Look here you can not stand! - Shouted the boy in the silence of fastfood. Chicco
was afraid. She turned slowly, looked at him sideways. He must be new. The voice betrayed his uncertainty. Chicco thought it must have been twenty years, roughly the age of his son Franz. Franz.Chissà grew, so far as if it was still blond and skinny.
A couple of times a week was a night raid Chicco fastfood in the Republic Square. At that time it experienced employees were at home watching the telly and who replaced them was often inclined to turn a blind eye.
- Are you hungry? Get this, just that you go - the boy said. She handed him a box containing a hamburger just mutilated. Chicco
took the box and placed it on the nearest table. As if nothing had resumed tinkering with the trays left on tables, emptied them and then stack them on the truck. If they had given him the uniform, it would almost be said to work there.
- Do you understand Italian? You've got to go - urged the boy.
- First let me finish work.
- Working? - startled the boy.
- I give you a hand, I think you need it. - In fact, Bean did not like begging, he liked the bread earned by helping out a bit 'here and a little' there.
- No good, you leave immediately, otherwise call the Police. Chicco
shook his head, like someone who does not understand, then turned slowly and turned away.
The boy took the box with the burger mutilated.
- Hold on, hold. Chicco
looked puzzled, then took the box. Pushing the stroller bags full of crooked and walked toward the exit.
He stopped two feet from the doorway, looked around as if he had never set foot there. Identified a basket, a huge pot-bellied frog, and put in the box with the burger.
*
Colin Irish was the most similar to a friend he had. His Italian and spoke little left to be desired, but it was necessary to understand. He had met one night in April, under a bridge the Tiber. Long and orange as a carrot, had alluded to approach, to sit down. Had offered him a cigarette. He was a generous. Had told him of a deposit on Casilina, where he cleaned the trains late at night. The cleaner usually rose at one end and went down an hour later by the opposite one. It was crouching in the middle and wait for the right moment jump into it. Chicco we had gone with Colin a couple of times, we had come alone and we had stayed in the cooler months, luckily it was the spring session and had taken possession of his favorite bench in Piazza Trilussa. But tonight it was not. For a couple of days the temperature had dropped sharply and Chicco had decided to have those eight or nine miles on foot, slowly, in the hope of being able to do a few hours of sleep a Christian. He remembered that he had to pass by Sor Guerino, the shoemaker of the Via Portuense who had promised him a coat. He walked with difficulty, he wanted to remove his shoes to relieve her poor feet, swollen like scamorze. Moved slowly between two rows of cypress trees, lining up wall of the war cemetery. He smiled at the thought that those imposing walls serve more to protect the dead from the living than vice versa. He saw an empty bench, framed between two trees, a lawn to make carpet. He decided to take a break. He dropped the iron on the bench. He slipped off a shoe, then the other, the deposed under him so you can tighten with heels. They were beautiful, athletic, infinitely more comfortable than it had before, skin, had taken too narrow in spite of the laces.
Suddenly he was met by trotting a spot mottled with four legs, a female fox terrier.
wagging his tail and whined for smelling good.
His mistress, a young woman, was behind 7-8 meters away.
- Lady! - Come here, she said hurrying up. Chicco
rejoiced at the unexpected visit, held out his hand without fear, stroked the animal.
- Carucci her - he said, rising - I expect something for you.
- Lady, let it be the lord! - She almost screamed. He took the animal by the collar and dragged him away frightened, so fast that Chicco
did not have time to protest. He gave up finding the rattle he knew to have somewhere, he sat back, sighed. It sank in the pocket of his right hand, fingers clasped the neck of a bottle, shake it by weighing the amount of content. He looked around, pulled the bottle from his pocket, took it to his mouth and gulped down three good gulps of precious liquid. Relief. He took a deep breath. His stomach was burning, but the recurrent feelings of being adrift on an iceberg evaporated. Now there was sand under his feet, the sand of a remote island, on which he had been shipwrecked. Following the train of thought back thought the woman with the dog first, then the bastard who called Camillo, and for a period had come to wake the morning in summer, when he slept outdoors on a bench in Piazza Trilussa again Whisky in the half-breed who had adopted in that other life, when he still had a name, a roof, a woman and a lot of other things to lose.
** The cleaner was in a bad mood that night, he had begun a half hour late, the fault of the child, twenty,-nothing that had not returned on time with the machine. He had got a scolding from the top, which would have an hour deducted from pay and cleared the already low regard that he had none. He wound up with a grunt comments from a colleague on the transfer market's fall and Lazio had set to work, shaking his stick metal shots with his fists clenched. When he finished, he sat down instead of going down to light another cigarette. Was Then he saw a figure moving in the shadows, five or six cars away. He threw his cigarette, stood up abruptly. Grab your broom made of metal, went threatening encounter the intruder. You broke
er cock! - Shouted dappresso now. Chicco
jumped, turned toward the door still open, he tried to escape. The other
azionò a device to the wall. Like a spell the door closed. He was trapped.
