it is an interesting word.
is it connected in any form to education? Or perhaps to good manners, or maybe to the simple fact that we are humans, carrying a brain which should be used?
Probably.
Let me ask you a few questions related to situations might occur in your life.
If your dentist gives you two choices of payment:
a) 100 dollars and the receipt
b) 50 dollars cash in hand and no receipt
I have tpo go ....
I will post the rest later
sábado, 21 de maio de 2011
quinta-feira, 19 de maio de 2011
Marghera- Venice - Italy
- Where do those tools come from, uncle Bruno?
- Which ones?
- Those over there, behind the desk.
- Young man, you should consider yourself privileged, you are actually standing in front of one of the most sophisticated and solid set of fork spanners ever produced in the USA, trust me.
Uncle Bruno was a seaman, an educated sailor who had reached the highest rank one could achieve in the Merchant Navy.
He was the Chief Engineering Officer of the Esmeralda, a seventy-thousand-ton tanker registered in Monrovia (Liberia ) and currently anchored in the port of Venice
One meter ninety centimeters tall and weighting almost one hundred kilos, he was imposing and athletic. He wore a pair of bushy moustaches and his hair, usually black like coal, was starting to show the silver one gets with age.
He was fifty-two years old and widely regarded as handsome, especially when he wore his uniform.
He was severe, authoritarian, but just.
During the short months at home, he enganged in his favourite hobby: gardening.
He would spend hours in the garden, working among his beautiful roses, the three huge fig trees in the back, the solitary pomegranate, the Hydrangea on the south face of the house and the lovely new-comers. Two young Aesculus Hippocastanums, commonly known as horse chestnuts, had replaced the two majestic Weeping Willows which being deathly affected by a mysterious bug, had been sadly removed the previous winter.
The garden was very large and in the front there was a small pond populated by a couple dozen carps which were joined in the summer by several noisy frogs.
Surrounding this peaceful green oasis, was a solid, two-storey semi-detached house. It had been designed and built by an unimpressive american architect in the early sixties and yet it still looked magnificent in its dignified simplicity.
The boys from the neighbourhood called it “the villa”.
Andrea lived on the second floor with his parents and his sister, but it was on the ground floor where he liked to stay. His uncle had transformed one of the rooms into a fully-equipped work-shop with tools adorning every spare inch of the walls. But gardening wasn’t the only way his uncle liked to spend his spare time; he also enjoyed building wood models of ships.
He liked him very much, he loved staying with him and listening to his amazing stories from exotic places, it was like travelling aboard his ship across the oceans.
Many things did he learn from him.
He soon made Andrea realize that there were more pirates in the eighties than at the time of Captain Morgan’s hanging.
One time, he almost got sick when uncle Bruno showed him a photograph he had taken in Hanoi
- Hey uncle Bruno, would you mind telling me a story from Thailand
- Ah, that is a great place. I’ll tell you what......have you ever heard about a Thai massage?
- No, I haven’t.
- It is, in my opinion, the best kind of massage a man could possibly get.....
Andrea couldn’t help but wonder whether it would be fair to include him among one of those who broke a heart in every port, or perchance , the true representative of a one lady man.
He was probably too young to ask himself this kind of question and I suppose you would be kind enough to come to your own conclusion. I have to say though that many friends of mine would not consider a Thai massage a capital sin.
It was about seven thirthy in the evening when Andrea left his family at the kitchen table and proceeded downstairs to see his uncle.
He discovered him, arm crossed, towering over his work table with a bemused look of satisfaction on his face.
He glanced at his nephew with a smile and said:
- I have just finished it. What do you think?
It was a splendid wooden model of the Padre Eterno or “Eternal Father”, a galleon of the Portuguese Navy, which was originally built in the Colony of Brazil in the 17th century. According to the periodical Mercurio Portuguez, it was considered the biggest of its time.
The teen-ager was almost shocked by the ornate beauty of the intricate craftmanship on display
His uncle had been extremely accurate with the details.
- There must be more than a hundred cannons! Andrea said
- Actually, there are one hundred forty-four, my dear boy
The sails were made of pure cotton imported directly from India
- I’m going to call Ludmilla and Robert! He ‘d said
They must see it now!
- Hey Andrea, uncle Bruno shouted out to him : would you mind bringing me a beer on your way back!
I think I deserve it.
With adrenaline from the excitement of the moment coursing through his entire body, it took him less than two minutes to get his sister, his cousin and a tray with a bottle of San Miguel and three lemonades.
He drank his beer thirstly and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his checked shirt.
He looked serene and relaxed. They were enormously proud of him.
Time stood still while they gazed in silence admiring the galleon.
The defeaning silence was broken by the uncle’s voice:
- Tomorrow is Saturday. Would you guys like to come with me to the Naval Historical Museum in Venice
His son Robert was the first to answer:
- Sorry dad, but tomorrow I have to study Chemistry, I have...
Andrea’s sister followed:
- I’d love to uncle, but tomorrow I ‘ve got the rehearsal at the theatre...and you know how I can’t afford to miss it.
Andrea promptly said:
- Let’s go! What time tomorrow morning?
Uncle Bruno was smiling over his moustache and told him:
- We’ll get the eight o’clock bus and don’t forget to invite your father. He’ll be glad to join us.
He then left the boys there, climbed the stairs and went to the kitchen to help his wife with the dinner.
It was a beautiful Spring evening . The sun was a huge orange ball on the horizon and the moon was timidly hiding behind a puffy cloud that seemed to me like a generous portion of double cream.
Spring in Venice
A couple of hours later, on his way to bed, Andrea chanced upon his uncle who was feeding the dogs. He knew from his grin that he had something on his mind.
He asked him:
- Is there any particular reason for our visit to the museum?
- The Bucentaur is waiting for us.
- What is the Bucentaur?
- You’ll know it tomorrow.
The following day at eight o’clock sharp, Andrea, his father and uncle Bruno caught the bus to Venice
As they got to Piazzale Roma, they barely glanced at the pier and considering the number of people waiting, they decided to walk instead of getting the “vaporetto”.
There are basically two ways of proceeding through the “calli”. The slow, painful pace of the tourists and the quick, almost nervous, frantic one of the locals.
They weren’t nervous, nor frantic, so how they managed to get to their destination in less than forty-five minutes, was quite a remarkable achievement considering one has to cross the lenght of the entire city to get to the museum’s location at the “Sestriere di Castello”. I would describe their pace as a steady military march.
The Naval Historical Museum is one of Venice Venice
Just opposite the museum entrance, a few yards across the bench where his brother in law had stopped to light a cigarette, Bruno was standing completely still.
Turning his head to see what it was he found so captivating, Andrea’s jaw dropped as he laid his eyes on the biggest maxy-yacht he had ever seen in his short life.
- It is the Nabila, Magnificent! He said.
- Yeah. Was Andrea’s dad response.
- Property of Adnan Kashoggy and named after his daughter Nabila. Uncle Bruno was an expert and continued:
- It was built in nineteen-eighty by the Fratelli Benetti shipyard in Viareggio London
The sixteen years old boy was impressed by this superb example of maritime technology.
- Who is Adnan Kashoggy? He must be quite wealthy to own a boat like this.
- Well, his uncle replied, He is a turkish dealer, whose line of business shouldn’t be considered, shall we say, politically correct.
His father was grinning as he said:
- I believe arm merchants are not your uncle’s idea of a good christian, pardon me, perhaps I should say muslim.
- Anyway, his uncle went on:
- The yacht features five decks, a twelve seat movie theatre, two saunas, a swimming pool, a disco, a jacuzzi, a billiard room, eleven guest rooms with hand-carved onyx bathroom furniture and gold plated door knots and a master suite of four rooms, the bathroom of which has a solid gold sink.
Uncle Bruno’s accuracy in describing things was legendary. He was a wise man and he was keen on passing to his nephew part of his encyclopaedic knowledge.
On the other hand, Andrea was like a sponge, absorbing everything.
Regarding Mr. Kashoggy, weapons or not, he was certainly a guy who knew how to enjoy life in style.
He started day-dreaming. He could see himself at the helm of his own ship, sailing across the Mediterranean towards the Aegean sea and the land where the Turks once dominated.
But it wouldn’t be a modern, ultra-sophisticated engineered boat, it would be a brig, small but extremely fast and easy to manouvre.
Followed by a small crew of selected men of honour, he would fight bravely to save...
- Come on Andrea. Let’s get in. His dad was calling him and waking him from his heroic adventures.
Inside the museum, at the first floor which is almost entirely dedicated to the Most Serene Republic naval history, the Bucentaur was awaiting them in all his majesty.
There are many theories about the origin of its name, the one I prefer is that it is derived from the Venetian “Burcio”, a traditional lagoon vessel and “in oro” meaning covered in gold.
The scale model exposed was a replica of the latest Bucentaur built in seventeen-twenty-seven. A luxury boat, actually the state galley of the Doges of Venice.
Long more than one hundred- fifteen feet and almost twenty-six feet high, it had well represented the power of my ancestors for almost eight centuries.
Aboard this majestic vessel, the Doge, followed by a crew or more than two hundreds men, among the sturdest and more handsome of the city, would lead to the open sea and surrounded by a solemn procession of boats, toss a consacrated golden ring to symbolize the marriage of the Adriatic. A sea that had given to the Venetians glory, wealth and power.
I have always wondered the close relationship between power and the Holy Church
How they were connected, symbolism was something that fascinated me.
I had been taught the cathechism and marriage was just the last item of a list that started with baptism. I liked listening to our religion teacher, actually a priest, telling us stories, especially the parables, like the one of the son that had left his dad and eventually came back home.
The idea of my city getting married with the sea every year in such a pompous style was amazing, a bit like a scene I had watched at the movies, where a Pope was crowing a short man called Alexander.
Another fact that I founded always linked to this spectacular show was the presence of gold. A metal, present almost at any of these celebrations of faith.
Talking about the noblest of the metals, uncle Bruno was calling Andrea and said:
- look at those stars in the interior, they are made of gold.
They must have worked on this boat for quite a few years, mustn’t they!
After having taken dozens of photographs, uncle Bruno was talking with one of the keepers:
- I would be extremely grateful if you could inform the director of my presence, my name is Bruno Caracciolo.
- Certainly sir, I will call him immediately. Less than three minutes later the director joined them.
- Bruno, how are you doing? It is always a pleasure meeting you.
The director, Mr Giovanni Micheli had been his comrade in the late forties when they both were still cadet officers aboard the torpedo Nicola Fabrizi.
Short, plump and bald, Mr. Micheli was impeccably dressed in a dark grey three-pieces suit, white, oxford shirt and a pair of english hand-made leather loafers. His only touch of extravaganza was a absurd, pink tie from Wald Disney with an enourmous Mickey mouse on the front.
Bruno and the current Superintendent of Cultural and Director of the Naval Historical museum of Venice
- So Bruno, how long are you going to stay on land, this time?
- I am going to Norfolk (Virginia
- Yeah, I know what you mean, and this is one of the reasons I am not an officer anymore.
- Well, mate, you know that I cannot stand my flowers for more than forty-five days
- Yeah, yeah, I know that too. And if I am not wrong, you are going to spend your next fourteen days on the Bucentaur!
- Giovanni, if there is something I have always liked in you, is your perspicacity.
I just need some of the drawings and a look at your private files. It will take less than an hour. Meanwhile you should accompany my brother in law and my nephew for a walk to the “Arsenale”, I am sure they will love it.
They left Bruno in Mr. Micheli’s office where a secretary was typing on a antidiluvian Olivetti writing machine.
