the bus, the door closed with a plunger behind her. On the way he reviewed the history lesson:
“Torquato Tasso was born in Sorrento on 11 March 1054. Son of Porzia deʹ Rossi and Bernardo, a court man and
scholar. Left orphan of his mother, he follows his father to Urbino, Venice, Padua … and therefore, … but who the hell does the rest remember it! ʹ
The bus went up the narrow, winding road and entered the ring road. At eight in the morning, the inhabitants of Castelmuso and always queuing to occupy two roundabouts of that stretch of the provincial road, where a fat and bored policeman disposed of the traffic with laughable authority.
The Leopardi high school was at the end of the last roundabout, a three-storey red brick building with a flat roof serving as a terrace. It had been built in the eighties, when the town tended to expand the periphery on the east side, not too far from the industrial area.
Daisy got off the bus, crossed the gate and crossed the courtyard to reach the literature room. Some students greeted her by making witty jokes; someone whistled with his fingers in his mouth, others clapped his hands to tease her, a sign that the article had not gone unnoticed.
Lorena was waiting for her at the top of the stairs, one arm supporting the massive dictionary of Italian, the other swirling the air to tell her to hurry. Daisy quickened her pace to reach Lorena, when she saw Guido. The author of the article was a boy who, if not entirely introverted, was still a dark and silent teenager, with ruffled raven curls, a discolored sweatshirt, round, small and slippery glasses that he placed with a finger so as not to let them fall from the nose.
"H … hello, Daisy” he said insecure, the words that got stuck because of a bad omen that was suggesting that he keep quiet. A middle ground emerged that made him stammer instead of being silent.
"Did you like the article?" He said putting his hands in the bottom of his pants pockets, focusing his eyes on her fresh and clean face.
Daisy did not reply and went straight, reserving those attentions that are given, rather than to an unwelcome person, to a particularly insignificant piece of furniture.
"Well? What's wrong with you now? "
"The photo, asshole!" Lorena scolded him. «You put a selfie posted on Facebook. Only friends could see it on social media. Everybody saw it on Chronicles.