... Barboni - something hard whipped her head Chicco - doped ... - a second shot, rush to the stomach - people who do shit ... - third, terrible between the head and neck made him fall on his knees - From morning to night!
A stream of blood poured from his left temple, then his cheek gleamed across the chest, creeping between waterproof shirt.
enough - he wanted to groan. A kick in the chest, hard as a rock, took his breath, made him collapsing on its side.
raised his head, the other hoped that the fury had subsided. Macchi. Eyed, struggling as restrained by an invisible force.
Blood dripped from the temple of Chicco now on the floor, forming a small puddle.
Animal, you saw what you did? I ended up mo 'to clean! - Cried the executioner. Unable to utter a word, to beg for mercy, Chicco raised his hand before his face. A first kick at the center of the trunk. With eyes closed waiting for the next. That never came. A tall, massive figure materialized behind the man, he touched his shoulder, he struck twice in the head with a bottle. The first shot produced a dull thud, gloomy. The man staggered backwards. The second shot he saw the bottle explode in a myriad of splinters. Chicco was safe. Colin was panting, the weapon still in hand. He looked at his opponent fell to the ground. He had a grim expression that Bean had never seen.
- I'll kill this piece of shit! - He shouted.
No! Necessary that we go - Chicco said putting in half. Leveraging with nails tried to make him open his hand tightened on the neck of the bottle. Colin dropped. He put his hand under his arm of the Chicco, helped him get off, I sat down, then went back to taking things for both. The officer was lying face down in the blood that was now also his. Colin took up the piece of the bottle, he wiped the blood on the man's suit, then put it in a bag. From another bag he took a piece of cloth with which he dabbed the wound to the head of the Chicco.
staggering, bloody unlikely as gladiators, fell away in the night. Chicco felt infinitely tired. Colin looked at and thought that if it were not for him, perhaps he would find death quell'energumeno hand. I feel no gratitude. He felt rather cheated. He wanted to explain this to his friend. We gave up.
- Thanks! - Said instead.
Colin smiled, with strong fingers squeezed his shoulder.
was afraid. She turned slowly, looked at him sideways. He must be new. The voice betrayed his uncertainty. Chicco thought it must have been twenty years, roughly the age of his son Franz. Franz.Chissà grew, so far as if it was still blond and skinny.
A couple of times a week was a night raid Chicco fastfood in the Republic Square. At that time it experienced employees were at home watching the telly and who replaced them was often inclined to turn a blind eye.
- Are you hungry? Get this, just that you go - the boy said. She handed him a box containing a hamburger just mutilated. Chicco
took the box and placed it on the nearest table. As if nothing had resumed tinkering with the trays left on tables, emptied them and then stack them on the truck. If they had given him the uniform, it would almost be said to work there.
- Do you understand Italian? You've got to go - urged the boy.
- First let me finish work.
- Working? - startled the boy.
- I give you a hand, I think you need it. - In fact, Bean did not like begging, he liked the bread earned by helping out a bit 'here and a little' there.
- No good, you leave immediately, otherwise call the Police. Chicco
shook his head, like someone who does not understand, then turned slowly and turned away.
The boy took the box with the burger mutilated.
- Hold on, hold. Chicco
looked puzzled, then took the box. Pushing the stroller bags full of crooked and walked toward the exit.
He stopped two feet from the doorway, looked around as if he had never set foot there. Identified a basket, a huge pot-bellied frog, and put in the box with the burger.
*
Colin Irish was the most similar to a friend he had. His Italian and spoke little left to be desired, but it was necessary to understand. He had met one night in April, under a bridge the Tiber. Long and orange as a carrot, had alluded to approach, to sit down. Had offered him a cigarette. He was a generous. Had told him of a deposit on Casilina, where he cleaned the trains late at night. The cleaner usually rose at one end and went down an hour later by the opposite one. It was crouching in the middle and wait for the right moment jump into it. Chicco we had gone with Colin a couple of times, we had come alone and we had stayed in the cooler months, luckily it was the spring session and had taken possession of his favorite bench in Piazza Trilussa. But tonight it was not. For a couple of days the temperature had dropped sharply and Chicco had decided to have those eight or nine miles on foot, slowly, in the hope of being able to do a few hours of sleep a Christian. He remembered that he had to pass by Sor Guerino, the shoemaker of the Via Portuense who had promised him a coat. He walked with difficulty, he wanted to remove his shoes to relieve her poor feet, swollen like scamorze. Moved slowly between two rows of cypress trees, lining up wall of the war cemetery. He smiled at the thought that those imposing walls serve more to protect the dead from the living than vice versa. He saw an empty bench, framed between two trees, a lawn to make carpet. He decided to take a break. He dropped the iron on the bench. He slipped off a shoe, then the other, the deposed under him so you can tighten with heels. They were beautiful, athletic, infinitely more comfortable than it had before, skin, had taken too narrow in spite of the laces.