Probably in her early thirties, she wore a pair of steel rimmed glasses that emphasized her lovely, slightly angular face, her long, straight, dark hair were tied in a pony tail. She had no make up, but she had applied a pinkish lipstick that was soberly accentuating the shape of her lips. Her eyes were of a light blue.......and Andrea got completely lost in that blue, standing in the middle of that office, completely unable to move.
This time he wasn’t sailing on his fast brig across the Mediterannean, he was having dinner at the “Palazzo Ducale” and while he was tasting the delicacies of the banquet held
in his honour by the “Doge”, he was enjoying a conversation with a misterious lady.
Her huge, deep, blue eyes were.......
- Good morning Mr. Caracciolo, my name is Amanda. I am Mr. Micheli personal assistant.
- Good morning, ehm, Amanda. Let me introduce you to my brother in law Paolo and my nephew Andrea.
After the introductions and a short, polite conversational comment on the weather, the secretary said:
- Mr. Caracciolo, would you please follow me? The drawings you have required are on the second floor.
While his uncle and Andrea’s ideal of beauty left the office, Mr. Micheli led his dad and him to a long corredor, through a huge mahogany door and then, finally, they reached the Arsenal’s main gate, the “ Porta Magna “. Two lions were situated beside it and as Andrea was wondering how old they could possibly be, Mr. Micheli said:
- The Porta Magna was built in fourteen-sixty from a design of Jacopo Bellini, but
the two lions were added only in sixteen-eighty-seven. One of them is the famous “Lion of the Piraeus ”, it was looted by Venetian naval commander Francesco Morosini during the siege of Athens in the Great Turkish war against the Ottoman Empire .
- I see, Mr. Micheli, the lion is the simbol of Venice
- Absolutely, Andrea, it was displayed as a symbol of Venice
Mark.
Extending in an area of almost one-hundred-ten acres, nowadays the Arsenal is used as research centre, an exhibition venue during the Biennale and home to a historic preservation centre, but as Mr.Micheli told them , at the peak of its efficiency in the early sixteenth century, as many of sixteen-thousands workers were able to produce nearly a ship each day. In those days Venice was a superpower and its Navy dominated the Mediterranean sea .
They were walking across the huge former shipyard that once had been the largest industrial complex in Europe prior to the Industrial Revolution.
Bruno’s brother in law was silent and was trying to light a cigarette, disturbed by a sudden blast of wind. Eventually he managed it and as he was pocketing his Marlboro, Mr. Micheli asked him:
- Mr Favretto, can I have one of your cigarettes!
- Sure. But please, just call me Paolo.
- Ok. Thanks Paolo. I have forgotten mine in the office. I should try to reduce my daily intake, but I just can’t!
Paolo was grinning as he said:
- Do you smoke more than a packet a day?
- Well, to be honest with you, Paolo, I smoke more than forty...
- Bloody hell, I thought I was an heavy smoker myself, but I am on fifteen a day.
Andrea was a few yards behind them but he could hear them clearly and he was wondering whether one day he would be a smoker. He was going to turn sixteen in november and smoking was something that had never really interested him. There were some guys at school that had tried and two of them had taken up smoking for real.
He had started practicing basket-ball seriously the previous year, all of his favourite players were non-smokers and he was determined to follow their healthy habits.
It was almost midday and the temperature was around twenty-six degrees celsius. Mr. Micheli was walking slowly and yet sweating copiously, he would frequently stop to wipe his forehead with his yellow handkerchief.
Groups of workers were rushing towards the canteen. Carpenters, welders, electricians, mechanics, firemen, brick-layers, plumbers. All of them walking quickly, anxious to spend their hour-break after lunch chatting and playing cards beside the museum back- yard.
Mr. Micheli was very popular, he smiled and nod to most of them. One could see from their sincere smiles and the few words of greeting how they respected him.
He had been a captain for almost fifteen year. The military navy had been his home for almost twenty-five. During the cold war he had been in command of a submarine and in the summer of nineteen-seventy-five, after a particularly tiring and stressful peacekeeping mission in Ethiopia Venice
Mr. Micheli had two sons and a wife. A family that had enjoyed his presence intermittently. The kids were now.......well, there were no kids anymore. The eldest, named Vittorio, was twenty-seven year-old and still at university. The other, Mario, was almost twenty-five, already embarked on the “Sansovino” as a cadet officer.
Giovanni, this is was Mr Micheli’s first name, had been an absent father for too long. He was trying hard to establish a new relationship with his sons. Unfortunately it was late. When they had needed his help, a word of incitement, an advice, an example to follow, he had not been there. He was far away on his ship.
His wife Marina, elegant and austere had never blamed him. She loved him immensely and she had learned through the years to accept the fact she had to share him with an unbeatable opponent: the sea.
It is hard to understand how deep and intense the relationship between a man and the ocean can be for somebody who has never been aboard a ship. Since the time when the Phoenicians were sailing the Aegean , sailors had always felt uncomfortable on land.
Life on board might have been hard, the captain would have been strict and inflexible, danger and disease always lurking, food likely to be bland and monotonously tasteless.
But the sea, in its almighty magnitude, power, strenght and diversity, was an ultimate friend, a companion, an elder brother, always present, ready and keen on listening to a man’s confession.
Life is all we have. It is a present we get at birth. Somebody would question we haven’t asked to be where we are. Somebodyelse would argue we are in this world because of love.
Others would say we are carrying an original sin. I would say we are here to enjoy every minute of our existence. I truly feel we are here to try to be better, to help each other, to make something good of our lives, to experiment, to see, to touch, to learn, to teach, to love, to be.
Uncle Bruno told Andrea one day that he preferred to live at sea. Aboard his ship.
His nephew asked him why. He told him that on board he felt much more secure than on land.
He told him how he loved standing on the bridge observing the whales and the dolphins,
how he liked to sleep in his cabin rocked by the waves, how many times he had looked at the sun falling into the blue, the endless night-shifts in the engine room wondering at those enourmous machines, the relief he felt when the pilot would lead them safely into the harbour. His ship was the place he liked to stay, his real home.
Andrea loved his uncle. He loved him for his honesty, his simplicity, for sharing with him his feelings.
Bruno taught him to respect the sea.
Andrea was observing Mr. Micheli and his dad talking and smoking.
They were discussing animatedly about Napoleon Bonaparte and when he ordered the Bucentaur to be destroyed and definitely not for the sake of its golden decorations but as a political gesture to symbolize his victory against Venice
- The french soldiers set fire to the noble ship and it burned for three days.
Mr. Micheli was visibly embittered and Paolo replied:
- That Napoleon, He should have saved that ship. The germans have demonstrated more class during WW2.
- Absolutely.
Paolo was a very clever man. An assiduous reader, he would usually read two or three books at a time. In his library, you could find “Capricorn” by Arthur Miller, “The Gulag Archipelago” by Nobel prized Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, “Pigs have wings” by Lidia Ravera and many others, as you would agree, a very eclectic taste.
Andrea’s father loved to spend his nights reading and he had another way of enjoying his days off work. He was an alpinist. Walking and climbing with his friends was what he liked most. When he had the opportunity, he would carry his back-pack in the car and drive to the north. Ponte nelle Alpi, Auronzo, Alleghe, Cortina, San Vito di Cadore. In a word, the Dolomiti di Brenta had been his refuge for all his life.
He was a catholic, like ninety-nine per cent of the entire italian population and he should not be considered a practicing one, but he liked to listen to a friar in particular, an old fellow from the order of the Capuchins that used to minister the nine o’clock Mass in a church not far from his home.
Paolo was skeptical and unwilling to accept most of the dogmas of the Apostolic Roman Church, but on the other hand, he was keen on trying to keep himself close to what he would call the right path.
After having analyzed shortly the answers one could find at sea, I wonder what a man like him would find on the mountains.
People say we feel closer to the Almighty when we are deeply immersed into nature.
Was it for Paolo being on the top of the mountains like being in the middle of the ocean for Mr. Micheli! Probably. I am curious and I want to know more.
- Paolo, the problem is that the present administration is not considering...
Giovanni and Paolo were engaged in a new fascinating discussion. This time it was politics. They were obviously critical.
Poalo had always considered himself a moderate, but if you look at the italian political scenario, populated by an endless number of parties and simply divide it in right, left and centre; the first was the side where he would feel more comfortable.
The Superintendent of Cultural on the other hand, was positioning himself further on the left.
Andrea was listening to them and he was agreeing on most of their opinions.
They were wise, educated men. They would give support to their ideas. Listening to them was like learning from two teachers.
Andrea was too young to understand the real meaning of right and left. His history teacher had introduced Karl Marx and his book The Capital only a month ago. The pupils had analyzed the industrial revolution during a specific study on Victor Hugo. Like many young students, Andrea sympathized with the ideal of socialism. But it was a kind of romantic feeling of pity for the working class more than a real awareness of the delicate intrigues of our Ministries, Senators and Parliamentary representatives.
His dad was saying: - When Mussolini was ruling the country, you could park your bycicle outside and you would be sure of finding it the following day!
Mr. Micheli replied: - Paolo, I love your example of public safety. But what about freedom?
They would have gone on for hours. Andrea step forward and said:
- Sorry if I interrupt you, but I got the feeling uncle Bruno is waiting for us.
Here it was. Walking toward them with four bottles of Heineken.
Guys, it is one minute past noon, we are officially allowed to have the first drink of the day. Paolo was staring at him as he was handing Andrea a bottle of beer.
- Come on, Paolo, Andrea is a man. He will turn sixteen soon. Heiniken is not among the strongest brewers. Its percentage of alcohol is not higher than five point zero.
- Well, but, yeah, you right, let`s have a drink.
Giovanni took his chance and said:
- Cheers. I would be pleased to have you guys for dinner on Saturday night.
My two boys will be in town. Marina is going to cook cod, the way she learned in Oporto
- Giovanni, last time I had the opportunity to appreciate that masterpiece of culinary art was back in summer seventy-four. I remember it perfectly because it was the night Italy played Haiti at the World Cup in Germany Argentina and a shameful 0-2 against Poland
- Bruno, you have to admit the poles had a great squad that year.
- Yes, but as vice-champions, we should have got at least to the second round.
- In the end the germans won the cup with the blessing of the dutches.
- That was probably the best team in the history of modern football.
- You mean Cruiff and company?
- Off course.
The conversation had turned to soccer and Andrea felt he had to give his contribution:
- Gentlemen, it seems you forget a team from South America where a guy called Pele` still plays and quite oustandingly.
His uncle replied: - The Brazilians have closed one cycle bringing the Jules Rimet Cup back home for good.
Paolo was nodding and finally stated: - You might be right. But I am wondering what will happen in Spain
- Antonio Cabrini. His son answered without hesitation.
- Well, those two guys are top players. We can make it.
A small crowd was now exchanging opinions on the chances our national team would stand at the next World Cup. In a country where three different daily sports news-papers were pubblished and read by almost the entire male population, football was the main topic.
Mr. Micheli was enjoying the moment. One of his best friends would be at his table on the following Saturday. It wasn’t easy to have Chief Engineering Officer Bruno Caracciolo as a guest. Seeing him was quite a difficult task. Bruno would embark in two weeks on another tanker for a six-month contract and there were rumours of an extension on it to a total of eight months.
He was the brightest and by far the most experienced among the Engineering Officers of Sinmar. The CEO, Mr Whiteaker, an Englishman who had moved permanently to Venice
Mr. Caracciolo looked at his brother in law and said:
- Paolo, I know you are a gourmet and believe me I am sure you will love the “Bacalhao a`portuguesa” of Lady Marina.
- I trust you mate. It will be a fantastic dinner. I don`t know how I`ll be able to wait for one entire week.
Giovanni, who had lighted another cigarette, this time offered by an old electrician that had stopped to support the pessimistic side of the football fans, was visibly amused by the prospect of a proper dinner. He would have the opportunity to spend a lovely evening with some interesting people.
He had chatted with Paolo for almost a couple of hours while he was showing him the Arsenale; he had loved his deep knowledge of wines, his interest and competence in literature and his love for the mountains.
Andrea had his own expectations towards that dinner. He had heard Mr. Micheli had two sons and that the youngest was already embarked on a ship. He was eager to ask him some questions.
It was almost half past noon and they were all starving. Like a pack of wolves, they started searching for food. Surrounded by hordes of turists and unwilling to waste they money in a tasteless two-course meal in one of the mediocre restaurants nearby, they were wondering if a retreat home would have been the right choice.
All of the sudden, Paolo had an inspiration:
What about a quick “tramezzino” and getting to the Des Bains beach for a swim?
If we get the the one o`clock ferry at San Zaccaria, we will be there in half an hour.
- You are the man! Bruno replied.
It a great idea. It was a glorious day, there were no clouds, just a slight breeze, the sun was high on the sky and considering they were on the second week of the Venice
It had been a quick lunch but there had been actually nine tramezzini, three polpette and three ham and cheese mozzarelle, washed by four half pints of lager and two cokes.
They rushed to get the ferry and after a placid journey of less than twenty minutes they were at the Lido .
The Lido is an eleven km sandbar located between the lagoon and the sea.
It is part of Venice
The Des Bains beach is one of the most exclusive of the Adriatic . The hotel from which it is named has always been a synonymous of class and elegance. Its atmosphere of belle epoque is very well illustrated by Luchino Visconti in Death in Venice, when the main character Gustav Von Aschenbach interpreted by an oustanding Dick Bogarde, booked a room there. It is said Thomas Mann himself stayed at the hotel in nineteen-eleven and got there the inspiration for the omonymous novel.
They spent the whole afternoon swimming, sun-bathing and playing cards with some Bruno’s acquaintances.
They loved that place. It was never too crowded. Elegant ladies wearing colourful pareos were having fruity cocktails at the bar by the pool, while their husbands read the papers sitting on comfortable chairs. A group of kids were building an enourmous sand castle.
Andrea had not joined his dad and uncle Bruno at the poker table and he was killing the time chatting with a safe guard when he saw a woman followed by a little crowd of paparazzi.
She was being interviewed by a journalist and looked almost radiant.
He asked him who she was and he told him that her name was Barbara Sukowa and she was the main actress in a german movie and that the movie had great chances to win the Golden Lion, the most important award of the festival.
There is another luxury hotel at the Lido , only a mile away from the Des Bains. The Excelsior. Definitely my favourite, maybe for its architectural style, vaguely Iberian-Mauresque with two domes that remind me the byzantines and its atmosphere which I would say is absolutely unique. Glamouros and at the same time slightly decadent.
This was their destination after Bruno had lost heavily at the poker table.
Paolo had given up an hour before and had tried to convince him to leave it.
Mr. Caracciolo had replied that he knew what he was doing and that he would be fine.
He was fine now, walking on the fine sand and enjoing the late afternoon sun.
Andrea asked how much he had lost and he told him that it was too much. He also told me that money was not important. The youngster was not sure he would have agreed totally with him on that.
It was almost six-forty pm and Paolo suddenly said:
Hey guys, let`s have a spritz at the Excelsior and then leave. We will be at home for dinner.
The Spritz is arguably the most popular drink in Venice
The bartender at the Excelsior was an artist and Bruno was well-known for his generous tips. What a nice combination!
The blue bar was quite as many guests were still at the pool. Two american guys were drinking bourbon at one corner, they were probably from Texas
After their second round of spritzs, the maitre of the restaurant La Taverna came to them and said:
- I cannot believed! Bruno Caracciolo is here.
- Rocco! What are you doing here?
Bruno looked amused. Rocco Brignoli had been working at the Bauer Hotel for almost a decade and the two had met for the last time more than three years before.
- You are looking good Bruno. Still jogging on board?
- Yep. And I am pumping iron four times a week. You look fit too.
- Tennis every day mate.
- How long have you been working here?
- I have started last year. I moved from my apartment in Mestre. I live just five minutes from here. No more commuting. New life. I hope you will stay for dinner. Today the special is “tagliolini al salmone”.
We stayed there for dinner. The special had been really special and the chilled bottle of Matheus rose` an appropriate choice.
Mr. Brignoli had joned them for coffee and had engaged Bruno and Paolo in a discussion about women.
Florinda Bolkan, a brazilian actress, was Andrea’s dad favourite.
Bruno had named an almost endless number of beauties. He had included tv presenters, dancers, singers, journalists, writers, co-workers wives, neighbours etc.
He was truly uncertain and after a long sip of his drink, he sighed:
- Perhaps Claudia Cardinale is still the number one!
Mr. Brignoli had spent most of his life dealing with the wealthies and famous working in the finest restaurants. He looked a bit tired and while he was lighting a filter-less lucky strike with his silvered Dupont he smiled.
- Gentlemen. I could not agree more to your choices. Two wonderful examples of class, elegance and style.
- I would go for a blonde. A princess. Grace Kelly. In a word, an angel.
They were discussing and adding new names. They seemed perfectly at ease and they were having fun.
Andrea felt a bit umcorfortable and took the chance to leave the bar and going for a walk on the beach.
Women.
This was a quite delicate matter.
He was fifteen, almost sixteen and still a virgin.
He had kissed several girls. There had been times when those kisses had led him to something more, but he had always, for a reason or another, missed the main target.
He had listen to stories from school-mates, elder cousins and other lucky young males, all of them eager in making their tales rich in details.
He did not like it when they were sharing their sexual experiences. He thought sex was too intimate to be shared.
He was a romantic dreamer and still a virgin.
It wasn`t an obsession, but a mix of curiosity, fear and desire was pervading him at increasing speed.
When he had the opportunity to meet a girl whom he was attracted, he would get almost speechless. The rivers of well-articulated words he used in his brilliant interventions during literature and history classes, seemed lost or unreachable. He struggled trying to keep the conversation going, failing miserably.
He wasn’t ready to discover the world of the women and probably not even willing enough to make the effort.
It was time for coffee and grappa. Mr. Brignoli had brought a bottle of Nardini from his personal collection. Bruno and Bruno were tasting that distilled symbol of Bassano del Grappa, a city not only famous for its aquavite but for being the place where the italian army stopped the austrian invasion during WW1.
They looked visibly content. It has been a great day.
Venice, September 1981
Marina Micheli was well- known in Venice Oporto
His father, Dom Sebastiao de Figueroa was a man who liked the pleasures of life.
His mansion, in the parish of Aldoar, was famous for the wild parties where the decadent aristocrats were often mixing with the rampant yuppies in a orgy of loud music, drugs and occasional sex.
She had been given the opportunity to study in Italy , precisely in Venice
She had been right. Thirty-one years later, aged fifty-one and mother of two, she was still in love with her husband. She thought of him as she was watering the white roses he had sent her that morning. He was a good man, honest, hard-working, affectionate, but yes, she had to admit it, he had been far from his family for too long.
She had been the one that would scold and punish the kids, pretend she was sleeping when they got home at early hours, help them with the home-works etc. While he would get home, as he actually did it once, playing Santa Klaus handing them too many gifts.
A pathetic attempt to conquer his sons` attention when he already knew it was too late.
The man she loved had been a good husband but had failed miserably as a father.
She put the roses in a vase on the terrace and stopped to admire the view.
It had rained heavily during most part of the night and by sunrise the strong wind from the sea had swept the clouds away. The lagoon presented itself in all its regal splendour. The historic customs house at Punta della Dogana seemed to welcome nonchalantly the huge cruise liner towards the Giudecca channel while a group of sleepy gondolieri were tiding their precious sleek boats. The city of Marco Polo and Casanova was slowly awaking and Lady Marina hurried to the bathroom to get ready for her visit to the Rialto
After a quick shower, she opened her wardrobe and chose a lovely sleeve-less dress by Armani, her favourite designer. Like the great couture from Milan
Many times she had been offered to work as a fashion model and she had always refused. She worked as a part-time language teacher instead, a profession that allowed her enough time for her favourite hobby: cooking.
Giovanni had asked her to prepare Baccala`. Especially to please his friend Bruno Caracciolo. This particular dish didn`t require any serious cooking, as it would be ready in a relatively short time. Starterswise, she decided for bruschetta. Three different versions of it: cherry tomatoes, home-made olives pate`, rocket and parmesan cheese.
As it was early morning, only few people were wondering through the stalls of the Rialto
Sipping slowly her drink, Lady Marina ordered a second little masterpiece of patissery, a “baba`”, whose amount of calories whould have frightened an army of ladies of her age. She smiled. She was still wearing the same size she had worn when she was 20. Amazingly, she had never been on a diet, not even after her second pregnancy, and surely she wouldn`t in the following months as she realized she had lost a couple of kilos in the last few weeks. She was proud of her body and even more of her facial features.
Her eyes were beautiful, of a pale green that seemed to change with the sun-light, her nose was aquiline but it matched superbly with a face one would consider vaguely asian, thanks to her indonesian grandfather.
She liked to keep her dark, straight hair short, the way Coco Chanel used to.
Always impeccably dressed, she was envied by the women and desired by the men.
She glanced at the window and saw a young man passing by, he reminded her of his first son, Mario. She sighed.
Mario Micheli would turn twenty-six in a fortnight and was still at university.
He was not an example of diligence and commitment as he had still twenty more exams to end his academic experience. After five mediocre years at the Liceo Foscarini, his choice had been the faculty of Law in Padua
He was neither handsomely attractive nor physically well-build, he was stocky and wore a perennially unkempt beard. He looked a bit like a young Che Guevara and his uniform consisted of a pair of old, stone-washed 501 levis blue jeans and a black t-shirt. He shared with the Cuban hero a deep respect for Karl Mark and a exagerate consume of tobacco. But he had “something”. Women were attracted to him. He was considered a “lovely bastard” by many of the girls, and many of the married ladies he had briefly loved and used.
He had chosen to live in Padua , just fifteen miles away, instead of commuting every day from Venice
She had wondered many times whether they had spoiled Mario too much. On the other hand, hadn`t all her friends done pretty much the same?
Weren`t her best friend Rosa two twins, Chiara and Alba, studying, or better, just enrolled, at the faculty of Law in Bologna and got that lovely apartment just opposite the towers?
And what about Marco? Hadn`t her neighbor`s son received a brand new Mini Cooper 1300 by his father? What had he done of so remarkable? Nothing, he had just turned eighteen.
She re-considered the matter of spoiling and she admitted she had indulged heavily, but for sure she had not been the only one.
Yet, realistically speaking, her son Mario didn`t stand a chance of getting a degree and becoming a lawyer. At least not on planet Earth.
While she was trying to re-assure herself she had always behaved like a diligent, caring and responsible mother, the door opened and two women entered.
They noticed her and after having both taken off their huge sun-glasses, walked quickly towards her table.
- Marta, Giulia, what a surprise, join me please.
- Dear Marina
Marta Contarini and Giulia Falier were two old aquaintances Marina
Slightly older than her, the two ladies came from two of the most traditional families of Venice
- How is Mario? Hasn`t finished college yet? Marta asked with a malicious smile.
- I thought he.....Marta suddenly stopped talking as she realized Marina
- Mario will probably give up soon. Marina
- I`m so sorry, darling.
- Well, I don`t think you should. He will eventually find his way.
Mrs. Giulia Falier, who had been unusually quiet, took her opportunity and said:
- I understand your feelings Marina , my daughter Vittoria
- Oh really?
- Well, last week she had a kind of emotional breakdown. We were having dinner and....all of a sudden, she has started crying and telling us she was going to stop studying. My husband and I have tried to soothe her and to reason with her.