Suddenly he was met by trotting a spot mottled with four legs, a female fox terrier.
wagging his tail and whined for smelling good.
His mistress, a young woman, was behind 7-8 meters away.
- Lady! - Come here, she said hurrying up. Chicco
rejoiced at the unexpected visit, held out his hand without fear, stroked the animal.
- Carucci her - he said, rising - I expect something for you.
- Lady, let it be the lord! - She almost screamed. He took the animal by the collar and dragged him away frightened, so fast that Chicco
did not have time to protest. He gave up finding the rattle he knew to have somewhere, he sat back, sighed. It sank in the pocket of his right hand, fingers clasped the neck of a bottle, shake it by weighing the amount of content. He looked around, pulled the bottle from his pocket, took it to his mouth and gulped down three good gulps of precious liquid. Relief. He took a deep breath. His stomach was burning, but the recurrent feelings of being adrift on an iceberg evaporated. Now there was sand under his feet, the sand of a remote island, on which he had been shipwrecked. Following the train of thought back thought the woman with the dog first, then the bastard who called Camillo, and for a period had come to wake the morning in summer, when he slept outdoors on a bench in Piazza Trilussa again Whisky in the half-breed who had adopted in that other life, when he still had a name, a roof, a woman and a lot of other things to lose.
** The cleaner was in a bad mood that night, he had begun a half hour late, the fault of the child, twenty,-nothing that had not returned on time with the machine. He had got a scolding from the top, which would have an hour deducted from pay and cleared the already low regard that he had none. He wound up with a grunt comments from a colleague on the transfer market's fall and Lazio had set to work, shaking his stick metal shots with his fists clenched. When he finished, he sat down instead of going down to light another cigarette. Was Then he saw a figure moving in the shadows, five or six cars away. He threw his cigarette, stood up abruptly. Grab your broom made of metal, went threatening encounter the intruder. You broke
er cock! - Shouted dappresso now. Chicco
jumped, turned toward the door still open, he tried to escape. The other
azionò a device to the wall. Like a spell the door closed. He was trapped.
... Barboni - something hard whipped her head Chicco - doped ... - a second shot, rush to the stomach - people who do shit ... - third, terrible between the head and neck made him fall on his knees - From morning to night!
A stream of blood poured from his left temple, then his cheek gleamed across the chest, creeping between waterproof shirt.
enough - he wanted to groan. A kick in the chest, hard as a rock, took his breath, made him collapsing on its side.
raised his head, the other hoped that the fury had subsided. Macchi. Eyed, struggling as restrained by an invisible force.
Blood dripped from the temple of Chicco now on the floor, forming a small puddle.
Animal, you saw what you did? I ended up mo 'to clean! - Cried the executioner. Unable to utter a word, to beg for mercy, Chicco raised his hand before his face. A first kick at the center of the trunk. With eyes closed waiting for the next. That never came. A tall, massive figure materialized behind the man, he touched his shoulder, he struck twice in the head with a bottle. The first shot produced a dull thud, gloomy. The man staggered backwards. The second shot he saw the bottle explode in a myriad of splinters. Chicco was safe. Colin was panting, the weapon still in hand. He looked at his opponent fell to the ground. He had a grim expression that Bean had never seen.
- I'll kill this piece of shit! - He shouted.
No! Necessary that we go - Chicco said putting in half. Leveraging with nails tried to make him open his hand tightened on the neck of the bottle. Colin dropped. He put his hand under his arm of the Chicco, helped him get off, I sat down, then went back to taking things for both. The officer was lying face down in the blood that was now also his. Colin took up the piece of the bottle, he wiped the blood on the man's suit, then put it in a bag. From another bag he took a piece of cloth with which he dabbed the wound to the head of the Chicco.
staggering, bloody unlikely as gladiators, fell away in the night. Chicco felt infinitely tired. Colin looked at and thought that if it were not for him, perhaps he would find death quell'energumeno hand. I feel no gratitude. He felt rather cheated. He wanted to explain this to his friend. We gave up.
- Thanks! - Said instead.
Colin smiled, with strong fingers squeezed his shoulder.
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