She wouldn`t listen to us. She went to sleep and first thing she said the following morning was that she was determined to take a gap year. Can you immagine?
Mrs. Contarini looked truly surprised and honestly concerned while she intervened.
- And where would she spend this “gap year”?
Lady Giulia was already close to tears when she replied:
- In India
- Giulia! You must forbid Vittoria
She had lived in Goa for almost one year and it was there where Mario had been conceived.
Her husband had been sent there as a member of a task-force led by an Italian Admiral who had expressely wanted him as a personal assistant. Among the various benefits, the young, promising officer had had the privilege to be followed by her wife and staying in a relativily comfortable house by the seaside.
It had been an easy office job and Giovanni and Marina had spent an unforgettable time in the former Portuguese colony.
She had taught English in a little school run by a couple of elderly portuguese teachers and she had also learnt a bit of Concani, the local language.
She had loved that tiny and relatively wealthy indian state and surely not only because it was one of the few places in the entire sub-continent where it was possible to eat beef.
Wondering around the local market was an experience of pure joy for the newly-married Mrs.Micheli. Wasn`t she, after all, living in the land of chili peppers, coconut oil, kokum, tamarind, curry and God knows how many other spices?
One day, when she was buying some king prawns at her local supplier, Marina felt somebody was staring at her. A woman, wearing a red shari was standing just a few yards from her and seemed to be almost hypnotically attracted by her.
When the indian lady realized the european young woman had felt a bit uncomfortable, promptly apologized.
- Please forgive me. My name is Mahara and I want to apologize for my deplorable behaviour. I have lost my beloved only daughter six months ago. Your beautiful eyes reminded hers and.....
- I am really sorry.....My name is Marina
Mahara was very well known in Goa . She owned two restaurants and was wife of the Major of the city. She was also an Hindu and from her Marina
Hinduism had been the natural answer for the unlikely postulates of her catholic education. She had always been quite skeptical and she felt unwilling to accept passively the doctrine of the Roman Apostolic Church
The world`s third largest religion, after Christianity and Islam, on the other hand, had fascinated her with its law of Karma and mainly for the idea that salvation was actually freedom from the cycle of repeated birth and death. Marina
With the guidance of Mahara, she had started to follow the main objectives of the ancient philosophy:
Dharma, righteousness, Artha, livelihood or wealth, Kama , sensual pleasure and Moksa, freedom.
Yoga had appeared as a logical consequence, and again thanks to her inseparable friend and personal guru Mahara, the ancient art had started to be a daily pleasant routine for the newly married young european.
Giovanni had also fully enjoyed their staying and shared with his wife a natural acceptation of the goan living style.
But as all magic moments, their time in India Goa .
It had been raining heavily all night and the line between the sky and the horizon on the Arabic Sea
It wasn`t six am yet when Marina Goa , it had to be done in style.
As soon as the aroma of the strong coffe had started to spread through the house, Giovanni had appeared in the kitchen. He might have been looking slightly sleepy, but he was hungry as usual. He sat at the table and after having read almost entirely the third page of the Navhind Times, said:
- Well , my dear, Venice
- Yes, I am. I wouldn`t mind staying a bit longer, though. I love this place and I will miss Mahara terribly.
- I see. Unfortunately my mission is over. We `ll come back.
They had actually come back many times along the years. Goa had become their hiding place, a familiar oasis of peace and reflection where the Michelis would spend a week or two during the european winter.
The former portuguese colony hadn`t yet been discovered by the mass tourism and offered exactly what they wanted: a natural, peaceful inter-action with the natives.
Marina`s daydreaming suddenly came to an end. She opened her purse looking for her handerkerchief and gave it to an almost distraught Mrs. Falier.
- Come on, don`t cry. India Vittoria
- But Vittoria
- Immature?
- Well, no, but yes, she is so young.
Wasn`t Marina
- I heard that indians eat with their bare hands instead of using cuttlery and the conditions of the public toilets are incredibly below any accetable level. Mrs. Contarini had added.
Mrs. Falier had eventually stopped sobbing and had ordered a camomile tea.
Was she really willing to explain them that our planet`s beauty was actually represented by diversity. Different people with different cultures, eating habits, traditions.
No. She wasn`t. They wouldn`t understand.
She paid for her drinks and left.
It was an unbearably hot and sticky night. Mario was sitting on the floor of the terrace in his apartment. He had lighted another cigarette and was searching in his pockets for a Rizzla paper. He had already heated a small cube of hashish and mixed it with some tobacco. He eventually found a crampled paper on the kitchen table. He made a filter with a fraction of an empty Marlboro packet and started rolling a long, thin almost sleeky joint.
He licked one part of the paper and finally burned the rest of it.
It patted gently that example of simple and yet functional craftmanship on the wooden table and lighted it with a bic lighter.
It inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.
Paola had left slamming the door. They had argued and eventually fought. She had slapped him in the face twice. He had not reacted, he knew he was wrong. She had looked at him with an expression he had never seen before. Her beautiful, huge, blue eyes had seemed emptied of their natural brightness, they had stared at him in a unnatural, sad, ultimate farewell.
- You are a loser, Mario. I won`t be back.
Paola.
What an amazing girl. He had met her three years before at the Marciana library in Venice
Tall and thin, vaguely hippy and amazingly sensual.
He loved her, in his own way, cheating her with dozens of others.
Paola, on the other hand, had never betrayed him.
He finished his joint and lighted automatically a cigarette.
Loser or not, admittedly, he had a smoking habit, actually two, one to legally blended tobacco and the other to hashish, which was still considered illegal in most of the countries.
Afghani, Kashmiri, Lebanese, Manali ( from the Himalaya Region), Moroccan, Nepalese, he loved them all. Furthermore, it was harvest time in Calabria
He liked that kind of well-being, the relaxation of his body , the way he would enjoy music, the feeling of introspection. Above all, it was the experience of “ knowing about knowing “, scientists called it metacognition, for him it was the main reason for being stoned.
Paola had started to enjoy that recreational drug too. He had been the one to initiate her.
They had been together for less than a week when he had offered her the first spliff.
She had been slightly hesitant at first, understandably, considering she wasn`t a smoker.
He had prepared a short, fat joint, with a long filter, trying to diminish the harshness on the throat. He had bought a beautiful strain of Royal Afghani for the special occasion.
It was black on the outside, extremely elastic, soft and malleable. As soon as he had started heating it with a swedish match, it had shown a dark greenish colour. The smell was very spicy. Before smoking it, Mario had warned Paola to inhale slowly as the Afghani can induce lots of coughing in inexperienced users.
The taste was also spicy, but she had not complained, she had smoked silently.
Afterwards, they talked for hours, enjoying the very presence of each other.
He had taught her that cannabis had a long history of ritual usage as an aid to trance. Hebrews used an Holy oil to anoint Priests, Kings and Prophets, which contained cannabis extracts. Muslims of the Sufi order used it as a tool for their spiritual exploration.
Herodotus wrote about it, describing the ceremonial practices of the Scythians.
Ganja is associated with worship of the Hindu deity Shiva who is popularly believed to like the hemp plant.
The members of the Rastafari movement has always used cannabis as a part of their worshiping God, Bible study and meditation. The greatest jamaican singer Bob Marley was contributing in making the use of ganja popular worldwide quoting Revelation 22.2 “ the herb is the healing of the nations “.
It was clear for Mario that humans had always been aware of the importance of cannabis to communicate with spirits and lightens their bodies.
She had listened to him, fascinated by his stories of shamanism and tahoism.
He had felt so at ease with the girl, that he decided to tell her how he had started smoking cannabis. He was sixteen then.
He recalled that amazing day very clearly. There had been a protest organized by the CGIL ( the Italian General Confederation of Labour ). Thousands of workers and students had gathered in Mestre. It was a beautiful day of spring, a lovely, cool breeze was gently stroking the minimal waves of the lagoon and the sun, which had timidly made its appearance surrounded by a multitude of gray clouds in the early morning, was reigning sovereign in the sky.
Mario was decidedly not interested in the car manufacturers negotiations with the unions and the renewal of the contract for the following seven years was the last of his concerns. It was an opportunity for leaving his politically committed classmates and heading to the Zattere for a stroll.
Tourists and natives were placidly sharing that pretty spot of Venice
Mario loved that narrow strip facing the Giudecca canal, he would spend hours sitting on the steps of the church of Santa Maria del
But this time he was on the opposite end of it, walking by the Molin Palace 359 feet long and 52 feet wide. He stood for a long time, admiring the white ship. He remembered his father telling him once, that it was built in 1935 as a two-funneled steamer for the LMS Railway’s Heysham-Belfast service and named The Duke of York. Rebuilt with a single funnel after her service in WW2, she had changed her appearance again due to a collision in fog with the american freighter Haiti Victory, a new, more modern bow had been re-built. After years spent cruising in the Southern emisphere, the old ocean liner had been chosen to run on cruises in the Eastern Mediterranean, with the city of Venice
Mario glanced at his wristwatch, it was almost noon, at this time of the day, he thought, most of the passengers were probably hanging around through the calli, buying souvenirs, visiting museums and experimenting the local cuisine, while the greek crew would enjoy a few hours of peace aboard the Fantasia.
More than one hour, had spent the teen-ager sitting on a bench, wondering on how would it be a life in the navy. His father was an officer himself. Mario would see him not more than a month or two in an entire year. A career that seemed to suit him all right, professionally, financially and perhaps emotionally. Mario liked ships, but admiring them once in a while during his strolls at the Zattere, was surely enough.
As he got home, Mario went straight to the kitchen and noticed his mum wasn’t there.
Considering it was almost one p.m, she should have been preparing one of her prelibacies for lunch. Spaguetti alla carbonara or perhaps penne all’arrabbiata, al dente, naturally. Mario had hoped her mum would have surprised him with one of his favourite pasta dishes. But a quick look at the oven and at the pans, all of them spotlessly clean and dry, revealed to the hungry adolescent the disappointing reality for his empty stomach.
He went to the living room and opened the door leading to the terrace.
The view from the “altana”of the Micheli’s residence was astonishingly spectacular.
The Church of la Madonna della Salute, with its imposing facade, seemed benevolently greeting a young couple of japanese rushing to their hotel carrying half a dozen of Versace hand bags. On the other side of the Grand Canal, one could glance at the fortunate guests of the Europa and Regina
In between, several gondolas were slowly heading to the Royal Gardens
Mario was so captivated by the beauty of his home town that he had not noticed his mum.
- “Mum, you ....you are smoking dope?!”
- “Yes, my love”. I have done it, moderately though, since I was twenty years old”. “I have the feeling it is time for you to try it”.
Mario was shocked. Even if he had always regarded his mum as modern and open-minded, it was difficult not to feel surprised.
- “ Come on, Mario, it is certainly better here with me than hidden somewhere with your buddies”.
She had made her point, Mario thought.
- “ Well, mum, if you insist, I’d be delighted to join you.
The stuff, Marina
- “ I suppose it is a present from Mahara?” Mario asked after having inhaled three long puffs from the joint.
- “ Of course, my love.”
They had spent their winter holidays in Goa , as usual, and Mahara had given her a stick as a present. Marina
An innocent trick that had enabled her to enjoy a rare, high-quality ten gr. piece of hashish for months.
Mario smiled imagining the scene at Marco Polo international airport. Who would have dared to stop an elegant, fascinating woman as Marina
Nobody.
He looked at his mum. She seemed to him even more beautiful than ever. She had applied a few drops of eyewash to eliminate the effect of bloodshot eyes and she was sipping a Lipton tea to avoid a dry mouth. She was wearing a balinese, plain white sarong, made of cotton and her black, straight long hair were tied back into a ponytail secured by a bead crochet crunchie.
She was stoned, but at the same time composed and giving an impression of a solid and yet playful inner peace.
She kept smiling to her son and suddenly asked him:
- “are you enjoying the experience? “
Mario, who was going to pass the spliff to her mum, nodded slowly.
He was actually loving it.
Here they were, mum and son smoking dope together. Was it a capital sin?
She was wondering. Was it his first time?
People say that smoking cannabis is the first step of a ladder that leads one person to self-destruction, whereas the second one would be invariably heroin.
She had been smoking hashish for almost twenty years and she had never even tried the oppium poppy derivate. But what about her friends Cristiana and Sofia? Hadn’t they crossed the bridge between pleasure and hell? Unable to control themselves, to weak to stop, slowly killing their bodies while quickly losing their dignity.
Weakness is not tolerated in Nature, that was for Marina
She was strong and she knew her son would never match her strenght in adulthood.
Ten years had passed since that lunch time smoking break with his mum and here he was, a lonely smoker on the terrace of an anonymous apartment in Padua
Stoned, surely he was, but also pervaded by a deep feeling of sadness and regret.
Paola had left him. This time for good.
Loser.
He was wondering, perhaps the girl had been right. What had he achieved so far?
Nothing. Being still at university at his age was clearly unacceptable and almost embarrassing. He knew he was not going to make it. He had to admit he was lazy. Lazy and spoiled.
Three were the things that interested him: women, cannabis and basket-ball, not necessarily in that particular order.
He was proud to be an active supporter of the venetian basket-ball team, the glorious Reyer Venezia and he had not missed a game since childhood.
In his own perspective, there wasn’t anything better in life than watching a basket-ball match accompanied by a gorgeous woman. Smoking a joint with the lady and end up the night in bed would be pure luxury.
He lighted a cigarette and grabbed the newspaper.
It was the Friday issue of the Gazzettino. On the first page a message of Pope Giovanni Paolo the second to the Director of Unesco for the XV World Day of Literacy.......
..........Everyone has the right to be freed from the pitiful and humiliating condition of iliteracy......
Yeah. Just words, words. ( Like the famous Mina’s song: “parole, parole....”)
An interview with Giovanni Spadolini, the first non Christian democrat Prime Minister in the history of the Italian Republic
Mario had once been greatly interested in politics, as a high school student, he had been literally brainwashed by a communist teacher of History.
The idea of a classless and stateless society, where decisions on what to produce and what policies to pursue are made in the best interests of the collective society seemed to the young and naive Mario a solution to the unfairness of capitalism.
But along the years, he had discovered that politicians were a bunch of deceptive liers.
One day, his father told him that politics should be the noblest of the human activities.
The wisest and cleverest men united, pursuing the goal of improving the citizens’ living conditions. But unfortunately, compromises have to be reached, favours must be done,
to satisfy the endless number of people and institutions involved in the process.
Mr. Micheli had ended the conversation telling him:
- “Politics is dirty and rotten, stay away of it, son”
After having read about Spadolini, Mario turned to the sport pages.
His beloved basket-ball team was going to play a friendly match the following Wednesday night at the Arsenale.
Maybe going to Venice
He rolled another joint and sighed.
The following day, after a pantagruelic breakfast, Mario took a long shower and got dressed. Blue jeans, white t-shirt and a pair of Adidas Promodel, ready to go.
Downstairs in the garage, he stopped to admire his car. It was a 1966 Volkswagen Beetle Cabriolet, immaculately white, leather white seats and black capote. He was proud of it. It had been fully restored the previous year and Mario had made it a question of honour in keeping all its original spare parts.
It was a windless, mild, sunny day, so instead of taking the highway, the troubled young man chose the road facing the Brenta river. He was in a good mood and the view of the splendid Palladian Villas he would get while driving, was a privilege he wasn’t going to miss.
In Marghera, he stopped to pay a visit to his pusher and friend Aldo.
The tall, lanky man in his mid thirties who had been selling dope to Mario for the last six years, liked to wear a cowboy hat and a pair of green Ray Ban sun glasses. He would easily pass as a sosia of Lieutenant Colonel Bill Kilgore, the insane character played by Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now. The very same who launches his helicopters to capture a Charlie point on a Cambodian river at the sound of Mozart “The ride of the Walkyries”.
While Bill had become famous by saying: “I love the smell of napalm in the morning”, Aldo would prefer: “I love the smell of hashish.....”
He was a former heroin addicted and had faced death a few times in his twenties and early thirties when his daily intake of the drug was sadly huge.
One night, suffering an overdose caused by the extreme purity of the “brown sugar”he had injected, Aldo was saved by the tempestive intervention of a young doctor.
A prompt somministration of Narcan had reversed his desperate conditions. He had almost immediately returned to consciousness, falling in a deep state of withdraval.
The doctor, called Livia, had looked after him for several days and slowly fell in love with the unfortunate patient.
Aldo had found his angel and since then the two had been a couple.
Heroin had been dismissed by the re-born man, who had kept smoking hashish quite heavily. Selling it to a selected group of users was the natural way of supporting his habit.
This time, Mario hadn’t stopped at Aldo’s home only to buy his monthly half ounce of premium quality Afghani, he needed a friend to talk to.
Aldo was the youngest son of a wealthy family from Treviso India land of Vishnu
The two men were sitting on the porch listening to music.
Aldo liked rock, the real stuff, as he used to say. He had an impressive LP collection which included among the others, the complete Pink Floyd discography.
But it wasn’t the band led by David Gilmore that was being played this time.
Aldo had felt his friend disquietude and had chosen the latest Simple Minds’ work, Songs and fascinations, which had been released the previous week by Virgin Records. The instrumental ‘Theme from great cities’ was on and Mario slowly started to chill out.
Mario had made coffe and was rolling a joint.
- “So Mario, how are things?” “Not really well, brother, Paola has left me”.
- “Well, it is not the first time....”
- “No, but this time she won’t be back”
- “Come on, what have you done of so bad?”
- “She said I’m a loser. And, to be honest with you, I kind of believe her.”
Aldo was a simple man. He earned his living working as a antique furniture restorer.
He had a good number of affectionate clients and most importantly, he was a master in his art.
He lighted the joint and said:
- “The young lady is not wrong if you say so”. “It is time for you to focus”.
He suddenly got up and went to bring another record.
“Money” by his favourite band ever.
......money get away
get a good job with more pay
and you’re ok
money it’s a gas
grab that cash with both hands
and make a stash
new car, caviar, four stars daydream,
think I’ll buy me a football team....
Aldo has chosen David Gilmore voice to enphasize the simplest of concepts.
- “Mario, you must leave that crap university and start making some real money”
“ Focus on something you really like and enjoy doing. Money is just the consequence. Do something, and do it nicely”.
Mario sighed. He knew his friend had a point.
Doing something. But what?
It was almost noon and Aldo’s girlfriend Livia had just come back from a long night shift at the Umberto the First hospital in Mestre.
- “ Hi guys, finally at home. Quite a night!
Mario stood up while Aldo gave Livia a long, welcoming kiss.
- “Mario, what a surprise! I haven’t seen you for a while”.
- “Hi Livia. It is a pleasure seeing you. I have been busy studying, trying to catch up at Uni.
Mario had lied and Livia knew it.
Livia was also starving and Aldo went to kitchen to fix lunch.
While the lanky man was chopping onions, garlic, tomatoes and pancetta for a quick penne all’amatriciana, the doctor went to the bar to make herself a vodka martini.
- “Mario, you look terrible! Wanna a drink?
Mario thought about it for a long, seemingly interminable minute and eventually said:
- “Considering the considerable amount of red wine I drunk last night, I am going to keep a red profile”. “A Bloody Mary would be fine, darling.”
Livia smiled, opened a new bottle of Stolichnaya, poured a double shot and went to the kitchen to fetch a stick of celery.
Momentarily alone in the living room, Mario strechted his tense body.
He was with friends, a cocktail and a pasta dish were due to come shortly.
Admittedly, life wasn’t so bad.
He glanced at one of the shelves on the wall, among the hundreds LPs of Aldo’s impressive collection, he found one of his favourite singles: “Girls on film”by Duran Duran. Mario had watched the raunchy video on MTV America just a few weeks before.
The videoclip, which was directed by Godley & Creme at Shepperton Studios, featured various women acting out a series of erotic vignettes including BDSM and lesbian fetishes. He couldn’t have chosen a better track. He played the record and relaxed.
The improvised lunch made by Aldo had been superb. The penne Amatriciana were served with a slice of garlic bread and a chicken breast fillet which had been marinated with black olives, olive oil and lime juice.
Mario had brought a bottle of Merlot and Livia a delicious ice-cream from Fontanella.
Only a few hours before Mario had felt miserable. After coffee and a shot of Amaro Averna, he was feeling alive and kicking again.
Livia, who as a doctor and as a clever woman knew about the importance of physical activity, told them:
- “Why don’t you guys get the car and go to San Antonio
- “Good idea”. They responded in unison.
Aldo, aged thirty-five, was still a decent basket-ball player. A very promising athlete in his teens, he had played for Reyer Venezia from mini-basket until
junior level, making a fugacious appearance with the first team in two occasions.
Unfortunately, a potentially shining career had been washed away by his dangerous lifestyle. One-hundred –ninety-nine centimeters tall and thin like a stick, he liked to play far from the painted area, where, taking advantage from his lenghty arms, he would castigate the opponents with his sensational shooting accuracy.
Mario was also a good player. Considerably shorter with one-hundred-eighty centimeters, he was a traditional play-maker. He loved orchestrating the team with his calm, ball-handling and his peculiar ability in reading any defense.
He had once stated in a interview with a local magazine that he enjoyed much more delivering an assist than score a basket.
Aldo had called Luca, a tall, big guy from Gazzera. Aged twenty and playing currently for Basket San Marco Mestre, he was a diligent pivot. He liked to play in post position, back to the basket. He wasn’t among the fastest players around, but his hook-shot was precise and he was a mastiff in defense.
It was about four p.m. when the guys met at San Antonio
The court behind the omonymous Church
The rules were very simple. Three versus three up to thirty-two points. The winners stay in, the losers out.
You had to make a good team to stay in for a while.
To kill the time, the three guys started practicing on the other court.
Among the players who had just been defeated in a tight match and were now chatting, Mario met one of his best friends, Claudio.
- “Claudio, I haven’t seen you for ages!”
- “Hey you! I have been here! I live here. You instead, still in Padua
- “Yeah, but not for long”.
- “What do you mean?”
- “I made up my mind. I am quitting UNI”
- “Really? I thought...
- “It’s all over. I’m coming back to Venice
- “That’s sounds cool. Don’t tell me you are back at your parents’ home?”
- “No. I’ll find a place”.
- “How is Paola?”
- “She’s fine. Well, I think”
- “Hey, you think?”
- “It’s over”
- “No way”
- “It’s a long story...”
- “But tell me, Claudio, How have YOU been?”
- “Working really hard, mate”
- “Really?”
- “Yes, I am working with my dad”
- “And how are business going?”
- “We can’t complain. The Japs and the American are spending”.
Caudio’s father was one of the last gilders in Venice
He had given his son the opportunity and privilege to learn the ancient art and Claudio, who was extremely handy, keen on learning and most importantly, humble, had not deceived him.
Their diminutive “bottega” was located in Campo S. Angelo, a few yards from the Ponte dell’Accademia, just opposite the Benedetto Marcello Conservatory of Music.
Many were the tourists who stopped there to buy a wooden mask, a carved frame, a lamp, or just to admire the two artesans at work.
They were both popular in Venice
Next door to the work-shop, there was a bar, where father, son and their friends would gather at any time of the day. There, between a coffee and a spritz, passionate discussions involving football, women and politcs would take place.
In their tiny shop, ancient tradition, experience and stubborness were mergin with enthusiasm and obtimism. A combination that worked amazingly well to meet the tourists approval.
Claudio, like Mario and his closest friends, was a gifted basket-ball player.
Stoky, strong like a bull and barely reaching 180 centimeters of height, he was a point guard. His percentages had never been higher than 50%, but many were the times when he would grab the rebound from his own shooting and score incredible tap-ins. His elevation was legendary in the circuit.
But he had never liked to train and that was the reason he had not become a pro.
Time had come to show their skills on the court.
The opponents were three tall guys from Aleardi, a popular neighborough in Mestre, famous for the quality of its players. They had already won four games, dominating with an effective, strong defense and spotless shooting.
As the game started, Aldo opened the score with a sospension shoot from the three- point line. He doubled it a few seconds later in a clear attempt of getting the adversaries out of the painted area.
It was a good start but the guys from Mestre were solid and also very precise.
Luca had already scored once from his favourite position at the base of the half-moon and Mario was trying to tire them with his magistral ball-handling.
They were tough and Aldo’s team was below in the score 22-16.
On one of Mario’s incursions in the three-second area, his defender hit him badly on the mouth with an elbow. The guy had barely apologized, showing him a clear sign of defiance. Mario, who had felt a sudden twinge of rage, kept quiet and castigated the opponents with a lay-up with his left hand.
28-28.
Aldo was waiting the ball on the three-point line, but a shoot from there wouldn’t be enough. Luca cut in the area and unable to receive the ball, came towards Aldo blocking his adversary, Aldo quickly faked a shooting motion and speeded to the basket. The two opponents tried to block him and at the last moment he assisted Mario for an easy lay-up.
In the last attack, after a long series of passes, but unable to break the defense, Aldo surprised everybody with an improbable shoot from the right corner.
32-28.
The won five more games and eventually lost against three unknown guys from Mirano.
They were exausthed but visibly proud of their performance.
Mario seemed content. The wrecked man of the previous night had transformed in a determined winner. At least on the court.
He glanced at his wristwatch, 07.30pm, it was time to go. He waved a good-bye to his friends and went to get his car. Driving slowly, he crossed Piazza San Antonio, turned right on the round about and headed to Venice
It was a magnificent night in the Egyptian territorial waters.
Long, thin, grey clouds were unsuccessfully trying to hide an elegant, ivory half moon in a sky covered by hundreds of gleaming stars.
The sea was pretty calm and the tiny waves seemed timidly submissed to the almighty imponence of the ship heading north.
The ferry ship Espresso Egitto of the Adriatica Navigazione SPA had left the port of Alexandria
Among the regular drivers, immigrants and tourists, a young woman was standing on his own at the stern deck, she seemed almost absorbed by the dark waters below.
Seven decks above, on the bridge, second officer Mario Cattani and third officer Silvio Bellucci were gathering their caps and jackets waiting for their substitutes.
At ten pm sharp, third officer Alberto Micheli and first officer Andrea Finocchiaro. opened the door and made themselves comfortable to start their four-hour-night watch.
After the usual exchange of information and a couple of jokes by Cattani, who was undeniably a sort of a joker among the entire crew, Bellucci and his goliardic companion left the bridge.
Alberto poured the strong coffee made by the boatswain and checked the weather forecast while his superior was giving instructions to the helmsman.
Air temperature 20* celsius, wind-speed 7 knots. It was going to be an easy watch.
One hour later, while Finocchiaro was carefully reading La Gazzetta dello sport, Alberto took the binoculars and pretended to be watching the constellation of Pegasus.
But it was too excited to concentrate his sight on the stars. In less than three hours...
Inside cabin n. 12 the woman had taken a long shower and had applied on his body a delicate moisturizing cream. She stood at the mirror for a long while.
She was thin, but in a sensual, androgin way. Once a friend told her she reminded him of British singer-actress Jane Birkin. Like the muse of Parisienne song-writer Serge Gainsbourg, who became worlwide known after the release of the duet “Je t’aime ...moi non plus”; Barbara was elegant, classy and conscious of her power over men.
The only child of a dentist and a housewife, she lived with her parents in a beautiful apartment in Dorsoduro.
She would turn 20 in November and after a gap-year spent in England and Scotland to improve her almost spotless fluency in the language of Shakespeare, she had decided to join the University of Ca’Foscari
An opportunity of a 12 month course at the University of Alexandria
She glanced at her wristwatch, it was 11.00 pm. She called the purser’s office and asked for a wake up call at 01.30am.
She lied in bed and started reading the book she had borrowed from the Faculty’s library the day before. It was an hard cover edition of Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie. But the story of the boy Saleem Sinai, who had telepatic powers wasn’t getting her attention, not tonight tough. She wanted Alberto.
She closed her eyes and thought of how they had met.
It was a shining day of May and Barbara had spent the whole morning at the Faculty attending a boring three hour-lecture given by a clumsy Professor of Philology.
From the window she could see the crowd of tourists queueing along the commuters at Santa Maria del Giglio water bus stop.
She had tried to pay attention and she had also took notes for the first part of the lesson, but the borious speecher had transformed a potentially interesting subject in a penitence.
She had given up and opened her new book instead, a pocket edition of “Innocent Blood” a captivating crime story by P.D. James. She loved the sophisticated style of the Oxonian writer and she also liked to identify herself in the main character, the young, brave and clever Philippa Palfrey.
At noon the illustrious but yet tedious academic had ended his long monologue and had suddenly abandoned the scarce, sleepy audience.
It was Barbara’s last day at Ca’ Foscari, at least for that academical year. She was going to Egypt
She stopped at the portal and admired its rectangular shape made of Istrian marble. The three putti and the winged lion inside the central blazon seemed to greet her in a melhanconic farewell. She knew she would miss that imposing palace.
But se was also determined to live intensely the next adventure.
She left the building and walked towards Rialto
She bought an apple at the market and kept going along the Mercerie watching distractely the windows of the elegant boutiques.
In San Marco, many were the tourists who had stopped by the Caffe Florian to listen to the music played by the four local musicians. The note of Listz “La campanella” captiveted the young student who decided to stop.
Alberto Micheli was among the little crowd of enthusiastic listeners, standing just next to Barbara. She had smiled to him and he had returned her gracious salute with a bow. She took the initiative and said:
- “It seems we have already something in common, Litszt”.
- “Perhaps we should have a coffe and discover other similarities”.
- “Surely. Maybe in a more discreet and casual environment”.
- “What about the Harris Bar
- “Touchè. Instead of a coffee we’ll have a Bellini”.
They had their aperitive and stayed for lunch.
Browned King prawns in a Orange
A bottled of chilled, crisp Pessac-Leognan Sauvignon Blanc had seemed to both a more than valide option.
- “Tell me, Barbara, What does a beautiful woman like you do when she is not listening to Listzt?”
- “I study Modern Languages at Ca’Foscari, among the other things. And you?”
- “I am seaman. I mean I am a deck officer. I work for Adriatica.
They talked for hours, discovering that they had almost nothing in common but the passion for classical music. But it seemed to be almost palpable a physical attraction between the two youths.
After a stroll by the Riva degli Schiavoni, she had taken the vaporetto in a hurry, leaving him with a simple good bye.
While the boat was heading slowly towards San Marco, Barbara, standing next to the Captain cabin, had kept her gaze at Alberto for a long time.
Only on his way back home, crossing the Ponte dell’Accademia, he realized he hadn’t the girl’s address, her phone number and not even her surname.
Almost five months had passed since that unusual and yet magical encounter.
Alberto had started a six-month-contract aboard the Espresso Egitto as a third-mate, enjoying his first experience in the south Mediterranean sea .
The eight-day round trip calling at Venice , Bari , Piraeus , Heraklion and Alexandria
He had demonstrated willingness to learn, accuracy and efficiency on his duties.
He was a quite person and a good, patient listener.
Always on time, shaved and respectful, Alberto was highly appreciated by his superiors and was working hard to maintain the expectations.
His brother had once called him “goody goody”, mocking him during an exchange of opinions at dinner.
He thought of Mario, his laziness, his weakness, his inability of focus on something important. He loved his brother. He had already decided it was time to have a serious talk with him. But now it was time to focus on his career.
During the scarce hours off duty, he like to wonder along the streets of Alexandria taking pictures of almost anything that would catch his attention, a flower, a palace, a face...
In one of his visits to the city founded by Alexander the Great, he saw her. Barbara.
It was a lovely mid-afternoon in the Shatby neighborough, Alberto had decided to seat on a bench at the Shallalat Gardens
The delicate scent of roses was mixing with the pungent sweetness of the narghilè smoked by a distant group of elders playing domino.
A falcon was flying high in the cloudless sky, almost regal, patrolling its domain, regardless to the penetrating and yet armonious voice of the muezzin.
A few yards from his bench, unaware of his presence, was the misterious Barbara.
She was in company of two young local women. Sitting on the lawn and surrounded by several books, the three students seemed quite busy on translating from an ancient text. English was the common language among them, but Alberto noticed that she was able to communicate satisfactorily in Arabic.
She was wearing a sebleh, the wide dress typical of the Levant area, with a beautiful oramentation on the neck made of pearls. Her face was partially covered by a bur’a , the long rectangular veil of white cotton and she wore a headscarf over a taqiyah of the same colour.
That traditional, simple and yet dignifying choice of dressing had almost magnified the deep darkness of her remarkable, immense, well spaced eyes and the flawless, shining olive tone of her skin.
A few yards away, Alberto, unable to hide a sardonic smile and gladly amused by the fortunate coincidence, stood up, crossed the gravel path and approached the three women.
After the brief, polite introductions, the two locals strategically left the bench, leaving the Venetians at ease.
- “Barbara. You look radiant!
- “Alberto. What a pleasant surprise!”
- “How are you?”
- “Enjoying the experience. Alexandria
- “Pretty much the same. It is my first time in the Middle East .
- “How is life on board?”
- “Living on a ship for long months is surely not easy, but there are also good moments”.
- “Like?”
- “Yesterday, for example, a pod of dolphins swam next to us for more than an hour. It was fantastic. One of them was deformed. The others formed a kind of a shield with their own bodies to keep him always safe. An amazing example of love and care”.
- “I could say they would teach many humans a lesson”.
- “Absolutely”.
Alberto glanced at his Rolex Submariner, it was almost four p.m. Considering that his ship would punctually leave the harbour by six p.m., he knew he had only a few minutes to spare with her.
- “I have to go now. I’ll be in Alexandria
They stood there, motionless, awkwardly silent, for a long moment, until he suddenly kissed her. Gently pressing her lips, slowly but firmly he had searched her tongue. She had been slightly surprised at first, but had accepted at once that sweet intrusion.
She closed her book and put it on the bedside table and decided to meditate.
She had learnt the Transcendental Meditation technique the previous year, during a two month-long trip in India
Her father, who had learnt the ancient art from the Maharishi’s teacher Brahmananda Saraswati, had suggested it to her almost casually.
The specific form of Mantra meditation which had fascinated the Beatles one deacade before, was for Barbara just a way to reduce stress, increase her energy level and keep a balanced physiology.
Being as third mate, the safety officer, Alberto decided to leave the deck for an inspection at the life boats.
He took the stairs instead of the lift and walked the long corridor leading to the mid section of the vessel. There, he met two of the chefs, Antonio and Peppino, who were leaving the kitchen after their night shift.
Antonio was a fanatic supporter of A.C Milan while his work-mate and inseparable friend was a “juventino”. Sicilians from Agrigento , both had chosen a big club from Northern Italy .
Peppino was holding “La Schedina ” ( the football-pool ), checking the results and his previsions. You must guess rightly at least twelve matches out of thirteen to win some money. Ten were the matches of the “serie A”, the first leaugue, two from the “serie B, the second leaugue and one from the “serie C”.
A quick glance at the results gave him the certainty of another meagre score ; six.
Campionato di calcio Serie A 1^giornata 13 settembre 1981
Bologna – Cagliari 1-1
Fiorentina – Como 1-0
Genoa- Torino 0-1
Internazionale- Ascoli 0-0
Juventus- Cesena 6-1
Napoli- Catanzaro 0-0
Roma- Avellino 0-0
Udinese-Milan 0-0
His beloved team, the powerful, rich Juventus Turin had defeated the small Cesena
Antonio, on the contrary, was silent and visibly disappointed. A.C. Milan had started his campaign with a dull draw 0-0 at Udine
The following year, the squad had won the second division easily and approached the 1981-82 season in a state of euphoria followed by the triumph in Mitropa Cup, but many were the skeptical about the real consistency of the team. The attack formed by Scottish striker Joe Jordan, “Dustin” Antonelli and Incocciati seemed to weak to compete at high level.
It would be a delicate season for the italian football; the World Cup was going to be held in Spain
Many were the skeptical, arguing that the players selected by Enzo Bearzot would be physically and mentally drained. But this was only the pessimistic view of a part of the population, most of the italians believed in the squad.
The “nazionale”would be ready, determined and strong, fighting bravely against the best teams in the world.
Alberto was not attracted by football. When he was a boy, he had briefly joned the school team as a goalkeeper. But he had been just a way of keeping in touch with his class-mates rather than a passion for the sport.
At the age of eleven, he saw the final of the Italian Open in Rome
Marina Micheli had been invited to the venue by a friend and his husband had been pleased to join her. They had brought Alberto with them and the boy had been literally fascinated by the sport.
Tom Okker, a slim player from Holland
The eleven year-old boy had enjoyed it all, the red clay surface, the immaculate elegance of the players, the silence between the points, the calm and polite authority of the umpire.
The following day, his dad had agreed to let him start practicing with an instructor at the Tennis Club Lido for the entire summer.
Alberto had kept playing since then. When he joined the Navy, ten years later, he had reached the eight position in the regional ranking. Too low a position to make a living but high enough to be respected in the circuit.
The moon was high on the sky and the gentle breeze that had blown earlier in the evening had transformed in a strong wind. Alberto pulled up the collar of his uniform and stopped to admire the sea.
The dark, turbulent waters below gave him a feeling of absolute tranquility. Watching the almighty vastity of the Mediterranean was his way of escaping from the incumbencies of daily life. But the wind was quickly raising its intensity, Alberto calculated its speed in at least fifty miles per hour: enough to be named gale.
The ship was riding the waves, keeping almost unabashedly its steady pace.
He returned to the deck just minutes before the end of his watch. Second officer Augusto Naccari and cadet officer Ernesto Villa were already there, drinking coffee and ready to take over.
It was time to pay a visit to Barbara.
He knocked gently on the door of her cabin and after few seconds that sounded to him as interminable, she opened it and let him in.
Two glasses were set on the small table by the bed and Barbara poured a generous dose of Jack Daniels in both.
Mick Jagger’s deep voice was filling the momentary silence.
If you start me up
If you start me up I’ll never stop
They had been waiting for this moment for long, since their first day in Venice
She kissed him avidly, pressing her body on his, while Alberto lifted her with his powerful arms.
They made love standing, his back against the wall, moving rhitmically their bodies, eager to give and receive pleasure.
She was the first to reach climax, losing control for moments of pure excstasy, followed shortly by his final eruption.
They stayed there, lying on the carpet for a long time, holding each others until Morfeus embraced them for a deserved rest.
The wake made by a distant airplane looked like a giant white drawing line created by a cosmic artist in the cloudless blue sky.
It was officially the first day of Autumn, but it seemed like one of those glorious mornings in early Spring when one feels the urge of being outdoor after a long, cold, humid Winter.
She had booked her hair-dresser for one p.m. and a table at the “ Do Forni” an hour later. Giovanni would meet her there; straight from the museum.
They would have plenty of time to relax in the afternoon, perhaps they could go to the Zattere for an ice-cream at Nico and enjoy the sun.
They had friends for dinner, but she had already left the cod fish in water since the day before and she would need no more than a couple of hours to prepare everything.
Mario and Alberto were not to be expected before eight p.m. and Bruno Caracciolo, his brother in law Paolo and his nephew Andrea would join the party around the same time.
Alberto had called from Heraklion on Wednesday, telling her he was coming with a friend.
She smiled. The friend was actually a girl called Barbara, but her son had sounded awkwardly adamant in not giving her any clues about his misterious date.
Mario, on the other hand, would come alone as he had been quite suddenly dumped by Paola.
As she finished her coffee she glanced absently at the pavement thirty feet below, three of the seagulls were scavenging up a dead pidgeon, fighting to get the best morsels in front of a crying boy.
The Espresso Egitto had left the Adriatic at San Nicolò and was proceeding slowly across the lagoon. The view from the upper deck of the ship was breathtaking.
A group of rowers from the Morosini Naval Academy
As the ship passed “Riva degli Schiavoni”and the Museum of Naval History
He had not seen him for six months. Since that rainy morning of March. It was his first embark as a third mate and his father had been there, visibly touched and proud, wishing him good luck.
Alberto’s choice of joining the navy had been hailed enthusiastically by Giovanni Micheli, who had always had a soft spot for his younger son.
Many were the things had the young officer to tell his father.
Alberto was feeling almost anxious to talk about the crew, the captain and his feelings, to a man who had already lived the splendid experience of working at sea.
He had always got along well with his dad, even if it had been an epistolary relationship. Both of them liked to write, and their hundreds of letters along the years had built up a solid friendship.
The ferry-ship had passed San Giorgio island and could be seen from the “Piazzetta”, where the columns with the winged lion and Saint Theodore were framing the entry to the city from the sea.
A waterbus who had left the San Zaccaria jetty heading to the “Giudecca” had stopped almost reverently to allow free passage to the vessel.
Barbara was among the others, enjoying the spectacular view.
She was glad to be back in town for a few days of vacation and also intrigued by the perspective of meeting Marina Portugal
He had asked her to bring a girl-friend for the dinner and she was wondering whom to invite. He had vaguely told her that a young guy would be present and it had seemed to the young officer fair to match him with a smart, pleasant female counterpart.
Barbara thought for a minute, in the last six months she had frequented the offsprings of the upper-class families of Alexandria
Eighteen years old, unprejudiced, very good-looking, easy-going, lively and smart. Marisa would be just perfect.
The menu that Marina
Appetizers
Bruschetta tricolore : Fresh italian bread topped with rocket, San Daniel ham and Grana Padano cheese
Bruschetta caprese: Fresh italian bread topped with cherry tomatoes, fresh mozzarella and basil drizzled with olive oil and balasamic vinegar
Bruschetta al Baccalà mantecato: Fresh italian bread topped with stockfish
Entree
Bacalhao a’ Portuguesa: Stockfish with onions, peppers, tomatoes, olives, potatoes,
Dessert
Tiramisù ( literally “pick me up”) the legendary cake made of bisquits (usually savoiardi) dipped in coffee, layered with a whipped mixture of eggs and mascarpone cheese and flavoured with liquor ( usually rum or marsala wine ) and cocoa.
Regarding the wines, Giovanni had chosen Prosecco di Valdobbiadene for the starters and Piave Tocai Italico for the main course.
Alberto and Mario were the first to arrive at 07.30 pm. They had met at San Bortolemeo for a spritz and a private talk.
Mario had actually been the one who had talked mostly and Alberto had listened.
The oldest of the Micheli brothers looked relaxed and apparently not altered by any substances while Alberto was looking visibly tired and slightly stressed after more than six months at sea.
They were standing in the living room of their parents splendid apartment, introducing themselves to Paolo and Andrea.
By the window facing the Grand Canal , Bruno Caracciolo was talking to Marina and her husband. He was wearing a brand new pair of Lee blue-jeans and an immaculate white-linen short-sleeved shirt, which emphasized his muscolar, tanned arms.
Between the two friends, Marina
She had chosen a pair of Fiorucci white jeans and a blue Lacoste polo shirt. She was wearing no make up and was barefoot. A benign attempt to compensate the lack in height of her beloved husband and yet to state her uniqueness.
The sun was slowly setting, leaving the Northern Emisphere with a final burst of brightness while a light breeze from the sea had been welcomed by the guests who had gathered to the terrace after a warm afternoon.
The Micheli’s “altana”, strategically located between the Ponte dell’Accademia and the Peggy Guggenheim Museum , was arguably one of the most envied in Venice , allowing a spectacular view of the Grand Canal .
As background music, Marina
Alberto was pouring himself a second glass of Prosecco and asked Mario:
- “Would you like a drink?”
- “Why not? But spare me one of those sparkling crap from the hills. Get me a double shot of Jamesons, no ice, no water”.
- “This crap from the hills, is actually Prosecco di Valdobbiadene, one of the most prestigiuous italian wines”.
- “Still crap, mate”. By the way, where is your friend, what’s her name, Baby?”
- “Barbara”.
- “Yes, Barbara, tell me about her”.
- “What should I tell you?”
- “Well, you should start from the size of her breast...”
- ‘Mario, you will never change...”
- “Just kidding. I am actually glad you eventually found your twin soul”.
- “She is intriguing. Special.
While the two brothers were amiably chatting, the bell rang and Marina
- “Good evening”.
- “Hello ladies, please come in”.
Barbara smiled and introduced herself to Marina
- “I am Barbara, a friend of Alberto”.
- “Nice to meet you”.
- “This is Marisa a very good friend of mine”.
- “It is a pleasure meeting you. But please, make yourselves comfortable.
From the very moment Marina
Barbara was wearing a long, white cotton dress and mocassins. Simplicity and sobriety always pay, especially if you are young, slim and proportioned.
Marisa’s choice for the evening had been a pair of lovely bermuda trousers which highlighted her long, flawless legs, matched by a white Fred Perry polo-shirt.
But Barbara and Marisa weren’t only pretty faces on even better looking bodies, they were educated, intelligent creatures who seemed to truly enjoy any kind of conversation and able to deliver some quite sharp contributions.
At 09.00 pm sharp, Marina
Massimiliano Durante, Max for his closest friends, had worked almost his entire life at the Europa and Regina hotel in Venice
A loony of impeccable manners and a heterogeneous passion for music, Max really enjoyed serving the exquisite dishes at Marina Marina had found a way of giving him the opportunity to listen to some good music, and receive a generous tip after coffe and Porto were served.
The intimate playing style of the primary exponent of the West Coast school of cool jazz, had been replaced by a selection of the main hits of the Greek Demis Roussos.
Max had dared and Marina and her guest had smiled approvingly to him, accepting gladly that radical change.
Everybody was enjoying the food and conversation was flowing smoothly.
Marisa was sitting between Bruno Caracciolo and Andrea while Barbara was facing her on the other side of the oval dining table and entertained by a strangely talkative Alberto.
Bruno wiped his moustache with his napkins, emptied his wine glass with visible pleasure and asked Marisa:
- “So, young lady, I have been told you have just come back from a gap year abroad”.
- “Yes, Mr. Caracciolo, I have spent eleven months in UK London
- “Great. I strongly approve the choice of studying the language of Lord Byron in loco. People spend millions in private language schools and never reach fluency”.
- “Understandably enough”, Andrea said.
“They attend a course of a a couple of hours a week, but they are not exposed to the language”
- “Yeah, that’s true”. Marisa had replied with a smile.
“In London
Andrea could clearly see Marisa, standing behind the counter of a crowded pub, spilling draught beer while a rugby match was being broadcasted on cable tv.
That girl puzzled him. She was not only stunningly attractive, she was also strong and determined.
- ´What about Scotland
- “I have pretty much stayed in Edimburgh. I have got a job at the Museum of Childhood
- “Is there a museum for kids there”?
- “Yes, it is located on the Royal Mile and it is arguably the noisiest museum in the world”. But I have been up north, to the Highlands and I have even visited Lochness. I loved it”.
- “What did you like most?”
- “Probably the way they keep their traditions alive, their stubborness, their patriottism”.
- “Talking about traditions”, Bruno Caracciolo intervened, “how was the Royal Wedding in London
- “What can I say? Perhaps Lady Diana reminded me of Cinderella, but the prince in the Walt Disney movie was surely more attractive than Charles”.
Definitely the mondane event of the year or the decade.
- “Tax-payers money wasted on a lavish ceremony”. Paolo gave his own contribution and filled his glass.
- “I wouldn’t say wasted”. Marina
- “The Queen is an institution, and people like her”.
- “Yeah, God saves the Queen”. Mr. Micheli had not been able to resist.
- “Are you guys talking about the band led by Freddy Mercury?”
That was the first and only contribution given by a visibly bored Mario.
Marisa filled Andrea’s glass and hers, toasted it with an invitating smile.
The sparkling wine and the closeness af that stunning girl had made him feeling as in a state of euphoria.
Mr. Caracciolo, who had glanced at his nephew and nodded approvingly, had asked her:
- “Do you think it is fair for the british to pay for all those royal trips and luxury parties? The United Kingdom
- “I see your point Mr. Caracciolo...”
- “Please, call me Bruno. What I wanted to say, is that there are many other bigger problems in England
Andrea smiled sardonically at another example of his uncle knowledge and asked him:
- “What happened”?
- “Let’s say Brixton is an area suffering high unemployment, low wages, poor housing and a consequent higher than average crime rate.
- “And how did the riots start”?
- “Apparently some plain clothes police officers who were dispatched in Brixton applied the suspicion law quite heavily while they were searching some suspects on the streets.
- “What’s the suspicious law?
- “The sus law is the informal name for a stop and search law that permits a police officer to stop, search and potentially arrest people on suspicious of them being in breach of section 4 of the Vagrancy Act 1824.
Tensions erupted when angry people started pelting police cars with bricks, a police van was set on fire and many shops were looted.
- “Every country has its own internal problems” Marina
“Is Brixton close to where you were staying, Marisa”?
- “Not really, I stayed up north, in Camden
It was a warm night, almost windless and even if the windows were all opened, the temperature in the Michelis apartment was getting unbearably warm. Marina
Everybody seemed to enjoy the evening, almost everybody. Mario had been unable to relax and taking an active part in the conversation. He had listened for a while, losing interest as his intake of alcohol had raised.
He had, at least, kept on Jamesons, refusing any offer of wine, but now he was feeling an urgent need to smoke and he knew a cigarette wouldn’t be enough.
He excused himself telling his parents he had a terrible headache and after having quickly greeted the others, left the apartment.
Walking through the empty calli towards the Zattere, he felt istantly better.
Many were his thoughts, but he had to admit that what was troubling him most was the way Paola had left him the previous night.
He missed her enormously and the certainty of not being able to re-conquer her was almost killing him.
He sat a few yards from Nico facing the Giudecca. A lonely fisherman was just leaving his unfortunate spot and showed him his meagre capture. A small sardine and two microscopic mullets.
He aknowledged politely, thanking him silently for privacy.
He glanced at a falling star and lighted a joint.
Mr. Micheli was sitting in one of the two easy-chairs in the terrace, facing Bruno while his wife Marina had engaged Paolo in a discussion about ethics.
- “ I´ll ask you a simple question Paolo” “ Imagine you go to see your dentist to cure one of your molars”
- “ Ok. I just hope I wouldn´t need it soon as I am broke” “ Just kidding”
- “ Well, after three appointments, the dentist gives you two payment options:
200.000 lire with the “ricevuta fiscale” (receipt) or 100.000 lire cash in hand.
What would be your choice?”
Paulo smiled sardonically and promptly replied:
- “I would go for the second option. Surely. Admittedly contributing in raising the number of citizens who behave unethically”. “Saving some money, which I would quickly spend on fags and booze and helping as a mere accomplice the dentist who would continue to evade taxes anyway”.
- “Would you do it in response to the government who seems unwilling and unable to provide any decent healthcare service?”
- “ You mean as in a solitary crusade against the establishment?”
At the opposite side of the terrace, Bruno poured a glass of Vecchia Romagna to Giovanni and a generous double shot of Porto to himself.
He looked worriedly to his friend, sighed and said:
- “You seems to me quite worried, or at least thoughtful”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
- “It is Mario”. “I don´t know what to do with him. I mean, I´d like to help him…but…”
- “Helping him? How? And why?”
- “I think he is going to quit university”
- “He wouldn’t be the first...” “Giovanni, university doesn’t mean anything”
- “Come on , Bruno...”’
- “What I am saying is that you shouldn’t worry too much. Mario is almost 26 and you know better than anybodyelse he is not going to make it. It is better for him to stop now”.
- “But what will he be doing/”
- “That is a good question”
- “He doesn’t talk to me”
- “Giovanni, be honest. Where were you when he needed you?”
- “You know that, Bruno. I was at sea, like you. Working hard...”
- “I kow mate, like me”.
Giovanni had poured himself another drink and lighted another cigarette.
He looked deeply concerned. The gioval smile he had kept for the entire dinner had disappeared, suddenly replaced by a grimace of grief.
- “Don’t feel too guilty”. You have always done what you felt was right.
Meanwhile, Alberto and Barbara had bribed Max obtaining one track from Marina`s collection of classical music.
The romantic widower was aware of their passion for Brahms and had chosen the Symphony n.3 by the german composer.
Soothed by the romantic notes, the two youngsters were sitting closely on the huge couch in the living-room.
- “How are you going to spend your two months of holidays”?
Barbara had asked him out of the blue. Alberto had told her the day before that he was going to be back on board in about eight weeks, replacing a friend from his days at the Venier Nautical Institute.
She was wondering if she was falling in love to him. She was confused, perhaps, she had already fallen. It was a completely new, deep, marvelous feeling.
There had been other men in Barbara’s life. Not too many though, two to be frank.
Stefano and Marco. Two important stories and both had ended badly. She sighed melancholically, agreeing to herself that badly was actually an euphemism.
Stefano, who had declared his love openly and from whom she had enjoyed a fully satisfying sexual relationship, had eventually and unexpectedly joined the seminary,
chosing a life of chastity while he was trying to climb the ladder within the echelons of the Vatican city
Paolo had cheated on her just once and he had dared to do it in her own house where she had given a party while her parents had been travelling to the States.
She had entered in their bedroom looking for a book and there she had found him, wearing only a t-shirt and giving oral sex to one of her class-mates. She had not been able to forget the girl’s grimace of pure pleasure while she had opened the door. Barbara had stopped there for a few seconds, petrified, unable to move or to say anything while Paolo, unaware of her presence was giving his best to please his lover. The girl had seen her at once, but had been on the verge of the climax and had started to quiver frantically, closing her eyes in one last moment of excstasy.
Many others had try to conquer Barbara, but she had been a single since then.
Marisa had stepped on her side since that unfortunate event and she had been the only real friend for her. They had become almost inseparably, sharing a lovely, two bedroom apartment in Dorsoduro.
Both of them came from divorced parents and even if they had not chosen to be wealthy, they had taken advantage from their substantial income and left home for good one day after their eighteen birthday.
Venice is a small city, almost a village and rumours of a presumed homosexual relationship between the two beautiful students had spread.
Barbara and Marisa had openly laughed at those moroons.
Curiously enough, their cozy flat had been left empty for quite a long time, more than one year, as she had gone to Egypt and Marisa had spent her time in Britain
That night would be her first at home and she was pretty sure Alberto would end up sharing her bedroom.
She recalled the previous night when they had been together in her cabin aboard the ship. His tanned, lean yet strong body, the way he had made her feeling woman, his eagerness in giving pleasure.
What a man she had met.
Barbara glanced at Marisa, who was chatting with Andrea at the dining table and a sweet memory from a not too distant past turned to her mind.
There had been a night when they had got very close, too close.
Marisa had been dumped by Silvio, an immature biker after a troubled six-month affair. She had come back home distraught and had literally fell in Barbara’s arms.
The initial exchange of hugs and caresses had suddenly transformed in a wild amplex in which the two friends had abandoned. They had admittedly enjoyed those prohibited games in the world of Saffo, but they had both agreed that it would have been a one night only experience.
Alberto smiled to her and said:
- “I was wondering if you would go accompany me to Cortina d´Ampezzo.
My aunt Giorgina owns a little cottage there and wouldn´t mind handing me the keys. We should visit her tomorrow as she is off to Spain
Barbara couldn´t refuse a trip to the Dolomiti and after nodding her approval,
leaned over him and kissed him deeply on the mouth.
It was well after midnight when the guests left the Michelis.
An immaculate, white half moon was shining on a dark, gloomy sky, the weak light of the distant stars pulsing rhythmically above the palace on the Grand Canal.
Andrea and Marisa were exchanging their phone numbers while Bruno, Paolo and
Giovanni were smoking their last cigarette.
It had been a lovely evening, especially for Andrea, who had met a nice girl who had
not hidden a certain interest in knowing him better.
The three men from Marghera escorted Marisa home and hurried to get the last
vaporetto towards Piazzale Roma.
Mario had finished his spliff, smoked two cigarettes and drunk two sips of whiskey from his new breast-pocket 8 oz . flask. It was a tiny, silver, beautiful little companion, dated 1889 and presumably once owned by a notable aristocratic englishman, the Earl of Wessex. He had purchased it on his latest trip to London, at an auction in Notting Hill Gate.
He wondered if it were the case to consider himself a drunkard. His addiction to malt had been relatively recent if compared to his first love, hashish.
He looked at his hands, they had never trembled, he thought of his recent love-stories, his virility had always been intact. He grinned, enjoying his romantic decadency.
One day a friend of him had told him his motto:” Life is one, live it “. But he hadn’t meant life should be lived dangerously, not for his liver, at least.
It was almost 01.00 am, but Mario wasn’t in the mood of coming back home and facing his parents.
He stopped by a phone box and called Nico.
- “Hello Nico”
- “Hi mate, what’s up?”
- Can I spend the night on your couch/”
- “No problem, where are you?”
- “Crossing the Accademia bridge towards S. Stefano. I’ll be there in ten”.
- “Ok, see you then”.
Nicolas Bettini, Nico for his friends, was one of those guys who never sleep, at least not during the night. He was a movie-addicted and like to spend his spare time watching old noir movies. He was also an excellent free-lance investigative reporter.
His line of business was essentially related to corruption in politics and he would spend several months a year in the capital city.
But it was still summer time and the rulers of the country were still relaxing and partying on their luxury yatchs on the Mediterranean sea and Nico was at home, glad to lodge his friend Mario for the night.
Nico never shared his views on the characters who populated the House of the Representatives and the Senate, he actually mastered the art of separating his professional and private lives.
Watching movies was his way of escaping from reality, forgetting the several clowns of the roman circus, finding relief in a world where James Cagney, Jean Gabin and Hunprey Bogart were his heroes. Like them, Nico wa an heavy smoker, but had never experienced any drug, uninterested in searching artificially inducted feelings, but also respecting Mario’s weaknesses.
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